When I surrender, my concerns, worries, and insecurities leave my shoulders and rest in the scarred hands of my Savior. They become a testament to His love, power, and grace; His willingness to carry the weight of my world.
When I surrender, my pain becomes passion for the hurting souls around me. My fears lose power as freedom becomes my anthem. My life gains purpose beyond my personal needs and desires.
When I surrender, the truth fills my veins. Lies no longer flow from my mind to my heart to my feet. Courage drives me into the battle that I spent so many years running from, the battle that no one can escape, the battle for goodness and innocence and life.
When I surrender, peace, like a river, floods my senses. My eyes are no longer clouded by people and events from the past. My ears no longer hear conversations that I regret. My mind is released from guilt and free to experience all that the present has to offer.
When I surrender, this human jumble of words stops trying to arrange herself into more than she is; more than she has the power to make herself become. The grand Author is finally able to arrange her into the purposeful piece of poetry, the hopeful story of heroism, the meaningful mystery, the redemptive romance that He began writing long before the first word of her existence was spoken by humanity.
When I am alone, I appreciate silence. It is not uncommon for me to sit alone at home, no television, no music, in my rocking chair, and rock. In silence. When I was a pre-teen, my family referred to it as hibernating.
Telephone rings (Back when it was still attached to the wall in the kitchen) “Hello? You want to speak to Brandi? Hold on. I’ll get her. She is hibernating.”
I DID have a rocking chair in my bedroom, by the way.
However, my mind is never silent. It constantly considers, examines, connects, and analyzes. The thoughts are like the chaotic notes of a tuning orchestra. Most of the time, I can pull something out of my mental noise that I want to share. A connection that I perceive. A lesson that I have learned. An experience that I hope will encourage, inspire, or amuse. An unexpected place that I have found hope.
The last three weeks have been dry. I don’t know if it is a lack of mental depth or an ache in my heart that keeps the random notes from organizing into a decipherable tune. Possibly both. Probably both.
I began to wonder, am I failing? I’m I being lazy? Am I not reaching enough people with the hope that God has given me to share? Do I not care enough? Have I become (more) self-absorbed?
“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” Psalm 46:10
Be still. Be still, My child. Your instrument does not have to play constantly. Sometimes, it is enough to only KNOW. I will be exalted even in your silence. My truth will still be heard. And your song will play again when I free you to compose it. For now, just be still.
The new year used to bring me excitement, hope, and anticipation. Filling out a new calendar with birthdays and anniversaries brought the many days ahead into view. I looked forward to January 1, thinking that I could make changes, maybe start over. It looked like an opportunity for something new. I believed that if I expected a better year, it would happen.
A series of unfortunate events began to change my perspective. One New Year’s Eve, my husband’s back went out. Another New Year, I woke up with a horrific headache. When I got up to take pain reliever, I blacked out and woke up on the kitchen floor. An ambulance was called, bringing the neighbors to attention. An ambulance was called yet another New Year when one of my sons walked into the corner of a door in the dark after staying up all night and passed out. The most impactful event was the unexpected, painful death of my father on my son’s New Year’s wedding day.
Then, the approaching holiday filled me with fear. I looked ahead with an expectation of something terrible happening. I would text sons who were not home to make sure they were safe. My oldest son brought me back to reality with his gentle, matter-of-fact response. “Mom, we’re Christians. We don’t believe in that superstitious crap.”
The New Year is now two days away. I have been reading a devotional that I found at a yard sale this summer, but I awoke this morning with the thought, “It is time to start over. Start from the beginning.” So I sat with my Bible and opened it to the first page.
“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” Genesis 1:1
In the beginning… There was a beginning before every year began. Before the beginning, there was God. No beginning has begun without God. He will be until the last. He has been during every good beginning and every bad beginning.
I have placed too much value on a new year. In doing so, I have lost the value of many more frequent, equally valuable beginnings. Each day is a chance to begin again. Each minute is an opportunity to do something I have not done before, or do something I have done, better. I don’t want to let those opportunities get lost on a calendar of numbers. I have now, and now, God is. So, as this year rolls into the next, carrying all that it is into what is to come, I will try to embrace the value of each new opportunity to begin with the God Who created it and trust that He is folding the good and the bad into His plan for the created.
Years ago, I read the historical fiction book The Mark of the Lion by Francine Rivers. Set almost 100 years after the death and resurrection of Jesus, a young Christian woman named Hadassah was a slave belonging to a Roman family. Eventually, her faith was discovered. By Roman law it made her a criminal, so she was taken to the arena for the “games.” There was no game. She was going to be fed to a hungry lion in front of hundreds of people.
She had lived her entire life filled with fear. Fear of being discovered. Fear of being arrested. Fear of dying. While awaiting her death in the dungeon, she realized that she was no longer afraid. She was free. Alone in her cell, she sang praises to God, free from the chains that had kept her imprisoned while she was still able to walk in the sun.
When I read that story, I recognized my own chains. I was constantly fearful. I was afraid of rejection and abandonment. I was afraid of my darkest struggles being exposed. I was afraid of being imperfect. I thought, “I want that kind of freedom. I hope that I do not have to be on the edge of death to experience it.”
Years later, I was there. I was in an emotional dungeon. I felt like I was on the edge of losing everything that mattered the most to me. There, in my solitary darkness, I finally let go. I let go of all of the things that I had been trying to control to keep my world “safe.” In letting go, I found freedom.
“The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?” Psalm 118:6
God instructs people (sometimes one person, sometimes a group, always us) 365 times in the Bible not to fear. Why the repetition? Because we forget. Because we want to be safe and comfortable. Because everything that we fear CONTROLS US. It drives our decisions. It shapes our environments. It fills our thoughts, our hearts, and our conversations. It drains our resources. We essentially become slaves to our fears.
What do you fear? What keeps you awake at night? What makes your heart race? What sends you running until you collapse, your physical, emotional, mental, and financial resources exhausted? What do you hold so tightly that your fists are white and your nails are digging into the heals of your hands? Stop running. Stop gripping. Stop trying to fix, protect, control, and shape. Place it all in the hands of Jesus. When you stop struggling against the chains that your fear created, He will lift them off of you and replace them with His arms. And there, in His love, you will find freedom that no human effort can provide or take away.
January 10, 2016: I had returned home from Vegas the previous day. I went to church Sunday morning. It was difficult to hold myself together when Dad’s death was mentioned in the announcements. In the afternoon, I wrote Dad’s obituary. I volunteered with the youth group in the evening, though I had to hide in the restroom when they played the song, “Good, Good Father.”
As we were preparing for bed that night, my husband and I got into a minor argument. I went downstairs to the kitchen, sunk to the floor, and wept. Loudly. Uncontrollably. David came to find me and joined me on the floor, placing his arm around my shoulders. When I could speak, I said, “I wrote my dad’s obituary today. I will never see him again. I can’t even think that he is someplace avoiding me anymore. He is nowhere. He no longer exists. He didn’t let us say ‘goodbye.'”
We decided to hold the memorial in May because of Val’s work/travel schedule. I printed flyers and delivered them to the two bars in town where Dad spent most of his spare time when he was in Michigan. We posted a memorial announcement in the local newspaper inviting all who knew him. I wanted Dad’s friends to be there. Cory did not think that they would come because he had left them as abruptly as he left us. One day he said, “You’ll never see me again,” and walked out the door. They were hurt and angry. But I wanted them to learn from his life. I wanted everyone to.
May 15, 2016: The day arrived. I was nervous. Excited. Ready. Unsure of what to expect. I was going to see people I had not seen in many years and family members that I had never met. Bless my soul, some of Dad’s friends from the bars arrived. I could have kissed them.
Dad’s cousin, Rich, began. He shared memories of Roger the child. The naughty things they did together. The happy memories of innocence. Next was Dad’s sister, Nancy. She also talked about the young boy. Her older brother who would pick on her, scare her, protect her. She mentioned their abusive father and how Dad couldn’t get past the pain of their childhood. When she had seen him shortly after their mother had passed a few years before, he still spoke of their childhood abuse like the wounds were fresh. Then it was my turn. Below is the video of my portion.
Afterwards, many shared stories with me about him. He was a jokester. He liked to sneak money to his friend’s little boy. There were consoling words and healing hugs. I realize now how badly I needed this day to come, to say what I believed needed to be said, to let him go and move on. When we got home, I said to my husband, “It stinks that he had to die for me to get to get to know him better.”
April 11, 2017: I dreamt about him. I woke myself up crying. A feeling of heavy darkness clung to me throughout the day. That evening I tried to do homework, but could not concentrate. My church had posted a new podcast that morning, so I decided to listen. The pastor spoke about obedience. What is God telling you to do that you haven’t done? The answer filled the room like a whisper from everywhere. Forgive. I did not want to. I was still so angry. However, I had learned that I could not live my life in disobedience to God. I said aloud, “I forgive you.” Again, tears flowed, but not of anger or pain. Tears of freedom. The anger that had burned inside me, erupting like a volcano whenever I spoke about him, was gone. Just… gone. I realized that a piece of myself had been in Dad’s Hell as long as my anger lasted.
The words of the song “No Longer a Slave” had held great meaning for me after Dad’s death. “I’m no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God.” I was no longer a slave to the fear of being abandoned or rejected by him. I was no longer a slave to the fear of never seeing him again, because it was now a fact. And that day, I was no longer a slave to the anger that pulled me down into the pit where he had lived his entire adult life. I was free. I am free.
“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” John 8:36
January 7, 2016: No other appointments were needed and my siblings had to move to a hotel for our last night in Nevada, so we did not see each other this day. One issue Val still needed to resolve was Dad’s truck. He had made no payments on it in a year. He knew that he was dying by then, and we assumed he did not think it was necessary to pay for a truck he would not keep. He also had no regular income.
She called the car lot to inform them that he had passed. After telling them the news, the conversation went something like this: Val: How can I give the truck back to you? Employee: We will need a copy of the death certificate. Val: I do not have the certificate yet. I will not have it for at least another week. Employee: We cannot take the truck without the death certificate. Val: I am returning to Michigan tomorrow and I am trying to do the right thing here. I just want to give you your truck. Employee: We need the death certificate. Val: Can I speak to a supervisor? After making no progress, Val told them: Fine. Your truck will be in the Walgreen’s parking lot on the corner of South Decatur and Blue Diamond with the key under the floor mat. Employee: …
She then called the police department for some advice. After explaining the situation, they told her: We can’t take the truck. Val: I know. I am just wondering if there is something else I can do. Police: You told them where it would be parked, correct? Val: Yes, but it could be stolen. Police: …
They delivered the truck to the Walgreen’s parking lot and moved into a hotel a few miles outside of town. It was several shades darker than shady. Once in their room, one of them pulled the sheets back on the bed to check the mattress. It looked brand new. Cory said, “That’s because our mattress is out back in the dumpster with blood all over it.” He was not joking. They could see it from the window. At approximately 1:30 a.m., after failed attempts to relax, and a parade of police cars and an ambulance with lights and sirens had filled the parking lot, they decided to spend the rest of the night at the air port.
My day was less “exciting.” I drove to my favorite place in Vegas: Red Rock Canyon. I stopped several times during my drive, taking photos and videos, in awe of God’s ability to turn dirt and stone into art. “My dad is probably in Hell.” This thought dropped to the bottom of my heart like a large boulder in a small pond. “God, is there any way that he could be with You? Please let there be a way.” Dad’s choice to live in the Hell of his past had kept me (and everyone else) from seeing and loving him during the last several years of his life. I knew that, if he had also chosen to separate himself from God until his death, that separation would last forever. If… My only hope to see him again rested on that tiny word. I believe that God can reach us any time, any place, even if we are unconscious, on life-support, with only moments left to live. If God approached him there, if he finally realized that he had nowhere left to run and nothing left to run from, if he realized that the One he had been really running from was pursuing him with a love that could set him free from his self-imposed Hell, he might have said “yes.” Maybe I would see him. If… I drove back to Abbie and Nic’s with a spark of hope, trusting that the God I knew is a God of 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 105th chances, and He would have given Dad that chance. Because with God, all things are possible.
“Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” Matthew 19:26, NIV
Photos are from my trip to Red Rock Canyon, Las Vegas, NV.
“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” Ecclesiastes 4:12, NIV
January 6, 2016: After breakfast at McDonald’s, I noticed something wrong with my rental car. The license plate was missing. I notified Miranda, and then the police to report it stolen. They told me to contact the car rental place to get a new rental. The first location that I drove to did not have an extra car to exchange. I began driving to another and called while on the way. They also had no extra cars. I changed direction toward another. The third location had a car that I could use. I signed on the line and talked to the clerks at the desk, explaining why I was in town, while another checked the car. He returned and said, “Mystery solved! Your plate wasn’t stolen! That little piece of paper in the back window is a temporary plate.” It was smaller than a dollar bill. I was embarrassed and apologized for the hassle. They were gracious to me and told me I could choose to keep my first car or use the new one. I chose the new one because the paperwork was already signed and drove back to Walmart to meet the others.
That morning, the hospital had informed Val that they had given Dad’s wallet with $400 in it to Freddie. Our first stop was going to be the apartment to notify the office of Dad’s passing and confront Freddie. It was close to lunch time. Val insisted on buying him lunch to soften him up. Miranda texted, “we are buying him White Castle.” I responded, “White Castle? Are you trying to kill him?” Apparently Freddie really liked White Castle and had requested it.
Cory and Val left Miranda and me at the office to tell them about Dad and they continued to the apartment. After we spoke to the office staff, we waited on a couch for them to confirm. Miranda whispered, “I have to tell you something.” “What?” She said, “I don’t want to say it.” I said, “You have to! You brought it up!” After more coaxing, she confessed, “I put my gum in Freddie’s burger.” She remembers my response as “a full out tear-crying laughter.” “You’re the best! Thank you so much for that!” I do not condone revenge, but this felt like a tiny bit of justice in a hopelessly unjust situation. She said, “Don’t tell Cory & Val! I’m so bad! I never do things like this!” This was one of the highlights of the week.
Meanwhile, Cory & Val were delivering said special burger to Freddie and asking him about the rest of the money. He said that it was gone. “I can pay you back, though.” Val said, “I tell you what, Freddie, why don’t you give us your money and you can pay yourself back.” “You mean you want all of it?” he replied. He opened his wallet and handed them another $43.00. We never received the rest.
After Cory & Val picked us up at the office and told us what happened, I said, “You know those drinks everyone had in Roger’s memory Monday night? Yeah, they were on Roger.” We picked up my car and met at a casino. One of the ticket stubs for a bet had not been cashed in and we wanted to see if it was worth anything. It was not. Cory decided to blow off some steam at a game while we three girls went into a casino restaurant for dinner. We talked about what would happen when we got home. Maybe Cory could come back for Dad’s ashes. I would write the obituary. Miranda and I would plan the memorial. We talked about family and what it meant. I believe that relatives are connected by blood or marriage. Family is connected by choice and love. As children, our lives had been separate due to circumstances beyond our control. We now had an opportunity to change that if we wanted to. We decided that we wanted to. We arrived in Vegas as relatives. We chose to leave as family.
That evening I wrote to God in my prayer journal, “I am curious to see what You do with all of this.”
This is a selfie I sent Miranda from McDonald’s before I noticed that my license plate was “stolen.”While driving to different car rental businesses, I was constantly distracted by the Vegas landscape.
“One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.” Proverbs 18:24, NIV
January 5, 2016: Our first stop was the motel where Dad had lived during the last days of his life and worked for a short time. We met his friend Mel, a clerk at the motel. He wore a jogging suit and sneakers. He reminded me of Reuben from the movie Ocean’s 11. He portrayed himself as one of Dad’s best friends and told us that he had gotten Dad a room at the motel when he could no longer handle the stairs at his apartment. He gave us the keys to Dad’s truck and when we stepped back outside, it was decided that I would drive the truck. Miranda offered to ride with me. The radio was on, and I asked her if it was okay. She said, “Yeah, I like to sing really loud when I’m stressed.” I agreed, so we turned up the volume and sang out our tension.
And I said, “What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” She said, “I think I remember the film And as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it” And I said, “Well, that’s the one thing we’ve got
Driving my dead dad’s truck through the streets of Las Vegas: One thing I never imagined I would do.
We drove to a nearby Walmart and began going through the truck. I did not know my dad’s general habits, but Val said that this was where he kept records: in his truck. Looking through the glove compartment, behind the seats, and above the visors, we found bank statements, credit card statements, the purchase agreement for the truck, and ticket stubs for bets that he had made. Dad liked to gamble. A lot.
It felt like we are in a Lifetime movie. Four Michiganders taking on the dark streets of Vegas in a rented Mitsubishi, trying to sort out the life of our estranged father. I actually looked around the parking lot a couple of times, half expecting to see a camera over my shoulder.
Next we drove to Affordable Cremation & Burial Service. They told Val the price that they had quoted her the week before was no longer valid because it was given in 2015 and this was 2016, so they would not honor it. We had to pay $100 more. The director handed us the information that would be on Dad’s official cremation record and Las Vegas obituary to check the accuracy. Val handed it to Cory who handed it to Miranda who handed it to me, and I thought, “I this is something I can do!” I awoke my inner grammar Nazi. I noticed that they had misspelled Val’s first name. And Miranda’s last name. And the word “cremation.” Apparently Affordable Cremation & Burial Service could not afford to use spell-check. Cremation arrangements were made, documents were signed, and they agreed to notify us when the cremation was completed. One of us would then travel back to Vegas for Dad’s remains.
We drove to Dad’s apartment where Freddie was going to meet us. He was running late but gave us permission to go in and get Dad’s belongings. He told us that they were boxed up in the living room. We found a two boxes of Dad’s possessions on the couch and the contents of his wallet in a rubber band on a night stand. Dad rented the apartment and allowed Freddie to live there because he had no other place to live. It did not make sense that all of Dad’s belongings fit into two boxes. His wallet was even missing. Cory said, “Where’s the cash money? Dad always carried cash. Where is it?” We all knew this was true.
Freddie arrived few minutes later. He was a friendly person and seemed happy to see us. “Did you find everything? Good!”
Cory said, “Where is Dad’s cash? He always carried cash in his wallet. Where is it?”
Freddie absently patted his front pocket, paused, then gestured questioningly, “Oh, did YOU need that?”
“Yes, Freddie. Yes, we did need that. We need it to pay for his cremation,” Val responded. Freddie slowly pulled out his wallet and handed Val $220, leaving a few dollars for himself.
We piled back into Val’s rental and drove to a parking lot where Val called the hospital. She left a message with the person who was responsible for releasing Dad’s possessions to Freddie. We were suspicious about how much of his money Freddie had actually received. After hanging up, she saw that Mel had left a message and called him back. He did not know that she put him on speaker phone so we could all hear what was said. “Val, Roger said that his son hurt him really bad, stole from him or something. I just wanted you to know. Be careful who you trust.” If anything had happened, it would have been 30 years ago. Mel also did not specify which son, and Dad had two. Cory was hurt that Mel implied that he might have done this. “I don’t know what he’s talking about! I never did anything like that!”
My anger surfaced again and I said, probably a little too loudly, “Cory don’t pay any attention to him. He shut all of us out because he didn’t want to get hurt. He hurt all of us to protect himself. Even now, he’s hurting you from the grave. Don’t let him do it.”
They drove me back to my rental car and we split up for the evening. I had not spent so much time with those siblings since I was 6 or 7 years old, and in all of the craziness, I saw a glimmer of potential. In my journal, I wrote, “Good may come from this. If we can continue the relationships that we have started here, it could be good.”
Photo: My hosts’ sweet pup, Pepper. He was the perfect comforter.
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” Psalm 139:7-8
January 3, 2016: I spent the day in my pajamas, rarely leaving my rocking chair. My head was still in a fog. After a few texts, I spoke to my young friend’s sister in Vegas. “We have a room with a bed, but we just moved so we still have some boxes around the house.” By the grace of God and divine appointment, I had a place to stay.
January 4, 2016: My flight was in the afternoon, so I got up, read my Bible, and prayed. While I was on my knees talking to God, tears began to flow. I was surprised to find myself crying, really crying, for the first time. Then they stopped, as if the door of grief had slammed shut in front of me. The abrupt end was equally surprising. I finished getting ready and packing. I was uncertain about what to expect. My siblings and I were not close, and I did not know what they thought of me and I was nervous.
“I do not know what the week holds, but I know that You hold the week You have made this evident. I am so thankful that I can rest in your hands.” Written in my journal on the plane.
A few hours later, we landed in Vegas. We met for dinner at In and Out Burger and discussed the general schedule for the week, then separated for the night. When I arrived at my hosts’ home, they were preparing meals for the week with a couple of friends. We chatted until I couldn’t stay awake and I went to my room, where I found a welcome note and basket of gifts.
The next day, I learned that Dad’s roommate, Freddie, called my siblings before they arrived at their room. He was at a bar celebrating Dad’s life with some of Dad’s “friends” and he wanted them to join him. They drove to a desperate part of town. Val describes it as the kind of place “…where you… find either a cop… or addicts, dealers, and prostitutes. Nothing in between.” Freddie was inside the bar, buying drinks for everyone in memory of Roger. At one point, Val used the public restroom where she found drug paraphernalia on the bathroom counter. When exiting, she found one of Dad’s friends guarding the door to prevent people from entering while she was inside. They passed someone “shooting up” on the sidewalk when they left for the night. As they left the place in their rear-view mirror, the full understanding of where they had been began to sink in, but the greater significance of that night was not yet uncovered.
Photo provided by Val. Both sisters wanted the photo posted, but one preferred her face blurred for personal reason.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” Romans 12:15
January 2, 2016: It was a big day. Our oldest son was marrying a precious young woman at 4:00 p.m. We would gain our first daughter-in-law. I awoke early to meet my mom at a hair salon at 8:30a.m. While we were in the salon chairs, my cell phone rang. Miranda asked from the other end, “Are you still at the salon? I hope they haven’t done your makeup yet.” I asked dreaded question. “Yes, he died about 20 minutes ago.” I couldn’t react. I had no place to go.
After the appointment, I drove to the store to pick up lunch for the bridal party. I called my brother, Glen, from the parking lot. I asked him if he planned to join us in Vegas the following week. “You remember what he did the last time I called him, right? No, I’m not going.” He was hurt and angry. I couldn’t blame him. A few years before, he asked me to find a way to reach Dad because he was worried and wanted to check on him. Through a series of phone calls, I obtained the phone number of the motel where he was working as a desk clerk. Dad wasn’t excited to hear from him. He gave Glen his cell number, but never returned subsequent calls. This had been my experience with Dad during the last few years that we still had some type of relationship so I wasn’t surprised, but for Glen, it was the last straw.
After I bought the food and drove home to get my clothes, I drove to the chapel to set up the lunch. I put on my dress. I did my makeup. I was numb. On autopilot. The ceremony was still a couple of hours away. I felt unreal, immaterial, wandering the halls of the church, trying to hold myself together, unsure of what would happen if I had the chance to let go.
Then it was time for pictures. It was a beautiful day. A precious event. I couldn’t truly smile. The pain is still so visible in my eyes in the photos and I hate it.
After the perfect ceremony, we drove to the reception. The movements and people created enough distraction that I experienced a slight lessoning of the pain. My smiles grew bigger. We toasted and danced and laughed. I mingled, visiting the tables, thanking the guests. All the while, my conflicted mind was screaming, “MY DAD IS DEAD!”
A sweet young lady that I had done youth ministry with was at the reception. She had previously mentioned to me that one of her sisters lived in Vegas. I crouched down next to her chair and said, “My dad died this morning and I am flying to Vegas on Monday with some siblings to take care of his stuff. This might be too weird, and it’s okay if you think it is, but do you think your sister would feel comfortable letting me stay with her for a few days? I just need a place to sleep.” She resolutely said, “I will text her tomorrow.”
When the reception ended and our son and new daughter-in-law left for their honeymoon, we went home. I went to bed. I don’t think I cried then, either.
Words Lived 