"A godly man walks with his integrity. How blessed are his children after him." Proverbs 20:7
"You are a piece of the puzzle of someone else's life. You may never know where you fit, but others will fill the holes in their lives with pieces of you.z" Bonnie Arbor
"Missing pieces do more than complete the puzzle; they fill in the empty spaces." Luanne Rice
Hmm, a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I mused, "I wonder where that came from, as I picked it up from the floor." I have never been much for jigsaw puzzles, but life, in many ways, is like a jigsaw puzzle. Our lives and a giant and challenging jigsaw puzzle have at least a few things in common. One is that they are a process, something a person completes only after some time. Another similarity is a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces is challenging to finish.
Like many people, I have spent a fair amount of time in various waiting rooms in diverse places over the years. During those times, I have overheard some of the most remarkable conversations. Some folks enjoy waiting rooms. As a rule, I do not like waiting rooms in the offices of doctors, dentists, or hospitals. I have a particular dislike for the sitting rooms in funeral homes.
Each waiting room is different, but they all have a hollow, generic sameness about them. Each room reminds me of pain and loss in one form or another. However, one day and one particular waiting room were different. It was immensely more personable and excruciating.
I stood close by his bed in the cardiac care unit as I had done day in and day out for weeks. That particular day, something was different, and I knew, somehow, beyond any doubt, that his time in this world was short. None of his physicians have said anything besides he is critical; only time will tell. I am not sure how I knew. It was not like God audibly whispered in my ear. At least, I don't remember it that way, but it was a voice. It was a rich, warm, quiet, compelling, yet gentle voice that found its origin deep within my being, far away yet very near.
Seeing him lying amid bright lights, stainless steel apparatus, monitors, and all manner of medical equipment was challenging, to say the least. He was supposed to be sitting in his chair, in the garage, in the yard, or… It was such a twisted scene and an egregious insult to the person I know as Dad. I wanted to cry out, but the cry could not, or would not, find a voice.
At first, I wanted to leave, run, and escape in any way I could from the images before me. Instead, I moved closer to his bed, holding his hand, not wanting to let go. It was as if letting go of his hand was letting go of him. If you knew my Dad well, you know he was a handholder. I stood there, immersed in countless images as they rushed from memory. Some were from recent times, some from past years, and others stored in the vaults of distant memory.
How long did I stand there? I have sometimes wondered that myself, a minute, ten minutes, perhaps an hour? To tell the truth, I don't know; in those moments, I didn't care if my allotted time to spend with Dad was up. It seemed like time suspended itself, then reversed and reversed repeatedly as the memories flowed.
Some of the memories were incredibly vivid. It was almost as if I had stepped back in time and was a part of the scene again. One was the house where I grew up. There were other houses before, but this was where all of us, the three brothers, grew up. It is the house that each of us called home. I saw the front porch where I used to sit and play guitar while watching my youngest brother. It was as if I was standing behind myself, listening to the rhythmic sounds of my guitar while John played with his toys in Dad's lush green grass beneath the gas lamp. Hap (short for Happy), our Welsh Corgi, lying quietly on the step beside me but watching the herd.
The crepe myrtle I gave Dad was in full bloom in the sideyard. There was the covered patio with ever-existing lush green hanging plants. After Dad's early morning watering vigil, I almost heard water drops hitting the concrete. Next were images of the backyard where we played catch. The smell of leather and the slap of a ball hitting the glove was as vivid as the peaceful breeze on the patio this morning.
Well, I thought in gentle resignation, Dad won't be going home. Once again, the quiet voice came, passing through many images and a tangle of emotions. In the stillness of those moments, I knew that even though Dad wasn't returning to the house, we all called home; he was going home.
I slipped quietly from the room and headed down the hall to take my place in the waiting room again. As I walked down the empty corridor, my voice, which could not make a sound with the knowledge of impending loss, found itself in the music and the words of a simple childhood song. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so… Jesus loves me, he who died... to let his little children come in.
The waiting room was nearly empty and hushed. On average, it was crowded and sometimes overflowing with people talking and the TV blaring. Mom and other family members had gone to the cafeteria, so I had our corner to myself. You know what our corner means for those who have held a long vigil in a waiting room. It reminds me of those folks in the church who have their pew or, as of late, chairs. A person should be careful not to infringe on their space. You are blessed and fortunate, if you don't know what I mean. Catch me somewhere, and I will explain it to you.
Sitting there alone and in near silence, the memories continued. Family vacations, fishing trips, Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas morning, the drive to our grandparents' farm (yep, make sure you make a pit stop before you leave, cuz Dad was not inclined to stop,) and many others that space does not permit. After the boys had gone their separate ways, Thanksgiving and Christmas were very important to Dad. He told me once that the only present he wanted was for us to be together. I knew then what he was talking about, but now I understand. If you miss my meaning in the difference between what I knew then and understand now, walk through this world a while longer, and spend some time reflecting on life, you will.
One other memory stands out. It has to do with a jigsaw puzzle. Now, jigsaw puzzles were no big thing around our house, but there was one I remember. It was a mountain landscape that Dad had bought.
Dad liked to paint, and often, he would paint from a photograph he had taken or found in a magazine. However, this time, the scene was on the jigsaw puzzle box. He was going to put it together and then portray it on canvas. I remember thinking, "Hey, just paint it from the picture on the box," but knowing Dad, I did not venture that thought verbally. Well, at least not in his earshot. The days passed, and as he completed the puzzle, it became apparent that there was a missing piece. He searched everywhere for the puzzle piece.
When he could not find the missing piece, he became frustrated. I was an irrepressible adolescent then, so I asked why he was so frustrated. His response was, "The scene is not complete." I offered, "You can still paint the scene. The one little missing piece will not matter." He replied, "Yes, yes it does, it does matter. The picture is not complete without all the pieces."
Well, there I sat, and as the memories receded, the tears flowed. First, just a few teardrops, then a stream, and finally a rushing river as I considered what life would be like with a missing piece. I had lost people before. My grandfather, grandmother, a couple of high school friends, and a college buddy, but this was different. This was more real, intense, and incredibly personal; somehow, it was more final, with an impending sense of emptiness I cannot describe.
The last memory I would like to share is about the tough times experienced between most fathers and sons. Once upon a time, after I turned eighteen but was still in high school, I decided enough was enough. I knew how to run my life, what was best for me, etc. You know, the usual trash talk of teenage children. Sound familiar? Ummhmm, I thought so.
You might think I snuck out while no one was home or some such cowardly thing. Leave a note, and don't let the swinging door hit your posterior portion on the way out. Nope, not me. I am all grown up. I told Dad and Mom I was leaving to go live with some buddies. I knew I was hurting them, but I did not care. All I cared about was what I wanted, and thought would make me happy and doing things my way. I packed some stuff and left.
I won't bore you with the details, so long story short. I figured out I did not know as much as I thought I knew and that I was anything but all grown up. The acquisition of this bit of knowledge took little time. Dad stood on the patio when I returned home, watering his ever-present plants. I told Dad I was sorry for being a chowderhead, but his eyes stopped me. He forgave me before I asked. He was just glad I was home. It was a look I would see years later when all the boys were back for Christmas and Thanksgiving. Truthfully, I could share some other hard places, but most folks here today know about hard spots from their own life. I will move on now.
Somewhere along the way, in the mid to late 80s, I bought and sold real estate and did well—a pretty house on a creek with trees, a nice car, etc. The automobile was a red turbocharged Nissan 300Z, all trimmed out. A friend called it my little red Dagon, i.e., idol. That is all too true, but that is another story. About that time, the price of oil fell like a rock. In an oil-dependent economy, this was not good in general and for the real estate business in particular. It was not long before my financial situation was in a bad way, a terrible way.
Additionally, I found myself with some strange, long-lasting virus that resembled mono but was worse. The illness left me weak as a kitten, not able to work. I was sitting on my couch, wondering how I would pay bills. After all, houses and little red idols don't come cheap. Ultimately, I would ask myself more than once how to pay utilities and eat. I owned too much investment real estate and had too much debt to go with a bad economy and housing market. Oh, just for the record, I possessed one more thing: too much pride.
Late one afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was Dad. Once again, if you knew my dad, you would know he was careful not to meddle in his children's lives as some parents are inclined to. His advice was always sound, but you had to ask, and he left the decision in your court. You would also know that he was a father who loved his children unconditionally. Not a perfect father, but a godly father who seldom used any form of profanity. That day was different, as different as the day and waiting room so many years later.
He asked how I was feeling, and I told him. I told him what the doctor had said. "It will take a lot of rest and a long time to get over this." He did not bother to ask about my finances. He knew without me having to say a word. He said, and I will never forget, "Son, I know it's hard, but let all this shit go and come home. Come home so Mom and I can take care of you." A part of this story is being left out for another time, but I will tell you that Dad coming to get me was a part of the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I will also let you know that, unlike a rambunctious little boy, he did not have to tell me twice.
I sat in the waiting room, knowing I would soon miss a piece of my life. Not a bit of a jigsaw puzzle made of cardboard, but a genuine living person, flesh and blood, a massive chunk of my life, a part of me. If, by chance, you are wondering about my grammar and the use of the present tense at the beginning of this story when I said, "the person I know as Dad" in the present tense when he is passed from this world. Correct grammar calls for using the past tense, as in “the person I knew as Dad.” Do not be disturbed; I assure you that Dad is more alive than he ever was in this world. How do I know this? "Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so." The Bible also tells me, "For God had something better in mind for us, so that they (those gone on before) would not reach completeness without us."
I don't know who I will see first in eternity. I know that when I find Dad, I will recognize the look in his eyes. I have seen it before. Without saying a word, he will say, "Welcome home. I am glad you're here. I have been waiting for you."
While Dad's life, love, and influence still impact my life today, his portion of my story has been suspended until that day. Yet even in the light of God's promise of eternal life to those who believe, those of us still here contend with this jigsaw puzzle called life. Your life, my life, and everybody else's for that matter, is made up of pieces that fit together to form a whole. The pieces, if you will allow me liberty, are people. People are frail and flawed, but they are people that God has placed in our lives and us in theirs. When one of these persons, whether family or friend, is missing, our life is incomplete and contains an empty place. It is all too often broken and fractured.
Perhaps the missing piece is due to death, which we cannot control. I have, however, found that the missing parts are often due to a misunderstanding, something said in anger, or poor choices that we or someone else made. It could be something that we failed to do, or it was another person's failure. Whatever the reason, our lives are incomplete, fractured, and broken. Each one of us, as well as others, leads an impoverished and diminished life because of missing pieces. The landscape, i.e., the jigsaw puzzle of our lives, is incomplete.
I am grateful that I had a loving, caring father. I am also thankful that Dad did not go home with us at odds, without being reconciled, if you prefer. I am grateful for the years I had to spend with him past the hard times and the richness that those years brought to my life.
The vast majority, if not one hundred percent, of people who read this have at least one missing piece: an individual who was a part of your life, maybe for a short while or perhaps for a long time, but who is no longer a part of your life. It may not be your father, mother, or sibling, but someone else who was an integral part of your life.
As I mentioned, being in waiting rooms has been a big part of my life. I have been there when people have lost family and friends with whom they were still at odds. Please do yourself a favor; take my word for it. Losing someone to death who is not a missing person is less painful than losing someone who is. I have witnessed the additional pain and grief brought to them as they tried to deal with the loss.
At this point, most preacher types would quote some scripture, tune up a good sermon, and have at it. Me, I am a preacher, well, a preacher of sorts. At least, that is what a couple of pieces of paper on the wall say. I gave up trying to fit into the mold that many garden-variety pew warmers in various churches desire. In the end, neither I nor any other preacher are more or less than fellow pilgrims and authors. We are all pilgrims on a journey and write our stories with our lives. It is a story that contains many pieces (people) as we journey through this world.
I am not here to preach, and I am not about to try and judge you. I am merely sharing a portion of my life. It is beyond any of us to change yesterday. We can change the here and now. We can change today and do things differently; that will make a change for the better tomorrow.
Take a moment, find some paper, and tear off a small piece. A corner of a page of this story will work just fine. Look at it. The torn paper with its ragged edges represents a piece of your life, your jigsaw puzzle. More importantly, it symbolizes a person that is a missing part of your life, a missing part of you. That person is genuine, flesh and blood, not some distant memory. Maybe it was your fault, perhaps their fault, maybe both of you were to blame, or possibly no one was to blame. It may be just time, distance, and the flow of life.
I don't know their name, but you do. I am not aware of the circumstances, but you are. I'll leave you and that piece of paper alone. I will let you figure it out, but you already know who it is and what you should do.
Why do or change anything? Well, for one, your life's jigsaw puzzle will be more complete, and an empty place at the table will be filled. Your life, their life, and those around you will be fuller, richer, and more vibrant.
I now leave you and this writing for the present. As has often been stated, there is no guarantee of tomorrow. Today, God and each other are all that we have.