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Bill Owen

congregational coach, consultant, speaker, and ministry specialist

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I love a good story!

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I love J.R.R. Tolkien’s books, especially The Lord of the Rings. I remember the first time I read it (and most times since), when I finished the trilogy I cried. Oh, not because it was sad, it has a hero’s ending. It is the best of stories. I cried because the story was over.

This week I conducted one of the sweetest memorial services in all my days as a minister. All pastors have stories we can tell (and we often do!) about weddings, funerals, baptisms and such—funny, embarrassing, and sometimes-unbelievable ones! This is one I’ll remember.

It was a double funeral—husband and wife of 60-plus years. Any marriage of that length is noteworthy these days, but theirs is storybook.

Parents of 5 children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—their lives had revolved around one another and family. They had been away from our church for a long time, but I had known of their association with Mt. Carmel from the days before I came as pastor. Their family farm was just up the road. Their “lots” had been purchased in the church cemetery and the grave marker/monument was already set.

In their old age each one battled dementia and Alzheimer’s. Both required assisted living until each entered hospice care. Last week, as he neared the end, she was rolled into his room. With children in the room, one praying, and with her hand placed in his, she died.

Two days later, with all 5 children present, they prayed again. Now he goes to be with the Lord and, I believe, to glad reunion with his dearly beloved. Even as family and friends mourned their death we rejoiced that afternoon in the church sanctuary for them both. They are in the nearer presence of Christ.

Here at Mt. Carmel is the place they were married. Now they have come full circle. They lie down together only to rise up in eternity.

On their tombstone, already in place, is engraved “Till Death Do We Part” with two wedding rings interlocked! As the two caskets were lowered simultaneously into the grave, we all cried.

I love stories with good endings. And sometimes I cry.

What about the story you’re living—your life, your marriage, your family—how’s it going? How will it end? Good?

The Pause Button — 6) When You Want to Quit

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Sometimes I simply want to quit—maybe the numbers on Sunday were down, the sermon didn’t  go as well as planned, or…. You get the picture. I’ll be honest, that happens most often on Monday mornings!

If it’s not the pastorate, it is something else—my diet or exercise plan, maybe it’s something at home, or sometimes it’s between me and God. It’s human. It’s life.

I enjoyed reading Donald Miller’s book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. He describes something called a “story arc” or trajectory. It is the dramatic outline that nearly every great story, including yours and mine, follows. It’s what makes good stories great. 

Generally, you start off fast, visualizing the destination. Everything seems easy. You are a little surprised but soon become over-confident. You think, “This isn’t so hard. I’ve got this. No problem.”

But, inevitably, you come to the middle of the story. It’s there that things get difficult. You’re working hard, but you don’t feel you are making progress. You feel trapped; you grow weary, frustrated, or angry.

Eventually, you push through and reach the destination. Then you realize that the destination isn’t all that important. Instead, it is what happened to you on the journey—how you have changed and what you’ve become.

In other words, the really important stuff happens in the middle. Miller describes it this way,

[People] come out of college wanting to change the world, wanting to get married, wanting to have kids and change the way people buy office supplies. But they get into the middle and discover it is harder than they thought. They can’t see the distant shore anymore, and they wonder if their paddling is moving them forward. None of the trees behind are getting smaller and none of the trees ahead are getting bigger. They take it out on their spouses, and they go looking for an easier story.” (p. 179)

Sometimes we want an easier story. Sometimes we just want to quit.

That’s when we need to pause—get some perspective.

The next time you feel like quitting, ask yourself—

 

  • Am I taking care of myself? If I am not getting proper rest, nutrition, and exercise, it will affect my attitude. Sometimes a night’s rest, a good meal, or a nice walk can change everything.
  • Am I asking the right questions? Questions are very powerful. But they can be positive or negative. If I ask the wrong ones, I will be left disempowered and depleted. Here are some good ones—
    • What does this challenge/struggle make possible?
    • What do I like about this relationship/circumstance/job?
    • How does this challenge provide a way for me to grow?
    • What is really at stake here and why do I need to finish?
  • Who can help me? Usually, it’s my wife. Sometimes you may need the counsel of a pastor, a coach, a friend, or even a therapist.

The older I get, the more I see the need to “stay in the story.” Sure, it’s tempting to hang it up. But if you do, you may miss the most important part of your life.

It Matters

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I enjoyed today. You might find that a little odd. I attended a memorial service–the mother of a dear friend.

I sat among friends and listened, as opposed to my normal position up front.

I listened and was encouraged, instead of searching for just the right words.

I was reminded of the value and beauty of a life well-lived and the gift of a “graceful” death.

The presence of family and friends, the warmth of music and song, the reading of scriptures and comforting words–it matters; it all matters. It really does.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Pastoral Care

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This past week has been one of the more memorable in all my years here in the Cross Plains community—not to mention the “1000 year” flood that hit the middle Tennessee area, namely all parts affected by the Harpeth and Cumberland Rivers. While I was away attending a “coaching” workshop, hosted by the Pastoral Institute in Columbus, Georgia, I learned of the deaths of two of my parishioners. Both memorial services would be on Monday, May 3rd at the church.

Mrs. Helen was a longtime member of Mt. Carmel who had been bravely enduring adversity. In the last 10 years, through hardship after hardship, the death of her husband, sister, and her own troubles, she found reason to laugh in spite of her affliction. Have you ever heard someone described as “well within herself” even when other things weren’t? That was Helen.

It was probably predictable that even her funeral would have to negotiate some opposing circumstances. The excessive rains would make it nearly impossible to bury the remains on Monday. So the decision was to wait until later in the week. No doubt, Mrs. Helen would have gotten a chuckle out of it. She had a great sense of humor. We all loved that about her.

So on Sunday evening at the funeral home, Cindy and I stood with her family remembering the good times. Lyn, her son, greeted everyone with love and care. Without blinking an eye, he began to tell me what I already knew about his mother’s commitment to our church and her love for me—her pastor and friend. 

“Bro. Bill, you know over the last ten years my mother hasn’t been able to be at church the way she wanted. She’s missed being in the new sanctuary and taking part in all that’s been going on. You know too how much she loved you.” I nodded with appropriate pastoral sensitivity and humility. Lyn continued, “We have decided that instead of transporting her body back to the funeral home, we will just wheel her into your office and leave her there until later in the week. We believe that’s what she would want.”

I stood there, in pastoral pose, calm and collected.  After all, I am a seminary graduate and beyond that, I have been sharpening certain pastoral skills for quite a few years now. I even have the grey hair to prove it! All the while my mind was racing, “Are you kidding me?… I guess I can do that… Sure I can…I think I can manage that for a few days… Is that even legal?”

“Sure,” I responded. “That will be perfectly alright. I know how much Mrs. Helen loved Mt. Carmel. And I loved her.”  No sooner than I had choked up these words, Lyn began to laugh. He got me! And Mrs. Helen, I’m sure, loved every bit of it! Such was the tone of the first service that day. It was, as they say, a celebration of life.

The second funeral would stand in bold relief to the first. Here we would remember Jim—a father and husband whose life ended before it should have. There I stood before a sanctuary full of mourners, all friends and neighbors, waiting to hear a word of comfort, if not explanation. In times like these, the pastoral role is a difficult one. I love being a pastor; but sometimes, not so much.

The service was powerful. God’s presence was communicated through music and scripture, testimony and tears. And there was laughter, even in the midst of our grief. I love that about community, the strength that we receive from one another, the care that we give to one another. Jim loved this community and we loved him.

God bless both these families!


Like Medicine

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Just this week I stood in a hospital room crowded with loving family members of one who, without a single word, had summoned them all together. She was ready, after almost 94 years, to leave this life for one that is promised to be more. So that is exactly what she did. She took the corridor that leads from here to there. She left a hushed silence hardly able to muffle the emotion of time spent, joys remembered, and sorrows borne.

Hospitals are places of healing. For those who work there it must be wonderful to take part in someone’s healing and, I’m sure, equally devastating when healing does not occur. Sometimes I wish I were a physician—or at least, had a more practical job. Sometimes I think that if I could do something more productive, I’d be better off. After all, I’m a preacher. I talk. I craft and deliver sermons on a weekly basis. Sometimes I wonder about what possible difference words can make. To be truthful, I can hardly remember myself what I preached a couple of weeks ago.

But I was reminded this week about this gospel that I proclaim. We know Jesus as the Great Physician, one who healed the sick, made the lame to walk, and gave sight to the blind. He was a doer, no doubt. I remembered though that his ministry with the poor, the prisoners, the broken and ill was first a ministry of words. Jesus had been anointed to preach, to proclaim the good news of release and recovery. His were words of healing and wholeness.

Did I say how quiet the room was? Not a sound. Until one by one, from young to old, stories were sounded and applied straight to our hearts. It was like medicine. Straight to the soul, soothing salve.

The heaviness in the room began to lift. Don’t get me wrong, there were still tears, but it was different somehow—a smile, a fresh remembrance, and a twinkle in our eyes. Where once we were standing stiff, now we began to relax and touch one another. A hand, a shoulder, then an embrace. Our bodies began to speak with lighter inflection. You could feel it.

Before I left I offered a word. I knew this family. I understood. I recited the 23rd Psalm and we prayed together. Those words—theirs, mine, and the psalmist’s—were good news to every one of us that day even in the face of death.

That’s the wonderful thing about the work I do. For that matter, the work we do. The gospel “medicine” works straight away; no sooner than it is said, it is done. The good news accomplishes what it proclaims, no matter how things may turn out.