then I shall know fully

It's been 18 years... I can't believe blogs have been around longer than that, it's unreal he's been gone that long, and yet here we are. I'm looking at you through these keys and through this screen and thinking of where we are right now. I feel like I have a halfway decent idea of what my dad would think of the world as it is now. I know he would sit with any one of us to talk it over and think it out. If we were able, he'd probably prefer canoeing or hunting or fishing or road tripping or carpentry or exploring! But he would sit and be present, if that's what we needed.

I'd like to try to capture a few threads of thoughts, wisps of memories that chain together as I think about my dad tonight.

...my dad would go out of his way to be with people. 

There were folks that gave as well as took: folks that took he and my mom and the four of us in and lavished love and healing on us in all sorts of ways. There were the many folks that had nothing but themselves to share. And then there were the rest of us: somewhere in the middle of life-giving and absolutely draining and probably a mix of both most days. Let me bring up some situations and faces that appear in context of this man who was raised on a small farm in northern Wisconsin and died at the age of 54, a pastor and a friend and husband and a dad.

I have early, early memories, of crossing the street to talk with Loretta, strapped to a scooter, body and voice twisted with the terrible effects of cerebral palsy, but smiling and working so hard to get words out: words my dad had time to unravel, and interpret and share. 

I remember nursing homes and hospitals. Visiting. It's what you did: not worrying about the awkwardness, the motionless person on the bed who may or may not hear you. Singing. Straggled groupings of wheelchairs and cushions and folks tapping along to hymns or carols or songs they'd never heard before. Praying. Committing to the God of the universe, this pain, this un-navigable situation, this injustice, and this impossible joy in an impossible situation.

Going back to the farm: visiting great Aunt Elsie with her wooden puppet monkey and squint and broken voice and boundless love. Visiting great Uncle Bert in his one-roomed cabin-hermit-house on the lake. Visiting the Spragues, spending time in their tiny house and humongous welcome; people who had been there for my dad as a high schooler who had run from and then found faith, and who had then been an outsider till the relief of college in a town far away.

Driving to Wyoming to visit his best friend from college, Jim. Driving back to Wisconsin from eastern Montana, and then Idaho. Always road trips were about people: reunions and holidays and stories at Grandpa and Grandma's dining room table. Driving to California for a family vacation, but also to see second cousins living in San Diego.

Doing life with folks. Being the youth pastor in a local church. Bringing friends up to the farm for fishing, hunting or haying, or to the boundary waters for fishing, fishing, and more fishing! And hunting: whether it was rattlesnakes, elk, pheasant, or deer my dad continually went with and brought folks along. Driving ambulance. Becoming a pastor and taking on the new people challenges and the odd isolation that came with the job. Crashing a motorcycle down a hill with Doug and flying with Don over the irrigated sugar beet fields of eastern Montana. Learning the Yellowstone: looking for agates and smelting his own paddlefishing weights and bringing friends/neighbors to Intake when they were running. Starting Bible studies and dealing with small town folks and big town folks and family dynamics and church splits. Walking alongside folks who had been through unimaginable abuse and welcoming missionaries as they rested stateside, sharing stories and trying to make sense of culture and family and home and a sovereign God who does miracles and redeems hopeless situations.

The more I write the more I think of. Camps and jungle swings and bogs and scavenger hunts and lakes and singing. Traveling bands and special music and the Gaithers and intra-church musical nights. Playing trombone and taking his kids swimming and canyon rafting and water skiing, and making them tree houses and haymow forts and igloos. A goofy sense of humor that could be dry and sophisticated, or completely slapstick and silly. Helping people anonymously, so they never knew how life came to be just a slight bit easier than it had been.

My dad loved his family, and he loved people God put in his path. To be clear, many of those were people most of us would think of as not being on our path: folks in group homes and jail and nursing homes and hospitals and huts.

... my dad left us in good hands

I know I've written before that my dad wasn't perfect. He wasn't on this one either; sometimes he probably should have spent more time with us than with "ministry". I think there were times where people and their opinions mattered too much to him. I know he had a hard time admitting when he'd made mistakes.

But much bigger than his failings, my dad's love for God, his desire to share with all of us around him the peace and the joy that come from casting all of our care, anxiety, and burden on Him - meant that He was okay leaving all of us in God's care as he stepped into eternity. He fought the good fight, kept the faith, finished the race that was put in front of him. I can remember him singing me to sleep when I was small, and holding me as I learned to swim and ride a bike on my own. He did everything he could to set us kids (and everyone he knew) up well in a wild and broken world, and he left us in good hands.

I Corinthians 13
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. ² And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. ³ If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.

⁴ Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant ⁵ or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;⁶ it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. ⁷ Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

⁸ Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. ⁹ For we know in part and we prophesy in part, ¹⁰ but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. ¹¹ When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. ¹² For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

¹³ So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

the hunter

I think it would usually be sometime around the first day of spring that my dad would begin long months of dreaming about deer season. He liked hunting in general, of course, but opening day of gun season was what I heard about most. Perhaps that was because that was something that he and I really did a lot of together - but I do know he could hardly sleep the night before, thinking through all the different factors and variables of our coming hunt.
All the drive up to the farm, he would quiz me on what I'd do in various scenarios:

• A doe walks in front of you, and she keeps stopping and looking behind her. What do you do?
• A deer is facing away from you, and all you can see is the tail. What do you do?
• A deer is standing perfectly still, looking at you, but there is too much brush in the way for a clean shot. What do you do?
  

He would find/set up some sort of crazy stand for me every year. We'd often hunt on public land, where you're not supposed to use permanent stands, so sometimes I'd be up an aluminum extension ladder leaned against a tall, bare-branched white pine. Sometimes I'd be standing over a deer trail on a little portable stand that was probably 1 1/2 feet by 2 feet, with a seatbelt attaching me to the tree. Here's a picture of the last stand he set up for me; I think I hunted in it for three years. He split a sapling and made a makeshift ladder with nails he'd brought along, and on opening day he'd set the ladder up, climb up and bungee cord the top to the tree, and lay down a carpet-thingy on the branch where I'd be standing. I'd climb up that into the fork of the tree and stand there most of the day. (The branch has since split, so that stand's not much use any longer.) It turned out to be a pretty great stand!

I miss my dad. And doubly-so this time of year. It's especially rough going through his stuff - his writing on boxes of bullets he'd reloaded and that sort of thing. SO glad to have my Uncle Dean & Aunt Dar, who've been looking after me since Dad's been gone. They let me crash at their place, and Dean gets me all set to go, and last year he helped me track a deer I never would have found on my own. I don't think I could go if I didn't have such a great setup with them.

So wish us luck; opening day is this Saturday! And - if you know a good hunting story about my dad - share it in the comments below - I'm sure we'd love to hear it!

Rest

Down here in the valley
Nothing's able to grow
'Cause the light's too low
Folks spend their days
Digging 'round for diamonds and gold
'Til they just get old
And they don't know anything else
They don't know they're breathing bad air
But I'm tired of living like this
And my soul cries out, "If You're there...

Will You lift me up with tender care?
Will You wash me clean in the palm of Your hand?
Will You hold me close so I can thrive?
When You touch me, that's when I know I'm alive
(from the Newsboys song, "Thrive")
As I've thought about my dad today, I think about him being in heaven and I wonder what things stick out as being important now that his story here is written. As we talked in the days before his death, he mentioned things that he was happy about, things that validated his time here. He tried so hard. He was hard on himself, and sometimes hard on us closest to him. I think striving sometimes felt like the best option, particularly if the alternative was slacking off, taking things for granted, letting them slide, perhaps failing. But if I think of him now, being with Jesus, I can picture him finding rest. True rest - not the self-indulgent slogginess of indolence - but the rest of being at peace with himself, with his own need and ability to receive forgiveness and acceptance. After all, the story of the Christian is the story of someone who has reached the end of his (or her!) ability to keep all the plates spinning, all the balls bouncing, all the people around happy. No one is perfect, it's true - but to really acknowledge that in yourself, to admit your need for Someone beyond yourself - that's the crux of switching from "my will be done" to "Thine". And that's where Rest begins.
I just got back from a week scrambling over mountainsides in Colorado, and it's funny how different a mountain looks from the top than it does from the bottom. All the obstacles, switchbacks, striving, work and effort of getting yourself to the top are forgotten as you rest and look out and ahead. I wonder if that's what my dad is doing now. I think of him singing hymns two nights before he died, finding in those words and God's presence a peace and rest that his frenzied body couldn't grant him. I think of the song quoted above and the chorus not being about frenzied striving, but allowing God's love and comfort to surround you. And - for those of us still down here - I'm thinking that rest can sometimes look a lot like activity, but it sometimes requires allowing yourself to fall back into the love and protective care that await when you let go.

lilies

Aunt Lynnette sent me this picture of some new potted tiger lilies she put out there for Dad. Thank you, Aunt Lynnette!

My Brother

A few weekends ago I went up to the farm for opening day of deer season. That was always my very favorite time with my dad, so I think it will always be rough to go without him. Uncle Dean looked after me though - we found a stand (the tree I'd been using previous years was falling apart), and when I got a deer he helped me track it for half a mile! (Dad would have been proud - NOT of the shot! - but of Dean's tracking skill in the thick leaves; there were a lot of times when I was sure we'd lost it. And I was really glad we found it and didn't have to leave it out there to suffer).
While I was up there, I learned that Dean had written out what he had shared at Dad's funeral. I asked for a copy, and he said I could post it here. Thanks Uncle Dean - since there wasn't a recording of the funeral, I'm so glad to have this tribute in writing and not just in memory.

My Brother

Myself, being the first boy born in my family, after my four lovely sisters, they said it was one of my Dad's happiest days when I was born. When my brother Dale was born 4.50 years later they said it was one of my Mother's happiest days. Not only did she have another boy but she had one with red hair. My Mother's Dad had red hair so they gave Dale my Mother's maiden name which was Swan.

When they brought Dale home from the hospital I was thrilled to see my brother. I even gave him my favorite tractor to play with in his crib, but for some reason he didn't want no part of it.

Dale's childhood days were spent catching frogs, snapping turtles and putting them in the bottom of the silo that we didn't use on the farm. The bottom was almost completely covered with them. Dale also invented a hobby he called "Beeing" in which he would go up and down the road with a jar catching bees, butterflies or whatever. He also took several people with him to try and master this hobby.

One time my cousins were visiting and us 4 boys were playing cards on the porch, something happened and the cards got thrown, well I was left to pick them up. They had all ran out the door. I was going to get them. I ran out the door to see my brother going towards the one side of the house so I decided to go around the other way, what a mistake! Dale and I collided with his head hitting my mouth. I got a cut lip and lost my front tooth and there wasn't even a mark on his hard head.

After my graduation and leaving home I didn't see my brother that much except for the start of hunting and fishing seasons. We also went up to the Boundary waters fishing 3 or 4 times. We would be the first canoe out in the morning and the last one in at night. Dale loved it up there and it was a good time for us to be together.

Dale was so busy in his church work and things seemed to be going so well. Then I heard he was having stomach problems. I called him and we talked about it. After our conversation I got a knot in my stomach knowing something was really wrong.

I know many of you people here today had that same feeling. Last Monday my knot went away after I heard of his passing. His illness was like a dark cloud every week the cloud got darker and heavier. And you try to see that silver lining in the cloud. I still believe we are going to see that silver lining. He was always on our minds. Sometimes I would wake in the middle of the night thinking of him. Say a prayer and try to get some sleep

The last time I saw Dale was in the Duluth Hospital. We talked and then his dear daughter Angie came in, Dale was nauseous and wondered why his stomach pump wasn't on. Well Angie said she could turn it on as she had seen the nurse do it. Dale said to crank it up. Dale got instant relief, then the nurse came in Dale told her they had turned it on. The nurse suggested maybe turning it off because it was only to be on by Doctor's orders. Angie was the best nurse Dale had. And then Dale's dear wife Amy. She was so good to him and put up with so much. Dale told me she was a keeper.

This last summer we had a family reunion in Shell Lake. After we went out to the farm. Dale, Angie, Angie's boyfriend Ben and I took a walk. Remembering about our childhood memories and landmarks of the farm. After walking about 3/4 mile we asked Dale if he wanted to turn back, he said no. We walked back to my cabin and back. We could not believe he would go that far.

One day I was having a hard day coping, when a chorus from a old gospel song came into my head. It goes like this, "When I've gone the last mile of the way I will rest at the close of the day for I know there are joys that await me when I gone the last mile of the way". I'm glad I was there to walk one of those last miles with him.

I love you Brother.

Dale Memorial Bridge

(from my Dad's sister, Lynnette)
Hello my dear,
Been thinking of you real often. Just thought I'd tell you about our fun project down by the farm a couple of weeks ago. Someone gave Ray a bunch of dock pieces so we (Dean, me & Naomi & Ray) put a nice "Dale memorial bridge" across the river, down below their camper. It is SO NEAT. It was very hot that day so we enjoyed being in the river. We cleaned out brush across the river then & made a trail up the steep hill to the cornfield. It was so fun & such a labor of love. Dale would have absolutely loved it!!!! You'll just have to go see it sometime. We all miss him alot. Take care, Love you, Lynnette

updates

We've updated a few things on this site: scroll down to see some pics of the headstone. Also, the totals for contributions to the "in lieu of flowers" funds are now tallied and posted on the right-hand panel, above. And a third update: Dad's last three sermons are now available on the church site; the links are listed on the right as well.

It's been a year

I sought the Lord and he answered me;
he delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant;
their faces are never covered with shame.
This poor man called, and the Lord heard him;
he saved him out of all his troubles. (Psalm 34)

I hold my breath and stutter at words that swirl in my heart and mind, but can't find their way to my tongue or my keyboard. It's been a year. A year of grieving and joy and disorientation and pain and laughter and listening. A year of holding on and moving on and letting go and holding on again.

Your prayers and comments have continued to encourage us so much; Amy and I both thank you. God is good, continually-amazingly so. Blessings to you.

(picture from Christmas 2004)

Headstone

The head stone has been placed. On the right in the first pic, you can see the cross Uncle Dean made for the spot before there was a stone there.

Amy's 2006 Christmas Letter

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them. Luke 2:8-9

Dear Family and Friends,

A verse from Psalm 19, The heavens declare the glory of God, comes vividly to my mind every time I look up into a clear night sky in this Northwoods where I live, especially now at Christmastime. It is comforting to think that the glory of God I see in the night sky is the same glory that Dale is part of now. The day before Dale passed away, he suddenly sat up in bed, moving his hands and saying, "It is starting to open up." I can only imagine what Dale is seeing now surrounded by God's glory in heaven.

They say not to make any plans or big moves for at least one year. I am sitting tight, teaching second grade at the elementary school in Iron River, very thankful to have a job that I love. Sixteen smiling faces surround me every school day. My own children call, email, and visit, and my church family looks out for me also. A granddaughter, Margo Claire, was born to Grant and Jen on September 20. We will all be down at Grant's house near Milwaukee for Christmas including Dale's daughter, Angela. I will stay the whole week so I can spend as much time with Margo as I can. (Holding babies always helps a grieving heart.)

I have plenty to be thankful for. Despite the diagnosis in early June, Dale and I had the whole summer together. I am grateful for Angela who took time off from work to come and help me take care of her Dad during his last weeks. Without her, we would not have been able to be at home with hospice. It was a privilege and an honor to be able to care for Dale. I have many wonderful memories of a patient, godly, caring man who was my husband.

Thank you all, again, for the love, care and support that you showed us during Dale's illness and subsequent death.

...And be sure to hold onto those you love this Christmas. Give them an extra hug, and gaze into the night sky.

Lovingly,
Amy

Dale Johnson Funeral

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Iron River Community Center, Iron River
9:30 AM Visitation
11:00 AM Funeral Service
12:30 PM Lunch

Barronett Lakeside Cemetery, Barronett
4:00 PM Interment Service

In lieu of flowers...

Grace Baptist Church Building Fund
PO Box 356
Iron River, WI 54847

~ or ~

Wood Lake Bible Camp
22460 Assembly Road
Grantsburg, WI 54840
woodlakebiblecamp.org

Directions - Iron River Community Center
From the west:

Drive to Iron River via Highway 2
Turn Right on Civic Center Drive (will be past Hwy H and almost through town)
The Community Center is off to the left behind the VHW. It has a green roof.

From the east:

Drive to Iron River via Highway 2
Turn Left on Civic Center Drive (will be just past the fire department as you’re coming into town)
The Community Center is off to the left behind the fire department. It has a green roof.

click map for bigger view

Directions - Barronett Lakeside Cemetery
From the north:

Go south on Hwy 53
Right (south) on Hwy 63 (you'll go through Spooner and Shell Lake)
Right on Brickyard Road (next road after County J)
The cemetery will be on the left.

click map for bigger view

running to catch a sunset

Tonight I went out to watch the sun set. I saw that it had a way to go before setting, so I decided to run to my favorite gravel pile (can you have a favorite gravel pile?) to watch it from there. I'm usually more of a rambler than a runner, but this time I ran pretty much the whole way only to miss it when I got to the top; the sun had already sunk below the trees. I sat there and watched the sky change colors and thought about Things.
(ok, Amy liked this post, so when I showed her "the" gravel pile, she wanted me to climb it so she could take a picture. Here it is!)

Thing the First: You.
I didn’t realize, when I started logging this sequence of events, how much it really would become a tribute to my Dad because of all you had to share about him. I hope you realize how much it’s meant to Amy and to me to receive your responses, prayers, memories, and encouraging thoughts throughout each day. We treasure them, and I’m guessing others who were close to my Dad find them equally as encouraging. I like knowing they’re “captured” – that I’ll be able to go back again later and re-absorb them. Thank you.

Thing the Second: missed sunsets.
I’ve thought of many things I wish I had done for or with my Dad while he was still around. I’m dealing with the messiness of unanswered questions, unresolved problems, unpreached sermons, unharvested gardens… and lots more things. Unbuilt houses, unexplored woods, unhunted deer, and unmet people in need. I struggle with grieving. I know I have so much to be thankful for, and yet it’s hard not to focus on the loss. Do I celebrate that I “got” 54 (well, 32) years with him on this earth, or do I weep at knowing I don’t get him till he’s 90? Do I smile about the last few years of improving relationship with him, or choke at the idea that if I get married, he won’t be at my wedding or meet my kids? Do I rejoice that he’s in heaven, or ache that I’m probably still on this earth for a while yet?

Here are the thoughts I was able to glean from the gravel pile and the beautiful fading sky: he left this world, as far as I can tell, at peace with everyone so far as it was up to him. I say this to you who are grieving and to myself: he left with great love and few regrets. He would not want us to kick ourselves for opportunities missed. He would want us to celebrate what we had, and then, I think, to pick up where he left off. Tonight, the sun was gone and I could see only the colors that it left in the sky. But tomorrow the sun will return, and I think I have some woods to explore and people to connect with and love. Any volunteers for the other stuff?

rough details

Oops! I modified this post to include all the details, and moved it to Saturday, but I forgot about the comments! I don't want to lose them so I'm re-posting this with the comments from Tuesday.

gone

Late last night I was sitting in the office (where Dad's hospital bed is) finishing up on the day's blog entry, when Amy came in to check on him. She asked me to come and feel for a pulse - I did, and he was gone.

We cried.

We called Hospice and while waiting for the nurse (and later the funeral director) to come, sat next to Dad's body. We talked and read some of the verses that he had highlighted for us over the last few months. Here are a few of them:

Psalm 119:112 My heart is set on keeping your decrees to the very end.
Psalm 146:2 I will praise the Lord all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.
Psalm 146:7b,8 The Lord sets prisoners free, the Lord gives sight to the blind, the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down, the Lord loves the righteous.

We're planning to have the visitation and funeral here in Iron River on Saturday. As we confirm more details, we'll post them here. One thing we have discussed: in lieu of flowers we'd like to have gifts go to the Grace Baptist Church building fund or to Wood Lake Bible Camp.

I wasn't thinking...

... when I created this site. I mean, I didn't think through all of the implications of doing so. That (barring a miracle - which I really do believe in!) I'd basically be chronicling bad news, then worse news, then worse news again regarding my Dad's time here on this earth. I guess I thought more of not wanting to lose moments than what a downer it might become. Don't get me wrong; I'm not regretting it - it just becomes increasingly difficult to write without having this simply being a log of the loss of one thing after another.

That being said, I do have significant losses to report. While each day lately has marked some decline, that decline has been significant over the last few days. He went from no longer being able to walk on Friday, to having difficulty talking yesterday, to mumbling this morning, to being pretty much non-responsive this evening. His skin is clammy today, and he is clearly bothered by getting shots now (was he "toughing it out" before? Or is he more sensitive now?). The Hospice nurse is thinking that he has a week or less with us here.

I do still have neat moments to record, though. My friend Tom came up from Appleton to visit me on Friday, and we noticed a hummingbird out in Amy's flowers. So we went out and waited, and in spite of the 3 (gajillion?) second delay on my digital camera's shutter, were able to get a shot of this one. Can't see it? Well, below is the poor quality zoomed-in version. My apologies to those of you for whom hummingbirds are commonplace - I probably get a little too excited about them. We came in and caught Dad in an "alert" mode he answered our questions about whether they are really mean and why. Funny - I had no doubt that he would know the answer to that one....

Even sweeter - as he was losing words on Saturday, he would with great effort say certain things that Amy and I never want to forget.
(to Amy) "With your care, I feel safe. Without you, I don't know what I'm doing."
(to me) "I don't know what's going on, so you're going to have to steer me through."
He kind of cracked us up when the Hospice nurse went into kind of a long explanation about a shot she was going to give him. He turned and whispered loudly to Amy, "I don't understand." Basically, trying so hard to be polite to the nurse, but looking to Amy to bail him out on any necessary response to what was going on.
Those of you who know how on top of things he always is will understand why these words are so poignant and painful and priceless to hear.

And best of all, "I love you a hundred times a hundred times a thousand. Human words just aren't adequate." We heard variations of this, in shorter and more mumbled form as long as he could speak.

We love you, too.