TIM E HOLDER

 

I live way out in the country. Two and a half acres of woods and a small wood house with a creek winding through them. The Blair Witch Project.

I used to normally go out with the dogs and watch them run around and perform their regular constitutionals before coming inside.

One night several years ago, it was misting and I really didn’t want to stand outside with them. It was taking my Jack Russell Terrier, Gitli (Cherokee for “dog”) who was a tornado of teeth and toenails, a lot longer than usual to come home so I went out looking for him.

Apparently, he wandered behind my house to the next street, where my neighbor’s two dogs attacked him and brutally killed him. I’ve never gotten over that. Now I never, under any circumstances let my pooches go out, rain, shine, sleet, snow, ice, unless I’m there with them.

So, a while ago, I took two of my six out. My little blind one was barking at me to pick her up so I did. I carried her into the house. Falkor wasn’t out of my sight for more than one minute. But when I went to bring him in, he, apparently, and ill-advisedly, decided to go on an exploration expedition. He never wanders far, never out of my line of vision.

I calmly checked all the normal places he would go. The burn pile, the creek. I called and called. I walked around my next door neighbor’s house and to the street behind, where I found Gitli in a field years ago.

I immediately began to tense up. I could literally feel the anxiety of fear rising in my shoulders and into my throat. My mouth went dry and my heart began to race as the minutes turned into hours.

I got in my car and drove around the neighborhood looking for any sign of him. I kept stopping to ask neighbors if they may have seen him. A black labassett with a red collar.

There were new kids playing in the front yard of the house where the dogs killed Gitli and I stopped my car, stuck my head out the window and asked if they saw a black dog with a red collar. They were so sweet. They walked to my car and said no dog came by with that description, that they would certainly be looking for him and bring him home if he came over.

I then looked up to see their father standing on the front porch. I yelled, “I promise I’m not a predator. I’m really looking for my dog. I live right behind you. I love Jesus and I’m in the choir.” He smiled and gave me the thumbs up. I thanked the kids for helping me look. Then I hollered up at the father. “By the way, they probably still shouldn’t walk up to a car of someone they don’t know.” He laughed and said, “You are absolutely right.” I drove on down the road a bit, turned around, and headed back. As I passed, I saw the father on his knees with his kids, obviously having a very pertinent and timely discussion. They all smiled and waved.

I was beginning to panic. I walked through the woods all around my house, screaming Falkor’s name. The whole time praying, “Please let him come home. Please let him be okay.” My brain began to reel. What if those neighbors with the pit bull tied in front of their house down the way are actually dogfighters. What if they caught Falkor for bait. Possible, but totally irrational. I couldn’t stop praying. The “what if’s” were not impossible. Just not probable. But possible.

I came home and sat on the front porch and drank my Dr. Pepper and prayed. More than two hours passed. He was never gone so long. My whole body trembled. I couldn’t get past the awful thoughts and pictures in my head.

I finally realized this was completely out of my control. I knew the only place I could go was to the Lord. And I didn’t need to be alone with this fear and anxiety. So, being the social media junky that I am, I went on Facebook and posted Falkor’s picture. I asked my friends to pray with me.

Immediately, posts began to pop up from my precious friends and family. “Praying for a safe return.” “Praying.” “What a horrible feeling. Praying.” They went on and on. “Oh Tim, I’m so heartbroken.” “Praying for Falkor’s safe return and peace for you.”

At this point, I realized my entire body was reacting to the fear. I realized my brain, which is supposed to be used for problem solving, was being bombarded by the “what if’s,” which are never good in a situation like this. I thought of 2 Corinthians 10:5 “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.” I always believed that verse was just for evil thoughts concerning unforgiveness or lust or any number of ungodly, mental failures. It never occurred to me that it could be talking about fear. That fear and anxiety are just as faithless as any other feelings that pull me out of obedience to Jesus.

The thought that I had many, many faithful believers who love me, petitioning our Father, and going to him on my behalf, even over something that would seem a very small matter to most people…well, I physically felt my heart slow down, my chest un-tighten, my breathing go back to some semblance of normal, the sweating stop. I just closed my eyes, and said, “Lord, I can’t control this. I have to let it go. I just ask that you hear the prayers of your people.”

It seemed everything slowed down for awhile. It wasn’t that I was okay with my sweet little pooch being lost. I just knew the One Who created Him was in control, no matter what.

It was close to four hours and the sun was going down. Every time I felt the fear begin to bubble up, I would pray, “Give me your peace.”

And then, about 8 o’clock, up saunters Falkor. Soaked. Obviously swimming in the creek. Looking obnoxiously sheepish. When he saw me sitting on the deck, he stopped short. He SO knew he was in trouble. I just let him stand there dripping, staring at me, while I calmly went to Facebook and let everyone know he was home safe. Then I hugged him while people all over the world typed, “YAY,” “Hallelujah,” “I’m so glad, “Praise God!”

The next day there were still consequences from my letting fear take the place of faith in the Lord, no matter what the outcome. My body literally ached. I was sore all day long. Once again, obedience to Christ is proven through my weakness. And by the way, as I write this, I just found Scout finishing up a pan of shortbread I left on the stove to cool. My memory verse this week is Isaiah 41:10 “You’re my servant, serving on my side. I’ve picked you. I haven’t dropped you. Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you steady. I’ll keep a firm grip on you.”

A few weeks ago, between services at church, I listened to a message on my phone from the correctional unit where I do volunteer work. It was my weekend to be “on call.” An inmate’s cousin died at a correctional unit where she was incarcerated in Missouri and I was to inform him of her death. It’s never easy. But, I’ve done so many of these “interviews” over the years that it’s not as devastating as it once was. I have the conversation down and I can pretty much do it by rote. I fight to not become so callous that it ever becomes just a nuisance or even an inconvenience.

It wasn’t a big deal to go since I was scheduled to do the evening teaching at the women’s unit just down the road from the men’s. After meeting with the gentleman who lost his cousin, I settled down to put final touches on my notes for the evening service. I called a couple of my co-facilitators who lead Celebrate Recovery with me down to the office so we could start planning out our next step-study that was to begin soon. About the time we got into the planning, I got a call from the women’s unit that one of the ladies there lost a family member and I needed to come talk to her before she possibly read the obituary in the newspaper that day.

I sent the guys back to their barracks and sat back in the chair and my stomach began to churn. This one seemed impossible. I drove the quarter mile to the women’s unit and as I walked through the chain link gate, all I could do was pray. I told God that this one was too hard. I didn’t want to do this one. I wasn’t angry, just an overwhelming fear, leading to almost immediate weariness. I recognized this pattern.

I walked into the barracks area and told the officers why I was there. I normally take the inmate into the chaplain’s office and break the news to them, give them a few minutes to process, let them call a loved one, pray with them and send them back to their barracks. This was different.

I asked the officers if one or two of them could stand outside the door in case Traci became too inconsolable. The captain walked to the barracks door and called her name. “Mason, to the chaplain’s office.”

There are a few things I can count on when I have to deliver devastating news to the inmates. First, if you’re called to the chaplains office, there’s a 99% chance it is not going to be good news. I’ve done so many of these “interviews” that I know the thought process as they approach me. They are running through a litany of people in their lives that it could be. Who has been sick? Who is oldest? Was there some kind of accident? An overdose? Murder?

As they approach, I see the excruciating anxiety and fear in their faces as they literally search my eyes for any sign or clue as to who they are about to begin the grieving process over.

I also know they are lining themselves up internally. No matter what the news, they can’t show their grief. They can’t show weakness or fear of any kind. They can’t allow anyone “in” to walk with them for fear of “owing” anyone.

My heart broke as Traci walked toward me and I introduced myself. “Hi Traci, I’m chaplain Tim. How are you today?” This little lady, already no bigger than my index finger, seemed to fall in on herself and become even smaller. She smiled weakly. “I’m okay. But, I think I’m about to not be.”

I closed the door behind us and motioned to an empty seat for her to sit in. I sat with the desk between us, which, at this moment, seemed to separate us by miles. “No, I’m afraid not. Traci, There’s no way for me to make this easy for you. We got a call today. Your son, Benjamin, chose to end his life.”

There is always a moment of silence. One thing I’ve learned in life is that silence is, more often than not, better than trying to fill a space with well-meaning, but, nonetheless empty platitudes that, more often than not, go unheard.

So we sat for a little while, the time as distant and distinct as the space between us. Traci locked her eyes on mine and I watched as the tears began to pool in her eyes. She finally whispered, “Thank you for telling me.” She started to get up and I said, “No, sit here with me for awhile.”

As Traci wept, mostly silently, I waited for the tears to subside, for the moment. And then I began to ask her questions about her boy. All the good things she could remember. I asked her what his favorite things in life were. He loved the razorbacks and pretty much anything with a motor. I, as you will more than likely suspect, choked back tears with several of her memories.

I prayed with her and told her how important it was going to be that she find ways to lean into God for hope and grace. I prayed that God would place angels in strategic places around her to whisper His peace, that only He could give, to her hurting heart. I prayed that, as impossible as it seemed, she would find peace instead of fear.

The last thing I told her was that I would pray for her. I would pray that she find a way to show the glory of her Father in the midst of this devastating situation. That she would lean into Him and give Him the chance to be her safe place. The only One she could truly trust with this pain. Traci gave a half-hearted nod. Unconvinced. It is, after all, prison. And she walked back to her barracks.

I watched her walk through the big metal door of the barracks and heard the heaviness of it closing echo down the hall. Her lowered shoulders, bearing more weight than one lonely woman should ever have to carry, spoke volumes. One more defeat in her life. I looked toward the officer who was standing at the door, watching as she walked to her rack. The officer turned toward me and said, “Traci walked straight to her rack and started brushing her hair.”

I went back to the office and just said, “Lord, you’ve called me to this ministry. I do love it. But, I don’t ever want to do that again.”

A couple of hours later, at the evening service, I stood at the door, welcoming all the ladies in to the visitation center. I was only about half-way there, mentally, trying to realign my troubled heart for the teaching I was about to do.

About halfway through the line, I looked up to see a little, tiny lady walking in. Her eyes red and wet with tears. My throat closed up and my eyes filled as I said, “Hi, Traci. I’m so glad you’re here.”