In Rememberence

I told this story in a sermon on November 18, 2007.

This is a true story. It’s a little over twenty years old, and it’s mine. The names have not been changed. No one is innocent.

In the summer of 1985, I finished grad school. But as a twenty-three year old with no professional experience in a tight economy I couldn’t find a job in my field, higher education. So, I went back to doing what got me through grad school, I went back to work in the bars.

While working at Buzzard Beach, a club in the Westport district of Kansas City, Missouri, I met a girl, her name was Megan. She was home in KC for a couple of semesters from the University of Wyoming because her grandfather was dying. She was taking education classes at the University of Missouri Kansas City, working at a hardware store, and playing shuffleboard at my bar. To make a long story shorter, I was taken by her. But too soon, in January 1987, she went back to Wyoming to go back to school and in an age long before email, we began exchanging letters.

That summer, she came back for a couple of weeks and when she did, she blew me off completely. I was ticked. Of course, I didn’t say “ticked.” There are bar words and there are church words, and I should not use the bar words here.

After some time of hurt feelings and a couple of more letters, I came to know that I had fallen in love with her. I decided what I needed to do is put my cards on the table, tell her how I felt, and let what happens happen. I decided it would be best to do this in person instead of in a letter, but I never got the chance. On December 13, 1987 Megan shot herself. When I got the call, I let out a cry that made God himself shudder.

I knew I needed forgiveness; forgiveness for being so angry with her; forgiveness for not telling her how I felt; forgiveness for not taking responsibility for my feelings and my actions; or inactions really. But I could not find forgiveness, so instead of forgiveness, I tried to hide.

I hid in work. I hid in a bottle. I hid in plain sight. Finally, I ended up hiding in Lamar, Colorado 81052. A little over a year after Megan’s death, I was running a dormitory at a community college.

After a few years in Colorado I began to hear that still small voice of the Lord, the one that told me if I was waiting to “be good enough” before going back to church, I would never be good enough and I would never go. So one Sunday, I ended up in a pew at the First Presbyterian Church in Lamar and began the journey that brings me to you today. But that’s another story; let me finish this one first.

I attended regularly and began reading my bible. I started to learn about grace and forgiveness. But one thought haunted me, no matter how hard I tried to deal with my guilt, it never went away. Truth be known, I was probably giving it away with my right hand and taking it right back with the left.

One night, at a Presbyterian revival service (yeah, a Presbyterian revival—it may be an oxymoron, but it’s still a true story) the pastor spoke on forgiveness. He preached on Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Prayer with special attention to 6:15, “but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”

Don’t get me wrong, I understood, to be forgiven I would have to forgive. But what did I have to forgive her for? She was the one who was in so much pain that she thought the only way out of it was to kill herself. What did I possibly have to forgive her for? Then, by the grace of God, I discerned an answer: I had to forgive her for forgetting. I had to forgive her for forgetting about her family, her friends, and I had to forgive her for forgetting about me. I had to forgive her for leaving. I had to forgive her. And in that moment, after nearly eight years of mourning, I did.

And at that moment, I don’t know if you heard the angelic choir or not, but at that very moment, at the moment I forgave, by the grace of God, I was forgiven too. I had held onto my mourning and sorrow for so long, when the weight was lifted I knew I was in the presence of God. At that moment, I was in a holy place in my life.

Wonderfully, about four months later, I met Marie. If I had met her any earlier, I wouldn’t have been ready, she would have seen it, and life as I know it would have been without the love I know today. Thank God I didn’t meet Marie one minute before I was ready to meet her.

Megan’s mom came to Colorado for our wedding. During the dance at the reception, I thanked her for coming. And I told her that I am a better man, and will be a better husband, for having known her daughter.

I say that this is my story, but this isn’t really true. First of all, I have many more stories than this one, but this is a very important one and was once the dominant story of my life. But more importantly, it isn’t my story, it’s God’s story. The Lord gave it to me so that in the end the glory of God may be known.

This happened 21 years ago today. I will call her mom this afternoon as I always do.

What is your story? What is the story the Lord has given you? How do you share it?

Peace be with you all.

Update
When I tried to call Megan's mom today, the phone was disconnected. I got in touch with one of Megan's sisters to find out her mom had a stroke just before Thanksgiving. She had been fighting cancer and all manner of other illnesses, so she is now in a nursing home. I was able to catch up with their family and I caught them up with ours.

Megan's sister recommended I not call, their mother would probably not even remember me. The first rule of pastoral care is listen for the word of the Lord, the second is listen to the family. I did not call. Peace be with you Nancy. Peace be with you all.