Destination Discipline

If every life is a book with a beating heart, the last page turned for James Lucas was on Tuesday, June 19th when his heart stopped beating. The heroes in his story were close at hand and fought valiantly to save him. They were Maleah the Stalwart, Jayda the Brave, Nadia the Sweet, Sophia the Sincere, and Lilly the Beautiful. The sword they wielded was love and they fought valiantly.
James (for everyone called him James) was born on Sunday, October 30th, 1977 to James and Gloria Lucas. He grew up in Jennings with a handful of close friends and a feisty, yet quiet demeanor. But it wasn’t until James met his future wife, Rachel Allen that his heart really began to beat.

They met through a mutual friend in August of 1998. Rachel remembers that he was a private person, mysterious even, and that they never really had a first date. They mostly hung out with friends and inconspicuously gravitated toward one another. James was a steady person, solid and strong. She was drawn to his strength, and he found tremendous happiness in wrapping his arms around her to keep her safe.
Their little family grew by one when Maleah was born in 1999, and for James it was love at first sight. For who could resist those dark eyes and charming dimples? He always said he didn’t cry when she was born but witnesses say there were tears of unspoken joy. James and Rachel didn’t need any fanfare to make their love official and quietly married at the courthouse on January 17th of 2001 with a simple, “I do.”

James was a hard worker and devoted employee. He spent several years working for UPS, but in 2004 when the Lucas family began to outgrow their financial means, he took a job at Quick Trip Corporation where he proved to be a faithful employee and a benevolent steward. He worked the night shift in order to be home during the day to care for his girls but was so highly thought of that he floated from store to store as an emergency backfill, spending time in East Alton, IL, Granite City, IL, Florissant and Spanish Lake. When the family went shopping around town the familiar refrain from Quick Trip customers was, “Hey, James! Where have you been? When are you coming back?”

Because everybody loved James.

James was fiercely protective of his family; a trait he learned from his best friend; his father. Still, people often joked with James that he was the only male in his house and told him he needed a boy to balance out the femininity. But James said, “I don’t need no boy!” He was proud of his position as King of his castle. He wrestled with and tenderly teased his girls, often playing games with them like Rock Band on their Wii. He would gather them around him and say, “C’mon, we’re gonna get the band back together!” He also expressed his adoration for them with little nicknames like, “Chubby Cheeks”. He was frequently playful and sarcastic at home; a sensitive guy with a big heart, but he was never afraid to put on his Teflon demeanor should anyone cause hurt to his family. There was once a boy who started hanging around and causing problems for one of the girls and he calmly stepped outside and told him, “Don’t you come around here no more.” For that reason his girls would frequently come to him and ask for his advice when they had issues with friends because he was such an excellent judge of character.

James was an exceptional cook and loved to smoke meat. His favorites included pork loin and pork butt but his specialty was brisket. He had created his own special rub for the meat and nobody knew the secret recipe. James was often found cleaning or making dinner for his family while singing.

“He just loved music,” Rachel said. “He bought a mega boom speaker to hook up to his iPad so he could jam to Elton John, Johnny Taylor, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and Bruno Mars. His frequent crooning was sometimes met with a “Hush, James!” but he paid it no mind. He would belt out tunes like “Rocket Man” and “Bennie and the Jetts” with aplomb to his audience of six. In fact, he nicknamed Nadia, “Bernie” because he thought she looked like a Bernice. Hence “Bennie and the Jetts” became “Bernie and the Jetts.” Another frequent favorite was “Cheaper to Keep her” by Johnny Taylor. He would bounce and warble, “‘Cause you gonna pay some alimony if you leave home, I tell y’all it’s cheaper to keep her. All the fellas know what I’m talking bout.”

James didn’t really love having his picture taken, probably due to his generally unassuming nature. His girls would lift a camera and he would cover his face and say, “No paparazzi!” But he took pride in his yard, going so far as to hire True Green to come in and help it flourish. His little gardens were the delight of his family and this year he had planned to make pickles for the first time. The tiny cucumbers are still growing on a plant in the back yard next to flourishing tomatoes.

James loved conspiracy theories and ruminated frequently on the pyramids and how they were “actually” built. He watched Ancient Aliens on the history channel and was the frequent cause of rolling eyeballs in the family as he proposed various theories. But he also loved to laugh and spent considerable time with his girls watching cartoons like Bob’s Burger’s and American Dad. He and Sophia loved to watch WWE; especially Mark Henry and John Cena. And if they weren’t laughing with him, he’d give them a swift poke in the ribs or a pinch on the cheek.

The Lucas girls were often the recipients of kind little gifts that James picked out especially for them. Christmas was a delight to all because each present was hand-picked by their daddy. “He was so thoughtful and creative about celebrating,” Rachel said. “Birthdays were sacred; it was just us.” Jayda is their resident baker. She frequently makes special cakes for family occasions but James refused to let her make her own Sweet 16 cake. He had a special cake made at Baskin Robbins but when he brought it home his wife lovingly nudged him, “It says 15, James. She is 16!” But he just laughed and added a candle. He was very particular about the little things, not big grand gestures.

James story seemed to have a very abrupt ending. He had been on medical leave for some months due to recurring seizures. And while he found the down time frustrating, he made up for it by caring for his family. Rachel said, “He took care of everything, and I mean everything! No one ever had to worry.” Thus his departure has been particularly difficult for those closest to him. But in some respects his story is not over. His heroes—his beautiful girls—will continue to tell the stories of their daddy and live out the love he had for them. He may have been young but he lived a full life. It was full of laughter, full of music, and full of love. He will be sorely missed but never forgotten.

The “James Lucas Memorial Fund” has been set up to provide financial support for the family.
c/o First Community Credit Union
17151 Chesterfield Airport Road
Chesterfield, MO 63005
or via paypal: Margaretwolfinbarger@gmail.com

How often have we used the phrase, “What goes around, comes around?” Like a giant cosmic boomerang, we sardonically point at those who persecute us and celebrate the hope that their offences will “come back around” to whack them upside the head. This is especially pertinent in the workplace when we who have no power are taken to the woodshed over minor incidents and made to feel as if our efforts are—if not worthless—then at least completely trivial. The project we expended so much energy on, lost sleep over, and poured our life’s blood into is discarded with a simple, “That’s not what I asked for. You’ll need to start over.” We crumple. We retreat. We embitter. And we seethe with disappointment because we really have no recourse for retaliation.

Those who know me well know that I used to work for a bad boss. He was the epitome of casual heartlessness and made my days at work a passive hell because I never knew exactly when, like a poisonous viper, he would strike. He was proud of his nasty reputation (yes, he would actually boast about how everyone hated him) and took great delight in torturing those who reported to him.

One fine winter day we were in the process of planning a spring training conference to which most of our department would travel. I was responsible for logistics and general administrative responsibilities. I very much liked the other fellows on my team and wanted to play a practical joke on them while we were on the trip. Namely, I wanted to put plastic bugs in their hotel rooms. This stemmed out of their stories from travel all over the continental United States and some of the horrors they had experienced in low-budget motels (leftover toenail clippings and assorted skin scrapings-oh my!). I asked the hotel if I could gain entrance to my co-worker’s rooms in order to place the roaches, spiders and ants, but they told me I needed approval from my boss, to whom I will affectionately refer to heretofore as “The Toad.” (there’s a story behind that as well but I’ll save it for another day)

And so I went into The Toad’s office and asked if I could do this prank for fun. And he said, “Only if I get to play a little prank too.” He described the prank he wanted to play on the gentlemen I worked with. I personally thought it was awful and I wanted to say no, but I really wanted to have fun on the trip and so I awkwardly let him do that terrible thing. And I can still see the men walking out of his office with their faces completely dismayed after having been notified that their careers were over because their co-worker, Margaret, had accused them of sexual harassment.

20 years have passed since this seemingly minor workplace event. There are days when I wonder why I allowed The Toad to torture my friends (for they were surely my friends) in such a despicable way. Why didn’t I somehow thwart his evil plan? Or why didn’t I find another way to have fun with my co-workers on our trip? I can chalk the experience up to my youth and inexperience and a handful of other excuses that make me more comfortable, but when applied to the Karmic response of the boomerang, I have to admit I’m a little nervous.

I’ve been taking some lumps at work lately and when I consider past workplace indiscretions (of which this is a very minor example), I think shoot, maybe this is what I deserve. For it sure is comfy to say, “what goes around comes around” when it applies to someone else but it doesn’t feel very nice when applied to me.

I had lunch with a friend recently who told me that he very much strives to live a perfect life. He is kind, generous, thoughtful and caring. He lives in such a way as to make a positive difference in the lives of those around him. He said, “God created people as imperfect. I don’t know why, but he did. And so I hope that when we die God judges us on intent, knowing that we did the best we could.”
I’ve thought a lot about that conversation since we had it, not the least of which was one morning this week after my son sent me a text message to notify me that he was driving to the courthouse to get married. I was shocked and disheartened because I wanted to witness that sacred event and I felt robbed of being present. Worse, I learned later that he had told others this was planned for months, but he had not shared it with me. And while I knew he was engaged and that they were planning a ceremony of sorts, his 4-word text sent me reeling into a state of broken heartedness.

So when I found myself jogging through my neighborhood the next morning while thinking about my own youth and all of the vain seeds I sowed in blissful ignorance, I felt this whack upside my head. I thought about my own mother and the tears she shed over the many ways I disregarded her advice, railed against her wishes and better judgement, and rejected the love that would have spared me future pain. I thought, is this what happens when what goes around comes around? And I wept bitter tears of regret.

For there certainly was a time I did not strive to live a life that served others but rather spent all my time and energy serving myself. And if there is a scale that weighs all of my mistakes and willful selfishness against the good deeds I strive to do (many of which are pridefully motivated), I figure I’m pretty much doomed.

Have you ever had such thoughts? Have you ever walked a dark path and considered how very much you deserve the hurtful thing that has been done to you? Have you experienced the guilt and shame that accompanies it? If you have not I will tell you something; it is a double wound! And it throbs like ones bowels are spilling out. And if the only hope I have is that, like Earl Hickey, I must rectify my former sins in order to avert the baleful repercussions, I am just really, really worried.

But, dear reader, this is why I love the gospel message. The gospel is a message of peace because it teaches me that if (it reminds me that though my sins be as scarlet, they will be as white as snow) I surrender my will to God—my will to do things my way—Jesus takes the punishment/repercussions for my mistakes/transgressions instead of me. Yes, human beings are imperfect! I believe this is the curse of sin and we just cannot get away from it. Sin is constantly maligning all of my wishes to do good things and twisting them into absurdities. I was born into a dreadful curse from which my only hope of escape is through the free gift of God—his only son—who takes my sins and crucifies them on his cross. Surrendering my will is often much more difficult than I anticipate but the freedom from guilt, shame and the “cosmic boomerang” is immensely gratifying.

Today if you find yourself beaten down and despondent because it feels like what goes around truly does come around, please know that God sees your predicament and grieves with you. And then know that because of his love and care for you, He made it possible for the boomerang you deserved to be thwarted into the heart of his very own son. And all you have to do is accept his free gift of grace and then rest in peace. And dear reader, if you have never experienced it, please know that the peace of God truly does transcend all understanding.

There are so few people who are willing to visit the lonely and afflicted. To sit with the suffering person requires courage that most of us lack. We wonder, will we say something that causes them further distress? Will we somehow make them angry? What if they yell at us? Throw things? Weep unabashedly? We don’t want to wander into dark hallways where cobwebs lurk and so we wait for them to heal and return to our frothing play in the sunshine. But there is One who goes to such places and his comfort is sweet. And so for those who long for comfort, know this, you are never forsaken nor alone. If you invite Him to come close, he will.

I remember listening to Jason Gray on the radio not too long ago. He is a musician I enjoy and from whose music I take solace. He described a moment in his life where he confided to a friend that his marriage was crumbling. It was a fearful confession and a deeply painful one. His friend opened his arms wide and said, “Come here.” Then he wrapped his arms around Jason and just held him and let him cry. I remember thinking that there is nothing more profound than one who will hold us in our suffering and say nothing. There are times when words only inflict more damage when all we really need is the safe and protective arms of a friend.

I have been struggling with depression again. It is a frustrating condition, one which removes all the good feelings that make life fun and replaces them with darkness. I can remember the happy days, the carefree words to friends and co-workers, and the silly jokes. But now I’m drowning. I can’t catch a breath. My every thought is, “Swim! Swim! Swim!” because if I don’t, I’m going down and I may not make it back to the top.

Depression is a thief. And it’s really hard to be around someone who battles it. The day in and day out struggle of fighting for ones life is a grueling endeavor, and loved ones often get tired too. This morning that happened to me. I tried to talk to my husband about the pain I was feeling by sharing a deep wound I have carried since childhood. He said, “I want to help you but I can’t. And honestly, I can’t deal with this today. I’m leaving.” And he went out to enjoy the sunshine while I sat in silence wondering when the dark clouds will lift.

There is something immensely healing about tears. I think tears are natures way of rooting out the emotional poisons that lurk in our bodies. When we cry we release not only our emotional pain but all of our pretentions. I don’t believe tears are a sign of weakness, but rather of strength. Maybe that is why when I cry I feel relief.

I rode my bike and wept. I wept for what was and what will be. I wept for the wounds I have bourn in my body and the wounds I have caused others. I wept over my fear, my anxiety, my disquietness over relationships past and present. I wept because I wanted someone to hold me and not say anything and that somebody is nowhere to be found. Pain is that omnipresent human experience. It takes only a tiny needle to remind us just how wimpy about it we really are. So when I consider how important it is to have a friend who cares deeply about my sorrows, I am filled with gratitude.

“You have kept count of my tossings, put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” – Psalm 56:8

I have a lot of people in my life who tell me how to heal depression. They tell me I need more faith, more healthful food, more rest, a positive attitude, or the least helpful thing of all, “to just get over it!” I’m trying, I say. And they get frustrated when I’m not instantly healed and ready to go play. But God never responds to me that way. He meets me in my disquietude and pulls out his bottle. Then, he gently places it next to my cheek and begins to count, “One, two, ten, fifty-six…” And he never says the wrong thing. He encourages me to rest and know that I am loved and cared for.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?”
– Psalm 56-3,4

Maybe there are people who have never experienced the kindness of God. Maybe they don’t think he’s real or that if he is, he is judging them or hating them or just waiting to put the whammy on them. But in our weak moments, when all of the frivolities of life crumble and the intense throb of a hammer on our thumb reminds us of our frailty, he is there. And when we are brave enough to admit our weakness, he expressly enters into our suffering and comforts us with his grace.

God met with me this morning. He whispered words of love to me once again. He looked on me with favor and said I am his precious child and that I am deeply and desperately loved. He proved it on the cross so I have no reason to doubt it. My pain is not the end of the story. God is my hero, my cornerstone, my refuge and strength. And if you are suffering or struggling today, reach out to him and he will help you too. Depression is a sickness but there is a great Healer and I trust him. Even in the pain, I trust Him.

“Blessed is the one who considers the poor! In the day of trouble the Lord delivers him; the Lord protects him and keeps him alive; he is called blessed in the land; you do not give him up to the will of his enemies. The Lord sustains him on his sickbed; in his illness you restore him to full health.” – Psalm 41:1-3