An Unexpected Song
Stories
Shining Moments
Visions Of The Holy In Ordinary Lives
Derrick Sanderson
He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord.
-- Psalm 40:2-3
Deep down, I have always known that God has been in my life, but I am a very independent person and I find it hard to listen to God's will -- especially when things aren't going the way that I planned them. Fortunately for me, God knows this. When the time comes that I need to receive his message, he lets me know in a way that I cannot miss. Without God's intervention I know that I would not be alive today.
The problems began with my relationship with my father, or I should say, lack thereof. My parents got divorced when I was two and my father decided to move to southern California, separating himself from my brother and me by 2,800 miles. His visits were few and far between, leaving all of my parental guidance in the hands of my mother. My brother tried his best to be a father figure in my life by teaching me how to ride a bike and things of that nature, but he was too young to truly be the kind of parental figure that I needed and craved as a very strong-willed child.
As I got older, I started to think of my father in terms of what I needed and wanted. Like any young boy, I wanted my father to be at my soccer games. I wanted him to take me out fishing. I wanted to feel his love and compassion. In short, I wanted him to be there for me day in and day out. My father had always told me that he would be there for me, but there was only one time in my life when he actually was. The love-hate relationship that many sons have with their fathers quickly grew into a hate-only relationship for me. I hated him for all of the times that he said he would be there for me and then hung up the phone and went about his life. I hated him for missing my childhood. I hated him for not disciplining me when I caused problems. Most of all, I hated it when he said that he loved me.
It was at the peak of this hatred, during my teen years, that my father was struck a crucial blow: he was diagnosed with Progressive Supranuclear Palsey, or PSP. PSP is an incurable disease and the symptoms are untreatable. That meant that not only was he going to die from this disease, he was going to die painfully of its side effects. Unfortunately, the life expectancy is unknown with this disease because it affects everyone individually and because many of the PSP victims die of the symptoms rather than the disease. My father's condition seemed at first to be progressing slowly, starting with some difficulty eating food and loss of voluntary eye movement. However, his condition became exponentially worse in a rather short period of time, forcing my father to move into an assisted living community.
I had seen my father only twice in the previous two years and I decided that, since his condition was worsening rapidly, I would go visit him over my Thanksgiving break from school. I flew out to California and stayed at the house with my stepmom. Because of my father's condition, and because he was living in the assisted living community, I only got to spend a short amount of time with him. It was depressingly apparent, however, that the strong man I once knew no longer existed. All that was left was a withered, hunched-over, middle-aged man on the brink of defeat.
One night, we both decided to get a professional massage to relieve my father of some of the muscle tension that PSP caused. I didn't think anything negative would come out of the experience, but I was wrong. At the spa, I had to help my dad undress and get onto the massage table in a semi-comfortable position so that he could get his massage. I left the room to the sound of my father moaning in discomfort and embarrassment that he could not longer do these things on his own.
My own massage relaxed my mind and body and helped me forget what I had just witnessed and the distance that had grown between us. Then as I lay half sleeping on the table, a knock came at the door. My father's masseuse entered and told me that his massage was done and that he needed help getting dressed. I hurriedly put on my clothes and went to help him. As I entered the room, he was struggling desperately to right himself. I quickly but tenderly helped him sit up. Even this simple motion caused him a great amount of discomfort. I helped him dress, and as I was putting on his shoes he said, "Why did this happen to me? I hate this." I could say nothing other than, "I know, Dad, I know."
Time went on and I became more and more disgusted with myself. No matter how hard I tried, I could not forgive my father for what he had -- or had not -- done to me. By early spring of the next year, the PSP had greatly weakened his immune system, leaving him victim to a lung infection. Normally, such an infection wouldn't be a big deal, but because of his state, he had to be admitted to the hospital.
My stepmom did a great job of keeping us updated on his condition. She relayed the doctor's thoughts on my father's condition: He should recover shortly with the help of an air tube. Within a week or two, my father was doing much better and was looking forward to being released from the hospital. However, once the air tube was removed, the infection quickly took hold again, forcing him to stay in the hospital. Sensing that his days might be numbered, my brother and I decided to go and visit. I had a three-day weekend coming up a couple of weeks later, and I decided that we should go then.
Three days later, I was taken out of my second period class and my mother told me my father had died the night before. I sat in silence as they told me that, late the night before; he had painfully pulled the air tube out of his esophagus. They told me that he hadn't made a sound, despite ripping everything from his lungs into his mouth, and that he had died quickly once off the machine. I was in disbelief at first because that was not the man I knew: My father never gave up. But I realized that he hadn't given up, he simply couldn't handle being sick anymore or causing pain and sorrow to his loved ones.
Before he died, he had decided that he wanted to be buried in Marshall, Wisconsin, on the family farm. As I lowered his ashes into the ground, a hatred for myself started to stir within me. As the days passed after the funeral, I sank deeper and deeper into depression and began to feel more and more helpless and alone. I utterly hated myself and my life. I had tried to live my father's dying days according to my own schedule. I had failed to acknowledge that his situation was a bigger issue than my own life, and I couldn't handle that realization. I denounced God, claiming that he couldn't be all good if he could do this to me.
My strong independence kept me from seeking help from my family, friends, counselors, and especially God. Even when gestures were made, I wouldn't let anyone help me. As my hatred grew, so did the feeling that I was a waste of space. I began to think that life would be much better without me. Suicide became more and more appealing each day. I never considered it seriously until I reached the point when I couldn't handle it anymore, and I decided that I was going to kill myself. When I got home from school, I locked myself in the bathroom and held a razor blade to my wrist. I took one last look into the mirror and said to myself, "Good-bye, I'm sorry." But something inside kept me from making the cut. I couldn't bear to make my family feel the way I had felt after my father took away the chance for me to say good-bye. I didn't want to go like that, at least not at this time. So I pulled through the rest of my senior year in high school, hating every moment of my worthless existence, especially time spent around extended family.
A blessing was waiting for me in the form of an invitation to be a counselor at a United Methodist youth summer church camp called YOMICA. I'm not completely sure why I accepted the invitation, but I thought hanging out with kids for a week would be a nice escape from my life. I was a little uncomfortable with the decision, seeing that I didn't think God was good, but since the camp was fast approaching, I figured it was unfair of me to back out and I felt obligated to give it a shot.
Camp started, and I felt awkwardly out of place. I was singing and praying about how God was good and how he could heal our pain, but I didn't believe he was good and I thought he was the cause of my pain. To say the least, I was simply going through the motions. But then the greatest moment of my life occurred.
It was a warm July night, and I was sitting with my campers in the amphitheater-style chapel overlooking the lake that bordered the camp, trying to avoid as much of the devotion as possible. I paused from singing and noticed how brightly the moon was shining upon the log cross. It was, at that point, much brighter than when we had begun the devotion. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed it, but everyone was too involved in the service. I took a moment and looked up at the sky and said, "God, I don't know what is going on in my life, but I've had enough of this." As my eyes focused back on the cross, the children's singing cut back into my consciousness with, "Father, I adore you, and I'll lay my life before you. How I love you." At that moment my heart swelled, and the air painfully escaped my lungs and I heard, "Be still and know that I am God; set me as a seal upon your heart." Now, I'm not claiming that God was actually talking to me, because I don't really know how that works. But, from somewhere inside of me, I heard -- or better yet, felt -- that message. As I struggled for air, I couldn't focus on anything but that moonlit cross. My mind thought about nothing but the glorious song of those beautiful children. For the first time in my life I was at peace, and for the first time in a long time, I was truly happy. I was happy to be alive and thankful for God's message.
Editor's Note: Derrick's shining moment occurred the summer of 2002 at Pine Lake United Methodist Camp, Westfield, Wisconsin.
He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord.
-- Psalm 40:2-3
Deep down, I have always known that God has been in my life, but I am a very independent person and I find it hard to listen to God's will -- especially when things aren't going the way that I planned them. Fortunately for me, God knows this. When the time comes that I need to receive his message, he lets me know in a way that I cannot miss. Without God's intervention I know that I would not be alive today.
The problems began with my relationship with my father, or I should say, lack thereof. My parents got divorced when I was two and my father decided to move to southern California, separating himself from my brother and me by 2,800 miles. His visits were few and far between, leaving all of my parental guidance in the hands of my mother. My brother tried his best to be a father figure in my life by teaching me how to ride a bike and things of that nature, but he was too young to truly be the kind of parental figure that I needed and craved as a very strong-willed child.
As I got older, I started to think of my father in terms of what I needed and wanted. Like any young boy, I wanted my father to be at my soccer games. I wanted him to take me out fishing. I wanted to feel his love and compassion. In short, I wanted him to be there for me day in and day out. My father had always told me that he would be there for me, but there was only one time in my life when he actually was. The love-hate relationship that many sons have with their fathers quickly grew into a hate-only relationship for me. I hated him for all of the times that he said he would be there for me and then hung up the phone and went about his life. I hated him for missing my childhood. I hated him for not disciplining me when I caused problems. Most of all, I hated it when he said that he loved me.
It was at the peak of this hatred, during my teen years, that my father was struck a crucial blow: he was diagnosed with Progressive Supranuclear Palsey, or PSP. PSP is an incurable disease and the symptoms are untreatable. That meant that not only was he going to die from this disease, he was going to die painfully of its side effects. Unfortunately, the life expectancy is unknown with this disease because it affects everyone individually and because many of the PSP victims die of the symptoms rather than the disease. My father's condition seemed at first to be progressing slowly, starting with some difficulty eating food and loss of voluntary eye movement. However, his condition became exponentially worse in a rather short period of time, forcing my father to move into an assisted living community.
I had seen my father only twice in the previous two years and I decided that, since his condition was worsening rapidly, I would go visit him over my Thanksgiving break from school. I flew out to California and stayed at the house with my stepmom. Because of my father's condition, and because he was living in the assisted living community, I only got to spend a short amount of time with him. It was depressingly apparent, however, that the strong man I once knew no longer existed. All that was left was a withered, hunched-over, middle-aged man on the brink of defeat.
One night, we both decided to get a professional massage to relieve my father of some of the muscle tension that PSP caused. I didn't think anything negative would come out of the experience, but I was wrong. At the spa, I had to help my dad undress and get onto the massage table in a semi-comfortable position so that he could get his massage. I left the room to the sound of my father moaning in discomfort and embarrassment that he could not longer do these things on his own.
My own massage relaxed my mind and body and helped me forget what I had just witnessed and the distance that had grown between us. Then as I lay half sleeping on the table, a knock came at the door. My father's masseuse entered and told me that his massage was done and that he needed help getting dressed. I hurriedly put on my clothes and went to help him. As I entered the room, he was struggling desperately to right himself. I quickly but tenderly helped him sit up. Even this simple motion caused him a great amount of discomfort. I helped him dress, and as I was putting on his shoes he said, "Why did this happen to me? I hate this." I could say nothing other than, "I know, Dad, I know."
Time went on and I became more and more disgusted with myself. No matter how hard I tried, I could not forgive my father for what he had -- or had not -- done to me. By early spring of the next year, the PSP had greatly weakened his immune system, leaving him victim to a lung infection. Normally, such an infection wouldn't be a big deal, but because of his state, he had to be admitted to the hospital.
My stepmom did a great job of keeping us updated on his condition. She relayed the doctor's thoughts on my father's condition: He should recover shortly with the help of an air tube. Within a week or two, my father was doing much better and was looking forward to being released from the hospital. However, once the air tube was removed, the infection quickly took hold again, forcing him to stay in the hospital. Sensing that his days might be numbered, my brother and I decided to go and visit. I had a three-day weekend coming up a couple of weeks later, and I decided that we should go then.
Three days later, I was taken out of my second period class and my mother told me my father had died the night before. I sat in silence as they told me that, late the night before; he had painfully pulled the air tube out of his esophagus. They told me that he hadn't made a sound, despite ripping everything from his lungs into his mouth, and that he had died quickly once off the machine. I was in disbelief at first because that was not the man I knew: My father never gave up. But I realized that he hadn't given up, he simply couldn't handle being sick anymore or causing pain and sorrow to his loved ones.
Before he died, he had decided that he wanted to be buried in Marshall, Wisconsin, on the family farm. As I lowered his ashes into the ground, a hatred for myself started to stir within me. As the days passed after the funeral, I sank deeper and deeper into depression and began to feel more and more helpless and alone. I utterly hated myself and my life. I had tried to live my father's dying days according to my own schedule. I had failed to acknowledge that his situation was a bigger issue than my own life, and I couldn't handle that realization. I denounced God, claiming that he couldn't be all good if he could do this to me.
My strong independence kept me from seeking help from my family, friends, counselors, and especially God. Even when gestures were made, I wouldn't let anyone help me. As my hatred grew, so did the feeling that I was a waste of space. I began to think that life would be much better without me. Suicide became more and more appealing each day. I never considered it seriously until I reached the point when I couldn't handle it anymore, and I decided that I was going to kill myself. When I got home from school, I locked myself in the bathroom and held a razor blade to my wrist. I took one last look into the mirror and said to myself, "Good-bye, I'm sorry." But something inside kept me from making the cut. I couldn't bear to make my family feel the way I had felt after my father took away the chance for me to say good-bye. I didn't want to go like that, at least not at this time. So I pulled through the rest of my senior year in high school, hating every moment of my worthless existence, especially time spent around extended family.
A blessing was waiting for me in the form of an invitation to be a counselor at a United Methodist youth summer church camp called YOMICA. I'm not completely sure why I accepted the invitation, but I thought hanging out with kids for a week would be a nice escape from my life. I was a little uncomfortable with the decision, seeing that I didn't think God was good, but since the camp was fast approaching, I figured it was unfair of me to back out and I felt obligated to give it a shot.
Camp started, and I felt awkwardly out of place. I was singing and praying about how God was good and how he could heal our pain, but I didn't believe he was good and I thought he was the cause of my pain. To say the least, I was simply going through the motions. But then the greatest moment of my life occurred.
It was a warm July night, and I was sitting with my campers in the amphitheater-style chapel overlooking the lake that bordered the camp, trying to avoid as much of the devotion as possible. I paused from singing and noticed how brightly the moon was shining upon the log cross. It was, at that point, much brighter than when we had begun the devotion. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed it, but everyone was too involved in the service. I took a moment and looked up at the sky and said, "God, I don't know what is going on in my life, but I've had enough of this." As my eyes focused back on the cross, the children's singing cut back into my consciousness with, "Father, I adore you, and I'll lay my life before you. How I love you." At that moment my heart swelled, and the air painfully escaped my lungs and I heard, "Be still and know that I am God; set me as a seal upon your heart." Now, I'm not claiming that God was actually talking to me, because I don't really know how that works. But, from somewhere inside of me, I heard -- or better yet, felt -- that message. As I struggled for air, I couldn't focus on anything but that moonlit cross. My mind thought about nothing but the glorious song of those beautiful children. For the first time in my life I was at peace, and for the first time in a long time, I was truly happy. I was happy to be alive and thankful for God's message.
Editor's Note: Derrick's shining moment occurred the summer of 2002 at Pine Lake United Methodist Camp, Westfield, Wisconsin.
