No One Is Lost
Stories
Object:
Contents
Sharing Visions: "No One Is Lost" by Keith R. Eytcheson, Sr
Good Stories: "The Comforting Word" by John E. Sumwalt
John's Scrap Pile: "Suicide: Yes, There Is Hope"
Sharing Visions
No One Is Lost
by Keith R. Eytcheson, Sr.
... he gathers the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.
Psalm 147: 2b-3
A few years ago, one of my nephews went through an emotional breakup with a girlfriend. She began dating a friend of his, and he was very upset. He confronted her late one night, and after a long, loud argument, he shot himself. This young man's death prostrated his family. It was a very tragic time for all of us.
Some days later, my wife, children, and I were driving across town. As I pulled through an intersection, my nephew suddenly appeared in front of the car, seemingly suspended in mid-air. I stared in shock as he said to me, "Tell them I'm okay." Then he disappeared.
I drove ahead to the nearest parking space, pulled the car over and began to weep. My wife, taken by surprise, asked, "Keith, what's wrong?" I told them what I had seen and heard. They had seen nothing.
But my daughter had been a close friend of her cousin. She had gone shopping with him in Milwaukee the night before his death. I was surprised when she asked, "Dad, what was he wearing?" I described the shirt and Levis he had on as he appeared there in mid-air before me.
"That was a new shirt," she said. "I helped him pick it out the night before he died." Of course, I had never seen the shirt. When I told his family about my strange vision, I included my daughter's information about the shirt. His father said it was the shirt he was wearing when he killed himself.
"He said he was okay," his father repeated.
Keith R. Eytcheson, Sr. retired from the U.S. Air Force after 22 years of service. He served for a number of years as a local pastor in the Wisconsin Conference of the United Methodist Church. He is now fully retired and preaches occasionally.
Good Stories
The Comforting Word
by John E. Sumwalt
He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted.
Isaiah 40:29-30
Howard Jackman had a way with words. Everyone said so. He was not a speechmaker. He didn't sound like a politician or a preacher. But he had a way of putting thoughts into words that touched people deeply. Howard probably could have gone anywhere and done anything he wanted to do. He graduated at the head of his high school class and received an honor scholarship which would have paid most of his way through college. But Howard didn't want to go to college. He wanted to be a cheesemaker, like his father. And that is what he did. He married a local girl, they had a couple of kids, he made prize-winning cheese, and he enjoyed the simple life in Willow Bluff. On Saturdays he went fishing or hunting: squirrels, ducks, geese, turkeys, whatever happened to be in season. On Sundays, he and his family were always in church. Sometimes, when the preacher was absent, they would call on him to give the sermon.
When Howard's best friend, John Whitcomb, committed suicide, John's wife, Ellen, asked him if he would say a few words at the funeral. Howard said he would.
The day came, and Howard didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to say. He sat silently through the opening part of the service, not looking at the casket or at John's three little sons hanging onto their mother in the front row pew, until it came time for him to speak. Then he took it all in as he walked slowly up to the front. He paused for a moment to put his hand on the casket before he stepped up onto the platform and stood facing the congregation behind the casket, about two feet from the pulpit.
"I'm not sure I can say anything at all," he said. "It hurts so much I can hardly stand to be here. I feel like running away, but there's nowhere to run. I keep trying to push time back in my mind, thinking there must be some mistake, that I will wake up and everything will be all right.
"John Whitcomb was the kindest, sweetest, gentlest man I have ever known. I love him like a brother. I don't want to let him go.
"Johnny and I went squirrel hunting after dinner on Saturday. We walked the ridges up on the Gray place. Every once in a while we would stop and sit in the sun under an oak tree and talk about fishing. It's funny, when we were fishing we always talked about hunting, and when we were hunting we always talked about fishing. Sometimes when the fish weren't biting or game was scarce we would sit down on a log and Johnny would recite a psalm, and then we would chew on it for a while. Johnny loved to repeat the psalms. I don't think many people knew that. He knew a good many of them by heart.
"We only saw one squirrel all afternoon. Johnny saw him first, but he didn't shoot. He didn't even raise his gun. It was a black squirrel. We had seen only one of its kind around here once before and that was way over on Little Willow. Johnny pointed his finger and we watched the squirrel scamper beneath the tree. When his mouth was full of acorns he sprang onto one of the biggest oaks, ran up the trunk, jumped from limb to limb, and finally deposited his load in a tangle of leaves at the top of the tree.
"'It's going to be a long winter,' Johnny said.
"We had turned to go, when suddenly we were aware of something large and dark over our heads, and we heard a whoosh of wings ascending on the air. We looked up, and there was a great hawk winging off into the blue with the black squirrel gripped securely in his talons. We stood in awe for several moments, and then Johnny said something which, at the time, struck me as rather peculiar. He said, 'The children of men take refuge in the shadow of thy wings.'
"I knew it was probably from one of the Psalms, but I didn't know what he meant by it. He was quiet after that and I could tell he didn't want to talk for a while, so I didn't question him about it. We walked in silence the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the sights, sounds, and smells of the woods. When we reached the fence line on the north end of the ridge, Johnny turned to me and said, 'Let's go home. Ellen will have supper on in a little bit.'
"It was dark by the time we got back to the house. We ate supper and sat at the table drinking coffee and talking for a long time. About 9:30, we heard an awful racket out by the barn. Johnny went out to see what it was. In about two minutes he was back. 'Grab the broom,' he said. 'There's a stray cat caught in a rat trap out by the corn crib.' When we got to the cat he pulled away, tearing some of the flesh on his leg. 'Push down on him,' Johnny said. 'Hold him still so I can let him loose.' I put the broom on the cat and held him tight against the ground. Johnny squeezed the trap's release mechanism and the jaws popped open. The cat got to his feet, licked his wounded leg, and took off as fast as he could go.
"As we walked back to the house, Johnny said, 'Sometimes I feel like that cat caught in the trap. It's like something's got ahold of me, and there's nothing I can do to get free of it. The doctor calls it depression. He said the medication will help me in time, but I don't know. I just don't know.' "
Howard paused, raised his eyes, and then in a softer, quieter voice said, "I don't know, either. I don't know if I ever will. I will always wonder if there was something I could have done.
"After Ellen called, I got out the Bible and looked up that verse in the Psalms. I had to hunt and hunt. I finally found it in the middle of the thirty-sixth Psalm. It goes something like this." He began to recite the words slowly, almost ponderously, laboring over each word as if retrieving it from some remote place deep in his soul.
... man and beast thou savest, O Lord. How precious is thy steadfast love ... The children of men take refuge in the shadow of thy wings. They feast on the abundance of thy house, and thou givest them drink from the river of thy delights. For with thee is the fountain of life; in thy light do we see light. O continue thy steadfast love to those who know thee, and thy salvation to the upright of heart!
(Psalm 36:6b-10)
It was quiet in the church long after Howard sat down. Several moments passed before anyone moved or looked away. And when at last the preacher's voice called them back for the singing of the closing hymn, there was in their eyes a renewed sense of hope, and in their hearts the comforting word.
John's Scrap Pile
Suicide: Yes, There Is Hope
A number of years ago, my mother called to tell me that my cousin's husband had committed suicide. He was 38 years old, my age at the time. He worked for the post office as a rural mail carrier, and was well-liked and respected in the community. He and my cousin had two small children. My uncle and aunt lived near them in the same community. His parents lived on a farm a few miles up the road. They all enjoyed hunting and fishing, family gatherings, their work in the church ... all the good things of the country life. He had been depressed and was being treated with the proper medication. They thought they had it under control and that it was just a matter of time before he would be well again.
They had gone to visit my grandmother in the nursing home that evening. When they got home, Roger went into the bedroom and shot himself. Grandma wondered if it was something she had said. We all assured her it wasn't. The funeral was in their little country church, the same church where they were married and where my cousin taught Sunday School. I'll never forget the shock I saw in people's eyes as they came into the church. After the committal service, I hugged my cousin and told her I would be praying for her. I did the same with my aunt and uncle and with the rest of their family. We took some comfort in each other's presence.
I was glad they allowed us to bury Roger's body in the family plot, and that the service was held in the church with their pastor presiding, reading the scripture, preaching, praying, and leading the hymns. I don't remember much of what was said, but it was helpful to be there in the community of faith, to hear God's word, to know that, whatever happens to us in this life, God is there for us, forgives us, loves us, cares for us.
I have thought often about that day, pondering the meaning of it, knowing that such tragedies occur in every community in every family. I have officiated at the funerals of several persons who have committed suicide. I have ministered to numerous individuals and families who survived someone who chose to take his or her own life. There are no easy answers and comfort is hard to come by. For many the wound is never fully healed. But this I know and believe, with every fiber of my being -- we will see Roger again in the land of the living!
StoryShare, February 9, 2003, issue.
Copyright 2003 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons and in worship and classroom settings only. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
Sharing Visions: "No One Is Lost" by Keith R. Eytcheson, Sr
Good Stories: "The Comforting Word" by John E. Sumwalt
John's Scrap Pile: "Suicide: Yes, There Is Hope"
Sharing Visions
No One Is Lost
by Keith R. Eytcheson, Sr.
... he gathers the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.
Psalm 147: 2b-3
A few years ago, one of my nephews went through an emotional breakup with a girlfriend. She began dating a friend of his, and he was very upset. He confronted her late one night, and after a long, loud argument, he shot himself. This young man's death prostrated his family. It was a very tragic time for all of us.
Some days later, my wife, children, and I were driving across town. As I pulled through an intersection, my nephew suddenly appeared in front of the car, seemingly suspended in mid-air. I stared in shock as he said to me, "Tell them I'm okay." Then he disappeared.
I drove ahead to the nearest parking space, pulled the car over and began to weep. My wife, taken by surprise, asked, "Keith, what's wrong?" I told them what I had seen and heard. They had seen nothing.
But my daughter had been a close friend of her cousin. She had gone shopping with him in Milwaukee the night before his death. I was surprised when she asked, "Dad, what was he wearing?" I described the shirt and Levis he had on as he appeared there in mid-air before me.
"That was a new shirt," she said. "I helped him pick it out the night before he died." Of course, I had never seen the shirt. When I told his family about my strange vision, I included my daughter's information about the shirt. His father said it was the shirt he was wearing when he killed himself.
"He said he was okay," his father repeated.
Keith R. Eytcheson, Sr. retired from the U.S. Air Force after 22 years of service. He served for a number of years as a local pastor in the Wisconsin Conference of the United Methodist Church. He is now fully retired and preaches occasionally.
Good Stories
The Comforting Word
by John E. Sumwalt
He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted.
Isaiah 40:29-30
Howard Jackman had a way with words. Everyone said so. He was not a speechmaker. He didn't sound like a politician or a preacher. But he had a way of putting thoughts into words that touched people deeply. Howard probably could have gone anywhere and done anything he wanted to do. He graduated at the head of his high school class and received an honor scholarship which would have paid most of his way through college. But Howard didn't want to go to college. He wanted to be a cheesemaker, like his father. And that is what he did. He married a local girl, they had a couple of kids, he made prize-winning cheese, and he enjoyed the simple life in Willow Bluff. On Saturdays he went fishing or hunting: squirrels, ducks, geese, turkeys, whatever happened to be in season. On Sundays, he and his family were always in church. Sometimes, when the preacher was absent, they would call on him to give the sermon.
When Howard's best friend, John Whitcomb, committed suicide, John's wife, Ellen, asked him if he would say a few words at the funeral. Howard said he would.
The day came, and Howard didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to say. He sat silently through the opening part of the service, not looking at the casket or at John's three little sons hanging onto their mother in the front row pew, until it came time for him to speak. Then he took it all in as he walked slowly up to the front. He paused for a moment to put his hand on the casket before he stepped up onto the platform and stood facing the congregation behind the casket, about two feet from the pulpit.
"I'm not sure I can say anything at all," he said. "It hurts so much I can hardly stand to be here. I feel like running away, but there's nowhere to run. I keep trying to push time back in my mind, thinking there must be some mistake, that I will wake up and everything will be all right.
"John Whitcomb was the kindest, sweetest, gentlest man I have ever known. I love him like a brother. I don't want to let him go.
"Johnny and I went squirrel hunting after dinner on Saturday. We walked the ridges up on the Gray place. Every once in a while we would stop and sit in the sun under an oak tree and talk about fishing. It's funny, when we were fishing we always talked about hunting, and when we were hunting we always talked about fishing. Sometimes when the fish weren't biting or game was scarce we would sit down on a log and Johnny would recite a psalm, and then we would chew on it for a while. Johnny loved to repeat the psalms. I don't think many people knew that. He knew a good many of them by heart.
"We only saw one squirrel all afternoon. Johnny saw him first, but he didn't shoot. He didn't even raise his gun. It was a black squirrel. We had seen only one of its kind around here once before and that was way over on Little Willow. Johnny pointed his finger and we watched the squirrel scamper beneath the tree. When his mouth was full of acorns he sprang onto one of the biggest oaks, ran up the trunk, jumped from limb to limb, and finally deposited his load in a tangle of leaves at the top of the tree.
"'It's going to be a long winter,' Johnny said.
"We had turned to go, when suddenly we were aware of something large and dark over our heads, and we heard a whoosh of wings ascending on the air. We looked up, and there was a great hawk winging off into the blue with the black squirrel gripped securely in his talons. We stood in awe for several moments, and then Johnny said something which, at the time, struck me as rather peculiar. He said, 'The children of men take refuge in the shadow of thy wings.'
"I knew it was probably from one of the Psalms, but I didn't know what he meant by it. He was quiet after that and I could tell he didn't want to talk for a while, so I didn't question him about it. We walked in silence the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the sights, sounds, and smells of the woods. When we reached the fence line on the north end of the ridge, Johnny turned to me and said, 'Let's go home. Ellen will have supper on in a little bit.'
"It was dark by the time we got back to the house. We ate supper and sat at the table drinking coffee and talking for a long time. About 9:30, we heard an awful racket out by the barn. Johnny went out to see what it was. In about two minutes he was back. 'Grab the broom,' he said. 'There's a stray cat caught in a rat trap out by the corn crib.' When we got to the cat he pulled away, tearing some of the flesh on his leg. 'Push down on him,' Johnny said. 'Hold him still so I can let him loose.' I put the broom on the cat and held him tight against the ground. Johnny squeezed the trap's release mechanism and the jaws popped open. The cat got to his feet, licked his wounded leg, and took off as fast as he could go.
"As we walked back to the house, Johnny said, 'Sometimes I feel like that cat caught in the trap. It's like something's got ahold of me, and there's nothing I can do to get free of it. The doctor calls it depression. He said the medication will help me in time, but I don't know. I just don't know.' "
Howard paused, raised his eyes, and then in a softer, quieter voice said, "I don't know, either. I don't know if I ever will. I will always wonder if there was something I could have done.
"After Ellen called, I got out the Bible and looked up that verse in the Psalms. I had to hunt and hunt. I finally found it in the middle of the thirty-sixth Psalm. It goes something like this." He began to recite the words slowly, almost ponderously, laboring over each word as if retrieving it from some remote place deep in his soul.
... man and beast thou savest, O Lord. How precious is thy steadfast love ... The children of men take refuge in the shadow of thy wings. They feast on the abundance of thy house, and thou givest them drink from the river of thy delights. For with thee is the fountain of life; in thy light do we see light. O continue thy steadfast love to those who know thee, and thy salvation to the upright of heart!
(Psalm 36:6b-10)
It was quiet in the church long after Howard sat down. Several moments passed before anyone moved or looked away. And when at last the preacher's voice called them back for the singing of the closing hymn, there was in their eyes a renewed sense of hope, and in their hearts the comforting word.
John's Scrap Pile
Suicide: Yes, There Is Hope
A number of years ago, my mother called to tell me that my cousin's husband had committed suicide. He was 38 years old, my age at the time. He worked for the post office as a rural mail carrier, and was well-liked and respected in the community. He and my cousin had two small children. My uncle and aunt lived near them in the same community. His parents lived on a farm a few miles up the road. They all enjoyed hunting and fishing, family gatherings, their work in the church ... all the good things of the country life. He had been depressed and was being treated with the proper medication. They thought they had it under control and that it was just a matter of time before he would be well again.
They had gone to visit my grandmother in the nursing home that evening. When they got home, Roger went into the bedroom and shot himself. Grandma wondered if it was something she had said. We all assured her it wasn't. The funeral was in their little country church, the same church where they were married and where my cousin taught Sunday School. I'll never forget the shock I saw in people's eyes as they came into the church. After the committal service, I hugged my cousin and told her I would be praying for her. I did the same with my aunt and uncle and with the rest of their family. We took some comfort in each other's presence.
I was glad they allowed us to bury Roger's body in the family plot, and that the service was held in the church with their pastor presiding, reading the scripture, preaching, praying, and leading the hymns. I don't remember much of what was said, but it was helpful to be there in the community of faith, to hear God's word, to know that, whatever happens to us in this life, God is there for us, forgives us, loves us, cares for us.
I have thought often about that day, pondering the meaning of it, knowing that such tragedies occur in every community in every family. I have officiated at the funerals of several persons who have committed suicide. I have ministered to numerous individuals and families who survived someone who chose to take his or her own life. There are no easy answers and comfort is hard to come by. For many the wound is never fully healed. But this I know and believe, with every fiber of my being -- we will see Roger again in the land of the living!
StoryShare, February 9, 2003, issue.
Copyright 2003 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons and in worship and classroom settings only. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
