I had been going back and forth to New Mexico for over a year to be with Tom through various stages of his cancer treatment, usually staying for a week at a time. When I left Tom the last time, he was in Hospice Care, and I knew I was saying my last goodbye to him. He had been struggling with esophageal cancer for over a year and was losing the battle. Although Tom claimed to have no use for God, I tried to tell him about the Lord and the healing and peace that he could find with Him. Tom allowed me to pray for him, and I asked God to reveal Himself to my cousin. I am hoping that He did.
|My last visit with cousin Tom|
Tom was one of only two cousins on my dad's side, and I considered him the stable, reliable one. I later learned that I was mistaken in that judgment. Our fathers were both alcoholics, and both their marriages ended in divorce. My father became a believer later in life, and his relationship with the Lord changed him profoundly. I don't think my uncle ever came to believe.
There was always animosity and jealousy between the two brothers. The older was rumored to have been the son of another man. Even though he was first-born, he was jealous of my father, and he passed those feelings of being "second" on to his sons who later became jealous of me. I learned during my cousin's illness that he thought I had been preferentially treated by my grandparents and mistakenly believed that I had received financial support from them. I thank God for the time I spent with Tom because it was a time of healing in our relationship with each other, even if Tom did not receive healing in his body.
My grandfather, a county attorney, was stable and dependable, always a hard worker, and garnered respect from the community he served. He owned an abstract and title company, worked daily in the courthouse and in his offices, and kept a thriving farm as well. He and my grandmother had fine friends. His sons, however, brought him no pride as adults. Papa's great fault was that he was an enabler and wouldn't allow his sons to suffer the consequences of their choices. With misdirected loyalty, he would bail them out of jail and have charges against them dropped, thinking that he was saving them and the family from trouble and embarrassment. He also wanted to be reelected. Instead, Papa's enabling behavior allowed the sons to continue in their habits that damaged the lives of their wives, children, and themselves. .
The two cousins grew up having relationship problems of their own. Ricky, the older of the two, also became an alcoholic, suffered a broken marriage, and had no children. He died a few years ago from complications of his alcoholism, and my cousin Tom was the one who took care of him and bailed him out of jail. Yet he frequently told one of his friends, "Have I told you today how much I hate my brother?" Ricky died an ignominious death, lying in the snow drunk--having fallen outside his RV home.
|Brothers: Tom (left) and Ricky Glover|
|Tom, the holdover hippie|
When I was a child, my parents shared joint custody; I spent half of every week with each parent. Because my father was so unstable, my grandparents were able to take over his parental rights and established a precedent in the Texas courts by doing so. One of my lawyer cousins told me he studied Glover vs Glover in his law school days.
I'd like to go on record saying that I disapprove of equal and shared custody between divorced parents where the child spends equal time with each parent. From my own life and from my years as a practicing Psychiatrist, I know and have seen the instability that results in the life of the child that is so treated. She has no sense of which place is "home" and which place is the one she "visits". Rules from one household to the next are never the same. What is permitted at one "home" is forbidden in the other. One develops a need for a sense of control in an environment where she has no say-so or ability to control the way her life is spent. The schism-ridden life causes deep wounds in the psyche of the child.
From early years my chief memories are of riding away in a car, of standing on the porch saying goodbye to one parent or the other, and of longing for peace and predictability. When my parents spoke ill of each other, I just wanted them to stop. I was fiercely loyal to each parent, even when my alcoholic/addict father didn't deserve such loyalty. They went to court over child custody thirteen times as I was growing up. I didn't even know whether to call myself "Judy Glover" or "Judy Harmon!" I especially didn't want to be put in the position of "choosing" which parent to live with, even though I was reminded that I could make that choice when I got older. I hate going to court to this day because of those early memories. Judges' chambers were dark places where deals were made over a child that had no vote, in spite of that child having to answer questions about which parent she loves the most while feeling a sinking sickness in her stomach.
I grew up having relationship problems of my own, and I am thankful to my God Who never gave up on me and brought healing and restoration to my life.
But why did I title this blog entry "Seconds"? I hope you will discover why as you read on.When we went to my cousin's memorial "gathering", I discovered that his friends had made a visit to his shop in New Mexico and had taken the rest of Tom's pottery. It was displayed in colorful array all over the house where the gathering was held. I was told that there were still some "seconds" left at Tom's house if I wanted any of his work.
|Some of Tom's seconds|
As I looked at all the beautiful pots, vases, lamps, and platters, I realized I was having some of the same feelings I had experienced years ago when my grandmother, grandfather, father, and then uncle died. My grandmother had written out in meticulous detail how she wished her possessions to be distributed. She had beautiful antique furniture, china, and crystal, and I valued her treasures because they were hers. She entrusted her handwritten will to me, and I gave it to my grandfather when she died.
However, my grandmother's wishes were never carried out. My grandfather died the same week my first son was born, and my uncle moved into his house. The two sons were made co-executors of Papa's estate, and they made unwise decisions regarding its settlement. When my dad died six months after my grandfather and my uncle six months after that, the estate was in a mess and had liens against it. I was then appointed executrix of both my father's and my grandfather's estates. However, there was little left except the farm, some cattle, and an old, shabby farmhouse stripped of its furnishings. The abstract and title company, my grandparents' house in town, and all the pretty furnishings were all gone. Even the farm house was ready to fall in on itself.
When I walked forlornly around my grandparents' empty farmhouse, I picked up the leftovers-- pieces of the wallpaper from the kitchen, the board from the side of the doorway where Daddy had marked my height with the date as I grew up, an old tin canister with strawberries imprinted on the outside. These were "seconds"--the leavings after someone else had taken what he wanted. But, to me, the fragment of wallpaper still attached to the sheet-rock was precious; it reminded me of my grandmother. The piece of door frame with my dad's handwriting was priceless; it told me of a father who loved me and cared enough to measure my growth when I visited him. My grief was heavy and my sense of loss heart wrenching.
When I got to my cousin's property this last month, I had some of the same feelings. People had already been there, and the choice pottery was already gone. "Seconds" were left. We had artfully and lovingly cleaned and arranged the store last summer to display Tom's works, hoping he would be able to return to the occupation he loved as he regained strength. As a master potter, he had learned to produce beautiful reds from a firing process that used reduction instead of oxidation. Tom even gave us some pottery lessons while we were there and later brought me the pot I "threw" after he had glazed and fired it.
I picked these up and examined each one. They were still beautiful to me. My cousin's hands had fashioned this handle, turned that bowl. He had picked up this mug after the firing and found it wanting--not worthy to be displayed or sold. The potter rejected these pots after they had been through the fire. Yet, because they bore my cousin's fingerprint, they were valuable to me.
I had learned three years ago that my cousin had acquired some of my grandmother's things. He had brought my daughter a box of my grandmother's crystal as a wedding gift and had given me a hand-painted china lamp that had graced my grandparents' living room in my childhood.
As I became closer to Tom in my adult life, our relationship became much more important to me than any "thing" that Tom could offer to me. I desired most of all that he would know God and develop a relationship with Jesus Christ and be able to forgive his father and brother and live in God's peace. Tom was able to love me and my family, but he rejected my attempts to introduce him to the Father.
In the months leading up to his death, Tom gave me family photos and revealed that he had my grandmother's furniture and my dad's safe. He told me to take what I wanted of the china and crystal and instructed me as to where to find my grandmother's old love seat. What I learned after my cousin's death was that is was he that had taken everything --even my grandmother's curio cabinet that had been given to me, even the cuff link box from my dad's bedside table, even the cigarette lighters from his pockets. I also learned from neighbors that Tom proclaimed himself to be an atheist and let it be known in the community that he had no use for Christians. When Christian campers were playing Christian music at an event at the campground across the road from Tom's place, he had put his speakers in his windows and cranked up Heavy Metal music to drown out the Christian music. He also had studied satanism and had a collection of horribly depraved pornographic magazines and videos. He proudly adopted the peace sign as his symbol and had literature among his papers explaining how the peace symbol was an anti-Christian symbol. He instructed that his ashes be laid out in a peace sign after his death. I learned that Tom had used marijuana and other hallucinogenic substances his entire adult life and had even grown marijuana in his storage rooms. We found a dishpan of marijuana leaves under his bed. He was not the strong, reliable cousin that I had thought him to be in my childhood. I was disappointed in him and saddened by his life choices, but I still loved him.
|Tom Glover at work|
Tom actually considered himself to be "a good man." He told me of his love for animals and of his good deeds as fire chief over the years. He was proud to have written grants that resulted in the building of fire stations and training of firemen in the area. His works were displayed in galleries in both Santa Fe and Taos and had been accepted at the New Mexico State History Museum. Yet, this artist would not acknowledge the Artist of his soul or realize that it is not our goodness that matters in this life.
"All of us have become like one who is unclean,
and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags;
we all shrivel up like a leaf,
and like the wind our sins sweep us away." Isaiah 64:6 (NIV)
After thirty-five years I was able to retrieve some of my grandmother's furniture from the various sheds and barns where they had sat; they were covered in dust and spider webs and littered with rat droppings, but they were precious to me. I found in Tom's house my dad's green roll-top cigarette box, and it shouted memories at me --it had held random fishing sinkers, change, tie-tacks, and paraphernalia from my dad's pockets. As a child I had enjoyed playing with these trinkets, and the box still held one of my dad's tie-clips. I was glad to find these long-lost items, but grieved to have lost my last family member on my dad's side.
People had been there already but had not yet taken these things. They were seconds --not considered valuable to anyone but me.
As I stood in the midst of the clutter and looked at Tom's things, a realization dawned on me: We are all "seconds"! Every one of us is flawed-- a product of the Fall. We have a sin nature, and we read,
"There is no one righteous, not even one." Romans 3:10 (NIV) But, God, in His mercy, provided a way for us to be redeemed. He considered us valuable--precious enough to sacrifice His own Son to pay the price for our sin.
"...walk in a manner worthy of the Lord, to please Him in all respects, bearing fruit in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God; strengthened with all power, according to His glorious might, for the attaining of all steadfastness and patience; joyously giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified us to share in the inheritance of the saints in Light." Colossians 1:10-12 (NASB)
As I reflect on the lives of these men who are now gone, I think about the two sons of Adam, Cain and Abel. Cain was the first born, a farmer, and Abel was second and a shepherd. Cain was not favored by his father and considered himself "second." Cain murdered his brother in his jealousy. The sheriff, after my dad's death, asked me if I wanted to file charges against my uncle for involuntary manslaughter. I declined.
I think also about how jealousy continued among brothers in the Bible. Joseph's brothers were so jealous of him that they sold him into slavery and told their father he was dead. Jacob was so jealous of Esau that he tricked Esau out of his birthright and deceived their father into giving him the blessing reserved for the first-born son. Yet, God provided for the salvation of Joseph's family through his slavery in Egypt. Joseph later said to his brothers,
"You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives." Genesis 50:20
Jacob received a blessing from the Lord after his repentance and was reconciled to his brother. I grieve that my cousin did not accept such redemption from God or experience the freedom that forgiveness brings in this life. His was a life that ended without hope, without the promise of a life everlasting healed from all his diseases. His was a disease of the soul, not just of his body.
As we drove away from my cousin's home in the mountains, it was Easter morning. In churches all across the world people were celebrating our Lord's resurrection and His victory over death. Easter is our day of hope, and I was leaving pain and hopelessness behind me. I praise Him because my hope is not in possessions or in family or in worldly treasures, but in my Lord.
Please watch this video for a song that speaks of our hope in Him:
|Our hope is in the Lord. (a view from the driveway of my cousin's property in New Mexico)|