Those homesick blues

“She’s homesick,” they said, as they handed me their cell phone. “Would you pray for her?”

Listening to the sniffles through the phone, I could identify with her, one of our church’s recent graduates, in her first week at college.

It’s not a matter of immaturity. Indeed, the young lady is, in my opinion, one of the most stable, steady, and level-headed young people I know.

Homesickness happens to kids at camp, young people at college, adults who move away with their children, and to senior adults who transition from their home of many years to retirement centers. And I might add, homesickness happens to parents whose children leave home.

It is, I believe, a form of grief prompted by feelings of loss, not necessarily the absence of a physical place, that is a house, but separation from the familiar expressions of love associated with that place and by extension, the environment surrounding it, the community---or what sociologists refer to as gemeinshaft--- that makes home, “home.” It’s the roles, values, beliefs, and even routines we associate with home and around which we orientate our lives.

That life is disrupted by its absence, resulting in feelings of loss: denial, anxiety, dread, and a fixation on the loss itself---in this case, home.

Sometimes a gentle nudge from a parent or mentor is all that’s needed for a young fledging to fly from home. Sometimes more firm action is necessary.

I have a friend who called his mother in his first year of college and told her he wanted to come home. She immediately left, arriving at his dorm a couple of hours later. He threw his bags in the back seat, thinking, “This is easy; I’m on my way home.”

“Oh, no,” his mom said. “We’re not leaving; I just came to tell you why you’re going to stay.”

After her pep talk, he did stay and four years later, graduated, after which he embarked on a long and successful career as an educator.

Another friend of mine had a daughter who was ready to come home from college. She was on a basketball scholarship, and athletic life was more challenging than she had anticipated. One athlete in particular was giving her a difficult time on the basketball court.

“I stopped my work, sat down, and took an hour to write her a long letter, explaining why she needed to stay,” my friend said. “I closed by telling her that if she would quit spinning with the basketball, that girl wouldn’t be able to ‘pick her pocket,’ like she had been doing.”

It worked; his daughter graduated and has enjoyed a good life in two careers.

As I listened to the muffled cries of the young lady away at college, my mind flipped back to a time when I with my parents in Waco, Texas, shopping for basic dorm room necessities. I was already missing home, and in particular, my girlfriend, (now Lori, my wife) who was still in high school. The word “missing” doesn’t adequately describe that gut wrenching feeling of aloneness, sadness, even dread of the future that blanketed me like early morning fog.

I recall overhearing Dad muttering to Mom, “He’ll never make it; we’ll be back to get him in two weeks.”

At first I took that little comment as an out: “Only two weeks, and I can come home.” But the thought of quitting college before I ever really started, ignited a fire within me. In an instant, I determined that I would make it, I would stay, and although I experienced many lonely moments in room 125, Martin Hall, South 5th Street, Baylor University, my dad’s comment unintentionally pushed me into staying.

Or were they unintentional, after all?

I’ll never know; now Dad doesn’t remember.

And it doesn’t matter.

For either way, it worked.

To be sure: staying in college is not right for everyone. There are times when it’s well and good to come home, and I know well-adjusted, successful adults for whom college just wasn’t the right place to be.

But whether a person stays or not, leaving home is a process in which we make our own home, because there comes a time in life when “home” is not what it used to be and never can be again.

I recall hanging around and hanging around one Sunday afternoon when I was home from Baylor. Lori kept trying to hide her tears, but I would notice it. Then I’d have to fight back tears myself, so I’d stay another thirty minutes and then another. It was dragging into hours.

Finally, my grandad pulled me aside and said, “Son, just leave.”

There comes a time, whether you go to college or move across the street, when you just have to leave, when you have to grow up, when, as Thomas Wolfe wrote, You Can’t Go Home Again.

What's your worry?

“I’m putting the car keys in my suitcase” I announced to Lori. “That way, I’ll be sure not to leave them somewhere during all our travels. Wouldn’t it be awful to get back to the airport in the middle of the night and not have our car keys? But don’t let me forget to take them out before checking the bags on the plane.”

I don’t exactly have a stellar record when it comes to keeping up with keys. I’ve managed to lock myself out of my car, my house, and my office---a veritable trifecta of possible places in which I have found myself scratching my head and asking, “Now, where DID I leave my keys?” And I didn’t want to see the grimace on Lori’s face in the airport parking lot if I had to ask her: “You wouldn’t happen to know where the car keys are, would you?”

To make the possible bad case scenario even worse, I had lost the spare keys to our car, leaving us with only the keys I had so carefully tucked away in my suitcase.

I relaxed as our plane departed. If everything went well and we made our connecting flight, we would arrive at our destination just about midnight.

“I hope we make our connecting flight on time,” Lori said as we took off. “I’d hate to get back any later than it’s already going to be.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I counseled her. “It’ll be all right.

About half way through our flight, I could sense her anxiety.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Our plane was 15 minutes late leaving, and we don’t have much time to make our connecting flight. What if we miss it and have to find another flight?”

“Don’t worry,” I calmly reassured her. “It makes no sense to fret because there’s not a thing we can do about it.”

I think I may have closed my little counseling session by paraphrasing Jesus’ words, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” with, “This flight has enough trouble of its own, so don’t worry about the next one.”

“Okay,” Lori agreed, taking a deep breath as she seemed to release her worry. “You’re right.”

Secretly I was congratulating myself on my words of wisdom.

Then, about a half an hour later, just as I was about to drop off to sleep, Lori gently placed her hand on mine and asked, “You did remember to get the car keys out of the suitcase before checking them on the plane, didn’t you?”

I jolted, almost knocking the water from my tray and scattering the peanuts down the aisle. Moisture suddenly popped out on my forehead, and I was wide-eyed awake.

Thank God I had the wherewithal NOT to ask, “Why didn’t you remind me?”

Now I was the one sitting in the worry seat.

What if the bags with my car keys were misplaced, put on the wrong plane, and ended up in Bismarck, North Dakota? What if they were lost forever? Who would drive in the middle of the night to pick us up? And even if they did, what would I do with no spare keys ANYWHERE?

I could hear that little imaginary voice whispering in my ear: “What an idiot.”

My feeling that the situation was hopeless was driven by the belief that there was nothing I could do but worry.

But, much of our battle with worry is won when we develop a plan. A wise deacon in one of my churches used to counsel, “Determine the worse that could happen. Then ask, ‘can I live with that?’ If you can, get a plan, and go from there.”

I could live with not having my car keys. I stopped hyperventilating, prayed, and came up with a plan to get us home without the keys.

Worry is fueled by indecision. It leaves us feeling helpless.  But having a plan of action gives us a sense of self control and engenders confidence.

As anthologist Terry Guillemets put it, “Worry ducks when purpose flies overhead.”

“Praise the Lord,” I said as I retrieved the keys from the suitcase.

“See,” Lori said, “Sufficient unto the day is the air flight thereof.”

All I could do was flash a big, worry-free smile her way.

And that said it all.

The power of a wife’s prayer

A pastor asked a little boy if he said his prayers at night. “Yes sir,” the boy replied.

“And do you say prayers in the morning, too?” the pastor continued.

“No sir,” the boy answered. “I ain’t scared in the daytime.”

Fear can certainly move us to pray, although I should hasten to add, prayer should encompass our lives more often than just the times when we are afraid.

And there are moments when having someone else pray for you, (church people call it “intercession”) is a welcome relief when trouble strikes.

As a pastor, I sometimes pray for people before they have surgery. Years ago I decided to try and pray for my flock before the medical procedure rather than after it, although I’ve sometimes done both. It is comforting, people have told me, to have the pastor pray for them shortly before they receive the anesthetic.

But not long ago, as a patient myself, I learned something first hand: it certainly doesn’t have to be the pastor who prays.

My little procedure was far from major surgery. But it necessitated that they “put me under,” nonetheless. The nurse had processed my paper work earlier. I hadn’t thought much about the procedure until she asked if I had a living will, which I do, and if I was aware of possible complications, which I wasn’t.

I signed the document, acknowledging that I knew things could go wrong.

Then my mind went south with wrong scenarios.

It was prompted, I suppose, not just by the living will business, but also because my brother had died while under the anesthesia after the two of us had been in a car accident together.

But that’s been years ago.

Bad memories have a way a lurking in our past and presenting themselves at the most inopportune times.

I took comfort in the fact that the very capable nurse anesthetist had done hundreds of these. But what if she gets bored with the routine, I thought, and consequently is easily distracted or slips into a daydream about what she was going to do later in the day? What if she’s fatigued at this early hour and accidentally gives me too much propofol? After all, that’s the drug that led to Michael Jackson’s demise.

Anyone can make a mistake.

And what if the doctor, whose expertise I totally trusted, had had a bad night and didn’t sleep--- maybe he had had an argument with his wife, or a bout with indigestion, or perhaps his hot water tank had exploded, preventing him from taking a shower so that he wasn’t fully awake on the day I showed up for my minor medical procedure.

And voile, “Sorry, but I nicked you, ol’ boy,” he tells me as I’m writhing in pain. “It happens, you know. You will hopefully recover after several weeks of therapy.”

“We’re so sorry, Mrs. Whitlock,” I could hear a chaplain telling my wife, “this complication only occurs in about 1.6% of the cases, but your husband…”

Then the nurse’s voice shook me back to reality. “Your blood pressure is a little high, just breathe deeply and try to relax,” she told me as she prepped me for the procedure.

“Well, your blood pressure would be high too if you knew all the bad stuff I’ve been thinking about that could go wrong here,” I wanted to blurt out but didn’t because she quickly disappeared behind the curtain separating me from the other patients.

In a moment she opened the curtain again.

And there was my wife.

“How ya doing?” Lori gently asked.

I just nodded my head, “okay.”

“Everything alright?” she inquired.

“You know how I am when I haven’t had coffee,” I said, trying to mask my anxiety.

Without saying a word, Lori took my hand in hers.

And then she began to pray for me.

In that moment, she became my “pastor,” or at least my “intercessor.”

And by the time she said, “Amen,” my fears were relieved.

“You should check my blood pressure again,” I told the nurse, who had stepped back in my cubicle. “I think it’s okay now.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, “most people’s blood pressure is a little elevated before a procedure.”

If she wasn’t going to worry, then neither would I, I thought.

And besides, I had someone who had prayed with me and would continue praying for me.

As I breathed in the propofol and drifted away, I thought like the little boy, “I ain’t scared in the daytime.”