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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday, April 10, 2000 Volume II Number 15
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FOCUS - None Call It Necromancy
It’s something primal. Something powerful. Something real. Something uniquely human shared across the boundaries of ethnicity and nations and religion and philosophy and generations and time itself.
It’s that longing to hear the voice of those who have left us. Those who have gone before.
Robin Williams as Patch Adams gets into a hilarious verbal sparing match with an adult, terminally ill patient most everyone wants to avoid. The English language has yet to exhaust the available substitutes for the harsh, cold word we generally dance around – the single syllable word death. Death. It pierces like a puncture wound. Dead. Die. In all its forms, it’s just too direct. Too painful. Too final. Too cold.
So we say “left us.” Or “gone before.”
Back and forth, the soon to be Dr. Patch
and his patient come up with a couple dozen more in a dueling battle of wits.
“Buy the farm.” “Cross over the Jordan.”
“Push up the daisies.” And
for the first time since this patient heard his prognosis, the conclusion of
the best specialist in the country, which was in essence a death sentence, this
sick and dying and bitter and profane and angry middle-aged husband and father
and businessman breaks out in uproarious laughter. An out of control, head back, arched spine, knee slapping
belly buster.
It didn’t change the outcome, but he experienced something of a healing that day.
Sooner or later, we come to accept death as a part of life. Eventually, we get past the pain of loss and learn to celebrate the life. In time, the good memories fill up the aching void that’s left behind.
But we never get over that need to hear that voice again. To ask those questions that remain unasked. To get some needed advice. Standing on the precipice of some far away bluff, taking in a wide expanse of natural beauty and wonder, we turn looking for that familiar face to see the shared sense of awe… and of course, they’re not there. He or she is gone. We say, “He (she) would have loved this.”
No surprise then that when I drive by the local cemetery on my way home I see fresh flowers at some of the gravesites. Someone out there is dearly missed.
I’ve worked professionally with a now familiar group of people for some thirty years. In that time, we’ve bid farewell to husbands, wives, children, parents, and grandparents. In many cases, it would be really helpful to tap in and get some needed information. But it’s too late. We’re left with sketchy notes and half completed files and boxes brimming with stuff. So I occasionally joke, “Where’s Pete when we need him for cryin’ out loud?” She’ll say, “Yeah, I’ve asked that question oh about six or eight times a day for the past three years.” And we laugh together and talk about his quirks… but mainly about what a good guy he was and how we wish he were still around.
That kind of easy talk and reminiscing seems to help.
* * * * * * * * * *
Throughout recorded history, this longing has been more than a wish. In many places, it’s been an obsession. Even a profession. Through the corridors of time, practitioners abound.
Scientists and historians and theologians call it necromancy. Communication with the dead. The Assyrians, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Greeks and the Romans all practiced some form of necromancy. Later, in Medieval Europe, it became associated with what they called “black magic.” The church soundly condemned it.
Good thing.
This sort of primitive hocus-pocus has no legitimate place in contemporary life. It’s fertile soil for those who for a tidy fee would exploit our human longing. And from the sheer number of gaudy neon signs in certain parts of town there is no shortage of channelers and fortune-tellers and séances available to anyone with money in their pocket and a willingness to suspend common sense and good judgment. These are scary people.
Shirley MacLaine included.
Keep your distance.
* * * * * * * *
Simba just couldn’t wait to be King. The cute little lion cub followed his majestic father Mufasa around like a shadow, watching then mimicking every move. Practicing his roar. He was a son of privilege. His dad was King of the Jungle.
But Simba was clueless about the responsibilities of Royalty. Clueless about the responsibilities of adulthood for that matter.
He knew his dad just well enough to know
that the Kingdom needed his strong voice.
King Mufasa
played a central, pivotal role in the well-being of all.
The circle of life. Simba
longed for the day he would walk through the jungle with that confident stride,
strong and proud, just like his father. His
smile brought a sense of dignity and contentment and peace.
His roar brought a sense of safety and security and rest.
But when Mufasa was killed in a stampede, Simba was left alone. Young, afraid, naïve, he gave up his dream, and wandered outside the boundaries of the kingdom in search of a hiding place. “Hakuna Matata” sounded terrific. But it left him empty, alone, adrift.
Until Rafiki, the wise baboon, came along and taught him his identity. He was a Lion. The son of Mufasa. Simba would only find fulfillment in becoming what he was meant to be. King of the Jungle.
On a starry starry night, he wanders alone through the tall grass of the Serengeti plains. And from the heavens, he hears his father’s voice.
“I will always be with you.”
That, and that alone, is all he needs. Simba takes his crown. The Lion King.
* * * * * *
Sometimes I walk outside alone under the stars. And sometimes I can hear my dad’s voice. I hear his prayers. I think about how he cherished his role as Dad. How he believed in his children. How he loved his wife. How he provided for his seven children. How he battled the illness that took his life.
And as I get older, I see his image emerging in the reflection of the mirror hanging on the wall. There is his face in mine. And often, when I listen to whatever it was I just said, I recognize that it is his voice. His phrase. My response is his response.
He’s been gone three years. He’s still here.
* * * * * *
David Riley is my brother’s best friend.
Even as an elementary school kid, we knew David had something special. Today David is a forty-year-old husband and father. He and his wife Yvonne produced two beautiful girls. David and Roger have shared a good life. Through the years, as a crowning gift from heaven, they’ve shared the experience of raising daughters – Yvette and Kiley Rae – who like their dads have also been close friends.
When David graduated from the prestigious Art Center in Pasadena, the Disney Hotel picked him up as a graphic designer. He quickly emerged as a topnotch artist in the Disney world. After over ten years of keeping the Hotel fresh, colorful and ever improving, he launched his own business.
With great success. David Riley and Associates occupies a uniquely magnetic and charming top story office overlooking Newport Beach from Fashion Island. You probably know David’s work. Since its inception, he has designed all the artwork for the wildly successful Harvest Crusade.
Last Saturday, April 1, David’s older daughter Yvette needed a ride to a birthday party. Her friend, the daughter of musician Crystal Lewis, was celebrating her birthday. Dave picked her up at one party and chauffeured her to a second. It was a warm, brilliant, sunny Southern California beach day.
For this routine parental assignment, David fired up his ’32 Ford Roadster convertible. Later he told his friends it was because Yvette loved to ride in “Dad’s 32.” It’s open top was perfect for a short ride across town.
Yvette jumped in the front seat next to her dad, pulled the door shut and fastened her seat belt. David leaned over, kissed and hugged his little girl… put his Roadster in gear and drove off. They waved good-bye to friends standing at the curb. They all wanted a look at David’s vintage classic.
As they pulled out on MacArthur Boulevard, David turned to her and said, “I love you, Yvette.” She answered as she always did, “I love you MORE, Daddy.” Then she giggled.
Those were Yvette’s last words.
At some fifty miles per hour, without warning, something terrible happened. Maybe it was the transmission, or maybe the differential. Suddenly, a loud crack, a hard jerk, and both rear wheels locked up sending the roadster into a devastating uncontrollable slide. Slamming into a median, the car jumped airborne and flipped, landing on the pavement with a horrific crash upside down.
David was trapped, but miraculously, he remained conscious. Relatively unhurt.
Not so Yvette. David’s little girl did not survive the impact.
* * * * * * *
That was Saturday.
On Thursday morning this week, nearly three thousand people packed the Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa in memorial of a ten-year-old girl killed in a tragic car accident. Pastors Chuck Smith and Greg Laurie shared timely and biblical thoughts and reflections and recollections. Crystal Lewis performed music that captured both the tragedy and the hope that strengthens grieving Christians who hold on to their Bibles as the Living Word.
Sitting in the front row were David, Yvonne, and Yvette’s younger sister, Belle. Just behind them, my brother Roger and Yvette’s life-long buddy, Kiley Rae. In a lamentable irony, Yvette lost her life on young Kiley’s eleventh birthday.
Throughout the service, Roger and his little girl Kiley Rae held hands, and wept.
* * * * * *
I believe in heavenly reunions. Not just because I want to believe. Not just because I can’t bear the alternative.
But because the Promise is in The Text. We’ve got it in writing.
Between now and then, it hurts. But we aren’t alone.
* * * * * *
Leaders need coaches, mentors, cheerleaders, encouragers. In your jungle kingdom, you are a Simba becoming a Mufasa.
Some of those positive Rafiki voices are as close as your telephone. Some of those wise baboons send you letters or cards or e-mails, maybe even today. One of them may be down the hall.
But some of them are gone.
Go ahead. Listen for their voices. Let them give you direction. Let them remind you that you can do it. That you are going to make it. Let them bring a smile. Let them make you laugh again. Let them help you set your priorities.
Others you prize are still with you. You can talk to them, hear their voice. Think about it, David will hear Yvette’s voice – “I love you MORE, Daddy” – every day until he takes his last breath. And for the rest of his life, he will long for more.
Take time to listen like you’ve never listened before. Today is a gift. Tomorrow is uncertain. After all the near misses, the almost-lost-its, the close calls… you still have each other.
Listen. Embrace. Cherish. Savor those moments.
While you have them. And they have you.
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2000
More about Yvette Riley from the Los Angeles TIMES
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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