What does one say to the bereaved? I know what not to say. I know because I was told this myself just yesterday, the day after my eldest brother, Terry Jenkins, died. I was traveling many hundreds of miles from my Michigan home and had not thought to bring funeral attire with me. When the call came, I knew I would need to do a little shopping. I found a recommended store and quickly found black slacks and two appropriate tops. I approached the check out line.“How are you doing today?” asked the young cashier.

A usual question. I am not good at dodging such questions and so I answered truthfully. “Not too well. My brother died last night.” The cashier’s face turned blank and she began processing my purchases. My eyes teared up. The cashier pushed buttons and crammed my nice clothes into a bag. I paid. Her parting words were, “Have a good one.” Dazed, I shuffled out.

“Have a good one.” Part of me wanted to go back and give that girl some much-needed, motherly guidance on common courtesy, manners, or humanity. She was clearly not raised properly. “Have a good one.” Indeed.

My brother died in western New York State. I chose to take the back roads all the way across the state to Buffalo, where I would pick up my husband, rerouted from a business trip. As I drove, I thought of Terry. He died Monday, June 5, 2017, just one day after his 70th birthday. He died peacefully in his home surrounded by his beloved wife and children, as was his desire. Terry was a passionate man whose heart embraced people. He will be remembered for his wild stories, his jokes, and yet also for his sincerity and integrity. Did I mention his wild stories?

Such adventures he had in his youth! Our mother used to worriedly wait up for him as he drag raced down country roads, returning in the wee hours. He graduated from Southwestern Central High School, but academics were not his thing. Terry was bright, but he excelled in physical intelligence. He had an inborn sense for motors and speed, making racing a dance of choreographic precision. A gear stick was the extension of his brain, arm, and hand. Under his urging, a backhoe could dig a ditch or a hole with inch precision. Terry was the owner of Jenkins Plumbing, plumbing being the trade he learned from his father and that he, in turn, passed down to his sons. Terry was a great teacher of practical skills, always finding a way to do things right. His grandchildren’s earliest memories will include a ride on Grandpa’s backhoe or, in later years, the golf cart. I appreciated the way he shared his knowledge with me over the phone, who, living several states away, sometimes needed a furnace, drain, or tap consultant. With Terry, you could count on more than what he knew. As vast as his knowledge was, you also had his honesty, his integrity, his kindness.

The fact that he served his community as a lifelong member of the Lakewood Fire Department is very ironic; as a boy and teen, Terry would faint even at the sight of a needle. Yet, he overcame this squeamishness and went on to help rescue people from accidents and fires. He encouraged people to live and hang on for professional help. Toward the end of life, he would have daily meetings with self-administered needles, a necessity for which he did not bat an eye.

My brother was loved. Despite his sometimes raw humor, you couldn’t not like Terry. In the end, his heart got him, that ticker that beat too weakly and that caused countless trips to Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester. How loudly he sang the praises of the good nurses and doctors there. He thanked them by telling them his best jokes.

I haven’t yet mentioned the love of his life, Carol. When awards are handed out for best wife, most patient partner, most long-suffering listener, and most faithful encourager, she will win every trophy. He blessed the day they met. Christopher, Terry, Tina, and Todd are grown now and they drive their own vehicles (additionally, Tina self-propels her racing bicycle) but they also carry on the traits of kindness and integrity modeled in their home. I trust they are passing on that heritage to the grandkids.

Our father (Eugene) died in 2010 and our mother (Mariam) died just last year. Terry was a good son. He and Carol cared for mom in her widowhood; mowing the yard, phoning daily, searching for Chester (the runaway cat), and keeping watch on her safety from across the pond to her house.

Carol and the kids are welcoming friends to the funeral home tomorrow night (Thursday). I trust there will be some stories, some laughter, some jokes, some tears. My sibs and I will be there (Jeff, Gena, Julie, Christine, and Jill) with our own stories to tell.

One story I hold dear is how peacefully he met his death. After years of suffering pain, Terry was ready. He made his peace with God and reports that God’s peace actually flooded his soul. He said his good-byes. He hugged his kids and siblings and friends. He thanked the hospice team. And then, he slipped away.

Terry has gone to be with the God he cried out to for help, courage, forgiveness, and grace. He has entered that place where there is no more suffering, or sighing, or crying anymore, for God is there in the midst of his people. In that place, Terry is walking tall.

And so, dear brother, have a good one. Eternity, that is. We will catch up some day.

Beth Ernest

Jeff, Beth, Terry, and Gena Jenkins, 1956

Getting rid of old stuff is hard. Sometimes, you can’t sell it or even give it away. The green, papier mâché parrot that was my whimsical (but unappreciated) gift to my dad, the square end table (itself purchased at a yard sale decades ago and refinished by moi), my daughter’s dresses from Forever 21,  books on world mission and spiritual formation….all remain in my garage awaiting the next leg on their journey.

Since I can remember, I have bought much of what I wear at yard sales, consignment shops, or places like the Salvation Army or Goodwill. Why? I include here a short essay I wrote some years ago about that very topic.

The Hunt

“Why do you worry about clothing? Think about how the flowers of the field grow; they do not work or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed like one of these! And if this is how God clothes the wild grass, which is here today and tomorrow is tossed into the fire to heat the oven, won’t he clothe you even more, you people of little faith?  (Matthew 6:28-30, NET Bible)

Six years ago I lost four dress sizes, which happily necessitated buying a whole new wardrobe. The joy of the hunt for perfect clothes at the lowest prices often took me to my favorite stores; Goodwill, the Salvation Army, and St. Vincent de Paul. There, amid the faded, the out-of-style, and the polyester hid Jones NY suits, Talbot skirts, Ann Taylor dresses, Eddie Bauer hiking shorts, and even a genuine tartan kilt from Scotland. Linen, cashmere, and silk of many colors moved into my vacant closet at ridiculous prices. Who offered up these treasures and why? Did these women likewise lose (or gain) weight?  Did they suffer from over-consumption and guiltily weed their closets of shopping spree excess?  Did they trade power suits for maternity tops?  I bless them for their generosity, these good sisters, who passed on their bounty to me.

In younger years, my elder sister passed down her mother-sewn clothes to me, who passed them down to my three younger sisters, but more tired-looking than they began.  Hand-me-downs were, to us younger sisters, unwelcome stewardship in cotton and bonded knit. Embarrassing, obvious hem changes announced our diminished family fortune to classmates and neighbors. Now grown, I dress myself, but always with the voice of my mother pointing out the hidden stain, feeling the weight of the cloth, checking the top stitching, and avoiding mismatched plaids.

My cherished find? A one-of-a-kind, Chanel dress sample from Paris in the lightest, most supple black wool known to woman or sheep. A refugee amid granny dresses and shoulder padded rayon, it leapt into my arms for five dollars and the recognition of its hidden heritage. When shall I wear this dress? To a job interview, perhaps, or to attend the funeral of someone near and dear? It still awaits initiation to an event worthy of its lineage.

I pray my donated bags of clothes brought joy to my larger sisters, who likewise, love the hunt.