Dormal Newberry

Dormal Newberry died on Resurrection Sunday this year. It was a fitting day for a man to die who lived for Jesus. I visited him and his wife, Cathy, two days before he died. It was Good Friday. Hospice had delivered his bed to their apartment a few hours earlier.

He looked weaker than I’d ever seen him, but there was nothing weak about his love for the Lord.

I knelt at the side of his bed and asked, “How does it feel to know you’re dying, Dormal?”

We’d known each other for the two or three years I’d been teaching Bible studies and preaching Sunday sermons at the 55+ community where he and Cathy lived. I will never forget the night he stood with me eight months earlier when my mom died of a brain aneurysm. She lived at Ashwood Meadows, also.

Weakened by his own recurring illnesses, Dormal could hardly stand erect in the hallway outside her apartment. His shoulders hunched forward as he held tightly to his walker. He put his hand on my shoulder as I wept and spoke softly to me, encouraging me.

And now, here he was lying on a hospice bed down the hall and around the corner from mom’s old apartment.

“How does it feel to know you’re dying, Dormal?”

He looked straight into my eyes and shrugged. “I’m ready to go,” he said simply, and confidently. And he had every reason to be confident. Decades ago, Dormal committed his life to Jesus. He confessed his sins to the Savior and had made it a habit to routinely do so. It’s called ‘keeping short accounts’ with God – to not let sins pile up before bringing them in repentance to Christ.

Cathy told me later that for the last two days of his life, Dormal made a point to ask everyone who visited him about their relationship with the Savior.

“Do you know you’re saved?” he’d ask. “Do you know your sins are forgiven?” he’d ask.

“Dormal, would you like me to read Scripture to you?”

He nodded his head and smiled. “The one about the second coming.”

I opened his Bible to 1 Thessalonians 4 and began at the 13th verse:

“But we do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus. For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words."

I closed the Bible and looked at him. He seemed to see something far away. I waited a few moments and then said, “Dormal, will you do me a favor?”

“If I can, sure,” he said, his gaze returning from a distant place.

“When you get to heaven, I know you’ll be spending a lot of time just being with Jesus . . . but after a while, would you do me a favor and look for my mom – and tell her I said, ‘Hi’?”

Dormal rolled from his right side onto his back and laughed out loud. “Sure,” he said, still chuckling. “I’ll tell her that.”

I already miss my older brother in Christ. And Ashwood Meadows is poorer because of his absence. But even though those of us who know Jesus still grieve our loss, we do not grieve as those who have no reason – as Dormal had good reason – to hope for eternal life. One day – whether soon or late – “the Lord will descend from heaven with a shout” – and we who love Christ will be going home.

Dormal will be waiting for us. As will my mom. And all those who have lived their lives for the Savior.

Praying for Pastors

Pray for Your Pastor

By Richard Maffeo

“[A]nd pray on my behalf, that utterance may be given to me in the opening of my mouth, to make known with boldness the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains; that in proclaiming it I may speak boldly, as I ought to speak.” (Ephesians 6:18-20)

Whenever I read these words of St. Paul to the Church at Ephesus, I'm surprised. Why would that great apostle ask for prayer to speak of Christ's gospel “boldly, as I ought to speak”?

I’m surprised because of what we know of his missionary journeys recorded in the book of Acts. Boldness did not seem to be his weak suite. And I wonder if the Holy Spirit moved Paul to write what he did, not only for his sake, but for ours as well.

I mean, think of it a moment. If fear sometimes restrained the great apostle from boldly preaching the whole truth of sin, righteousness, and judgement, then fear can hinder any of us from speaking God’s word as we ought. Fear of persecution, fear of lost income, fear of exclusion from the group . . . .

That’s why our pastors need our prayers for boldness, for courage. When was the last time they warned their flock against societal hot-buttons such as sins of abortion, adultery, fornication, or homosexuality?

Clerical collars do not confer courage on a man or woman. Only through the consistent prayers of God’s people will God’s servants become empowered to speak truth as it ought to be spoken.

Jesus was serious when He said: “He who is ashamed of Me and My words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will also be ashamed when He comes in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.” (Mark 8:38)

Christians! Pray for your pastors.

Growing Old with God

(I wrote this several years ago and is excerpted from my second book, Lessons Along the Journey. I updated only the dates to make it current).

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I hadn’t slept well the night before, and weariness settled over me like a heavy rug. Nancy and I returned home from Mass, ate lunch, and were unwinding on the couch where she continued our conversation about her passion for art. But I couldn't keep my mind from drifting. As it did, my eyes focused on her face. I’d noticed her changing features before, but somehow this time I saw her anew. Creases now feather her cheeks and forehead where her skin was once smooth and supple. Gone is her naturally dark auburn hair. She colors it blonde to mask the gray. When I asked Nancy to marry me nearly four decades ago, I thought I knew her. I thought I loved her. Now, half-listening to her describe the colors she planned to use in her next project, I realized how little I really knew or loved her in 1975. We’ve weathered many storms during our years together. Some of them were tsunamis. I don’t even like to dredge them up in my memory. Our son suffered through divorce. Nancy’s beloved stepfather died. Two years later, I lost mine. Financial crises and long periods of unemployment rocked our marriage from time to time. Friends turned their backs on us because of our commitment to Christ. And then there were a dozen military-related moves from one end of the country to the other, which forced us to leave family, friends, and familiar places. Sometimes I wonder how we survived it all. God’s grace? Unquestionably. Intervening from the shadows, often without revealing His hand, our Father brought peace when turmoil overwhelmed us, and freedom when fear bound us. He quieted us when, in frustration, we lashed out at each other instead of going to our knees before our God. God’s grace, certainly. But something else has proven vital to our relationship: our communication with each other. I suppose better than eighty percent of our discussions over the years have been casual. You know the kind: what’s for dinner, what happened at work, the kids have colds . . . . But because of that casual eighty percent, she and I can also meet in intimate, deeply personal conversations. We are able to talk about our hopes, joys, fears and dreams because we have spent so much of our time learning about each other. That’s why I know her – and love her – so much more today than I did when we married. Which brings me to the real point. Forty-seven years ago, I thought I knew Jesus. I thought I loved him. But, oh, how my knowledge of Him and my love for Him are so very different today than they were in 1972 when I first offered Him my heart. Why? Unquestionably, because of God’s grace. But I am sure there is something else at work. Early in my walk with Christ, I learned the importance of communing with Him in prayer, study of Scripture – and since 2005 when I entered the Catholic Church – in the Sacraments. Over the years, I’ve worn out four Bibles, memorized scores of Scripture texts, and can allude to a hundred more. I’ve spent time with Him in the morning, the evening, and throughout the day. To be honest, most of my prayers – eighty percent? – are not what I would call passionate. You know the kind: Lord, I need a good evaluation at work. Mom needs guidance about moving from Florida. Gerry needs a job. Helen’s son is ill. But because of that eighty percent, because I communicate so often with Him, I know how to be intimate with Him when battles rage beyond my control.  

In the first stanza of his poem, Rabbi Ben Ezra, Robert Browning wrote, “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be. The last of life, for which the first was made, our times are in His hand who said ‘A whole I planned, youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!’” As husbands and wives grow old together, they learn what love and intimacy with each other looks like. When men and women grow old with the King of Glory, they learn what love and intimacy with Him is like. When life’s storms rip at our foundations, when the hot breath of Satan prickles down our neck, our deeply personal knowledge of God will be our fortress. Our passionate love for Him, born through intimate communion, will be our strength. Surely, that is one reason the prophet urged: “Seek the Lord while He may be found, call Him while He is near” (Isaiah 55:6).