Stations of the Heart: Parting with a Son

Overview

This poignant love story of a father for his son is at once funny, heartbreaking, and hopeful. In it a young man teaches his entire family “a new way to die” with wit, candor, and, always, remarkable grace. This emotionally riveting account probes the heart without sentimentality or self-pity.

As the book opens, Richard Lischer’s son, Adam, calls to tell his father, a professor of divinity at Duke University, that his cancer has returned. Adam is a smart, charismatic young man ...

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Stations of the Heart: Parting with a Son

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Overview

This poignant love story of a father for his son is at once funny, heartbreaking, and hopeful. In it a young man teaches his entire family “a new way to die” with wit, candor, and, always, remarkable grace. This emotionally riveting account probes the heart without sentimentality or self-pity.

As the book opens, Richard Lischer’s son, Adam, calls to tell his father, a professor of divinity at Duke University, that his cancer has returned. Adam is a smart, charismatic young man with a promising law career, and an unlikely candidate for tragedy. That his young wife is pregnant with their first child makes the disease’s return all the more devastating. Despite the crushing magnitude of his diagnosis and the cruel course of the illness, Adam’s growing weakness evokes in him an unexpected strength. 
This is the story of one last summer and the young man who lived it as honestly and faithfully as possible. We meet Adam in many phases of his growing up, but always through the narrow lens of his undying hope, when in the final season of his life he becomes his family’s (and his father’s) spiritual leader. Honest in its every dimension, Stations of the Heart is an unforgettable book about life and death and the terrible blessing of saying good-bye.  

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
On April 13, 2005, Lischer, who teaches at Duke Divinity School, received a call from his son, Adam, that no parent ever wants to receive. Adam, a gifted and loving young lawyer whose wife, Jenny, was expecting her child three months later, tells his father that the cancer they all thought was gone has now returned and that it now lives in many of his body's organs. Initially, Lischer is speechless, but his stunned silence soon turns to rage as he wails that his son's death is a robbery. In this tender, searching resigned memoir and tribute to Adam, Lischer relives the final three-month journey that he, his wife, and Jenny traveled with Adam, recalling with grace and humor memories of Adam in his elementary school days, his college days, and his quest to change the world around as a modern-day Atticus Finch in his law career. After Adam's death, Lischer observes that "grief is a series of caves—dark, multiple, and unfathomed. You do not explore them. You fall into them....5 Your world is not as large as it used to be, for a ceiling has been imposed on happiness and the floor occasionally trembles beneath your feet." Walking this journey over again seven years later, Lischer declares that it took him from "the bitter gall of losing Adam to something like settled sorrow," and where he can now say, "He was my son. I give thanks for him." Agent: John F. Thornton, Spielar Agency. (Jan.)
From the Publisher
Praise for Richard Lischer’s Stations of the Heart

“Stations of the Heart is a book after my own heart, profound, gorgeous, deeply spiritual and human, beautifully written, heartbreaking, but also, because of the writer's wisdom and spirit, triumphant."—Anne Lamott 

“Quite extraordinary. . . Lischer’s only son, Adam, died of rapidly metastasizing melanoma in 2005. He was 33. . . He said he’d had a charmed life, and part of what is impressive about his questioning father’s chastely worded, clear-eyed account is that we come to appreciate that. An immensely positive and congenial person, Adam used his time well, completing conversion to Catholicism and using daily prayer rituals with his wife to bless his child in the womb.”—Ray Olson, Booklist
 
“A fond view of a father-son relationship and a loving tribute from a minister to a son who chose a different spiritual path in his life and to his death.”—Kirkus Reviews
 
“In this tender, searching, resigned memoir and tribute to [his son] Adam, Lischer relives the final three-month journey that he, his wife, and [Adam’s wife] traveled with Adam, recalling with grace and humor memories of Adam in his elementary school days, his college days, and his quest to change the world around as a modern-day Atticus Finch”—Publishers Weekly

“Stations of the Heart deserves a place alongside these classics [John Gunther’s inspirational Death Be Not Proud and Nicholas Wolterstorff’s anguished Lament for a Son] for many reasons.   It is elegant without excess, personal without self-absorption, profoundly emotional without sentimentality. . . . It looks beyond the one man’s death to the death we all will face.  It raises religious and philosophical questions without offering pat answers.”—LaVonne Neff, Christian Century
 
“An inspirational memoir . . . Lischer is a fine writer—self-aware, humorous and unstinting in describing the outrage of a son dying before his father.”—Sarah Murdoch, The Toronto Star
 
"By the story’s close, you'll have laughed, prayed, shaken your fist at the sky, and wept along with the author and his family. Lyrical, wise, and full of warmth, Stations of the Heart accomplishes what only the best memoirs can: it bears witness to the unimaginable and gives voice to the inarticulable.”—David McGlynn, author of A Door in the Ocean

 
"As he grieved over the loss of his son, Richard Lischer gradually discovered that he had been given a new role — as the interpreter of his own son’s death. In this tender and loving book, Lischer does indeed become an interpreter, not only of his son’s death but also of the fragile and beautiful relationships that make life both a peril and a gift for us all. Lischer is a faithful witness whose truthful and searing testimony evokes memory, provokes tears, and finally points powerfully toward hope."
—Thomas G. Long, author of What Shall We Say? Evil, Suffering, and the Crisis of Faith

Library Journal
In this poignant memoir, Lischer (Duke Div. Sch.; Open Secrets: A Memoir of Faith and Discovery) discusses his son Adam’s death and its effect on their family. Lischer tries to make sense of his son’s cancer through conversations with God, his wife, and even with Adam. The heartbreaking story is told with honesty and warmth that comes of a father speaking of a son. The book addresses the mechanics of faith during a time of tragedy and how even those without religious beliefs make sense of why terrible things happen to good people. Lischer describes his son as a strong man who had goals to accomplish before his inevitable death, the largest being to purchase for his soon-to-be daughter 18 years of birthday gifts.

Verdict Lischer writes with honesty about religion and death. His book will be relatable for anyone who has lost a family member; an interesting read for those examining their own faith or struggling with a loss.—Meghan Dowell, New York
(c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Kirkus Reviews
A father's deeply felt memoir of witnessing his son's final months and grieving at the young man's death. In April 2005, Lischer (The End of Words: The Language of Reconciliation in a Culture of Violence, 2005, etc.), a Lutheran minister and faculty member at Duke Divinity School, received a phone call from his 33-year-old son Adam telling him that his melanoma had returned. What the author did not know was that in little more than three months, Adam would be dead. Stories of battling cancer are commonplace, as are stories of bereavement; what gives this story a twist is the religious angle. When Lischer's son learned of his diagnosis, he became more heavily involved in the Catholic Church. He and his pregnant Catholic wife adopted a series of daily rituals that involved lighting candles, attending Mass, praying and reading the Bible. As his son's faith was increasing, Lischer's was drying up: "I saw my son…motionless, serene as a sanded statue, and lost in a realm I could not enter." The author compares his experiences with his dying son to walking the Stations of the Cross, but here the reminders of pain are more mundane--visits to labs, meetings with oncologists, etc. By June, Lischer was searching for a cemetery, and in July, he was camping out in his son's hospital room listening for his last breath. After Adam's death, the author came to see grief as a series of dark caves of longing and despair that one repeatedly falls into, not unlike the anguish of a parent watching over a terminally ill child. The book ends on a somewhat brighter note with the baptism of Adam's daughter. A fond view of a father-son relationship and a loving tribute from a minister to a son who chose a different spiritual path in his life and to his death.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307960535
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 4/2/2013
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 157,746
  • Product dimensions: 5.98 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 1.03 (d)

Meet the Author

RICHARD LISCHER holds degrees from Washington University and Concordia Seminary, and a PhD in theology from the University of London. He served in two parishes before joining the faculty of Duke Divinity School, where he has taught for more than thirty years. He is the author of many books, including Open Secrets: A Memoir of Faith and Discovery. He and his wife live in Orange County, North Carolina.

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Read an Excerpt

Seven years ago, on the thirteenth day of April, my son called to tell me his cancer had returned. He was a grown man, but he told me his news like a boy. He said, “Hey, Dad, where’s Mom?” You would have thought he had just put a dent in the family’s new car or failed a final exam. He might have been in a little trouble and wanted his mother to buffer the rough edges. He said they had found tumors in quite a few places in his body, on his liver, chest, side, and more. Then he asked me to come to him. And that was all.
 
I was not expecting the call. But then you never are. You are never adequately braced with feet planted and stomach muscles clenched. Just when you should have been steely-eyed, you were caught looking away, distracted by a passing thought, and now it is too late. A police car with its rotating blue light—why in my driveway? An envelope marked “Personal” from someone you don’t know. A stranger in uniform who doesn’t say hello, but asks you who you are and where you live.
 
A phone call from your son.
 
A familiar voice emerges from a piece of inexpensive black plastic. The voice has no body, and yet it makes a claim as firm and authoritative as flesh. It says “Hey, Dad” with an end stress on Dad that has always and in every circumstance meant trouble. “Hey, Dad,” and ordinary time stands still and the room begins to turn while you wait for the rest of the sentence to do its work. “Why don’t you come over to 2 K,” it says. The ruin in his voice becomes the new truth in your life, and your old life, the only one you have ever known or wanted, simply vanishes.
 
We addressed each other with an economy of passion, as men will do when they are trying to curtail a feeling, as if what had just passed between us was a new piece of information and not a revelation. We spoke as if the end of the ages had not yet come upon us. I do remember later that evening sobbing into the bedroom wall and hitting it hard with my fist. “It is a robbery!” I cried. But at the moment of his call, there was shockingly little to say. Our brief conversation left no room for misunderstanding and no remainder of options to be sorted out later. I pressed End on my cell phone and began to make my way from the first floor of the hospital to the clinics in an adjoining building.
 
Even as I was running down corridors, weaving around gurneys, and fumbling with my cell phone to call my wife, something new and forbidden was forming in my imagination. My eyes had begun to burn with a future I was never intended to see. In an ordered world, beginnings and endings are off-limits. A parent is not designed to comprehend the child’s life in its entirety, any more than the child is meant to experience the parent’s early days or youthful indiscretions. It is a sensible arrangement. Children are not permitted to witness the passions that produced them, and parents are not allowed to observe their children’s final hours.
 
It follows that a father has no business writing a book about his son’s death. This is proper work for sons, perhaps when they themselves are graying and secure in the world—to sum up, round off, and memorialize their fathers. These sons write out of a profound sense of duty toward the generation that preceded them and formed them.
 
With me it is different. My son has become one of the fathers to me.
 
When I survey my dad, he is always old; he appears as solid and factual as history. But when I steal a glance at my son, what I feel is closer to enchantment, which is a more complicated subject than history, and more compelling. When I look over my shoulder expecting to face the stable and monumental figure of my father, I see an open-faced boy smiling back at me.
 
He was so young and inexperienced he thought he had discovered a new way to die. All my wife and I could do was keep him company and follow him on what he somewhat dramatically called his “new path.” His new way, which was actually a very old way, carried him beyond the stars to the very origins of his universe and to the source of everything he loved. We traveled the path with him, but at a respectful distance behind him, learning from him and trusting him to show us the way. The last leg of his trip took him exactly ninety-five days. We never imagined how much grace would be required for so brief a journey. Now we rely on it every day.
 
It wasn’t until he got sick that I walked the Stations of the Cross for the first time. Until then, I had never thought of them as anything other than a ritual for pious Catholics and a few venturesome Protestants. But as his illness wore on, the
Stations began to loom in my imagination, perhaps because cancer itself leads you from one obligatory shrine to the next. It is a disease that teaches incrementally.
 
In most churches the Stations are so graphic in their depiction of Jesus’ suffering that they leave little to the imagination: he staggers, he falls, he bleeds, he dies. The ribs protrude from his corpse like piano keys. This is what a young man’s death looks like. A few summers ago, when I was teaching at Saint John’s University in Minnesota, I noticed something different about the Stations in the abbey church. They were nothing more than plain crosses cut into the granite pavement. They were not designed to restrict the imagination but to expand it and make it more inclusive. When you stand or kneel on one of these cross-shaped slits, as brutal in their own way as the medieval gore they were meant to replace, they remind you that anyone’s pain, including your own, can find a place in something larger than itself.
 
It all begins with the Stations. You have to make every last one of them. You have to go with him for his labs and scans, hang out in the coffee shops, walk the dogs, listen to the same old stories, share the same old jokes, and carry on with him for hours about nothing in particular. And when things get serious, you have to keep your part of the bargain and try not to cry. When he wants to talk about God, you have to hide your own damaged faith, clear your palate of clichés, and find a witness deep within yourself.
 
Some pretending is involved. You have to nod sagely when he says, “Time is irrelevant,” even when you have secretly begun to date your own life from a single telephone call. You have to pretend that you are not counting out his days like silver dollars.
 
All this requires a lot of love, and love is a harsh comforter, because only love makes genuine loss possible. You can’t lose what you never loved.
 
A man said to my wife and me, “We can give your son back to you.” “No,” she said, and nearly took the poor man’s head off. We were sitting in a richly appointed office around a mahogany desk. “You will not give our son back to us.” It was a low point. Still, the man was only following a natural if professional instinct, the human instinct to keep, hold, and restore. It’s what the poet Julia Kasdorf had in mind when she wrote, “Grieving a loss is not only the process of letting go, but it is also the process of keeping, like writing, through acts that allow you to continue to consummate the other.”
 
Those who grieve have no illusions about denying death or making it into a beautiful experience. We only want to remember in a saving way so that something whole and complete may come into view. To remember in this way is the work of God. My religious tradition calls it Resurrection. If you obey the human instinct to keep and to consummate, you are doing the work of God whether you know it or not. Remembering is a sacred act.
 
And a saving act. “How can we know the way?” a skeptic once asked Jesus. The time comes when everyone repeats the same bewildered question with the same shattered implication: there is no way. And even if there is, how can anyone know it? My son asked the question, and in my own good time I asked it too. Neither one of us ever got a straight answer, but we were both shown a path. His was marked “To Blessedness.” Mine was a bit more obscure and overgrown, but it eventually took me to a better place as well. It led me from the bitter gall of losing him to something like a settled sorrow. From “It is a robbery” to “He was my son, and I give thanks for him.”

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