My brother and his family moved into a big, rambling house yesterday. It's perfect for their family---not over the top enormous, but large enough that each person has their own space, especially to pursue their hobbies (rooms dubbed to fit those activities: "art studio", "workshop", "exercise room"). It's great!
I wish Dad could know.
(The extent of his responses these days are limited to slight smiles, the kind that just soften the lines around his eyes--like when he saw my son come into the room yesterday.)
I often heard Dad say to my brother, "I wish you could get a bigger house, son." I couldn't help but think how Dad would have loved to sit out on the screened-in back porch with a cup of coffee. He would have been just as happy for them as I am, probably more so, if he only knew....
I guess I'll just have to sit out on the porch for him.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
James Earl Ferguson - Obituary 9-12-2011
FAYETTEVILLE - James Earl "Fergie" "Boxie" Ferguson, 79, of Fayetteville, passed away Monday, Sept. 12, 2011, in Fayetteville VA Medical Center. His funeral service will be held at 7 p.m. on Sunday, Sept. 18, 2011, in Saint Pauls Funeral Home chapel in St. Pauls. A visitation for family and friends will be Sunday evening at 6 p.m., prior to the funeral service. Burial with full military honors will be held Monday, Sept. 19, 2011, at 11 a.m. in Post Cemetery on Fort Bragg. Special Forces will honor him as pallbearers at the graveside. He was a Master Mason in the Fayetteville Lodge, a Shriner and a member of the Special Forces Association. Mr. Ferguson served in the U.S. Army for more than 23 years, serving four tours in Vietnam and a tour in Korea. While in the service he was awarded with the Korean Service Medal with four Bronze Stars; National Defense Service Medal; Master Parachute Badge; Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (Laos); Combat Infantryman Badge Second Award; United Nations Service Medal; Bronze Star Medal; Air Medal, Republic of Korea Presidential Unit Citation; Bronze Arrowhead; Medical Badge; Vietnam Service Medal; National Defense Service Medal First O.L.C.; Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal with 60 Device; Presidential Unit Citation (Vietnam); Republic of Vietnam Cross of Gallantry with Palm; Army Commendation Medal; Presidential Citation (Korea); and Civil Actions Honor Medal Second Class (Vietnam). He retired as an E8. He is survived by a daughter, Debra Lowry of Lumber Bridge; son, Hank Martinez of Fayetteville; brothers, Roy Lee Ferguson and Donald Ferguson, both of Tennessee; sisters, Claudette Johnson of Alabama, and Ann Newcomer of Florida; five grandchildren; and 10 great-grandchildren. He was preceded in death by his wife, Oneida Ferguson; son, James E. "Jimmy" Ferguson Jr.; and brother, Guy Ferguson. Services are entrusted to Saint Pauls Funeral Home of St. Pauls.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Remembrances
This week, my mother gave me a picture of her parents, my grandparents, from 1980. It was taken on the occasion of their 50th Wedding Anniversary (September 13, 1930). The photo makes me smile because this is just how my little girl mind remembers them.
Today, September 17, marks two years exactly since Grandma went to heaven. Here are the words I read at her funeral. *WARNING: Lengthy*
My memories of Grandma Berkheimer
Some of my most vivid memories of Grandma are when she and Pop-pop lived in Quarryville. (For those of you who don’t know, my grandparents moved an outrageous number of times in their married life—was it over 30?) Once again, she made that house a home. Visits there usually included sitting around the dining room table with delicious smells wafting from the small kitchen mingling with the smell of wood smoke from the stove. I can remember reading books like The Little Auto on the settee (was it maroon or gray flowered?) while Grandma’s hand made braided rug bedecked the floor with bright colors, playing outside in the sandbox (with or without other cousins) or walking with Pop-pop through the forest. Often times we would visit on Sunday afternoon, as their house was a few short miles from my home church.
One particular visit sticks out in my mind. We arrived in the evening and instead of being welcomed in immediately, Mom, Dad and I were asked to wait outside for a few minutes. Once ushered into the living room, Grandma’s chair (which was positioned so that she could watch the 7 pm episode of “The Walton’s”) was surrounded by small white scraps and snips of white thread. I knew better than to question this oddity, why did we have to stand out in the cool dark night and why (when Grandma was a very tidy housekeeper) did her carpet desperately need to be vacuumed? I put the incident out of my mind until that Christmas when I opened my present from Grandma and found this apron that she had been making for me that night we dropped by for a visit. Jerelyn got one that year also, hers was blue!
Since Grandma and Pop-pop moved from Quarryville to retire in Ft. Myers, Florida when I was only seven, it wasn’t really until I was an adult that I began to appreciate Grandma for all that she was. Pop-pop died in Florida when I was 17 and Grandma continued to live Pop-pop’s dream of retiring in the sunny south for as long as she was able. The days were lonely and the nights were long without her beloved husband. Summers she would return to visit with the family in PA until she eventually came to live with her daughter Libby on a permanent basis. During the winters, she often had company—her sister-in-law Ann Rothrock spent months with her. Her niece, Anne Lucille also kept her company as well as various family members from PA who wanted an excuse to escape the snowy winters of the north. Grandma kept busy in her widowed years, with friends, “yard sailing,” reading, of course Scrabble playing and doing lots of handiwork. She seemed to always be trying some new craft—knitting pot scrubbies, making flag pins, bead angels, even necklaces made from strips of magazine.
She also spent a lot of time reading, which aided her in COUNTLESS games of Scrabble. Later in life, she couldn’t play Scrabble with her peers—it wasn’t even a challenge for her. Instead, at Garden Spot Day Center, she would play with the staff members! Even at her “ripe old age” Grandma was mentally sharp. Larry believes that she had a higher-than average intelligence level. At the nursing home where she lived for the last year of her life, she was the Spelling Bee Champion only a few months before her death.
She had a terrific memory and enjoyed reminiscing about days gone by, especially about some of her adventures in the mountains of Tennessee. She would talk about people like the Corvins and the Cunninghams and how Pop-pop’s first “convert” in his teaching ministry in TN was a little girl by the name of Dorothy Jean. And how “Brother Berk-hammer” had been involved in sharing God’s word with people on the mountain at the Tin-Can Church and Watson’s Chapel. It was a highlight of her later years in relationship to TN when she was able to return to that area for a visit in 1999. Miz Thelma Boynton still had an old sewing machine that Grandma had given to her when they left TN to return to PA and what joy when Miz Thelma gave it back!! It was the sewing machine on which Grandma’s mother; Hannah Jane (Watson) Jodon had learned to sew!
As an adult, I learned that Grandma had a very sad and painful childhood and life was not easy for the Jodon children; her sister Sarah and brother Marvin. Even in her married years, with all the moves and caring for her large family on a “faith-ministry” salary, times were tough. (She delivered her first born baby, Aunt Phyl, in a small confined attic containing only one window (?) on a hot July day—and with no medical intervention, no one told her she only had to push when the contractions came--she pushed the entire time she was in labor! She also delivered her third-born, my mother, Lois Jean, before the doctor even arrived at the house!) Some of her adult years were also seasoned with grief as her baby daughter, Deborah, died only hours after birth and her beloved son Johnny was tragically killed in an automobile accident at age 17. Her eyes would always fill with tears when anyone mentioned his name.
Even though throughout her years, she had learned to “do without” and not complain, Grandma did love the finer things in life as well. She surrounded herself with beauty—antiques, flowers (lilacs were her favorite—how fitting they bloom around her birthday each year), jewelry, poetry, (She could perfectly quote poetry that she had learned as a child.) and music (she told me that often times at night when sleep eluded her, she would sing hymns—and sing through the alphabet, each song titled accordingly to fit each alphabet letter.) In those waking hours in the dark of night, I am sure she prayed, too. Most likely, she prayed for me. I will miss those prayers. She was a great prayer warrior. She has told several of her children that she prayed for each one of her children by name, every day.
Grandma had a great sense of humor. She was pleasant, not easily ruffled and easy-going. She didn’t let life get her down. She loved to laugh and retell something cute that one of her grands had said or done. (Like the time that my son TJ, at the tender age of 3, wondered aloud why Grandma Bur-timer was wearing that plastic grocery bag on her head when she came to our house in the rain, her hair protected by a plastic tie-under-the chin covering. Isn’t it called a rain hat and not a grocery bag?!) Once, when leaving after a visit, she laughed heartily at my little son impulsively hugging her and calling out his good-bye, “I love you, sweep-heart!”
Grandma was literally a wealth of knowledge. Her many and varied life experiences would have rightly permitted her to express her opinion on how something that one of us tried could be done better or more efficiently, but she kept those negative comments out of the conversation. One time when I brought yellow delicious apples for her to help me make applesauce, she said, “Oh, I’ve never made applesauce with yellow delicious apples before.” Which was her way of saying to me—yellow delicious apples were not a good choice for making sauce! I knew that I could always call her to ask how to remove a stain from some article of clothing or for advice on child rearing (she had raised her own, of course, and had cared for some of the grandchildren as well, helping Melissa, in particular, to potty-train). Grandma never forced her opinion. “It’ll all come out in the wash,” she would say, not to brush me off or make light of my catastrophe, but to help me get perspective.
I also learned as an adult to realize how much she loved Pop-pop and was still in love with him long after he had gone to heaven. Even death could not sever their lifetime of love. She sacrificed and supported him so that he could do “God’s work.” Often times, they would have church together, just the two of them. And of course, anyone else that was visiting would be welcome to join. Grandma would wear a covering (a doily of some kind that she had stitched) and Pop-pop would “preach” what he had studied that week as the Lord had guided him. And they would sing, Grandma harmonizing with her quiet alto vibrato voice. And of course, at the close of the “service” they would share in communion with the Lord’s Supper. Looking back now—as I begin to comprehend true love—I believe a part of her died when he did. But she had to go on living. That’s why she stayed in Florida so long, because he would have wanted her to. She adored him and he doted on her. I can just hear her now, trying to get his attention because he was hard of hearing: “Woo-hoo-Millard!!” Now that Pop-pop can hear perfectly in his new glorified body, I wonder if she might have said it anyway, just for “old times sake.” J I can’t even imagine the joy at their reunion and the sheer joy and rapture that they are finally together for all eternity, but most importantly with Jesus--praising the Savior all the daylong. Because as a young woman, she trusted in Jesus as her Savior from sin, she believed God’s Word and its promises, now her faith has become sight. Hallelujah!
This is my little-girl Grandma at age 3 (1917). Grandma told that when a traveling photographer came to take her picture, she wouldn't hold still, so he gave her his pocket knife to keep her content. She's holding the pocket knife in her hand!
For some reason, I seem to miss her more in the fall of the year. Recently I thought aloud that I wished I could call her and ask her advice on a recipe. This is us in 1999 when she showed me how to can peaches and we made applesauce in my aunt's inviting farmhouse kitchen.
Grandma's dear friend, Marie Detwiler, her spunky kindred spirit even when miles kept them apart, is now free from the pain of this earth as her earthly mind and body are no longer ensnared by the monster of dementia. Marie passed from this life to heaven's glory on August 20, 2011. I was doing housework recently when it dawned on me what a joyous time they must all be having together with Jesus, the two couples: Millard and Iva, Julius and Marie finally reunited! And I bet they are singing! How they loved to sing the old hymns! I can remember being at Aunt Marie's house on Peach Lane for one Christmas gathering in particular when many were gathered around the piano singing (both Detwilers and Berkheimers had large families with lots of children)!
I overheard my children singing upstairs today as they did their Saturday chores,
"I'm so glad I'm a part of the family of God,
for I'm washed in the fountain,
cleansed by his blood,
joint heirs with Jesus
as we travel this sod,
for I'm part of the family,
the family of God."
This is the song sung by Peter's grandpop after each prayer at every extended family gathering. Grandpop would be proud, kiddos! Peter's grandparents, Harry and Thelma Johnson, both died in 2009 also. My husband and I had 3 living grandparents when we married and we lost all three within six months. Oh, how we miss them!
A rare photo when all three of these precious saints were together with us at church!! (circa 2001):
We got word this week of the death of my dad's first cousin, James Earl Ferguson.
He died a decorated military hero (for his acts of courage and bravery in Korea and Vietnam) on September 12, 2011. Read his obituary here. http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/fayettevilleobserver/obituary.aspx?n=James-Ferguson&pid=153661402
Dad always spoke of Jamey with the utmost respect. Even though the Martin Ferguson's lived on the other mountain growing up, the Ferguson blood that flowed in their veins united the brothers (Roy Lee, James Earl, Guy Allen and Donald) {along with sisters Ann Marie and Claudette} to their cousins Joe, John, Mitch, Marshall and Virgil (and sisters, Luella, Viola, Berta and Cora).
James Earl and Dad worked together in Cleveland and I recall Dad telling with great laughter the time he and Jamey went together to visit Miss Nell's husband, Frank Ferguson in the hospital!
It is with some sadness that I type this post, but grateful to have been a part of the lives of these wonderful people! And grateful, too, for the fond and cherished memories as we celebrate their lives, still living on.
Today, September 17, marks two years exactly since Grandma went to heaven. Here are the words I read at her funeral. *WARNING: Lengthy*
My memories of Grandma Berkheimer
Some of my most vivid memories of Grandma are when she and Pop-pop lived in Quarryville. (For those of you who don’t know, my grandparents moved an outrageous number of times in their married life—was it over 30?) Once again, she made that house a home. Visits there usually included sitting around the dining room table with delicious smells wafting from the small kitchen mingling with the smell of wood smoke from the stove. I can remember reading books like The Little Auto on the settee (was it maroon or gray flowered?) while Grandma’s hand made braided rug bedecked the floor with bright colors, playing outside in the sandbox (with or without other cousins) or walking with Pop-pop through the forest. Often times we would visit on Sunday afternoon, as their house was a few short miles from my home church.
One particular visit sticks out in my mind. We arrived in the evening and instead of being welcomed in immediately, Mom, Dad and I were asked to wait outside for a few minutes. Once ushered into the living room, Grandma’s chair (which was positioned so that she could watch the 7 pm episode of “The Walton’s”) was surrounded by small white scraps and snips of white thread. I knew better than to question this oddity, why did we have to stand out in the cool dark night and why (when Grandma was a very tidy housekeeper) did her carpet desperately need to be vacuumed? I put the incident out of my mind until that Christmas when I opened my present from Grandma and found this apron that she had been making for me that night we dropped by for a visit. Jerelyn got one that year also, hers was blue!
Since Grandma and Pop-pop moved from Quarryville to retire in Ft. Myers, Florida when I was only seven, it wasn’t really until I was an adult that I began to appreciate Grandma for all that she was. Pop-pop died in Florida when I was 17 and Grandma continued to live Pop-pop’s dream of retiring in the sunny south for as long as she was able. The days were lonely and the nights were long without her beloved husband. Summers she would return to visit with the family in PA until she eventually came to live with her daughter Libby on a permanent basis. During the winters, she often had company—her sister-in-law Ann Rothrock spent months with her. Her niece, Anne Lucille also kept her company as well as various family members from PA who wanted an excuse to escape the snowy winters of the north. Grandma kept busy in her widowed years, with friends, “yard sailing,” reading, of course Scrabble playing and doing lots of handiwork. She seemed to always be trying some new craft—knitting pot scrubbies, making flag pins, bead angels, even necklaces made from strips of magazine.
She also spent a lot of time reading, which aided her in COUNTLESS games of Scrabble. Later in life, she couldn’t play Scrabble with her peers—it wasn’t even a challenge for her. Instead, at Garden Spot Day Center, she would play with the staff members! Even at her “ripe old age” Grandma was mentally sharp. Larry believes that she had a higher-than average intelligence level. At the nursing home where she lived for the last year of her life, she was the Spelling Bee Champion only a few months before her death.
She had a terrific memory and enjoyed reminiscing about days gone by, especially about some of her adventures in the mountains of Tennessee. She would talk about people like the Corvins and the Cunninghams and how Pop-pop’s first “convert” in his teaching ministry in TN was a little girl by the name of Dorothy Jean. And how “Brother Berk-hammer” had been involved in sharing God’s word with people on the mountain at the Tin-Can Church and Watson’s Chapel. It was a highlight of her later years in relationship to TN when she was able to return to that area for a visit in 1999. Miz Thelma Boynton still had an old sewing machine that Grandma had given to her when they left TN to return to PA and what joy when Miz Thelma gave it back!! It was the sewing machine on which Grandma’s mother; Hannah Jane (Watson) Jodon had learned to sew!
As an adult, I learned that Grandma had a very sad and painful childhood and life was not easy for the Jodon children; her sister Sarah and brother Marvin. Even in her married years, with all the moves and caring for her large family on a “faith-ministry” salary, times were tough. (She delivered her first born baby, Aunt Phyl, in a small confined attic containing only one window (?) on a hot July day—and with no medical intervention, no one told her she only had to push when the contractions came--she pushed the entire time she was in labor! She also delivered her third-born, my mother, Lois Jean, before the doctor even arrived at the house!) Some of her adult years were also seasoned with grief as her baby daughter, Deborah, died only hours after birth and her beloved son Johnny was tragically killed in an automobile accident at age 17. Her eyes would always fill with tears when anyone mentioned his name.
Even though throughout her years, she had learned to “do without” and not complain, Grandma did love the finer things in life as well. She surrounded herself with beauty—antiques, flowers (lilacs were her favorite—how fitting they bloom around her birthday each year), jewelry, poetry, (She could perfectly quote poetry that she had learned as a child.) and music (she told me that often times at night when sleep eluded her, she would sing hymns—and sing through the alphabet, each song titled accordingly to fit each alphabet letter.) In those waking hours in the dark of night, I am sure she prayed, too. Most likely, she prayed for me. I will miss those prayers. She was a great prayer warrior. She has told several of her children that she prayed for each one of her children by name, every day.
Grandma had a great sense of humor. She was pleasant, not easily ruffled and easy-going. She didn’t let life get her down. She loved to laugh and retell something cute that one of her grands had said or done. (Like the time that my son TJ, at the tender age of 3, wondered aloud why Grandma Bur-timer was wearing that plastic grocery bag on her head when she came to our house in the rain, her hair protected by a plastic tie-under-the chin covering. Isn’t it called a rain hat and not a grocery bag?!) Once, when leaving after a visit, she laughed heartily at my little son impulsively hugging her and calling out his good-bye, “I love you, sweep-heart!”
Grandma was literally a wealth of knowledge. Her many and varied life experiences would have rightly permitted her to express her opinion on how something that one of us tried could be done better or more efficiently, but she kept those negative comments out of the conversation. One time when I brought yellow delicious apples for her to help me make applesauce, she said, “Oh, I’ve never made applesauce with yellow delicious apples before.” Which was her way of saying to me—yellow delicious apples were not a good choice for making sauce! I knew that I could always call her to ask how to remove a stain from some article of clothing or for advice on child rearing (she had raised her own, of course, and had cared for some of the grandchildren as well, helping Melissa, in particular, to potty-train). Grandma never forced her opinion. “It’ll all come out in the wash,” she would say, not to brush me off or make light of my catastrophe, but to help me get perspective.
I also learned as an adult to realize how much she loved Pop-pop and was still in love with him long after he had gone to heaven. Even death could not sever their lifetime of love. She sacrificed and supported him so that he could do “God’s work.” Often times, they would have church together, just the two of them. And of course, anyone else that was visiting would be welcome to join. Grandma would wear a covering (a doily of some kind that she had stitched) and Pop-pop would “preach” what he had studied that week as the Lord had guided him. And they would sing, Grandma harmonizing with her quiet alto vibrato voice. And of course, at the close of the “service” they would share in communion with the Lord’s Supper. Looking back now—as I begin to comprehend true love—I believe a part of her died when he did. But she had to go on living. That’s why she stayed in Florida so long, because he would have wanted her to. She adored him and he doted on her. I can just hear her now, trying to get his attention because he was hard of hearing: “Woo-hoo-Millard!!” Now that Pop-pop can hear perfectly in his new glorified body, I wonder if she might have said it anyway, just for “old times sake.” J I can’t even imagine the joy at their reunion and the sheer joy and rapture that they are finally together for all eternity, but most importantly with Jesus--praising the Savior all the daylong. Because as a young woman, she trusted in Jesus as her Savior from sin, she believed God’s Word and its promises, now her faith has become sight. Hallelujah!
This is my little-girl Grandma at age 3 (1917). Grandma told that when a traveling photographer came to take her picture, she wouldn't hold still, so he gave her his pocket knife to keep her content. She's holding the pocket knife in her hand!
For some reason, I seem to miss her more in the fall of the year. Recently I thought aloud that I wished I could call her and ask her advice on a recipe. This is us in 1999 when she showed me how to can peaches and we made applesauce in my aunt's inviting farmhouse kitchen.
Grandma's dear friend, Marie Detwiler, her spunky kindred spirit even when miles kept them apart, is now free from the pain of this earth as her earthly mind and body are no longer ensnared by the monster of dementia. Marie passed from this life to heaven's glory on August 20, 2011. I was doing housework recently when it dawned on me what a joyous time they must all be having together with Jesus, the two couples: Millard and Iva, Julius and Marie finally reunited! And I bet they are singing! How they loved to sing the old hymns! I can remember being at Aunt Marie's house on Peach Lane for one Christmas gathering in particular when many were gathered around the piano singing (both Detwilers and Berkheimers had large families with lots of children)!
I overheard my children singing upstairs today as they did their Saturday chores,
"I'm so glad I'm a part of the family of God,
for I'm washed in the fountain,
cleansed by his blood,
joint heirs with Jesus
as we travel this sod,
for I'm part of the family,
the family of God."
This is the song sung by Peter's grandpop after each prayer at every extended family gathering. Grandpop would be proud, kiddos! Peter's grandparents, Harry and Thelma Johnson, both died in 2009 also. My husband and I had 3 living grandparents when we married and we lost all three within six months. Oh, how we miss them!
A rare photo when all three of these precious saints were together with us at church!! (circa 2001):
We got word this week of the death of my dad's first cousin, James Earl Ferguson.
He died a decorated military hero (for his acts of courage and bravery in Korea and Vietnam) on September 12, 2011. Read his obituary here. http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/fayettevilleobserver/obituary.aspx?n=James-Ferguson&pid=153661402
Dad always spoke of Jamey with the utmost respect. Even though the Martin Ferguson's lived on the other mountain growing up, the Ferguson blood that flowed in their veins united the brothers (Roy Lee, James Earl, Guy Allen and Donald) {along with sisters Ann Marie and Claudette} to their cousins Joe, John, Mitch, Marshall and Virgil (and sisters, Luella, Viola, Berta and Cora).
James Earl and Dad worked together in Cleveland and I recall Dad telling with great laughter the time he and Jamey went together to visit Miss Nell's husband, Frank Ferguson in the hospital!
It is with some sadness that I type this post, but grateful to have been a part of the lives of these wonderful people! And grateful, too, for the fond and cherished memories as we celebrate their lives, still living on.
Friday, July 8, 2011
July 7
Genesis 2:24 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.
"...to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part..."
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Torn
I think I know how Dad must have felt. Each car-driven mile signified the end of a family reunion visit. Every mile north closer to the reality that he must return to responsibility, to this life he'd carved out for himself, his wife, his children; seeking something more than those rocky, rugged mountains could offer. Yet torn. Aching inside knowing that part of him would always remain in those mountains. His roots. His history. His precious family. He must have always wondered when he might return... Under what circumstances? Crisis? Joy? Another reunion? With funeral clothes packed away in the suitcase?
I felt it, too. Every mile tearing at my heart as we drove further away from my loved ones, cherishing the newly-created memories in my mind, and holding tight to the old ones.
I felt it, too. Every mile tearing at my heart as we drove further away from my loved ones, cherishing the newly-created memories in my mind, and holding tight to the old ones.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
From under the red maple tree
I stormed out of the house, still full of people, well-aware that my angry outburst had made others uncomfortable. Why did I seem so edgy? Couldn't I just keep quiet and endure the irritations? It was family after all.
I moved quickly at first, down the two front steps, slowing my steps down the walk. Thankful for the light, misty rain that had begun--it seemed to soothe my weary soul-- I drew in a slow, deep breath, looking straight ahead, to gain some composure.
Something caught my eye to the left. Not something I soon realized, someONE. It was Dad, standing quietly under the branches of the red maple tree, waiting for me to notice him! He came toward me as I stepped off the walk into the grass.
"Dad!" I exclaimed in disbelief, "What are you doing here?!? I can't believe you are here!"
He was wearing his old red flannel shirt, grey pants and the black tie-up shoes that he never bothered to tie or untie as he stepped into them, usually sockless! It was so good to see him! His day-old whiskered face was full, his blues eyes clear, the look about him healthy and well.
"I'm so glad you are here! Dad, I miss you so much!!" I told him.
"I know you do," he spoke clearly with a strong voice, "I miss you, too. It's almost more than I can stand, I miss you so much."
"Can I hug you?" I asked him.
"Well, you can't get too close....listen to me, Kimby," he knew about me yelling in the house, I just knew it. I was disappointed with myself for letting him down. "You've got to be kind to people. This is not all there is." As I looked at him, I knew. He knew all that had happened to him, about his ordeal the past few years; he was somehow strangely and yet fully aware of his illness. The look in his eye said more to me than his words. It matters how we treat people, even those who cannot respond or even love us back. This is NOT all there is, it matters for a lifetime--and beyond. I got it, I understood.
Somehow I knew he would be leaving soon.
I wanted to hug him so badly. He maybe wasn't supposed to, but he did anyway. He reached for me with one strong arm to pull me close. It was wonderful. I lingered, knowing that soon others from the house would come searching for me, maybe even now watching from the window seeing me hug someone that only existed in my mind's eye. He only hugged me with one arm because in the other--why hadn't I noticed it before?--he was holding a half-eaten open-faced toasted tomato sandwich.
I laughed. "Dad, is this what you eat in heaven?"
He chuckled, too, "You should see it all, we can eat whatever we want."
This experience I had, whether dreamt or imagined, was so real to me. My husband gently woke me from my sobbing. Bittersweet. Sad because I miss him so; wonderful because he was healthy! And his message to me (was it truly from him?) so powerful, so true. I cannot see from this vantage point how it all these pieces fit together. But what is up to me is how I react, how I respond to what happens to me, and how I treat those around me with love and grace.
I moved quickly at first, down the two front steps, slowing my steps down the walk. Thankful for the light, misty rain that had begun--it seemed to soothe my weary soul-- I drew in a slow, deep breath, looking straight ahead, to gain some composure.
Something caught my eye to the left. Not something I soon realized, someONE. It was Dad, standing quietly under the branches of the red maple tree, waiting for me to notice him! He came toward me as I stepped off the walk into the grass.
"Dad!" I exclaimed in disbelief, "What are you doing here?!? I can't believe you are here!"
He was wearing his old red flannel shirt, grey pants and the black tie-up shoes that he never bothered to tie or untie as he stepped into them, usually sockless! It was so good to see him! His day-old whiskered face was full, his blues eyes clear, the look about him healthy and well.
"I'm so glad you are here! Dad, I miss you so much!!" I told him.
"I know you do," he spoke clearly with a strong voice, "I miss you, too. It's almost more than I can stand, I miss you so much."
"Can I hug you?" I asked him.
"Well, you can't get too close....listen to me, Kimby," he knew about me yelling in the house, I just knew it. I was disappointed with myself for letting him down. "You've got to be kind to people. This is not all there is." As I looked at him, I knew. He knew all that had happened to him, about his ordeal the past few years; he was somehow strangely and yet fully aware of his illness. The look in his eye said more to me than his words. It matters how we treat people, even those who cannot respond or even love us back. This is NOT all there is, it matters for a lifetime--and beyond. I got it, I understood.
Somehow I knew he would be leaving soon.
I wanted to hug him so badly. He maybe wasn't supposed to, but he did anyway. He reached for me with one strong arm to pull me close. It was wonderful. I lingered, knowing that soon others from the house would come searching for me, maybe even now watching from the window seeing me hug someone that only existed in my mind's eye. He only hugged me with one arm because in the other--why hadn't I noticed it before?--he was holding a half-eaten open-faced toasted tomato sandwich.
I laughed. "Dad, is this what you eat in heaven?"
He chuckled, too, "You should see it all, we can eat whatever we want."
This experience I had, whether dreamt or imagined, was so real to me. My husband gently woke me from my sobbing. Bittersweet. Sad because I miss him so; wonderful because he was healthy! And his message to me (was it truly from him?) so powerful, so true. I cannot see from this vantage point how it all these pieces fit together. But what is up to me is how I react, how I respond to what happens to me, and how I treat those around me with love and grace.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Mother's Day Tribute
Sunday was Mother's Day and on the church platform, we represented three generations, my two girls, myself and my two "mothers" (Mom and Mom-in-law).
This is what I shared:
"I'm so thankful for a godly mother and mother-in-law. I appreciate many things about my mother. It hasn't been the easiest to have me for a daughter! She is probably THE most patient person I know!! I have come to that realization now that I have a teenage daughter of my own! She would send me out the house on school mornings with a hug and a prayer for me to "live in the sunshine of God's love." In fact, just this week, one of our children mentioned how Grammy prays for us all every day. "Be sweet, be kind, be loving"--my mother's mantra that I now hear echoing back in my own voice. In recent years, I have appreciated how my mom has been an unbelievable pillar of strength for me as we journey together through my dad's illness. I love you, Mom!
(Mom & me in 1977!!!)
As for my mother-in-law, she is much more to me than just the woman who gave life to my beloved: she is my friend. We probably get along better than any in-law realtionship ever should! One of the many things I appreciate about my mother-in-law is her joyful, adventurous spirit. Yesterday, for example, she and I played tennis at the park, just the two of us. She was whistling while she served the ball, even though I was beating her! Honestly, I can never remember her getting angry. I don't think she has ever said an unkind word to me. "Amen! God attitude"--common phrases from her! She has taught me by example to persevere with a joyful, positive attitude despite challenges, showing that she believes God is in control. Thank you, Nancy!"
A mechanical lift
Something about the word "mechanical" sounds so sterile, so unfriendly, so non-human. Word came that now a mechanical lift must be used to transfer Dad from the bed to wheelchair. He does nothing to assist anymore. I guess I have to be thankful that he's not completely bed-ridden yet and that attempts are being made to do the best for him, whether he cooperates or not.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
"I'd forgotten about that."
I asked Mom if she missed her mother. She went on to talk a little about Grandma. Dad, listening but not always able to respond, wondered who we were talking about. When Mom got really close to his face to say gently, "My mother passed away; did you know that?" He silently looked at her, and then, clearly and quickly, (and surprising all of us) he said, "I'd forgotten about that."
Breath Of Life (from Our Daily Bread)
April 14, 2011 — by Cindy Hess Kasper (from Our Daily Bread)
In his book Life After Heart Surgery, David Burke recalls his close brush with death. Lying in his hospital bed after a second open-heart surgery, he found himself in incredible pain, unable to draw a full breath. Feeling that he was slipping toward eternity, he prayed one last time, trusting God and thanking Him for forgiveness of his sin.
David was thinking about seeing his dad, who had died several years earlier, when his nurse asked how he was feeling. He replied, “I’m okay now,” explaining he was ready to go to heaven and meet God. “Not on my shift, buddy!” she said. Soon the doctors were opening his chest again and removing two liters of fluid. That done, David began to recover.
It’s not unusual for any of us to ponder what it will be like when we face our final moments on earth. But those who “die in the Lord” have the certainty that they are “blessed” (Rev. 14:13) and that their death is “precious in the sight of the Lord” (Ps. 116:15).
God fashioned our days even before we existed (Ps. 139:16), and we exist now only because “the breath of the Almighty gives [us] life” (Job 33:4). Though we don’t know how many breaths we have left—we can rest in the knowledge that He does.
God holds our future in His hands
And gives us every breath;
Just knowing that He’s by our side
Allays our fear of death. —Sper
From our first breath to our last, we are in God’s care.
In his book Life After Heart Surgery, David Burke recalls his close brush with death. Lying in his hospital bed after a second open-heart surgery, he found himself in incredible pain, unable to draw a full breath. Feeling that he was slipping toward eternity, he prayed one last time, trusting God and thanking Him for forgiveness of his sin.
David was thinking about seeing his dad, who had died several years earlier, when his nurse asked how he was feeling. He replied, “I’m okay now,” explaining he was ready to go to heaven and meet God. “Not on my shift, buddy!” she said. Soon the doctors were opening his chest again and removing two liters of fluid. That done, David began to recover.
It’s not unusual for any of us to ponder what it will be like when we face our final moments on earth. But those who “die in the Lord” have the certainty that they are “blessed” (Rev. 14:13) and that their death is “precious in the sight of the Lord” (Ps. 116:15).
God fashioned our days even before we existed (Ps. 139:16), and we exist now only because “the breath of the Almighty gives [us] life” (Job 33:4). Though we don’t know how many breaths we have left—we can rest in the knowledge that He does.
God holds our future in His hands
And gives us every breath;
Just knowing that He’s by our side
Allays our fear of death. —Sper
From our first breath to our last, we are in God’s care.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Illness for us
We are fighting colds again in our house. All this coughing, sneezing, and nose-blowing will prevent me from going to see Dad once again. It's what's best for him.
The roles are reversed. His job was to protect me all those years and now I have to protect him.
The roles are reversed. His job was to protect me all those years and now I have to protect him.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Cora Ethel (Ferguson) Collins
Today we bury my Aunt Cora.
~Cora Ethel (Ferguson) Collins~
The flight leaves in 30 minutes and I am not on the plane. My only chance to bid my last respects to my Aunt Cora and I missed it. When we got word of the final arrangements, there was not enough time to drive and this early A.M. flight would have been the only option, but it’s into Atlanta (3 hours away, says Uncle Virgil) and there’s too many variables. What if I were to miss the short service? It’s too bad that I am 800 miles away.
I’ve cried bitter tears at not being able to be there. After all, if Aunt Vi can make it, what’s my excuse?! The money I would have spent on the travel arrangements is “put to better use” if you will on Cora’s final arrangements anyway.
Sadness envelops me in these last 36 hours. How on earth did things end up this way? As I stare at her smiling face in the photos, I know there’s more to the story.
There’s some photos of happiness—Barry’s high school graduation: my parent’s small house filled with family from near and far. Ray and Robert, Cora, Elana, Luella and Dock, Lynn, Vi, Tim and Doug. I heard the story. So many came to show support; makeshift beds were everywhere—some on the couches, on the floor, in the attic even. For several days the little white house with the green shutters was overflowing with laughter, good times and love. It’s what this family does. They show up.
Fast forward to October, 1993. My near-fatal car accident. The family waited in the blur of days for any news of my improvement. Aunt Cora showed up. She couldn’t “do” anything, but pray and love on her little brother and his family in the countless hours of pain. But she was there. She gave me an angel that I still put on my Christmas tree every year to remember her love and care.
She flew across the country to California to be with my cousin, Susan, when her daughter Sarah was born. Susan’s mother had passed on many years before, so again, Aunt Cora stepped up and she was there.
I’m not sure when we started calling each other “Skinny Minnie.” Aunt Cora was always a little bit of a thing, just like her mother. Some years, after my babies were born, I wasn’t such a skinny Minnie and she told me as much! The family reunion pictures show that some years, she was skinnier than others.
I remember letters written to me, even after I was married, “If you ever need anything, let us know.” (Uncle Bobby had a great way of talking to my husband. I can just hear him now, “Pay-ter, now listen here,” in his southern drawl.)
Aunt Cora had a mind of her own. She always did. She had to. In the early years, it was all about survival. Thirteen children were born to her parents. She was part of the “second family”—Mitchell, Cora, Marshall and Virgil. “Cora had a rough life,” my dad would always say. And she did. No doubt about it. She married at 14 and gave birth at 15. My dad loved her so, they were close, even through the sibling spats—like the time she pushed him back wards over the chicken coop and he chased after her like lightning. (Never did know what happened when he caught up to her!) So it was a given that “Little Joe” was Dad’s special pal. Dad would fondly remember the time when a balloon Little Joe was playing with had popped. He carried it to Dad, handed it to him and said, “Machas fic it.” (Marshall fix it.) What a terrible night, Larry recalls, to receive a phone call at 2 a.m. and hear Dad keep repeating the words, “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Little Joe was dead. At the tender age of 16. Shot to death by a man, later determined to be insane. Little Joe and a friend were camping in the woods, apparently a little too close to his property.
Such heartache for the Ferguson Family. Not the first tragedy and certainly not the last. Such sadness for Aunt Cora. How could a mother go on? But she did. She had two adopted sons to care for. Ray and Robert were both still in diapers. She poured her life into them. I have fond memories of the family reunion softball games: Bob’s Bombers and Ray’s Raiders! (Larry always played on Ray’s team!) 2pm on the softball diamond across the field from the pavilion—intense competition! Naturally, it’s the Ferguson way, after all!
Aunt Cora, like a true Ferguson, always had an opinion and you didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. Even in later years (I believe she did mellow a bit), I remember her yelling out at the reunion. Often times it was at one of her brothers—most often her youngest one, when he got too long-winded with the Family News before the meal. “Get on with it, Virgil, we’re hungry!!” And who could forget the constant banter between her and Uncle Bobby? “Shut up” was a common phrase between the two of them!
Underneath all that “Ferguson Fire,” she really did have a heart of gold. She cared about the outcast, the overlooked, the ones nobody gave a second glance. Aunt Cora even loved cats. Her house was overrun sometimes, but it was just another way of her showing love for life’s “strays.” In the end, some would say that very thing came back to bite her. She was swindled out of her house, her money, her earthly possessions. There’s nothing left now even for a proper funeral. That’s what makes my heart ache. There will be too few gathered around the graveside today to bid farewell, to honor this sister, mother, aunt, cousin, friend. My dad would be there, if he could. She was his “Apple Core,” after all.
But I thank God that this is not all there is. This is not the end. I firmly believe that Aunt Cora’s heart was in the right place when she gave away her belongings. Maybe she wasn’t entirely aware of what she was doing, or at least the ramifications of what it meant to put her signature on that line. But she gave her entire life, loving the unlovely and the helpless. It came naturally to her; it’s just what she did. That ought to count for something. In our ideals, it shouldn’t have ended like this, but I’m not writing the book. Sometimes God reminds me to put down the pen. The final chapter is not yet written.
PHOTO EDIT: *photo taken July 2011*
Some of the lyrics to my favorite song: (Your Hands, by J.J. Heller)
When You walked upon the Earth,
You healed the broken, lost and hurt
I know You hate to see me cry
One day You will set all things right
ONE DAY YOU WILL SET ALL THINGS RIGHT
~Cora Ethel (Ferguson) Collins~
The flight leaves in 30 minutes and I am not on the plane. My only chance to bid my last respects to my Aunt Cora and I missed it. When we got word of the final arrangements, there was not enough time to drive and this early A.M. flight would have been the only option, but it’s into Atlanta (3 hours away, says Uncle Virgil) and there’s too many variables. What if I were to miss the short service? It’s too bad that I am 800 miles away.
I’ve cried bitter tears at not being able to be there. After all, if Aunt Vi can make it, what’s my excuse?! The money I would have spent on the travel arrangements is “put to better use” if you will on Cora’s final arrangements anyway.
Sadness envelops me in these last 36 hours. How on earth did things end up this way? As I stare at her smiling face in the photos, I know there’s more to the story.
There’s some photos of happiness—Barry’s high school graduation: my parent’s small house filled with family from near and far. Ray and Robert, Cora, Elana, Luella and Dock, Lynn, Vi, Tim and Doug. I heard the story. So many came to show support; makeshift beds were everywhere—some on the couches, on the floor, in the attic even. For several days the little white house with the green shutters was overflowing with laughter, good times and love. It’s what this family does. They show up.
Fast forward to October, 1993. My near-fatal car accident. The family waited in the blur of days for any news of my improvement. Aunt Cora showed up. She couldn’t “do” anything, but pray and love on her little brother and his family in the countless hours of pain. But she was there. She gave me an angel that I still put on my Christmas tree every year to remember her love and care.
She flew across the country to California to be with my cousin, Susan, when her daughter Sarah was born. Susan’s mother had passed on many years before, so again, Aunt Cora stepped up and she was there.
I’m not sure when we started calling each other “Skinny Minnie.” Aunt Cora was always a little bit of a thing, just like her mother. Some years, after my babies were born, I wasn’t such a skinny Minnie and she told me as much! The family reunion pictures show that some years, she was skinnier than others.
I remember letters written to me, even after I was married, “If you ever need anything, let us know.” (Uncle Bobby had a great way of talking to my husband. I can just hear him now, “Pay-ter, now listen here,” in his southern drawl.)
Aunt Cora had a mind of her own. She always did. She had to. In the early years, it was all about survival. Thirteen children were born to her parents. She was part of the “second family”—Mitchell, Cora, Marshall and Virgil. “Cora had a rough life,” my dad would always say. And she did. No doubt about it. She married at 14 and gave birth at 15. My dad loved her so, they were close, even through the sibling spats—like the time she pushed him back wards over the chicken coop and he chased after her like lightning. (Never did know what happened when he caught up to her!) So it was a given that “Little Joe” was Dad’s special pal. Dad would fondly remember the time when a balloon Little Joe was playing with had popped. He carried it to Dad, handed it to him and said, “Machas fic it.” (Marshall fix it.) What a terrible night, Larry recalls, to receive a phone call at 2 a.m. and hear Dad keep repeating the words, “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Little Joe was dead. At the tender age of 16. Shot to death by a man, later determined to be insane. Little Joe and a friend were camping in the woods, apparently a little too close to his property.
Such heartache for the Ferguson Family. Not the first tragedy and certainly not the last. Such sadness for Aunt Cora. How could a mother go on? But she did. She had two adopted sons to care for. Ray and Robert were both still in diapers. She poured her life into them. I have fond memories of the family reunion softball games: Bob’s Bombers and Ray’s Raiders! (Larry always played on Ray’s team!) 2pm on the softball diamond across the field from the pavilion—intense competition! Naturally, it’s the Ferguson way, after all!
Aunt Cora, like a true Ferguson, always had an opinion and you didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. Even in later years (I believe she did mellow a bit), I remember her yelling out at the reunion. Often times it was at one of her brothers—most often her youngest one, when he got too long-winded with the Family News before the meal. “Get on with it, Virgil, we’re hungry!!” And who could forget the constant banter between her and Uncle Bobby? “Shut up” was a common phrase between the two of them!
Underneath all that “Ferguson Fire,” she really did have a heart of gold. She cared about the outcast, the overlooked, the ones nobody gave a second glance. Aunt Cora even loved cats. Her house was overrun sometimes, but it was just another way of her showing love for life’s “strays.” In the end, some would say that very thing came back to bite her. She was swindled out of her house, her money, her earthly possessions. There’s nothing left now even for a proper funeral. That’s what makes my heart ache. There will be too few gathered around the graveside today to bid farewell, to honor this sister, mother, aunt, cousin, friend. My dad would be there, if he could. She was his “Apple Core,” after all.
But I thank God that this is not all there is. This is not the end. I firmly believe that Aunt Cora’s heart was in the right place when she gave away her belongings. Maybe she wasn’t entirely aware of what she was doing, or at least the ramifications of what it meant to put her signature on that line. But she gave her entire life, loving the unlovely and the helpless. It came naturally to her; it’s just what she did. That ought to count for something. In our ideals, it shouldn’t have ended like this, but I’m not writing the book. Sometimes God reminds me to put down the pen. The final chapter is not yet written.
PHOTO EDIT: *photo taken July 2011*
Some of the lyrics to my favorite song: (Your Hands, by J.J. Heller)
When You walked upon the Earth,
You healed the broken, lost and hurt
I know You hate to see me cry
One day You will set all things right
ONE DAY YOU WILL SET ALL THINGS RIGHT
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Lone Ranger
He is "Student of the Week" in his classroom. As his pencil marks the page in straight, steady lines, head bent carefully over his work, he fills in his Favorites. I watch as the blank beside TV Show is completed "The Lone Ranger." His dark expressive eyes search for mine.
"Do you remember...?" he begins. I know what he will say.
"...when I used to spend the night at Grammy and Poppy's and Grammy would make us bacon and eggs for breakfast and Poppy and I would watch the Lone Ranger in the morning?" I am silent. Those days seem a lifetime ago.
His chin quivers ever so slightly as he speaks. That emotion would almost be hidden from me if I were not examining his sweet face. He is watching for MY response.
Keep it together, I whisper inside, He needs you to be strong.
"Oh, son, what wonderful memories; such happy times to be thankful for!"
We fall silent. Just the two of us, sitting at the table, with the morning sun streaming through the window. Each lost in thought.
In his world, there's much meaning behind just those three simple words written out for his classmates to read. It's more than just black and white images across the screen. More than a horse named Silver. It's Security. Happiness. Love.
"Do you remember...?" he begins. I know what he will say.
"...when I used to spend the night at Grammy and Poppy's and Grammy would make us bacon and eggs for breakfast and Poppy and I would watch the Lone Ranger in the morning?" I am silent. Those days seem a lifetime ago.
His chin quivers ever so slightly as he speaks. That emotion would almost be hidden from me if I were not examining his sweet face. He is watching for MY response.
Keep it together, I whisper inside, He needs you to be strong.
"Oh, son, what wonderful memories; such happy times to be thankful for!"
We fall silent. Just the two of us, sitting at the table, with the morning sun streaming through the window. Each lost in thought.
In his world, there's much meaning behind just those three simple words written out for his classmates to read. It's more than just black and white images across the screen. More than a horse named Silver. It's Security. Happiness. Love.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Late-winter snow
Our recent late-winter snow storm caused me to remember another late-winter snow storm. That year, Mom and I went to Florida to visit her parents and we left Dad at home. A blizzard hit while we were away and power was out for days. Somehow Dad did fine without us! I can't remember if he was able to get into work or not, but I vividly recall that he used the small kerosene heater for warmth and to heat and re-heat the pot of beans that mom had cooked and left for him to eat. At least he was well-fed that week, heating up that same pot of beans over and over on our little kerosene heater!
"I'm glad you're glad"
Dad hasn't been very chatty lately. He is watching, observing, but not so active or vocal. I was truly happy to see him up in his new wheelchair on Wednesday, looking very bright. And I told him so. "Dad, I'm so glad to see you!"
Finally the response...(I thought maybe it would be, "I'm glad to see you, too" or something along those lines)...all he said was, "Well, I'm glad that you're glad!"
Finally the response...(I thought maybe it would be, "I'm glad to see you, too" or something along those lines)...all he said was, "Well, I'm glad that you're glad!"
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Why Not Now? (from Our Daily Bread)
January 11, 2011 — by David H. Roper (from Our Daily Bread)
I have a dear friend who served as a missionary in Suriname for many years, but in his final years he was stricken with an illness that paralyzed him. At times he wondered why God allowed him to linger. He longed to depart and to be with his Lord.
Perhaps life is very hard for you or a loved one, and you are wondering why God has allowed you or your loved one to linger. When Jesus said He was going to heaven, Peter asked, “Lord, why can I not follow You now?” (John 13:37). You, like Peter, may wonder why entry into heaven has been postponed: “Why not now?”
God has a wise and loving purpose in leaving us behind. There is work to be done in us that can only be accomplished here on earth. Our afflictions, which are for the moment, are working for us “a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory” (2 Cor. 4:17). And there is work to be done for others—if only to love and to pray. Our presence may also be for the purpose of giving others an opportunity to learn love and compassion.
So, though you may desire release for yourself or a loved one, to live on in the flesh can mean fruitfulness (Phil. 1:21). And there is comfort in waiting: Though heaven may be delayed, God has His reasons. No doubt about it!
Not so in haste, my heart!
Have faith in God, and wait;
Although He seems to linger long
He never comes too late. —Torrey
Our greatest comfort is to know that God is in control.
I have a dear friend who served as a missionary in Suriname for many years, but in his final years he was stricken with an illness that paralyzed him. At times he wondered why God allowed him to linger. He longed to depart and to be with his Lord.
Perhaps life is very hard for you or a loved one, and you are wondering why God has allowed you or your loved one to linger. When Jesus said He was going to heaven, Peter asked, “Lord, why can I not follow You now?” (John 13:37). You, like Peter, may wonder why entry into heaven has been postponed: “Why not now?”
God has a wise and loving purpose in leaving us behind. There is work to be done in us that can only be accomplished here on earth. Our afflictions, which are for the moment, are working for us “a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory” (2 Cor. 4:17). And there is work to be done for others—if only to love and to pray. Our presence may also be for the purpose of giving others an opportunity to learn love and compassion.
So, though you may desire release for yourself or a loved one, to live on in the flesh can mean fruitfulness (Phil. 1:21). And there is comfort in waiting: Though heaven may be delayed, God has His reasons. No doubt about it!
Not so in haste, my heart!
Have faith in God, and wait;
Although He seems to linger long
He never comes too late. —Torrey
Our greatest comfort is to know that God is in control.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Dad's humor
Dad wasn't real talkative today, but I could still read into some of his responses and body language that he might be feeling ornery!
From across the room, Mom said, "I love you, honey."
"I love you, too", was the clear reply.
I was sitting on the bed in his direct gaze, so I said, "What about me?"
A slight shake of the head.
"Do you love me?!" I asked again.
Just a look.
Stinker.
"Well, that's OK, Dad, I love you."
After a second he responded, "OK."
That twinkle in his eye made me laugh.
Emily and I were in the car, talking about some of Poppy's "behind-the-wheel" vocabulary--aimed at other drivers, and just traffic in general.
"Local yokels."
"Whadaya think this is, a racetrack down through here?"
And attempting to pull out from his driveway, "There wasn't anybody through here in 5 minutes but look what we got coming now, a herd of turtles."
And aimed at other drivers:
"Nut case."
"Fruitcake."
"Idiot."
Emily said she would hear the word "moron", but never knew what it meant!
And my personal favorite--aimed at the population increasing the traffic congestion: "They oughta throw a bomb under this place."
Back and forth, Emily and I recited Dad's "driving phrases" tonight and we were howling with laughter!
From across the room, Mom said, "I love you, honey."
"I love you, too", was the clear reply.
I was sitting on the bed in his direct gaze, so I said, "What about me?"
A slight shake of the head.
"Do you love me?!" I asked again.
Just a look.
Stinker.
"Well, that's OK, Dad, I love you."
After a second he responded, "OK."
That twinkle in his eye made me laugh.
Emily and I were in the car, talking about some of Poppy's "behind-the-wheel" vocabulary--aimed at other drivers, and just traffic in general.
"Local yokels."
"Whadaya think this is, a racetrack down through here?"
And attempting to pull out from his driveway, "There wasn't anybody through here in 5 minutes but look what we got coming now, a herd of turtles."
And aimed at other drivers:
"Nut case."
"Fruitcake."
"Idiot."
Emily said she would hear the word "moron", but never knew what it meant!
And my personal favorite--aimed at the population increasing the traffic congestion: "They oughta throw a bomb under this place."
Back and forth, Emily and I recited Dad's "driving phrases" tonight and we were howling with laughter!
Moving forward yet looking back
Ironic, isn’t it, at the beginning of a new year typically filled with fresh starts, excited anticipation, and bright tomorrows that looking back paints a prettier picture than what is in front of me.
January 4th came and went this week without me giving any thought to the significance of the day. (That’s a good thing, right?!) Two years. Two whole years have passed since my daddy went away. Although he was drifting away for a long time before that.
God has been so faithful. Dad is safe, warm and well-cared for. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas, it didn’t matter that the snow was falling thickly outside his window. He was comfortable and content tucked safely in his bed. He was able to smile and say, “Christmas Gift to you, too!” HA! He remembered! THAT was a Christmas gift to me!
My throat tightens at what lies ahead in the immediate future for my father, for us. Will Dad’s earthly journey come to a close this year? What will the end look like? What will it be like as he "crosses chilly Jordan"? Will I be able to withstand? My mind races with unanswerable questions. I know I am not the first one to wonder about these things. But my thoughts must not focus on me. The end for me (saying goodbye for now) is just the beginning for him! “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Dad used to tell me. True, it will; but, boy, is it going to get better for him! Heaven is just around the corner, Dad, and what joy unspeakable! Seeing his Lord and Savior face to face! Healing! Wholeness! Complete mind and body restored! My spirits lift at those thoughts!
We gathered around the out-dated projector, silent yet very much alive images danced on the wall. Dad fishing with the boys and his brother-in-law, Joel. Dad with Virg and Grace and Vi at Six Flags over Georgia. Dad throwing football with his sons in the autumn leaves. Dad & Uncle Willard husking sweet corn in the front yard. Dad holding me as a baby, the year we visited Virg and Grace in Florida. Dad shoveling the snow drifts across the front driveway. Dad and Sam, the dog. Dad diving into the water at Jim Burns’ pool with two small boys on his back. That’s the good stuff to remember. Watching Dad in the “good ol’ days”, walking very quickly across my living room wall (!), it was not lost on me that he had a lot of energy then; much more even than when I was growing up. But I do remember summer evenings when the days were long and the sun kissed the earth even past 9pm, Dad would spontaneously suggest a round of golf. Hawk Valley. Most times we could fit 18 holes in before dark. Occasionally Mom would try out her clubs on a hole or two, often rattled by Dad’s constant—and not always kind—“coaching.” “Keep your head down; you topped it!” But mostly she and I were just along for the ride. Literally. I would squeeze in between them on the cart, Dad sometimes would let me “give it some gas” with his foot hovering near the brake. I can still almost smell THE SMELLS. Golf course smells. Newly cut grass. The engine of the golf cart. The sweaty, dirty and faintly-like-leather smell of the golf club grip. Suds from the ball-washing “machine”. And then...there was the 9th green. Squinting into the sunset. The waning sunlight cast long shadows of the flag. The best part about the 9th green was that it was just across the cartpath from the clubhouse. The clubhouse—where there were vending machines. Vending machines that contained Cokes; Dr. Peppers; long, skinny, plastic packs of salted peanuts and Hershey bars with almonds. We would almost always begin “the back nine” with such treasures and I would be content to sit happily munching the snacks, smack dab in the middle of the cart’s bench seat until, oh say, at least the 12th hole!
One evening this week, the children were getting ready for bed. Out of the blue, my husband (he’d been looking at the sweet face of our son) said, “TJ, you are Poppy’s little man.” Dad would tell him that so often. And you know what, I was glad to hear the words, you ARE, not you WERE Poppy’s little man. TJ will never stop being that. Just like my father will never stop being. Even when his time on earth is over, he will live on—in eternity with Christ, yes, but in our hearts and minds because we have sweet memories from the past to carry us into the future.
January 4th came and went this week without me giving any thought to the significance of the day. (That’s a good thing, right?!) Two years. Two whole years have passed since my daddy went away. Although he was drifting away for a long time before that.
God has been so faithful. Dad is safe, warm and well-cared for. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas, it didn’t matter that the snow was falling thickly outside his window. He was comfortable and content tucked safely in his bed. He was able to smile and say, “Christmas Gift to you, too!” HA! He remembered! THAT was a Christmas gift to me!
My throat tightens at what lies ahead in the immediate future for my father, for us. Will Dad’s earthly journey come to a close this year? What will the end look like? What will it be like as he "crosses chilly Jordan"? Will I be able to withstand? My mind races with unanswerable questions. I know I am not the first one to wonder about these things. But my thoughts must not focus on me. The end for me (saying goodbye for now) is just the beginning for him! “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Dad used to tell me. True, it will; but, boy, is it going to get better for him! Heaven is just around the corner, Dad, and what joy unspeakable! Seeing his Lord and Savior face to face! Healing! Wholeness! Complete mind and body restored! My spirits lift at those thoughts!
We gathered around the out-dated projector, silent yet very much alive images danced on the wall. Dad fishing with the boys and his brother-in-law, Joel. Dad with Virg and Grace and Vi at Six Flags over Georgia. Dad throwing football with his sons in the autumn leaves. Dad & Uncle Willard husking sweet corn in the front yard. Dad holding me as a baby, the year we visited Virg and Grace in Florida. Dad shoveling the snow drifts across the front driveway. Dad and Sam, the dog. Dad diving into the water at Jim Burns’ pool with two small boys on his back. That’s the good stuff to remember. Watching Dad in the “good ol’ days”, walking very quickly across my living room wall (!), it was not lost on me that he had a lot of energy then; much more even than when I was growing up. But I do remember summer evenings when the days were long and the sun kissed the earth even past 9pm, Dad would spontaneously suggest a round of golf. Hawk Valley. Most times we could fit 18 holes in before dark. Occasionally Mom would try out her clubs on a hole or two, often rattled by Dad’s constant—and not always kind—“coaching.” “Keep your head down; you topped it!” But mostly she and I were just along for the ride. Literally. I would squeeze in between them on the cart, Dad sometimes would let me “give it some gas” with his foot hovering near the brake. I can still almost smell THE SMELLS. Golf course smells. Newly cut grass. The engine of the golf cart. The sweaty, dirty and faintly-like-leather smell of the golf club grip. Suds from the ball-washing “machine”. And then...there was the 9th green. Squinting into the sunset. The waning sunlight cast long shadows of the flag. The best part about the 9th green was that it was just across the cartpath from the clubhouse. The clubhouse—where there were vending machines. Vending machines that contained Cokes; Dr. Peppers; long, skinny, plastic packs of salted peanuts and Hershey bars with almonds. We would almost always begin “the back nine” with such treasures and I would be content to sit happily munching the snacks, smack dab in the middle of the cart’s bench seat until, oh say, at least the 12th hole!
One evening this week, the children were getting ready for bed. Out of the blue, my husband (he’d been looking at the sweet face of our son) said, “TJ, you are Poppy’s little man.” Dad would tell him that so often. And you know what, I was glad to hear the words, you ARE, not you WERE Poppy’s little man. TJ will never stop being that. Just like my father will never stop being. Even when his time on earth is over, he will live on—in eternity with Christ, yes, but in our hearts and minds because we have sweet memories from the past to carry us into the future.
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