Thursday, November 8, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Ready or not
The house is finally still. Snacks for the trip are waiting in the fridge, gas tank is filled, distractions for boredom that may set in during the long drive are tucked away in safe places, luggage is packed with the funeral clothes hidden inside. If it wasn't for that, I could almost look forward to the trek.
Everything is ready but me.
I haven't had time to collect my thoughts. It's all surreal. How could it be possible that when we drive down that long lane from the highway, pulling into the familiar and welcoming house full of memories that she will not be inside?
The house (that prior to the pavilion) where people always gathered in the yard on a summer's evening or in the Music Room where the younger set chose to congregate (or chase the younger cousins around pretending there were "were-wolves" outside, scaring them half to death) while the older ones might chat for hours (retelling the wild and every-time-retold-more-hilarious antics of some particularly rowdy boys of yesteryear) in the cozy little kitchen, flowered chairs and long-corded phone on the wall, fridge and cupboard always open, coffee always ready, table laden with cookies and goodies.
When she wasn't busy "fixing you something to eat" and music was on the agenda for the evening, occasionally she could be persuaded to join in at the microphone in her quiet but sure alto harmony, "Oh Beautiful Star of Bethlehem" rings in my ears, reminding me of the tender Tennessee Christmas I spent with my dear ones. (That was my one request during my recovery after the car accident that nearly claimed my life. And my dad kept that promise he made to me in the hospital that fall---that we'd go to Tennessee for Christmas!)
How could it be that she won't be there to greet us with her soft smile and warm hugs? Family meant everything to her. She loved her own and she'd often say of dear friends "I love them like their my own." Her mind sharp and clear, how will we be able to recall half as much family history as she saw in her lifetime?
I'm so thankful for the last times I saw her that I pulled up a stool beside her chair and listened intently as she relayed some of the same old familiar stories and some ones I'd never heard before. This last reunion time was a gift; we didn't expect her to be with us still and yet she was! Somehow I knew it would be the last. I'm so thankful she laughed and I'm so thankful for the words we whispered to each other at our parting that are too precious to share.
Maybe I'm not ready to face what these next days hold, but I do so with a full and thankful heart for the sweet memories. Are we ever ready to say goodbye? The stories, the tributes, the remembrances may trickle from my mind in the days to come, just the beginning of honoring all that she was, and all that she will continue to be---like none other---vibrant and full of life in our minds,
In the words of my brother, she never seemed to act her age but she has "stepped across time and entered into eternity and the arms of Jesus. You will be missed but I know you are now forever free and forever young but best of all you are with Jesus. Thank you, Jesus, for bringing her home gently." (Larry Ferguson)
Everything is ready but me.
I haven't had time to collect my thoughts. It's all surreal. How could it be possible that when we drive down that long lane from the highway, pulling into the familiar and welcoming house full of memories that she will not be inside?
The house (that prior to the pavilion) where people always gathered in the yard on a summer's evening or in the Music Room where the younger set chose to congregate (or chase the younger cousins around pretending there were "were-wolves" outside, scaring them half to death) while the older ones might chat for hours (retelling the wild and every-time-retold-more-hilarious antics of some particularly rowdy boys of yesteryear) in the cozy little kitchen, flowered chairs and long-corded phone on the wall, fridge and cupboard always open, coffee always ready, table laden with cookies and goodies.
When she wasn't busy "fixing you something to eat" and music was on the agenda for the evening, occasionally she could be persuaded to join in at the microphone in her quiet but sure alto harmony, "Oh Beautiful Star of Bethlehem" rings in my ears, reminding me of the tender Tennessee Christmas I spent with my dear ones. (That was my one request during my recovery after the car accident that nearly claimed my life. And my dad kept that promise he made to me in the hospital that fall---that we'd go to Tennessee for Christmas!)
How could it be that she won't be there to greet us with her soft smile and warm hugs? Family meant everything to her. She loved her own and she'd often say of dear friends "I love them like their my own." Her mind sharp and clear, how will we be able to recall half as much family history as she saw in her lifetime?
I'm so thankful for the last times I saw her that I pulled up a stool beside her chair and listened intently as she relayed some of the same old familiar stories and some ones I'd never heard before. This last reunion time was a gift; we didn't expect her to be with us still and yet she was! Somehow I knew it would be the last. I'm so thankful she laughed and I'm so thankful for the words we whispered to each other at our parting that are too precious to share.
Maybe I'm not ready to face what these next days hold, but I do so with a full and thankful heart for the sweet memories. Are we ever ready to say goodbye? The stories, the tributes, the remembrances may trickle from my mind in the days to come, just the beginning of honoring all that she was, and all that she will continue to be---like none other---vibrant and full of life in our minds,
In the words of my brother, she never seemed to act her age but she has "stepped across time and entered into eternity and the arms of Jesus. You will be missed but I know you are now forever free and forever young but best of all you are with Jesus. Thank you, Jesus, for bringing her home gently." (Larry Ferguson)
Monday, September 3, 2012
September 2, 2012
I stopped mid-sentence and left the conversation quickly. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? I nearly ran across the crowded lobby, not caring who I pushed out of the way. It seemed as if the multitude parted and the light was brighter right where he was standing, smiling right at me. Clad in the kelly-green polo with the little yellow alligator insignia, the shirt stretched tight over his healthy round belly (that shirt always was a size too small!). He wore glasses from a few years back and held a styrafoam coffee cup in his left hand where I knew his crooked index finger would be visible.
"What are you doing here?" I asked incredulously.
"I drove here from the nursing center." He spoke the words but it wasn't actually his voice somehow. There was a part of me that did want to hear his voice.
His answer didn't really matter to me, as I hung on his neck, for if I stopped to think about it, I knew what he said couldn't possibly be true. All that mattered was that he was here.
It was only a few seconds that he appeared in my dream, whole and healthy, but I am so thankful to have seen him that way. Hours later, I sat beside his chair, as he silently watched me and smiled twice at my children. I did want to hear his voice, but it was not to be on this visit. However, my sentiment remains the same, dream or reality---all that matters is that he is here.
"What are you doing here?" I asked incredulously.
"I drove here from the nursing center." He spoke the words but it wasn't actually his voice somehow. There was a part of me that did want to hear his voice.
His answer didn't really matter to me, as I hung on his neck, for if I stopped to think about it, I knew what he said couldn't possibly be true. All that mattered was that he was here.
It was only a few seconds that he appeared in my dream, whole and healthy, but I am so thankful to have seen him that way. Hours later, I sat beside his chair, as he silently watched me and smiled twice at my children. I did want to hear his voice, but it was not to be on this visit. However, my sentiment remains the same, dream or reality---all that matters is that he is here.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
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