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!"
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