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
Friday, July 27, 2012
June 12, 1914
The heat rose in waves from the ground. The stillness was stifling. Not even a warm breeze to blow the dusty, dry earth. For the farmer, the dust billowed around the plow, covering him from view in a cloud of parched earth.
She watched from the two-room house, squinting her eyes against the morning sun. All she could see was that distant cloud of dirt, tiny on the horizon. The time had come. Would he notice? They had an agreement: when she knew it was time, she would hang out the bed sheet from the window, he would see it from the field and go for help.
She did what she could to prepare, her body continually preparing itself. Set out the needed supplies. Pace the floor. Breathe. Pray. Surely help would come soon. Surely he would see the sign in the window beckoning him home. With sweat beads forming and trickling down her face, dampening her skin, her body racked with pain, reprieve would allow her to catch her breath for a minute or two until the next wave. Time was running short. The children (the oldest not yet three) now must be called inside and the door latched. She couldn't risk them being out of her watchful eye. Oh, where was the doctor? She lingered like this until her body and the child within could wait no longer. Alone with her two children, she languished to give life to another.
As daylight faded, she gazed at the peaceful face of her newborn daughter, thankful for what blessings she had received. With the coming twilight, cooling the air of the scorching day, the work day ended for the farmer and he turned toward home only then to realize "the sign" now gently blowing in the slight evening breeze. Fearful for what he might find inside those four walls, his pace quickened. The sounds of his young children greeted him as he approached. He entered the house out of breath to see not two children, but now three--the youngest just hours old in the arms of his healthy wife, weary yet happy.
Help had arrived for the young mother that day. Not in the form of another person, the doctor or her mother, but help from On High, giving her courage and strength from within. Strength she would need her entire life; for events, both tragic and joyous, that would shape the direction of an entire family for generations to come. Strength to face what each day brought. This day it was a glorious new life, her precious baby girl, Viola.
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