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It was a Saturday of catching up with home responsibilities.  The week had been a whirlwind of so many exciting things, but laundry was not one of them!  Monday I found out that my brother, Nelson, and his good wife, Rose, were coming to Delaware for a Breakfast for the women and wives of the Mark and Alene Yoder family.  I was so surprised and delighted.  It’s such an honor to have my brothers and their wives stay in our house.  My brothers genuinely love my husband, and I dearly love their wives, so it’s a win/win situation.  We had a lovely time, and I even got to win two games of Penny Domines (they keep reminding people that I was the score keeper, so, obviously . . . ) But I digress.

After Nelson and Rose pulled out on Wednesday morning, I found my phone and realized I had missed a call from my son, Lemuel.  Jessica had texted her mother, Lynn, and me the night before that she was having a serious flair, that they were treating it aggressively but that she was not responding, that they were trying to keep her out of the hospital and that they might need some help.  I had said that I would be available last week if they needed me, but that the last week of February was full of appointments and I could hardly get away then.  This phone call was in response to that offer.  Lem had left voice mail, and I looked at the transcript, then promptly listened to the message.  My heart caught as he asked if I really was available for another “day trip,” that he felt terrible asking, but—and then I heard his voice break but he plowed on after a hesitation and said something about the need, then apologized for getting emotional – and I knew immediately that I was going to Washington as soon as I could get off.

And I did.  I went in safety, had a splendid two days, Jessica started responding to the increase in medication and so on Friday evening I came home, again in safety, and crashed onto my beloved laZboy chair.  Shew!  It felt good to be home.  (Do any of you other Mamas of my generation wonder why there are no comfortable chairs in the homes of their adult children?  I mean, really???  It wouldn’t take me two weeks to get a chair that I could sit into and get out of without feeling like a spectacle of aging)!

And then it was Saturday. Certain Man had everything in order as far as housekeeping was concerned.  He had Flori come over and sweep the floor (it was obvious she had done more than just that) and things looked really good.  But there was an agitating amount of laundry to do, there was one lonely crust of bread in the bread basket, and I finally bestirred myself to get on with the tasks at hand.

The evening moved in, and the last of the laundry was folded, and the bread was out of the oven and the house smelled so good.  There is something about the smell of bread baking that makes me think about home, and My Sweet Mama, and how easy everything was back then for a little girl who loved jelly bread and milk.  I had a sudden memory of the old tin of King Syrup that was always in our cupboard.

I remember My Sweet Mama, buttering a slice of bread and putting King Syrup on it for me.  Oh, how good a fresh piece of homemade bread tasted with butter and King Syrup on it!

They still make King Syrup, only it comes in plastic bottles now.  I always have a bottle of it in my kitchen and use it in place of molasses in any recipe that calls for it, but particularly our family’s recipe of vanilla crumb pie.  I also put it on bread to eat with certain soups.  (This particular taste is not shared by Certain Man.  He spreads the strawberry jam to the edges of his bread and looks askance at my choice of spread).  But I stood there in my Saturday kitchen and thought about My Sweet Mama, and I sliced off a fresh slice of bread, buttered it up and slathered on the King Syrup.  I ate it, standing at the sink in my clean kitchen and the memories of what once was, but could never be again swirled around my head and heart, and the moment was bittersweet, but strangely comforting.

The week had been a contradiction on so many fronts, and I marvel again at how grief and joy run parallel tracks on this road of life. I’ve discovered that we do not choose the pain that enters our journeys, but in all of this, we can choose to see and acknowledge the joy.  It makes the difference between hope and despair for me. 

And sometimes a comforting slice of homemade bread with butter and King Syrup is helpful.

This, I know.

It is no secret to my family that I have absolutely no discernment when it comes to cars. Is it little and blue with a bit of a snub to the rear end?  “Hey, Look, Flori! Deborah’s car!!!” (Amused snicker.  “No, Grammy, that is NOT Beeba’s car!  It’s not even the same make!”)  Is it a white SUV?  “I think that must be Jesse and Christina’s car!” (followed by a furious wave that dies to a conventional Delaware “Howdy” upon seeing that the handsome black driver is neither of them).  Is that a red minivan?  It must be my sister, Sarah!  (I wonder what she is doing in Milford tod–? Oh, sorry.  Not her, after all)!

Now there have been several parking lot mix-ups when I’ve tried to get into the wrong silver minivan, and when I’ve traversed the parking lot looking for said vehicle, but usually I come out of it feeling foolish, but at least without witnesses.

Well.  This week I had some extra chicken soup and some canvas bags that I wanted to take in to Brandywine Counseling & Community Services Center, and decided that it would be as good a time as any to run it in on my way to Walmart yesterday morning.  I loaded up the silver chariot and checked my list and was off.  I pulled up to the center, parked, and surveyed the surroundings.  A woman came out of the front door, and stopped beside the large trash bins and rummaged through until she found something that she had obviously stashed there before going inside.  She came down the steps and sidled over to the van parked a parking space away and the guy in the front passenger’s seat rolled down the window an inch or two, and took the prize find—a perfectly good cigarette.  The two of them talked through the window a minute, then she went over and got into the driver’s seat.

Huh!  Well, I decided it was none of my nevermind, and I gathered my items, took them into the center, and conversed minimally with the ones in charge and then bid farewell, my spirit feeling that sort of lightness that I often feel when I find a place for some of the extra things in my fridge. I came carefully down the steps, and watched my feet as I came down the sidewalk so that I didn’t catch my toes on a crack and faceplant on this terribly windy morning.

We replaced the fob on our minivan a few months ago, and sometimes it doesn’t respond immediately to the urgent pushing on the unlock button, and it was really cold.  I started pushing the unlock button as I came up to the minivan, watching the button to see if it would pop up.  It wasn’t budging.  I proceeded to hold it up close to the door handle and pushed it again and again.

Suddenly I heard a tapping.  Insistent, almost frantic.  Coming from the window in front of me.  I raised my eyes from the lock button to see a surprised face looking at me from inside the van.  What in the world?  Believe me, a very surprised face looked back at the car occupants.  I very hurriedly said, “Oh, I’m so sorry!!!  Wrong car!!!” And was rewarded by a quizzical, silly smile.  Then I did some more hurrying — away from the side of the van, back around the corner to where my own van was sitting complacently exactly where I left it ten minutes earlier.

I took my red faced self into my van and looked across the one empty parking place to where the offending vehicle smugly sat, and wondered how I could make such an embarrassing mistake.

I want to make something clear. 

This was not a result of my lack of discernment when it comes to vehicles.  I hadn’t noticed when I parked there, but the vehicle next to mine was a Silver Town and Country Minivan, just like my own.  I’m not going to pretend it was in the same state of repair, but it was the same make and model and pretty much anyone could have made the same mistake. 

So there!

It was dark and cold as I backed our minivan out of the garage at 6:00 Friday morning.  I was headed to our DC family for the day, and the drive stretched ahead of me with two hours of solitude and the hope of some good music.

The moon hung full and bright in the western sky.  It was a comforting reminder that some things never change.  I reached for my car charger before turning on my music and realized that the two cords present were both for Daniel’s phone.  I know my phone well enough to know that it would not handle running the GPS as well as playing my playlist before going dead – likely in the muddled streets of Washington, DC, leaving me in need of rescue.  Oh, well.  I decided it was going to be okay.

There were some appropriate songs that I could sing to encourage me on my way, there was no one to hear me, and it was just me and Jesus in that car.  The miles rolled away, and in my rearview mirror the sun started to come up.  The stark contrast between the moon in the darkened sky ahead of me and the breaking morn in the sky behind me was beautiful, and the colors of the sunrise gave the promise of a clear day.

I could not have asked for better traveling conditions that morning.  The roads were clear, the traffic cooperative, and the sun was to my back.  I came to Lem and Jessica’s house and pulled into the open space from the alley behind their house.  I often come to DC loaded for a several day stay, but this was only for the day, so I could take it all in one trip, my trusty blue cooler on wheels trailing along behind me up the sidewalk to their house.

Stella met me at the door, wearing the Christmas pajamas her Auntie Chris had gotten for Yutzy Christmas.  Oh, my heart!  She has grown so much. She was incredibly happy, digging through a big bag of Valentine’s Day surprises from her Daddy and Mama. Our daughter in law, Jessica was there, finishing up her boring breakfast of the one of the few things her tummy is tolerating, oatmeal. Lem left shortly before I got there to do a presentation at a local school for parents and students.  Jessica was trying to get her food down, and then she was hoping to work as much as possible. 

Stella and I were looking forward to a great time together, and the day did not disappoint.  We played Fish, and she solidly trounced me four out of five games (I managed to tie her on the last one, but it did little to reassure me that I’m not coming down with some disease of magnitude in the dementia realms).  We did a simple craft in the afternoon and made some valentines for her family.  We ate the soup that Grammy brought and some of Grammy’s bread, and interspersed through the day were intervals of interaction with her beloved Daddy and Mama.  Out of 10, the day was a 10, and I was so grateful.

The evening got furhuddled and delayed because of a mixup in food delivery, and my intended 7:00 departure got pushed off until around 8:40, but I felt strangely at peace about everything. I have family members who cannot understand this, but I’ve lived long enough to decide that there are certain things that are out of my control and I might just as well not waste emotional energy on things I cannot control.  I believe that my times, and especially the interruptions and delays are under the control of My Heavenly Father and He said He will work things out for my good if I set my affections on His Kingdom, and trust Him with the outcomes. So even though I got off later than I had planned, the ride home was uneventful (except that I realized just before the Bay Bridge that I wasn’t going to make it home unless I stopped and got some gas) and I listened to a Bible reading program that I’ve been enjoying since the first of the year.  Once again, traffic was light, roads were clear and that moon?  Well, it was a “Ghostly Galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas . . .” (from The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyles), and I remembered that Daniel had said that it was to be stormy on Saturday.  But for the ride home, there was no rain, no tempest, just a pull towards a little farm called Shady Acres and the Man That I Love Best.

I pulled into the familiar driveway around 10:40, and came into the house, tugging my now empty cooler behind me.  The sight that greeted me first was a bouquet of red, pink and white carnations, sitting squarely in the middle of the counter! 

It was absolutely stunning and I caught my breath at its beauty. I was pretty sure that he was going to get me the traditional Valentines Day bouquet, but it got me to thinking about these 51+ years that we’ve been married.  It’s interesting to me how things change with the years, how love begins to be something intrinsically different that what brought us together all those years ago.  I’ve heard it said so often how in those early years there is youth and energy and passion and a hope for the future that drives so much of what we do.  And then in the middle years it’s “Love is more than feelings.  It’s fixing bikes and painting ceilings.” Now we no longer can even pretend that we are in the middle years. These two 71 year old people find that love is the quiet companionship of an evening at home in our chairs.  It’s getting a sub to share at home instead of looking for a fancy dinner out to celebrate. It’s trying to figure out how to deal with the bumps in the road that growing older has brought, and it’s knowing, without speaking a word when the other is in pain.  It’s wishing we could fix the things that are different and “wrong” that remind us of our mortality in ways we’ve never had to think about before. And it’s the wonderful feeling of being home safe and sound and together after one or the other is away.

I don’t know about your worlds, dear friends.  But there has been a significant amount of heartache and joy running straight parallel in our lives the last five years.  It’s easy to focus on the heartache, and I’m not suggesting we ignore it.  I am suggesting that it has been helpful to me to recount the blessings that we’ve been given, and to think on the things listed in Phillipians 4:8:  “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

In our perilous times, when we are drawn into much that is none of the above, could we as the followers of Jesus  seek to align our thinking with that sort of a list? I certainly want to try.

Also, I’ve never been a person that picks a word for the year, but as this year has progressed along, I have chosen a word that I want to live by.  That word is “Hope.”  It feels like a lot of us are mighty short on hope.  I cannot change the world, but I want to be a catalyst in my corner for good, and I need hope to do that.

May you be blessed in your world.

Annual Christmas Open House, 2016, for Daniel’s office. Our Love Bug was growing up. A precious time was had, and even though I was in slow motion the next day, it was still worth it!

(But I never would have made it without the help of Middle Daughter, Deborah Yutzy, Eldest Daughter, Christina Yutzy Bontrager, and Beloved Son-in-Law, Jesse M. Bontrager, and the support and encouragement of Certain Man. Thanks all of you!)

Eight years ago this evening . . .

The years have slipped through our fingers like quicksilver, and this little girl is now a young woman. The annual Christmas Open House is no longer “annual.” The truth is, we cannot do at 71 what we did at 63.

But the message of Christmas, “God With Us” is as true as it ever was, and this sin-weary world needs the Angel’s message of Hope, peace and goodwill like never before.

The journey was one I didn’t want to make. But the reluctant obedience had brought blessings and happy, happy times. But now it was over and I was heading home. The travel was not without it pitfalls, not without its anxiety, and not without its danger. But I was purposefully heading home. The anticipation was real 

I came home to a familiar driveway. Thankful to be safely here, I came into the place that I have called Home for 35 years. It was familiar and warm and someone I love the very most on this earth wanted me here. This morning, I woke in my own comfortable bed without a worry or concern about who was already awake in the next room or who I may disturb if I start stirring around. It was restful and comforting and sweet. 

It makes me think about that other Home. There will come a day when I will come home yet again to another place. I believe that it will feel familiar, that I will be astounded at how beautiful and sweet it all is. There will be people there that I love and the one I love best, my Savior, Jesus, will be there. 

I love to think about that home, about what it will be like (and there is so much I don’t know) but to think about how I feel getting home here makes me know that getting Home there will be even better. 

#myheartgivesgratefulpraise

I was on my way home from Millsboro after a doctor’s appointment this morning. As I came North on 113, suddenly the sign announced, “Stockley Center” with an arrow pointing right. It would be hard to adequately articulate the memories crashing around my head and heart at the sight of that sign.

For over 35 years, Stockley Center was a familiar institution to me as I provided care for disabled adults.  I took my initial training there in 1984-85. Training sessions, educational meetings, paperwork drop off, Dental appointments for my individuals, first aid and medication classes, etc. were common.  In the last 15 years of my tenure, when I went to the Center for other required classes or meetings, I would drive back

the long, long lane to The Cemetery where we laid our beloved Gertrude’s body to rest in November of 2005. At first I went often. I would stand at the stone that marked her grave and sing to her.

“Knowing you’ll be there.”  “Jesus loves me.” “Suppertime.”  “Sojourner’s Song.”  She would sing along with me during her years at our house.  She had perfect pitch, knew the melodies of almost all the old hymns, even though the words were all jumbled up.

I would often shed tears at that Holy spot, remembering that my Daddy did the graveside Service for her and a short seven weeks later, on a cold December day, we covered his grave in another cemetery beside the church where much of  his life history resided.

I don’t think I have been to Gertrude’s grave since Covid, but I made a quick decision and made a quick turn into the road leading to the grounds that were once so familiar to me.  There is a new guard house at the entrance where everyone has to stop, and two friendly looking black guards were on duty.

“Good morning,” I say, and smile.  They return the greeting cheerfully, and I say, “I’m just on my way back to the cemetery.”  Their faces are immediately soberly compassionate, and they nod.  “Do I need to do anything?  Do you need my name or anything?”

“No, nothing,” they say, almost in unison.  “You are free to go.”

I head back the long road and around the corner and head back another long, long road.  There have been so many changes to this place since Gertrude and her two brothers, were brought here in 1932.  (Thank God)!  There have been so many in just the last five years that it blows my mind.  Even the cemetery has changed.  There is an adequate parking place, and the western part of it has become a veteran’s cemetery.  On this eastern side, there are probably a hundred graves of indigent disabled persons who died in state custody.  One of them was our Gertrude. 

She hated Stockley Center.  In those early years, whenever we would travel down 113 to “The Colony,” (as she always called it) she was usually fine until she caught sight of the water tower and she would immediately become agitated and fearful.  My heart ached for her.  She had suffered much there, and for most of her life, all decisions were made for her.  Daniel and I had tried to start a fund for her burial so she wouldn’t have to be buried at Stockley, but it seemed futile.  In the end, all that was available to her was a pauper’s grave.  She did not have a pauper’s funeral, though.  The undertaker said, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like this.  You cannot imagine how often in this place, it is a graveside service with a preacher and me and no one else.” The chapel on the grounds of Stockley Center was packed out, and our family and our church planned a funeral for her that was full of love and memories and laughter and song.  Some of her natural family, case managers, supervisors, nurses and aides joined us. There were printed programs with her picture on the front, and she would have loved it. Our church planned a meal afterwards, served in the basement of the church where she often went during her 19 years in our home. It was comforting and affirming.

In the months following her funeral, I often felt sad to think that on the resurrection morning, Gertrude would find herself rising from the ground of the place she hated so much.  It just didn’t seem right or fair.  It felt like one more injustice to this incredibly sweet songbird who loved Jesus, babies and Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And she loved our family . . . But as time went on, my thinking got itself “righted” again, and I thought about the fact that not only will it not matter then, it doesn’t matter now.  The first thing she will see on that resurrection morning will be Jesus, and everything will be good.

I looked out across the graveyard as I came through the entrance and was startled to find a flat field.  All the tombstones had been lowered into the ground so that a mower could pass over the field without weed eating around the stones.  I hated it. Certain Man said that is the way it has always been Maybe. But the ground was still not gobbling the markers up like it is now.

I searched for Gertrude’s grave and finally found it.  I am not sure that it is where it was, but the familiar marker was there, and I decided that I would never know for sure.

I stood for a while, thinking about all the years, about this precious lady whose mannerisms, peculiar sayings and actions are a part of our family to this day.  I felt something prickling my leg and I looked down and there were sand burrs firmly attached to my stockings. I thought about things that prick and irritate and wondered at the prolific crop of these tiny burrs that attach and try their best to get a ride out of where they grew. I picked them off, and they pricked my fingers and held on until I managed to dislodge them.  They hurt!  But then, so did my heart in this October cemetery on a perfectly glorious day.  So many heavies right now, but so much hope.  I decided to look around, trace the names of people who we gave respite care to, and who had homes with friends.  I was astounded to realize that in this particular section, the graves stopped abruptly around 2012.  I saw that there were some that were recent in a small section between the veterans and the Stockley Center Cemetery.  Curious, I walked over to check it out.  I thought my heart would break.  Apparently this is the cemetery of the babies of documented immigrants.  Baby after baby, most with merely a small marker and name, some with the name bleached off by the sun, and a very few with a stone.  Like this:

The one matchbox car was lying off to the side.  I picked it up and thought about a Mama, far from home and family, afraid to seek adequate pre-natal care, who loved and lost and buried here, in an indigent cemetery, a part of her heart.  Yet another injustice in our current world.

I traipsed back to my car, started it and made the trip back to the entrance.  At the end of the first stretch, as I made the corner, the tears came, hot but sweet and releasing.  I wound my way up to the exit, and didn’t need to stop.  The window on the exit side of the Guard house was darkened and shut.  It was a relief. I gave a perfunctory wave at the window as I went by, and then I was on my way home.

It has been a week of miracles for this Delaware Grammy.  There have been moments of “reluctant obedience” that have resulted in affirmation and peace.  I’ve been so blessed with warm memories, happy moments, people who love me, and hope for the tomorrow that awaits people I love.  I do not always like the diagnosis.  I sometimes chafe under the circumstances.  And I am not always satisfied with outcomes.  But I have a promise from Jesus that I cling to and He has never failed me yet.  He never will.

“Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.”

“He has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

I do not need to be afraid, grief-stricken of discouraged.

And my heart gives grateful praise.

Sunday morning.  I was in that almost awake state that usually precedes the decision to get up for me.  I often have strange dreams of concerning situations in those minutes (i.e. Company coming and nothing prepared, church starting in 10 minutes and my hair is still not doing what it’s supposed to do while the family waits in the car, or people standing around at a social gathering and I’m not properly clad).  I’m actually often entertained by these dreams once I’m awake enough to realize that they are, in fact a dream!

This morning was different.  We were in church, everything was very proper, and the meeting was appropriate except that we were sitting in the pew we usually occupied when the children were young.  About the time that the service was dismissed, I looked across the auditorium and sitting midway back, alone on a bench was My Sweet Mama!  She was young, healthy and happy.  Her smile was absolutely radiant, and I said, “There’s Mama!!!”

Nobody else seemed to see her, and in that strange, dream reasoning, I somehow knew that I was the only one who could see her.  I felt strongly that I didn’t have much time, and I tried to get over to where she was now standing, smiling at me.  “She can’t stay,” I told myself.  “This isn’t where she really belongs!”

Just about the time that I got to her pew, she disappeared into thin air, leaving me with one last glimpse of that smiling face.  And I awoke, freshly bereft of the best Mama I could have ever asked for.

Sunday.  Monday.  Tuesday.  The image of her face is constantly with me, and I miss her fiercely.  Certain Man took me to see Uncle Jesse and Aunt Gladys last evening, and it helped to dull the intensity of what has felt like fresh grief.  I am grateful, but still somewhat melancholy.  What would she think if she were here?  What would she say to me? To my beloved siblings and in-laws?  To these grandchildren who have grown and multiplied and are the parents of adult, adolescent and younger children?  Would she be proud of her family?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  

But she would listen and she would love us. That knowledge is enough for me to begin to turn the grief into gratefulness.  Right now, that fills a lot of cracks in this heart that is holding some hard, sad stories for which there seem to be no viable answers.

She would listen!  She would love us!

#myheartgivesgratefulpraise

Covid has reared its ugly head again at Shady Acres. Both Certain Man and I have caught it for the third time. Certain Man has not made out too badly, but I lost my sense of smell and taste and my head feels like it weighs at least 30 pounds, my ears are plugged, and I am just so tired! Thankfully, I’m not short of breath, but the congestion in my head certainly makes me feel like I am in a fog.

I went to bed last night feeling so grumpy and discouraged. I didn’t even kiss Certain Man good night because I just didn’t feel like it. He laughed at my reasoning, but promptly fell asleep and didn’t seem to0 be too offended. I could hardly think through the fuzziness in my brain, but I was pretty sure I was miserable. All of a sudden, I felt a sharp prick in the side of my leg like something bit me, and I absentmindedly moved my foot up to rub the spot. I knew nothing was biting me because I am accustomed to these sudden unexplained neuropathic twinges in my lower extremities.

But then I got to thinking about all the things I have for which to be thankful. For one thing, that twinge! I had no need to throw back the covers and look for a spider or an asp or a bitey bug. And I didn’t need to worry about Malaria-causing mosquitoes to be flying about my room. I didn’t need to light a candle or an oil lamp or primitive light source in the event that I did want to check it out. My bed was comfortable, and I wasn’t alone. My husband does not snore offensively. The fan was moving the air and making sleeping easier. It wasn’t long until I drifted off and I slept well.

This morning, the electric was off, the generator was running and I slept through it. I finally bestirred myself at 8:30 to discover that two neighbors had asked about the outage, my husband had been out working for literally hours, and that, even though I still couldn’t smell or taste, I wasn’t feeling quite so grumpy. I decided to comb my hair, wash my face, get dressed, make my bed and walk out to see what Certain Man was up to. He was washing down a manure spreader that he had borrowed from a neighbor, so I picked 4 or 5 ripe peas and checked on the garden, and suddenly felt very hot and tired. He said that he was going to come in and sit a spell, and that sounded pretty good to me. We came in, I made him breakfast and we both “sat for a spell.”

I’m not happy we got Covid, but I keep thinking about how this is probably the best timing for us to have it. We had houseguests from May 7-29th with a day off in between to change sheets, and it would not have been very fun to be sick while they were here, (although we didn’t have much interaction with the one couple). Besides, even if they didn’t care, we would have! And even though we missed some fun things (visits with friends and family scheduled for last week, the GMS school festival, a Yoder family gathering at the old home place, hymn sing at church) yet we did have time to rest, (still do!) and the potluck planned for “First Sunday” at our church got postponed a week because we aren’t the only ones who are sick in our congregation. How’s that for making people feel important?

The days have been nothing short of gorgeous. Cool, breezy, and colorful. Someone said, “It’s a shame to waste such pretty days on being sick!” Well, to be honest, these beautiful days are such a gift to me. I can go outside and sit on the upper deck, or lazily swing on the porch swing, or just sit in a lounge chair on the lower deck and the birds are singing, the Humming Birds are flitting about, there’s probably even a butterfly if I watch close, and I am content.

Below is the one view from our upper deck.

And here is a cheery hanging basket that my friend, Krista Sweigart gave me about a month ago. It convinced me to buy begonias for my deck rail planters!

I may be sick, but #myheartgivesgratefulpraise !

It flashes on the Skylight Photo display on my kitchen counter. I see it every single day.

I see it, and I pray that somehow, sometime, somewhere, someway the storm will abate, the tide will turn, and the last chapter will gladden my heart, and be the answer to this Grammy’s prayers.

It’s all there.

The hugs, the smiles, the triumphs, the dreams, a strong body, a fine face. 

The losses, the reversals, the disappointments, the charades, the squandered investments of love and time and materials. 

The sounds. Some hard, some good, so many circling in my head. The laughter, the words of love, the affirmation of faith, the promises made and believed, but broken. 

But now it feels like the only sound I hear triggered by the sight of this face is the breaking hearts of the people who have loved him. The silence of breaking hearts is unbearably loud.

There really are no words for grief that has the flavor of finality mixed with failure and fear.  But over these last tumultuous months, and as we’ve entered into this empty place, this song has become a reminder of how we can go forward. 

And I will bring a sacrifice of praise.