Delaware Grammy

October 26, 2014 · 8:50 pm

Keeping Vigil/Cheering Frieda Home

Sixteen days ago, the voice was lilting and full of joy. She eagerly looked forward to being in Heaven and was unafraid. She is still looking forward to Heaven and is unafraid. But she is very, very sick and that voice is almost non-existent. She still knows her family and when she can, she has words for them.

The breaths are ragged and disorganized. They catch my brother’s heart and wrench it. He tends to her lovingly and tries to pray. The words stick in his throat, and he feels so helpless. If a heart breaking could be measured in decibels, the atmosphere would be shattered.

Ah, dear friends, how very much he needs your prayers. They all do — Clint, Shana, Doug, Juliana and Steven, Chip, Susan, Hannah and Clinty. And Frieda. Pray that her faith will soon be sight; that her suffering could cease; that she would hear the Angels singing and that death could be swallowed up in Victory. Soon and very soon.

. . . and this for my beloved brother.

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Tagged as Clint and Frieda Yoder, grief, Heaven

October 23, 2014 · 2:58 am

Living with October Grief

Three years ago today, my cousin, Merlin Yoder had a terrible farming accident and passed away two days later. That October was a terrible time for me, and some days I didn’t know if I would ever be happy again. In Daniel’s family, we had a suicide early in the month, then my uncle, Vernon Zehr, passed away mid month, and then a week later, Merlin had his accident.

Today is the ninth anniversary of Old Gertrude’s death, also the ninth anniversary of the death of Carolyn Swartzentruber, five year old daughter of friends, Harvey and Judith. I went to Old Gertrude’s grave today, as I often do when I have a class at Stockley Center, and the weather was wet, the sky so grey and the wind was whistling through the trees around that graveyard for indigents. I thought about my sister in law, Frieda, and about the journey we all must make some day, and about how much I love living, but how hard things are sometimes and how knowing Jesus doesn’t make the parting “easy.” I know that Jesus conquered Death, and that Death is to have lost its sting, but the crossing is still not easy and the unknowns are still so glaring. What we know about Heaven is so intriguingly wonderful. What we don’t know about the crossing is what we hate so much.

All this pondering made me go back to try to find something that I had written the morning that we got word that Merlin had crossed over, that he was “done with troubles and trials.” This post says a great deal about what I’m feeling now. I know from experience that we won’t always be this sad, and that it won’t always hurt this much. And I know that Clint and his family are not alone, and that the prayers and the love and the concern are helping to hold them steady. But it is hard. And time grows short.

Ah, dear friends. Please pray for us . . .

*******************

I was sitting in my chair, in the corner beside the fire on this chilly Monday morning. I kept trying to wrap my head around the ache in my heart. I just could not really believe that Merlin was gone. He was so vibrant, so healthy, so alive! The usual things have been said, and I believe, I believe! He IS more alive than he has ever been. He IS in the presence of the LORD, and he would never have wanted to stay in that broken body. I’m sure he has seen The Father, I’m sure he has seen his Dad — and mine. But it all seems so surreal.

I was working on a letter to my kids when the morning quiet was interrupted by the phone. It was Certain Man. His quiet strength and understanding have helped to hold me steady in this last week. Sometimes I see him watching me with a calculating look, sometimes worried.

“I don’t know if you can see it or not, Hon,” he said, “but the sunrise is spectacular this morning. Go look to see if you can see it.”

Almost four decades with this guy tells me to never ignore such information, and I got up and looked towards the east. “What do you see, Sweetheart?” I ask, looking at a gray horizon, and seeing nothing of significance.

“I just came across the bridge at the swamp,” he says, “and the sun is hanging over the swamp like a big ball of fire. You may not be able to see anything because of the trees, but it is simply gorgeous.”

I look and look, and don’t even see a glimmer of the fire. Just gray horizon with an area that is a bit brighter where the sun will probably appear after a while. I don’t doubt that he is seeing it — and that it is breath taking, but I just can’t see it. Yet.

“I’m sorry, Daniel, but it isn’t up far enough yet. It sounds wonderful, though.” We exchange a few more bits of conversation and then I am back into the morning routine with my ladies and laundry — busy stuff to keep my hands occupied while my heart weeps.

And then, fixing a cup of coffee, looking listlessly out the side window where the summer flowers escaped frost one more night, I keep thinking about the morning and the sunrise I couldn’t see. I keep thinking that there is something nagging at edge of my conscious thought. I keep thinking about Merlin and how they said he often would call one of his brothers in the early morning hours to “go riding.” He was an accomplished biker, and loved to cycle, too. I got to thinking about what he might tell us this morning if he could call back.

“Come. Ride with me! You can’t see it yet, but the Morning is glorious! The Son is like a ball of fire, and all the air is alive with His presence. You can’t see it yet, you can’t see it yet, you can’t see it yet . . .”

And the fact that I don’t see it yet — don’t begin to understand it yet, doesn’t change the fact that I believe it is for real, and that someday, The Son will come for all who look for him, and it won’t carry the grief of this day, but rather the promise of a Glorious reunion and an eternity without the pain of separation.

“Ah, Merlin! The ‘if only’s’ and the sadness of this day crowd out the the things my head wants to say. We will miss you, and you will always be thought of with good memories in the hearts of so many. May God grant healing to your family, and may this “seed sown in the mortal body” rise to everlasting life.”

(Lord Jesus, forgive my questioning heart, but WHY did it have to be him????)

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Filed under Dealing with Grief

Tagged as Clint and Frieda Yoder, Death, family, farm accident, loss, Merlin Yoder

October 15, 2014 · 3:27 pm

. . . and the sand keeps sliding through the hour glass

We came home last night to the farmhouse at Shady Acres after being gone for about 33 hours. We crammed a lot of living in those hours, and had a wonderful time tromping through Lancaster, taking in MOSES! at Sight and Sound, visiting some of our favorite shops, and just enjoying some time away. The only money we spent for food was for tips, as we had gift cards for everything else. Motel 6 was extremely clean and comfy and we couldn’t have found nicer accommodations for $67.00. I had such a happy time with that man that I love most. The colors were beautiful in Lancaster. When we were traveling up on Monday, it was raining. I told Daniel that if we had some sun Tuesday, we would see some pretty spectacular trees. I was right!

When we came home, it seemed like things had fared pretty well while we were gone. Laundry was caught up, the kitchen was straightened, my ladies were fed and contented. But then it was mentioned that our trusty Miele dishwasher was not working, and that the dryer had taken three hours to dry the last towel load. H-m-m-m-m-m. I need to see about finding myself a repair man, I guess. Oh, and my experienced eyes warned me that Cecilia didn’t seem to be doing so well.

The illness and the coming Homegoing of my sister in law, Frieda, seem to be ever with me. Sometimes it almost seems wrong to have happy days and laugh. But then I remember that she doesn’t want us to be gloomy and it doesn’t help her any for us to mope about. So I shed my tears and I grieve and pray, but I’ve also had to laugh, had to eagerly anticipate upcoming events, and have kept these hands mostly busy.

The seats we had for the Moses! presentation were up in the upper level. By the time I had climbed the several flights of stairs, I was wishing that I had taken the elevator. When we found our seats, there was a rather portly couple on the end by the aisle. For some reason, they thought it best to stay were they were and just compact themselves together as best they could to let us pass. This left a narrow ledge for me to manuever my rather portly body past them to my seat. There was no hand rail, the backs of the next row of seats was somewhere down close to my ankles.

I’m more than a little bit afraid of heights. I can have a sturdy wall that is up to my waist between me and the Royal Gorge and still have to stand back a few feet to be comfortable. No leaning on the guard rails for me! I get this strange sensation in the back of my legs and it feels like the abyss is pulling me to itself with hungry tentacles. For years I wouldn’t fly because of how terrified I was about getting my feet off the ground, but there came a day when I realized that my fear of flying was affecting my relationship with my husband and I decided that I would fly with him, even if it killed me. (Which I was pretty certain it would!) There was much prayer, much shutting of the eyes and just not looking, much faking of enthusiasm when a Certain Man who was in the window seat (always in the window seat!) would exclaim, “Look, Hon! See how clear it is! You can see clear down to the ground! Right there is the Mississippi River, and if you look close, you can see the big gateway arch in St. Lewie.” Oh, how my stomach would lurch as I dutifully leaned over him and tried to see. But I’ve done it often enough now that the terror has been replaced by a general dislike, and is at least manageable. But I digress. I only went on that rabbit trail to explain how terrified I am of heights, and believe me, the upper deck of the Sight and Sound Auditorium is definitely “heights.”

So, I looked at those seats, five in, and breathed a quick prayer, scrunched myself together and scooted past the couple who were exclaiming things like, “Do you have enough room??? Can you make it???” while occupying their space, but pulling their ample stomachs in and leaning back. I wanted to say, “No, I don’t have enough space, but if I could just hang on to your shirt/blouse while I pass by, I could maybe walk across Niagara Falls on this three inch board!” But I desisted. Once past them, I could reach my hand out to the backs of the empty seats and steady myself and, more importantly, lean in the direction of not cascading down the interminable mountain of seats in front of me.

Whew! Settled at last. With 20 minutes to spare. I wondered what I was ever going to do if I needed to use the restroom during the presentation. Age and Lasix and four babies that averaged close to ten pounds apiece make this a consideration of import. So I prayed that I could safely sit until intermission and immersed myself into the production. And all was well. At intermission the couple stood up and stepped out and there was no danger. They repeated the favor at the end of the intermission and I gratefully returned to my seat. The production of Moses! was well done end engaging, and Certain Man and I enjoyed a wonderful time together.

We came home through the deepening Autumn afternoon, noted the clouds that were spotting across the western sky and wondered at the coming storm. We came into light and home and warmth and family and a beloved Love Bug at the top of the ramp to welcome us. This morning, the storm has still not broken, and I put on the CD of “Songs my Father Taught Me” by the West Coast Mennonite Chamber Choir. The kitchen window was cracked open a few inches and I played the song, “No more fear of Dying” twice as I thought about Frieda and her unchanged, eager anticipation of Heaven. She sleeps, talks with her family, sleeps some more. My heart faltered as I considered the sadness of these waiting days. Then I heard a wren, outside the window, singing her heart out along with the music that was swirling out into the morning mist. I thought about Frieda, like a wren, living the praise in the face of dying, yes, but also in the light of Eternity. The wren’s cheerful song lifted my heart and made me think about things other than the broken dishwasher, delinquent dryer and even the fever that Cecilia developed in the morning hours.

Heaven. It’s on my mind. And thanks to the events of this last week, it isn’t a “heavy” even though parting is a sorrow. Listen here and be blessed. My heart gives grateful praise.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcQXZOMCNF8

Lyrics:

Jesus has arisen, joy and hope are given
Those who call upon His Name.
He shall be exalted through the endless ages;
Name above all other Names.

No more fear of dying – no more need to doubt.
Every one shall answer, every knee shall bow.

Jesus has ascended,
Not like He descended – in a low and humble way.
He has been victorious, lifted up and glorious
Now He holds His rightful place.

Jesus is returning, joy and hope are burning
In the true believers heart.
King of all creation, come with celebration,
May we never more depart!

No more fear of dying – no more need to doubt.
Every one shall answer, every knee shall bow.

Hearing Frieda’s Hope

The phone is ringing in my Sweet Mama’s sunny kitchen. She is in her chair, and I am sitting at her table, working on her weekly med planner. It is an ordinary Tuesday and the day is sweet with quiet conversation and peaceful camaraderie. I pick up the call for Mama.

“Hello, Yutzys – I mean, Yoders.”

“Oh, Mary Ann! You’re there at Mom’s?”

The voice at the other end is lilting and familiar.

“Yep, it’s Tuesday, and I’m here!” I puzzle a bit over the voice, but suddenly realize that it belongs to my sister in law, Frieda. She was hospitalized over the weekend with symptoms that were troubling. She has been fighting an increasingly challenging battle with an especially insidious form of breast cancer that has metastasized.

“Is Mom there?” The voice is joyous, strong. Maybe there is good news here.

I hand the receiver over to Mama, and note with satisfaction that it is on speaker phone. I watch as she cradles the phone to her ear, her face a glad light, and she greets her daughter in law with a note of anticipation in her voice. And then.

“Mom,” says this voice, carrying across the kitchen, every word hanging in the air, held by an incredible thread of joy, “I’m calling to tell you that the tests are all back and I’m going to get to go to Heaven and it looks like it’s going to be really soon.”

My Sweet Mama’s face crumbles into a mask of sorrow. Across the room, I sit frozen as the import of the words settle into my soul with a bleak sorrow that begs to be repudiated. How can this be? My sister in law, part of our family’s fabric for almost fifty years, a beloved wife, dedicated mother and wonderful Mimi to her grandchildren, cannot be leaving us. What will they do? What will we do? The tears begin to slide down my face.

But Frieda isn’t about to let the news lie with one or two sentences. She speaks comfort and peace and hope and joy into the room while Mama and I weep. “Just think of it,” she carols. “I’m going to be in HEAVEN. With Jesus! I’ve lived my life for this! I’m going to this beautiful place and it’s going to be so good! And think of all the people I will get to see! I will meet a grandmother that I never knew here. I’ll see my grandmother that was one of the Godliest, most wonderful woman that I have ever known. I loved her so much! I’ll see Dad and all those Yoder boys that have gone on before! It’s going to be wonderful! And Janice Root! She’s going to be there!”

That gave me pause to consider a bit as I thought of Frieda walking into Heaven. I thought about Janice, there in the presence of the Lord for these long years (for us earth people) and I thought about her great laugh, ringing down the corridors of Heaven and could almost hear her saying, “Frieda! You here already??? Well, welcome home!!!” There could be some joy in that thought . . .

The conversation took many turns, but there was never anything but eager anticipation on Frieda’s part. She discussed the medical issues with the same detachment she might have used for book review. “They found cancer cells in my spinal fluid,” she said nonchalantly. “The cancer has spread to the lining between my brain and my skull. The doctor says that there is nothing more they can do. They say that I will just sleep more and more (and I’m already just sleeping and sleeping) and that I will slip into a coma and then I will go to Heaven! She says that I don’t have months, just weeks. Isn’t it so exciting?” I try to catch her enthusiasm but it just. Isn’t. there.

Oh, Frieda! Wake me up and tell me this is all a bad dream. Tell me that you beat the terrible odds and are going to get better. Tell me that Daniel and I will have a chance to bring Mama to South Carolina and visit you and Clint in your lovely home beside the lake, that we will pick up pecans and watch the season play its changing tunes in the woods and fields. Tell me that you will be back to caring for your patients in your home health care job and that you will rake the leaves and pull the weeds and run off frequently to see those grandbabies of yours. Tell me that you will keep on loving Clint and praying for your children and their spouses and grandkids. Tell me that your inimitable honesty in counsel to them and to us all will go on for years until you are old and gray and you do it from an old hickory rocking chair. Tell me that this is all a big mistake and we really do have another twenty or thirty years. Tell me!!! I beg of you. Tell me!!!

But these are not the words that she has for us. She knows whom she has believed. She knows where she is going. She doesn’t want to prolong it or inconvenience her family. The plans are in place. She is unafraid. She is at peace. She is unfaltering.

Oh, Lord Jesus! How very much we need you now. Shine your Glory into our hearts though her example. We are so sad.

Frieda says to Mama, “Is there anything you want me to tell anyone up there? I can take messages to Heaven for you.” Oh, my! What a precious thought!

Mama is startled, then a torrent of words for the love of her life that she misses every single day. “Tell Daddy that I love him, that we miss him. Tell him I’ll see him soon!”

“I’ll do that,” says this brave lady. “And I know that you would have preferred to hear this from Clint, but he just felt like he couldn’t talk. Maybe he could talk now.” Mama is crying so hard she can barely talk and when Clint comes on the line, his voice chokes and there are no words. It is so hard to talk to a loving parent when our worlds are upside down and bleeding out. I take the phone from Mama and speak what seems to me to be some babbling nonsense to my oldest brother. He regains his composure and is able to talk, and there is much there that is rich and comforting.

“I feel like the Lord has impressed several things on my heart,” he says quietly. “One is, ‘what kind of husband is the best kind of husband for Frieda right now?’ And I intend to be that kind of husband. This is going to be hard. And I’m going to have some really hard times. I’ve already had some really bad times. But, you know, there were times when we lived in Delaware and Frieda would go off alone to visit Shana or Chip and she’d be gone for quite a long time, but I was okay. She would always come back eventually and we’d go back to our usual routines. And now Frieda is going on another journey alone. And she won’t be coming back, but I’ll be going to her. I really don’t know how soon I will see her again, but it may not be all that long. It’s going to be hard. But I know that God will be with me and I know it’s not forever.” His voice is calm, trusting. My tears won’t stop.

“God has been so good to us,” he says. “We’ve enjoyed a tranquil life. Even with Dad going, and that was hard, but even with that, we’ve been so blessed and the lines have fallen to us in such pleasant places. We’ve not seen a lot of tragedy and hard times.”

There was so much more said – and so much left unsaid because there are no words for much of this. The conversations ended with promises to pray, affirmations of love and missions to accomplish.

How can we begin to go back to ordinary after such a brush with the eternal? I couldn’t think, could scarcely remember what the usual tasks were. But I kept thinking about the things that Frieda had said, and how important it was to get on with the living and believing and even being glad for her as she looks forward to Heaven without a flinch, without fear, without regret. She wants us to rejoice. She does not want anything to distract from The Glory of her Homegoing.

I am in awe of her, in awe of my brother, whose responses are nothing but illustrations of God’s incredible Grace. In an almost unbelievable demonstration of God’s intentional love for us individually, something happened several days before this diagnosis was given that reminded me of how up close and personal our God is. A song was requested at our annual church retreat on Sunday morning. Aunt Dottie had asked Dave and Ilva to sing, “Day by day, and with each passing moment . . .” as their special music. Dave had prefaced their singing by dedicating the song to Clint and Frieda, requesting prayer and testifying to the grace that they have found. The words of the song floated through the Crowder Center at the old Denton Wesleyan Camp moving many of us to tears. At about the very same time that Dave and Ilva were singing that song, Clint was leaving church after having taught Sunday School. He was weighed down by the sadness and he turned on the Back to the Bible broadcast on the radio. Immediately across the airwaves, came the very same song.

“That song is for me! It’s right where I am right now,” he thought and went home, looked it up and got a link ready to send to our family google group – not knowing what had happened in the gathering at Denton, MD, that morning.

(Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNVCcph6cnI&list=RDlNVCcph6cnI)

I listen to the words of this old hymn and am comforted and encouraged and even hopeful. We wish that she wouldn’t need to go. Wish for more time, wish for opportunities to say “I surely do love you!” a whole lot more than we’ve said it in the past. But it isn’t a time for wishing. She doesn’t want us to wallow. She wants us to think about going to Heaven as the wonderful adventure we all have before us, looking to Jesus as the Author and Finisher! of our faith.

I pray that we can follow this shining example. There is so much to look forward to. There is JOY set before us. We will remember.

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Tagged as Cancer, Eternal life, grace, Heaven, hymns, rejoicing, Sorrow, weeping

October 7, 2014 · 2:14 am

And then it was October . . .

The days are classic, the nights are splendid, the trees are turning and the garden is almost done. Certain Man carried the first bag of pellets into our house yesterday morning and started a fire in the pellet stove. Twenty-four hours later, it has burned itself out and that is okay for now. It will feel good again tonight, though.

“We need to get that shelf cleared off at the top of the ramp,” he said yesterday. I interpreted that to mean, “YOU need to get that shelf cleared off,” though he didn’t say that, and may have not even meant it. He might have just been thinking out loud.

The shelf at the top of the ramp. H-m-m-m-m-m. I guess it could use some clearing off. At least if we are going to put pellets there anytime soon. He built it so we could store pellets at an easily accessible place, but in the summer, when the shelf is so empty and inviting, a whole lot of things get put there: Extra bird suet and seed blocks, plant fertilizer, an Amish made wren house in need of repair, insect spray, an extension cord, garden trowels, an oil bottle, a mysterious large yellow liquid fertilizer container that says “Raph” on the side and is some sort of orangish yellow liquid that I have no idea what it is — and the box where I keep old newspapers in an orderly fashion.

“In case someone might need them,” I tell Certain Man when he looks askance at my stack. Well, you never know! Someone just might need them! (By the way, if anyone does, I have two boxes of flat, neatly stacked newspapers that I will give away free if “someone needs them for something!”) 🙂

Oh, yes! It was quite a mess!

He looked doubtful when I said that I could maybe get to it, and then he went off to work, and in my more energetic moments, I pondered about adding it to my day. I decided that I could handle it. So, I got busy and decided to clean it all off. And I kept after it — doing bits and pieces now and then, in between loads of laundry, going to the wash line, taking Our Girl Nettie for blood work, sorting through tomatoes and making supper. It wasn’t really all that huge a job, but I had to find places for stuff, recycle some stuff and decide what fell into which category.

But I got it done. Right after the last load in the dryer sounded its final ding!, I finished the last little bit. And now, it looks like this–!

Although he hasn’t acknowledged the transformation, I’m sure he has noted it. And Certain Man can bring in those bags of pellets and stack them up whenever he gets the notion. We can light that old pellet stove any time the temperature drops down, and it will be so cozy and good.

My heart gives grateful praise.

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Tagged as Certain Man, housekeeping, Husbands, Mondays, pellet stove, summer accumulations

October 3, 2014 · 9:14 pm

Golden Autumn Days and Besetting Sorrow

For the last ten days, I’ve been posting signs of Autumn over there on Facebook. I’ve searched for the beauty and even the “not so beautiful” things that remind me that summer is waning, and my favorite season has truly begun.

Today was one of those perfect autumn days. The weather was gorgeous. The day was sweet. Certain Man was home today because the big old lard buckets that are our chickens are going out. How glad we both are for a bit of a break. It looks like this layover is going to be a “nice” one. The company is saying that it will be two weeks, but encompassing three weekends. Today starts our church retreat at Denton, Maryland, and even though we don’t stay over at night because of our ladies, it is nice to not have to worry about chicken house alarms and fans and feeders and lights and ventilation and floods.

The day went well. I had a big cheesy noodle bake to make for lunch on Sunday at retreat. That came together well, and it was with a great deal of satisfaction that I got it into the fridge this afternoon all ready for the oven. I checked the list of other things that I was to take and sighed with relief to realize that everything else was already there, sent with friend Ruby on Wednesday.

So many happy things to enjoy. The blue jays are busy, the flowers still blooming, the air is cool and there are apples on the counter, crisp and sweet. The crickets chirping don’t even much annoy me unless I am trying to sleep.

So. Why the besetting sorrow?

Because six hundred miles away a story is being written of love and faithfulness and faith and an insidious disease and we don’t know how it will turn out. My brave sister in law says she knows how it will be. OKAY. Because she knows Whom she has believed. She trust her Heavenly Father to do what is best. She is unafraid. My Oldest Brother is pensive, even while he holds fast to the promises that remind us of a God who is THERE and who is neither surprised or stymied by the events of these last two years. My heart aches for him and their children and grandchildren and in-laws.

I sometimes think that Clinton has loved Frieda since the day he laid eyes on her. That would have been back in about 1963. They’ve loved each other a very long time. That love and the faith that has marked their lives with adventure and grace and glory holds them steady in these uncertain days. They cling to a God who has proven that He is to be trusted. And we pray. And pray. And pray.

But on this glorious autumn day, the tears want to spill. There is so much to ponder. The sorrow is besetting.

“Oh, Lord Jesus. There are no words to say what is in our hearts . . .”

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Tagged as Autumn's glory, brother, church retreat, sister in law, Sorrow

September 29, 2014 · 3:40 pm

Lessons from our Love Bug

She stole quietly into the pew beside her Grandpa and me, a sweet presence there. A quick pull of an envelope out of the offering slots and she wanted a pencil or crayon or something to write with. I found a small package of crayons (from one of our forays to a restaurant which handed out three crayons to restless children) and she sat back on the pew and set to work with painstaking effort.

I had an old bulletin in my Bible, and I gave her some pieces to look at and to occupy her while I listened to the sermon. She tapped my arm once and asked me how to write “don’t open” and I wrote it out on a piece of paper from my church notebook and handed it back to her. Mollified, she went back to her efforts.

When church was over, she handed me the envelope. “For you, Grammy!” She beamed happily. “Don’t open it!”

“Okay,” I tell her, looking into her precious face. “I’ll wait ’till later!” That pleased her so much and she ran off to find her friends.

This morning, at least three weeks later, I was cleaning out my purse, and I found the envelope. I couldn’t remember what it was that she had put into it, so I opened it up and pulled out the three pieces of paper that were inside.

My first response was a burst of joy as I thought about this girlie who has brought so much into our lives-just by being herself, and how much delight she has in giving “stuff” to people she loves.

And then my heart was suddenly quiet and thoughtful as I realized how often the Love that God puts into our hearts seems to come with a self-made sign that says, “Don’t Open!” We carry it, hidden in the depths somewhere and forget that it was given to us to open, to share. I believe it is truly there, but we forget that we have a gift — an incredible gift — given to us freely, but we have to take it, and we have to “open” it.

It will give us incredible joy to share it.

And it will give The Father great delight.

Blood on the Stone . . .

This blog has been on my mind for a number of weeks — and you will see that there are some “old comments.” First written in September, 2010, it is still pertinent.

Delaware Grammy

It was five-thirty.

The radio had come on with its usual BBC broadcast that signaled that it was time to get up. Not that I usually do, but it still was time. Certain Man had left his side of the bed empty an hour earlier when a banging headache had encouraged him to seek some Excedrin and his La-Z-boy. When he is gone, it feels so empty, and I usually stretch myself a little bit over on his side, and take my pillow and lap it up over top of his and sleep a little longer. Our bed is the most comfy bed we could ever ask for, and in those early morning minutes, I often think of how blessed I am, and make a point of being thankful to the LORD for all His benefits towards me.

This morning as I was luxuriating in that half asleep, half awake…

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Oh, No! Not again!

It was bed changing morning at Shady Acres. Saturday. It was also the morning that Certain Man, Middle Daughter, Only Granddaughter, and Certain Man’s Wife were planning to get into Certain Man’s pick up, and go to Ohio for the adoption hearings for grandsons; Simon, Liam and Frankie.

Now we had been planning for this journey for a long time in general terms, but ever since the end of the July, it has been specific: September 8th @ 9am. Of course, this is the week when the weather had been very warm on Delmarva and our chickens will be five weeks old by the time when we get back, so Certain Man was concerned about their well-being. I meandered through the last few weeks with some specific goals in mind that I wanted to accomplish before we had go leave. It took me a while to connect that nobody accomplishes much while meandering, so I kinda tried to get it in gear before it was too late. And I pretty much got the major projects finished up and when morning arrived, all that was left was to finish up the packing. We had even gotten to bed at a reasonable time.

The morning was an immediate flurry of things getting done. Only Granddaughter had spent the night and she was up early enough that I was able to get an early start. The beds got stripped and remade, morning meds given, several loads of laundry sorted and the washing machine was purring away. I had Cecilia on the potty and was ready to give her her shower when I needed to use the potty that she was sitting on. That was fine, since she was ready for her shower, so I started the water in her shower and got it regulated.

Then I remembered something. It was Saturday morning. Friday night, Nettie always cleans her bathroom, using copious amounts of cleaner. It is not unusual for her to use half of a large can of bathroom cleaner to accomplish this task. A great percentage of it is used in her shower. This makes for very, very slippery conditions in the shower. Even with the mat in place, when Cecilia steps into the shower, even the mat will slip like it is on ice. This is especially so if no one tamps the mat down into place, making sure that the suction cups are engaged. However, even when it has been secured, sometimes the rubber mat still slips, at least until someone picks it up, rinses under it thoroughly and then re-tamps it down securely.

So herein was the dilemma: I was really in a hurry to get Cecilia into the shower so that I could use the porcelain convenience. I hurriedly tamped the mat down with my heavy foot and then actually stepped onto the edge of the mat, hoping it was firmly in place.

What happened next happened so fast that I didn’t have time to think. I was holding the grab bar with my right hand, but both feet went sliding out from under me in one blinding, unbelievable cataclysmic split second. I didn’t even have time to register what had happened when I landed outside of the shower, on one dreadfully sickeningly solid left sided bottom thump. It felt like an electric current jolted through my lower back and my first thought was to make sure my legs worked. They did. I hauled myself up and was grateful to note that, not only had I NOT wet myself, I no longer needed to use the potty.

I stood outside the shower with a thousand emotions crashing over my heart. We were only hours away from leaving on an important, milestone marking trip. I knew that whatever had happened could have some implications as to the many miles we needed to travel. I don’t travel very comfortably under the best circumstances, but this weekend was especially a challenge already. Our Silver Chariot had developed serious issues and was in the shop, being repaired, thankfully under warranty, but still out of commission. We were planning to take Certain Man’s pick-up, but many of the amenities of the newer vehicle were glaringly lacking. The biggest concern was space to stretch out if I needed to.

Oh, boy!

I needed to get Cecilia showered. I picked up the mat from the bottom of the shower and rinsed it thoroughly. I washed the floor under the mat until it was no longer slippery to my touch, and put the mat back down firmly, making sure the suction cups were not going to move. Bending over was clearly a problem, but it seemed like it was not as bad as I thought it would be. I got Cecilia into the shower and washed her. As I washed, I started praying while the water ran down and anxiety plied its nasty trade.

“Oh, Lord Jesus. This is no surprise to you, and I bring it before you. Could you please use this for my good? Could you somehow work what has happened to the betterment of traveling today instead of complicating things? Please give me wisdom and endurance and help me to know what is best to do. Above all else , if there is something really seriously wrong, could you please make that very plain before we leave?”

I finished the shower, aware that both of my feet were experiencing a strange sensation– that of being “almost half-way” asleep. My toes were tingling in a strange way, and there was definitely some kind of trauma to my lower back. But it didn’t hurt when I sat down, and it didn’t hurt too much when I stood up. But getting from sitting to standing, and from standing to sitting was a reminder that something had happened. And I was not moving as quickly as before.

I decided not to tell my family. If I could get ready to go and not tell them, I was probably okay to go. I truly lumbered through the rest of the morning, calling upon Middle Daughter for some assistance. She helped incredibly much without asking questions. Sometimes I would go and hide in another room to try to stretch things out and to relieve that ongoing tingling in my toes. How was I ever going to make and eight hour pick-up ride?

I decided to tell my family. I went out and started a conversation that I could “lead gently into” the account of the fall, but it never would develop easily. I decided to not tell them.

We finished packing, got the caregiver for the ladies informed and we were on our way. I settled into my seat and suddenly realized that, somewhere along the way, my toes had stopped tingling. That gave me renewed courage and excitement for the miles ahead. We had a book on CD and we listened to James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small as the miles pleasantly passed. I was increasingly aware that I had almost no distress or pain. Whenever we stopped, it was a little hard to walk normally and it was pretty hard to get in and out of the vehicle, but I began to believe that the pick-up was probably the best vehicle for me for this trip. Yet another provision for me in spite of all my clumsy misadventures.

And so we came safely to Ohio. Somewhere on the PA turnpike, I told my family about the fall and how grateful I was that it seemed things were going so well. Middle Daughter was concerned. Certain Man was highly indignant that I hadn’t said anything before we left. However, I was glad that there was no turning back at that point. It sounded like he would have probably insisted that we delay departure.

And everything truly is okay. I’m pretty sore, and it still doesn’t go very well to go from standing to sitting and sitting to standing, and my right arm appears to have experienced some sort of wrenching. But all in all, it is surprisingly insignificant. I was able to walk a half a mile today, and for the most part, things are good.

The best part is that we are all together at Raph and Gina’s house:

My heart gives grateful praise.

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Tagged as Adoption, Falling, grateful praise, Middle Daughter, slippery showers, traveling

September 2, 2014 · 1:04 pm

Just a Song at Twilight . .

The day was getting old.

It had been such a happy day. Certain Man, home from work for the holiday, invited me to breakfast, and when home again, decided that Labor Day was a good day to put in an outside faucet that would make things easier for me and for Our Girl Nettie. He worked with a headache, especially after inadvertently running into the underside of the steps going to the upper deck.

In the evening, Beloved Son in Law came in with ribs that he had done to perfection, and we threw on some Sunday Fried Taters and cooked up some frozen peas and ate supper with sweet fellowship and great gratitude.

After supper, Eldest Daughter with her bucket and I with mine headed for the garden. Eldest Daughter picked the tomatoes and I started on one of my two rows of beans. Love Bug went with her beloved Grandpa to “help” with the chores, and when the tomatoes were picked and the chores had expended the very last minute they could possibly use up, BSIL took his little family home and it was Certain Man and I, left in the garden in the waning hours of light.

I worked at trying to get over my two rows of beans and Certain Man decided that it was time to take down the cucumber vine that had died on its trellis as well as the butternut squash, also on a trellis. I had picked the butternut squash a few days ago, and now the dead vine was only taking up space. He got out the tractor and pulled the posts and trellises out and then mowed part of the garden that was finished. Conversation was limited to the necessary words: Questions about “putting up” carrots. Questions about the feasibility of pulling out the unproductive pepper plants and general garden observations. But the camaraderie was soul quiet and satisfying.

Back in the house, there were dishes to put into the dishwasher, kitchen to clean up, laundry to finish. Both of us were tired, but it seemed like the evening tasks flew by on the wings of a quiet song that kept echoing in my head. When I was but a wee girlie, my precious Daddy and my Sweet Mama would put their brood to bed and sometimes in the late evening, they would sing together. Both of them had good voices and his tenor and her soprano would rise quietly in the night while I listened from my bed in the middle bedroom upstairs. They sang gospel songs and they sang hymns. But every now and then they sang a song that has played over and over in my head as an adult, and even more as an mature adult with over forty years of loving the same good man under my belt. (At least where my belt used to be! )

“Once in the dear, dead days beyond recall-
When from the world, the mists began to fall
Out of the dream that rose in happy throng
Down to our hearts Love sang an old sweet song.
And in the dust, where fell the firelight gleam
Softly it wove itself into our dream . . .”

The song from my childhood has become so defining of this love story that Certain Man and I are still writing together. Often when I come to the chorus, I hear my Daddy and Mama’s voices, but they are singing our song!

“Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low
And the flick’ring shadows, softly come and go.
Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight, comes love’s old song.
Comes Love’s old sweet song.”

The heart is often weary. There’s been some sad, long days. But when there is the melody of love, playing softly to me, there is something holding me steady, reminding me of what has gone before, smoothing over the rough places, bridging troubled waters. Sometimes life gets loud and raucous and seems to drown out the song. At least, I can hardly hear it over the din. But often, in those evening hours, when the noise that is life is ebbing and the distractions of the day are starting to settle themselves, I hear an old familiar melody and it sings sweetly and quietly to my heart and it is good.