Celebrating Dad

Recently my mom gave me a shadow box to create a keepsake for my dad. It's a really neat concept and today I ventured out to Hobby Lobby with the intentions of buying some decorative pieces to fix it up. My thinking this week has been that I would spend Father's Day creating this beautiful, sentimental box that I could display in our living room. It seemed like an ideal plan until I actually found myself in the craft store today wandering aisles and thinking about what I was doing. Looking at all that beautiful "father' stuff and thinking about what I could incorporate into the box only solidified what I was actually doing...  sealing the fact that I was trying to do something fatherly because I no longer had a father to call.

I know, I know. Depressing at the very least, right? I'm gonna be honest, though, and fully admit for all those experiencing the same thing I am enduring at the moment... Father's Day is currently at the top of my list for "All Things Sucky" right now.

(as I just lost a few readers due to my total lack-of-class use of a not-so-real word).

Look, I don't know how else to put it. This one just kind of snuck up on me. I wasn't prepared for the complete lack of preparedness I feel for this one particular Sunday in June. I want my father back. Period. I mean, I think I knew last Father's Day that time was winding down- in fact, my blog entry from this time last year (found here), leaves no question to that train of thought- but, still... it is frustrating and disheartening nonetheless. So, I find myself on that dangerously, slippery line between self-pity and self-determination.

I look at the husband as he chuckles at something he is reading online. I think about how when the kids were younger, much younger, I would help them create or decorate or buy something for their dad for Father's Day and how I haven't had to do that for quite some time. Even now, the two youngest are discussing where they are taking him to eat tomorrow. I know they have already shopped on their own and have a gift or two tucked away that he will be sure to react with genuine surprise tomorrow. The oldest, who could not make it home this weekend, has already called to talk to his dad once this week and will no doubt call again tomorrow.

And that gives me cause to celebrate.

I think about all the Father's Day(s) I did have with my dad and I can only hope that I sincerely appreciated them all. I remember a sixth grade student I had years ago who lost his father a week before Father's Day and know that I have no reason to complain. I consider the kids I know today who are not even sure where their fathers are and shake my head in bewilderment.

I may or may not work on that shadow box tomorrow. When I mentioned it to my mom earlier today, she simply said, "You'll do it when you're ready." That is one thing our family is finding out for sure as we muddle through this year of "firsts" without the man who was such a big part of our lives... everything comes in due time. There is no fixed schedule for mourning; no exact time to do anything. Rushing only complicates things and "closure" is not a door that shuts easily. My mother demonstrated this perfectly a few months ago when she cleaned what has always been known as "Dad's Room". Some things had to go, but some things remained the same.

Such a beautiful reminder of the hope we carry, We shall meet again.





Happy Father's Day to the ones who are here,
the ones who have went on, and the ones who are yet to be.

Everybody's Got An Opinion

About the weather.
About the price of gas.
About Osama bin Laden.

Was it really him?
Will there be an act of revenge?
What's up with the president?

Is it all about ratings and polls and who gets the credit?
How about we just remember why we were looking for bin Laden anyway.

Virginia Jablonski, age 49.

World Trade Center, 94th floor

David Kovalcin, age 42.

Flight 11

Mark McGinly, age 26.

World Trade Center, 92nd floor

Michael Mullan, age 34

Ladder Company 12

I could keep going.

There's at least 2,821 more names to add.

I'm guessing you get the general idea, though.

You did catch that total, right?

2,825

Dead.

Murdered.

Never coming home.

Was that really Osama bin Laden's body they dumped in the ocean?

Time will tell.

Are we in danger of a terrorist act of revenge?
I wouldn't be surprised.

Was it all our president's doing?

Absolutely not.

But then again, it's not about any of that, is it?

If you need a reminder, check out Portraits 9/11/01

It's a very thick book about a whole lot of people.

And by the way, the weather has been crazy.
Gas prices are too high.
Osama bin Laden was a very troubled man.

I think we should be careful what we celebrate.
And that's my opinion.

Sympathy Cards

How does one express sympathy?

I've written two cards today and wondered at the words I chose. One card was short and to the point; the other rambled on a bit. One card was for the old; the other was for the young. How does a person choose words to comfort the living? I know there are scriptures and quotes and all kinds of poems that inspire encouragement and hope. I wonder, though, about the person who reads those words. What will comfort them?

I think back to my grandma's funeral. I have never experienced anything like it and I seriously doubt I ever will again. She was SO ready to go; it really was a celebration of sorts, as sad as it was. She was dressed in red like she wanted and we could all laugh as we talked about her life and the legacy she left behind.

But she was old.
She had lived a full life.
Her time on earth was complete.

But the young? Now that's a tough one. I don't even want to venture too far into this one. It's too raw, too vulnerable, too confusing. Some things just don't make sense, and yet we try to find words to write on a card to try to make sense of it all. I suppose that's just our way, all the while knowing that some things will never be understood this side of heaven. That's what makes us human.

My, oh my.
This is getting too deep.
And I have a lot of work to do.

Some things are worth taking the time to think about, though, I think. People are worth the time. The living need that inspiration to live. So I'll address my envelopes, use my stamps, and mail my cards with the hope that somebody is able to find that elusive moment of peace in a time of sorrow, not necessarily from my words, but just from knowing that people care and remember those who have went on.

It's good to remember.

What Tomorrow May Bring

Do you ever feel like you could just melt into your bed? I feel that way right now. My legs and feet ache from walking two nights in a row. How sad is that? My head aches from the Normans and the Slavics and some other stuff that although interesting to read, has left me feeling a little weary. I would take a hot bath, but then I would have to clean the tub first. There's no fun in that.

My girl's skirts keep getting shorter.
I keep pulling them back down.
That's become our nightly routine.

Last night we broke up the nightly routine with a family viewing (minus the girl) of the original Clash of the Titans, one of my favorite movies as a teenager. The boys were disappointed in what they labeled as "lame graphics" and deemed the entire plot "BORING," and yet they stayed glued to their seats the entire time.  Either they secretly liked the movie and just didn't want to admit it, or they enjoyed their time with their mom and dad so much they just didn't want to leave.

And a minor note here.... if you're anything like me, you tend to forget certain scenes from certain movies long ago. This one had brief glimpses of the female form in all her glory. I had completely forgot. While I positioned my hands in strategic places on the tv screen, the boys (and the dad) chastised me for what I brought into the home. Of course, their argument didn't stand a chance when I started rattling off video games that they play (dad included). Nonetheless, we all had a good laugh and I am confident they were in no way scarred. The plus side? No sex, no profanity. I'm good with what they saw. In fact, I would prefer that over most of the crap they see on primetime television any given night.

But that's another story.

I received some sad news from back home today that had me searching for cheap plane tickets. There were none to be found. Driving is out of the question so I read and cleaned and read some more. I looked at old pictures, talked to the kids, and thought about how precarious life can be. I watch the news and see things that don't matter get valuable media time and things that do matter swept under the rug. It really is an upside-down world.

But again, that's another story for another day.

For today, I'm thankful my kids are safe (short skirts and all).
I'm thankful for a friend to walk with (even if I do whine about achy legs).
And I'm even thankful for a dirty bathtub (I can always get a kid to clean it).

I'm thankful for schoolwork, past and present.
I'm thankful for people I have known.
I'm thankful for a God in Heaven.

Yet you do not know [the least thing] about what may happen tomorrow. What is the nature of your life? You are [really] but a wisp of vapor (a puff of smoke, a mist) that is visible for a little while and then disappears [into thin air].

 James 4:14 (Amplified Bible)

 

Five Minutes Late

Do you ever wake up in the morning with that feeling that something is just not right? That feeling that there is just something about this day, but you can't quite grasp what that something is?

I had one of those feelings today and I'm sorry to say that once I figured it out, a few curse words formed in my mind. Not the big ones, mind you, just the ones that pop into your head when you stub your big toe or burn your finger.

In other words, when something causes you instant pain and you fight back tears.

Darn it all to h-e-double-hockey-stick.

Three years ago this morning I got a call from my mom telling me if we were coming home we better get there. I spent the whole day crying and packing for the family while making extended lesson plans for my sixth grade class from my home phone. When my husband got home from work late that afternoon, I had the kids waiting on the front porch with suitcases in hand. He drove all night and he drove fast. He took a fifteen hour drive and made it into thirteen. He held my hand while a little girl whimpered in the back.

And then he apologized like crazy later.

We didn't make it.

Five minutes late.
Five minutes.
Five stinking minutes.

I am sorry, but you have no idea how many times I shook my fist at God for this. How many times I asked Him why He couldn't have waited just five minutes to take her home. How many times I have replayed that hospital scene in my head.... so glad to have arrived. So happy to see everyone. We could see her in her bed.

And then realizing that everyone was crying. Uncles had their heads in their hands. Aunts were doubled over, turned away towards the window. My mom hugging me and telling me she was gone.

Boy, that makes me mad all over again.

Five minutes.

Her body was still warm, she just wasn't there anymore. To the day I die, I will never forget standing there holding her hand telling her we tried to get there in time. It just seemed as if time stood still.

I made peace with it all later, I suppose, and with Him. I remembered her the way she was just a few weeks earlier as she sat in the Carolina sun on my front porch. I guess that's how He wanted it to be. It wasn't about me anyway. He probably couldn't have held her back any longer. One day, I'll be the same way.

I sure do love you and miss you, Grandma. I was five minutes late, but you were right on time.

Home with the Lord, January 18, 2008

For Gene

Last night I downloaded a few free books on my handy-dandy nook. One of them was a compilation of stories written by nurses and their experiences with dying patients. I read for a while before turning out the light. My mind, though, was a long way from shutting down. I found myself reliving a night many years ago. This one is for Papa Gene.

Gene was my step-grandpa, the man my grandma married after my grandpa passed away. I don't want to give too many details of the years that led him to his final stay in a nursing home because if I do, I'm bound to mess something up. I do know that he developed Parkinson's disease and became very forgetful and disoriented with everyday life. I remember one particular hospital visit in which he called my husband back to his bedside. I can still see one shaky, frail hand pulling Heath's head down close while the other hand pointed a very stern finger at him, You get ready, Son. Jesus is coming. That piece of advice summed up his life... even the bad times at the end. He forgot many things, but he never forgot the Lord.

On his last evening on this earth, Grandma had went home to wash her hair. She promised me she wouldn't be long and I agreed to stay with him because she was worried about leaving him alone. She surely knew his time was near. While she was gone, I sat beside his bed and read aloud from the Gideon's Bible that can be found in almost every hospital or nursing home room. I remember telling him I wished I knew what his favorite scriptures were while I read from Psalms. (Later, when Grandma would give me his Bible, I would cry when I saw those same passages of Psalm 62 underlined in pencil). He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. His eyes were clouded over and I suppose to most people, he was not seeing anything. I knew different.

I remember telling him I was jealous that he was going to see Jesus before I did. I remember telling him that I knew he was seeing something that I couldn't. I remember he stopped breathing for a brief moment.

That memory is vivid because I jumped up and went to the other side of his bed. I leaned over his bedside and pleaded with him, You cannot go until she gets back. Please, please wait on her. I wasn't so much as scared of him dying as I was of Grandma not being there. As God as my witness, the man started breathing again. I sat down in the chair again with shaky knees. I don't remember if I read more or just talked, I just know I watched the clock and watched the man I knew was standing at heaven's door.

Grandma did get back. She thanked me for staying with him and told me I needed to get home to my family. It probably took me about ten to fifteen minutes to get to my car, leave the nursing home parking lot, and drive to my mom's house to pick up the kids (only a two-year old and a five-month old baby at that point). That was enough time for Gene, though. He waited on her, but this world couldn't hold him. He made it to his heavenly mansion before I ever made it home.


Gene on my wedding day, 1993

But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words. (1 Thessalonians 4:13-18)



My Two Grandmas

Another era in my life came to an end yesterday afternoon with a phone call from my mom. My dad's mother passed away unexpectedly bringing my title as a granddaughter on this earth officially to an end.

One grandma was my biggest supporter (next to my own mom, of course) and introduced me to the Lord. She's been gone for almost three years now and yet her phone number can still be found on my cell phone. I have called it, in case you're wondering. At first one of those disconnected tones would sound; later an actual person answered. I stopped calling after that.

I didn't know the other grandma quite so well, but she was always glad to see me and would ooh and aah over my kids like a great-grandma does. She's the one I inherited my red hair from and as I looked in the mirror last night, I thought that I would never again hear the words, "I had hair that same color." Kind of makes me want to hang on to the color that I hated so much as a kid.

With that call that came in the middle of a parent-teacher conference, a dilemma arose that I have come to know and dread... do we drive back for the funeral? It seems like a no-brainer until you consider the van needs new tires, gas money is involved, and the kids would miss school. Oh, and it's a nine-hundred mile drive one way. Yeah. That's the kicker.

Both parents say they don't expect us to drive that distance for a few days when we have a December trip already planned. Logic warns against putting those expenses on a credit card. Faith says though the body is yet to be buried, the spirit and soul have moved on. My heart just wants my mom and dad.

At times like this, I feel just like a little kid that can't get her way. I feel so trapped... so stuck. Did I mention I have a cold? The bowl of Campbell's Homestyle Chicken Noodle Soup I just had just doesn't cut it, I can promise you that. My grandma, the first one, would have already made me her potato soup and sent it over. My mom would have brought me medicine, kleenex, and Lysol. My dad would have bought me a chocolate shake from the Dari Kup. I guess the combination of a death in the family and being sick on top it just naturally leads to an almost forty-year old woman wanting her mama.

Now, Mom, when you read this (like I know you will), don't get all down and worrying about me. I've got three kids that are doing their best to get along, make me hot tea, and load the dishwasher. I know the world doesn't revolve around me and whether or not I make it to a funeral; I just wish things could be different. I suppose this is where I look to my two grandmas: one gave me faith so I'll always know where I'm going, the other gave me fiery red hair so I'll remember where I've been. I guess that's what a legacy is all about.