Just a couple of months ago marked the anniversary of Papa’s brain cancer diagnosis, the start of this crazy, sad, and painful journey 5 years ago.  And just yesterday marked the anniversary of his death.

5 years.

5 YEARS…..

Seems like a lifetime ago, really.  And no, not “just like yesterday,” but like a lifetime ago.   In so many ways, life looks so different now:

Nana moved into a “new” house.

J Jr., C Bear, and Little M have grown by leaps and bounds (now 12, 9, and 5).

J and I have more wrinkles and (maybe) a gray hair or two.

J left corporate America to take a risk and work for himself from home.

I started my own business, and with the help of a friend, transformed fence pickets into reclaimed wood decor… and then returned to teaching at Little M’s preschool… and then (just recently) opened a fair trade gift boutique.

We filled in our pool (with dirt, not water).

Our walls got dirty(er) with unidentifiable kid-grime.

We laid our dear old beagle, Bobo, to rest and cried our eyes out (every last one of us).

Bones have been broken.  Surgeries have happened.  And huge dents have been inflicted on the basement walls from too-many a miss-fired soccer ball.

Life has changed in so many ways.

 

But life has continued on.

After sickness and goodbyes and grief and the not-so-beautiful, life has marched on.

Do you remember that tree?  That tree I chopped down when Papa was sick – when I was practicing ax-therapy at the expense of our landscaping?

In under an hour, it went from looking like this….

To this…

 

I felled that tree with its lifetime of growth, and the spot where it stood was left empty… much like a piece of my heart after Papa’s sickness and passing.

And in the void of that once tree-filled spot, I regretted chopping it down.

 

But you know what happened?

All on its own, in “up from the grave [it] arose” fashion, that tree started to grow once more.

First it was just a small shoot emerging from the forgotten stump, but little by little, inch by inch, it began to rise, in spite of the odds threatening it.

 

It was pelted by snow and rain…

Caterpillars and other critters feasted on its baby leaves…

Little M,  in all his toddler glory, stomped it’s tender new shoots and broke them in two (he & I both required a time out following that unfortunate event).

And yet, that tree just continued to grow in all the tenacity its little roots could muster.

And as soon as I saw the first signs of life emerging from that lonely stump, I deemed it our “Papa Tree.”  A tangible reminder that life truly was continuing to grow and display its beauty even in the midst of Papa’s absence.

In spite of being pelted with grief and sadness.

In spite of our babies growing up and so many moments and milestones happening without him.

In spite of less-than-stellar moments when life took twists and turns we never expected it to take.

Life has continued, and it’s reached new and good places that we never would have expected just 5 years ago.

I lost my father, Nana lost her husband, my boys lost their Papa,

but…

Our Heavenly Father has remained good and faithful through it all.  He has not left us in our grief.  He did not abandon us when Papa breathed his last breath.  He has continued to work and move, and time and time again I’ve been in awe and brought to tears while watching Him work in ways only He could orchestrate.

It took time though for me to see this.  There were many months of numbness and just-getting-through in the beginning.  Growth takes time, doesn’t it?  I believe time is the gift God gave me to begin the healing process from the trauma of Papa’s sickness and death.

I remember well one evening, about a year and a half after Papa had passed, I was preparing dinner and J was sitting at the kitchen island talking about death and grief.  My back was turned away from him as I chopped veggies or such, and I heard him say, “If someone asked me how long it takes for life to start feeling normal again [after losing a loved one], I’d say…”

He only paused for a second, but in that split-second, my shoulders tensed and my mind raced, “What’s he going to say?  Does he think I should be ‘normal’ now, that I shouldn’t still be a mess, that my timetable for grief is up?”

Then he finished his sentence, “I’d say it takes 3-5 years,” and I breathed a sigh of relief.  He got it, he understood; I wasn’t glad he’d suffered a similar loss when his mom passed 6 years prior, but I was glad he could empathize and wasn’t putting any expectations on me to hurry up and get back to “normal.”

Not that life ever gets back to what it was before, be it 3 years or 30, but a new normal is slowly and surely established, just like that tree growing in front of our home.  It looks different, it feels different, it isn’t the same as it once was.  There is, and always will be, a void in our hearts and at many a family event due to Papa’s absence, and there are times when I still have a good cry over it.  But the pain and the ache become less acute as the years go by, as new moments spring up and new memories are formed; as we continue to live, and love, and…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday, on this most recent anniversary of Papa’s death, I wondered what I/we could do to honor his memory.  I wished there was a special piece of jewelry he had gifted me that I could wear (side note:  all you fathers out there – go buy your daughter an heirloom-worthy jewelry piece; seriously, right now).  I digress.  It wasn’t until that evening when I was rushing my family out the door to get a family photo in my “we’re-not-eating-dinner-till-this-happens-so-smile-and- cooperate fashion, that it struck me.  Struck me that the vintage tripod I was unzipping out of case and hastily setting up; it was Papa’s.  And here we were standing next to our Papa tree, for a family photo, me setting timer and rushing in before the shutter started snapping.  Me taking on the role that Papa had filled for as long as I can remember.  Always the family photographer, the portrait-taker, the one setting up tripod and capturing smiles and documenting growth.  Without even realizing it, this simple act was honoring his memory.

Maybe heirloom jewelry isn’t so necessary after all.

Pretty sure we’ve just begun an October 2nd tradition; family photo by our Papa tree. Before we know it, we’ll have years-worth of photos documenting our growth.

As well as the growth of one very resilient tree.

 

Kids are funny sometimes.  Just last week when we were pulling into Nana’s driveway, Little M, who’s almost 3 now, looked at Nana’s car parked alongside us and commented,

“Papa’s car.”

Odd.  We never refer to Nana’s car as Papa’s, even though it was their shared car before he passed.  And I couldn’t even recall recently talking about Papa that would have caused Little M to have him fresh on his mind.

I nonchalantly replied to Little M that that’s just Nana’s car now and reminded him that Papa is up in heaven with Jesus.

When we walked into Nana’s house moments later, Little M asked where Papa was, as if he expected him to be there.  Again, we were a bit baffled.  Little M had never done this before, we never refer to Nana’s home as “Nana’s and Papa’s” – Papa had passed away before Nana ever moved there.

And a couple hours later, still at Nana’s, Little M added to our bewilderment when he noticed a pair of Nana’s sneakers left by her laundry room door.

“Papa’s shoes,” Little M said to Nana, pointing to the shoes.

Again, Nana corrected him, “No, those are Nana’s shoes.”

We scratched our heads and exchanged puzzled glances, wondering where this sudden interest in Papa had come from.

There was also that random moment about a month ago; Nana was at our place, she’d shown Little M a photo of her and Papa, probably taken over 10 years ago.  She pointed to Papa and asked Little M if he knew who that was,  and without missing a beat, Little M confidently replied,

“Papa.”

We were both a bit surprised.

And then she’d pointed to herself in the photo (her hair a different color and much shorter than present), and asked Little M who that was.  Funny enough, Little M replied,

“I not know,” or something similar to indicate he didn’t have a clue who that lady was standing next to Papa.

And with all this in mind, I’d like to pat myself on the back for doing such a good job of keeping Papa’s memory alive for my kids, especially Little M who was just a baby when Papa passed, but I can’t say I deserve the credit that would explain Little M’s sudden upsurgence of Papa-awareness.  Whatever the explanation may be (perhaps I’ll have to study child psychology more in-depth for that one), I’m grateful that Papa’s memory has yet to be lost on our kids.  Without much intention on our part, Papa still must be in enough comments or conversations or family photos that his memory is still present.  Somehow my baby boy knows that there’s someone who should be here; someone who’s obviously missing, this elusive “Papa” who must have a car and shoes and be somewhere at Nana’s house.

I’m not talking about some Papa spirit lurking around the corner… that would be just weird, and creepy.  Papa has no need to flit about this world in spirit form; as I’ve said before, he knew where he was going, and I have full confidence he’s quite at peace and fully content in the presence of our Heavenly Father this very moment.

What I am saying is that I find it interesting how it’s not a “given,” it’s not “normal” for Papa not to be here.  He was on this earth and a part of our family and the lives of others close to him long enough for it to seem abnormal that he’s gone.

A couple months after Papa passed, I was out with a couple close friends for breakfast.  We were talking about our plans for the upcoming holiday.  I mentioned how we’d be getting together with J’s family and that Nana would be flying out to spend it with Mark and his family.  One of my friends, kind of looked at me confused and asked,

“Well what about your dad?  What will he be doing?”

I stared blankly back at her for a brief second, wondering what on earth she was talking about.  And then it quickly hit me, she’d forgotten Papa was dead.

All I could do was awkwardly answer,

“Um… he died.”

Of course she instantly felt horrible for forgetting.  This was the same friend who called me the very morning after Papa died to offer her sincere sympathies and love, brought me a meal and offered encouragement at other times.  She knew the real deal and had been there in my grief, but in this brief moment of talking about holiday plans, she’d forgotten Papa was out of the picture.  All the previous years we’d casually talked about family plans for the holidays, Papa had always been very much alive.  It was normal that he should come up now as I talked about what Nana would be doing.  It was normal that my friend would automatically think of him still being here…

What wasn’t normal was that he was dead.

And there was that other time, probably 6 months or so after Papa passed, that time when another close friend was talking to me about some genealogy resource her aunt was crazy-into.  My friend knew how much Papa was into researching all the ins and outs  of our family genealogy and asked if he would be interested in the info she’d gotten from her aunt about this resource.  Again, it took me a second to realize what this friend was asking, that she was speaking as if Papa were still alive, that she’d completely forgotten that he wasn’t.  I tried to make some general response like,

“Well, yeah, probably not anymore.  I don’t think Nana would really be interested because that was more of Papa’s thing.”

I knew she’d feel horrible too, for her lapse of memory, and was trying to avoid the blunt,

“My dad’s dead, remember?”

But my friend didn’t catch on right away and asked something to the affect of,

“Is your dad not into the genealogy thing anymore?”

Crap.  So much for the subtle hint approach.

So I then had to remind her that Papa was dead and of course she felt horrible and it was an awkward few seconds, between this dear friend & me, this friend who’d also called to offer her sympathy soon after Papa died, had come to his memorial service and seen me in tears over the crappy grief stuff.  This friend who very well knew that Papa had died, yet in this brief moment was remembering all the years and years she’d known of Papa being very alive and present.  Who had heard about something she knew he was crazy-into and was wanting to pass the info along to him.  Because again, it was more normal for her to think of him as alive and here than dead and gone.

I wasn’t one bit hurt by either of these close friends forgetting Papa’s death.  I got it, especially since in those first few months following his death, I had to remind myself of that very thing.

I clearly remember during that time in moments of stillness and quiet, when I’d wake up first thing in the morning or be taking a shower, I’d repeat in my mind, over and over, and over again,

My dad’s dead.

My dad’s dead.

My dad’s dead.

Because it seemed so unnatural and surreal that Papa was truly gone.  And I had to remind myself that it was real – he really was dead and it wasn’t just something I’d imagined up in my head.

So if even I had a hard time remembering and grasping it, how much more so for my friends who had busy lives of their own without the constant reminders glaring at them on a daily basis.

And in a strange way, I’d rather have it like that.  I’d rather have the idea of Papa being here be more normal and natural than the idea of him not being here.  I’d rather have people still have his memory so fresh on their minds that they easily forget that he’s no longer with us.

I have another close friend who just months after Papa died, lost her baby girl.  My friend was 18 weeks pregnant and all the usual check-ups and tests had looked great.  She had no indication whatsoever that her pregnancy was not “normal,” that there was anything to worry about regarding the health of her daughter.  Until there was no heartbeat. And all her hopes and dreams and preparations and anticipations were turned upside down as she held her stillborn tiny baby in her hands.  And she had to say good-bye.  “Good-bye” before she’d even had the chance to say “Hello.”

Yet after losing her daughter she was faced with a different kind of challenge.  For where I was faced with people forgetting that Papa had died, she was faced with people forgetting that her daughter had lived.  For her baby girl had lived, for 18 weeks she’d lived in her mama’s womb.  And whereas most of my grief centered around missing Papa and who he was and all the memories I’d shared with him, this friend’s grief centered around missing out on knowing who her daughter would become and all the memories they would have, yet never had a chance to share together.

The “normal” for most of my friends and family included Papa being a part of my life, and yet the “normal” for most of the friends and family of this friend who lost her baby was for her to just have her two boys, no daughter in the picture.  Even strangers would be prone to assume I have a dad who is still living, whereas strangers would most likely never know that my friend once had a baby girl.

I guess it all goes to show that life is precious, and loss is painful, no matter the length of time you get with your loved one.  There’s no easy loss and grief is acute no matter the differences surrounding each unique loss.

For some we grieve what was, and for others, what could have/should have been.

And what we appreciate most in the midst of it is others remembering life, not death.  That a dad or daughter or sibling, mother, brother, grandparent, spouse, friend lived and was loved, and that that fact is not forgotten.  And that the memory of that loved one continues to live on.

 

 

 

 

 

(I wrote this post for another blog several months after Papa died.  I’m back-dating it to have it fit sequentially and including it here now due to a conversation I had with a friend this morning.  She recently lost her dad and is struggling with the juggle of trying to grieve while also caring for her little ones, the same struggle I was facing when I wrote this.  This one’s for you, Susan.)

March 21st, 2014

I don’t usually wear my pajamas to the bus stop, but this morning was hectic.  Little M had risen too early at 5AM for a pre-breakfast snack.  And then we went back to sleep… and overslept a wee bit.  So the mad rush of breakfast, morning chores, making of lunches, and scrambling out the door ensued.  With a shoe-tying and sweatshirt vs. coat fiasco thrown in for good measure.  Then we missed the bus.  Just barely.  I’ll blame it on the substitute bus driver actually showing up on time (we usually get a couple minute buffer from the regular bus driver).  There were tears (riding the bus is so much more fun than Mom driving you) and I quickly became paranoid we’d be pulled over or get into an accident en route to school (anything that would require me to get out of the car in my multi-colored snowflake pants, clogs, and bed-head… Oh, dear).  Mid-way to school I realized I’d only partially buckled Little M into his car seat (we were supposed to be driving just to the bus stop, remember), and I had to pull over to fix it.  Of course I did NOT get out of the vehicle (snowflake pants, remember), choosing the higher road of awkwardly contorting my body, butt in the air of the driver’s seat, to secure the said car seat buckles.  Thankfully, we somehow made it to school and back home with no further tears or humiliation.

Ah, if I could just get myself together.  Get up earlier, like I keep telling myself I should.  To exercise, have devotions, some quiet respite before the frantic rush of the day begins.  That would make things so much easier.  Why can’t I just make it happen?

Soon after we returned home from school this morning, I checked my email while C Bear and Little M were being entertained by cartoons.  A moment to breathe.  In the midst of the dozens of got-to-unsubscribe-myself-to-that marketing hype emails, there was a gem from a friend.  A link to a daily devotional.  Just happened to be on grief, titled “Jesus Mourns with You.”  You can find it at Proverbs 31 Ministries here.  As I read it, I found myself crying, relating when the author spoke of the woman in the story and how “the more she pushed her grief down, the more it came out in places she didn’t want it to, and in ways that she didn’t understand or expect.”  I felt like nodding when the author said, “Perhaps today you understand Amber’s pain. You desire to live whole, but you live with untended grief….  In the presence of Jesus, you don’t have to numb it, escape from it or push it down. Your heavenly Father requires none of these. Just as Jesus welcomed Mary, He beckons you to come to a safe place, where your Savior is not afraid of sorrow.”  I took a minute to cry and pray and just be.

Okay, so actually not a minute.  More like 45 seconds.  Because my moment, brief moment, was quickly interrupted with C Bear yelling, “Little M’s pulling cords out of the wall!”  And then I had to figure out how to turn the cable box back on and get the ever-loving “Jake & the Neverland Pirates” episode back in business.

And then it was time for Little M’s nap, and granola-making with C Bear,

and lunch, and shower, and errands, and…..

Let’s just say there wasn’t a whole lotta time to be tending to my sorrow with Jesus.

There are days when I wonder how this grief thing is supposed to work itself out when you’re mothering young kids, when you go non-stop all day and often feel overwhelmed with just getting through the daily.  When life keeps rushing ahead with no slowing down.  And then when you do get that ever-so-slight moment of reprieve, you’re just too tired or numb to work through things, however you’re supposed to do that.  Or kids start pulling cords out of the wall.  Not all days are like this.  Just some.  Some are just plain harder or sadder or crazier than others.

Often in those hard moments, I’ll inwardly look heavenward and ask, “Lord, when does it get easier?”

In the chaos of making dinner tonight, kitchen still a mess from breakfast, lunch;

Child to discipline, consequences to dole out;

Baby in the cabinets, lids and bowls all helter skelter;

Then baby racing, splashing in the dog’s dish, slobbered water all over baby, the floor….

There I was asking again, “Lord, when does it easier?”  That grief always there, under the surface, sometimes brewing closer to the surface, sometimes spilling over in welled-up eyes, short-temper, inner dialogue.  Tonight was one of those nights when just making dinner felt like too much.  Please, would someone hit the pause button and let me have a MOMENT, a moment to process, a moment to mourn?  But as I worked on, stretching, pinching dough, mixing pesto, slicing, sauteing veggies, grating cheese, I was reminded of the blessings in that moment.  Food to prepare, kids to feed, husband working, house to dwell in, even in the mess.  Health.  Faith.  Love.  When willing to step out of my small world of P.J. pants, and too-tight shoelaces, and baby crying, and bandaged boo-boos, when willing to take a moment to gaze into the hardships of the greater world around me, I have to look upward again, this time asking, “Lord, why do I have it so easy?”

For in many ways I do have it easy, I am so blessed.  Truly.  My daily “hardships” are more often than not laughable.  And yet that doesn’t mean in the here-and-now moments it isn’t hard.  Hard with working through emotions and grief as life rolls on.  Maybe I don’t need to “get it together” or get up earlier or just make it happen.  Or even hit the pause button.  Maybe I need to learn to roll with it, to keep rolling with it, to take the gem of an encouraging devotional or even 45 seconds to cry, and count these moments, no matter how small, as God’s gifts; signs of His presence in the midst of life in all it’s crazy, glorious reality.  Because He’s bringing me through each day with His strength, in His way.

Helping dinner get prepared in a mess of a kitchen,

While boys are peaceably entertained,

And sleepy & unhappy baby is sequestered to devices of safe confinement,

And the table is cleared of the day’s activities,

And green pesto pizza is served up to a hungry crew.

He’s even there in the midst of groans and complaints from the little people even before the first bite is taken (“Ewww, gross!,”  “Why did you have to make this kind of pizza?!,” “I don’t like pesto!,”  “It’s too spicy!”).  [I feel it necessary to note that their portion of the pizza was the cheese section, not the zucchini & onion section, for those who may feel I’m inflicting cruel and unusual punishment on my children].

And even when I sigh and wonder why I didn’t just make “normal” pizza to appease the masses, He helps me speak words of encouragement, “No, it’s not spicy,” “Just try it.”

And then in a moment, the hard day becomes a little easier.  A bite is taken.  A smile to replace the frown.  A “this is good!” is actually uttered from the mouths of babes.  And I smile.  And when the day’s “Highs” (good things) & “Lows” (not so good things) are shared by all around the table, I enjoy a moment, this moment, where life slows down, just a bit, around a pan of green pizza.

Later there’s football outdoors to be grateful for while I tackle the kitchen, laughter of three boys in the tub, and Daddy’s nightly made-up bedtime story and then good-night prayers.  For another day with its “highs” & “lows” and 45 seconds to mourn.

I want to be past this hard part of grief.  This messy, unpredictable stage where I can’t quite get a handle on my emotions or get myself as “together” as I’d like.  I heard once in reference to Psalm 23 where it speaks of the valley of the shadow of death, that the thing about shadows is that they move, they don’t stand still.  The shadow of grief and death and all that goes with it isn’t permanent, and I find hope in that knowledge.

Psalm 23:4 reads:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

Jesus knows the sorrow of grief.  He is with me, and anyone who’s walked this similar path, as we walk through this valley.  Through it.  And as I make my way through it, it’s encouraging to know He’s right by my side to comfort me, meet me where I’m at, and help me keep on moving forward.  Even when I’m heading out the door in my snowflake pants.

 

The shopping behind us, the wrapping complete.

Stacks of Christmas cards and packages mailed, and received.

Gifts exchanged, opened.

Food purchased, prepared, and savored.

Time with family near and far around table and tree.

Warm greetings and reluctant goodbyes (far beyond reasonable bedtimes).

Yet another Christmas come and gone.

Sweet memories to cherish, and (admitably) a hidden sigh of relief for making it through the hustle and bustle of the season.

And now, these days following Christmas, a chance to recoup and reflect.  Reflect on the goodness of the season and the goodness of our God, who sent His own Son so many Christmases ago, the reason why we celebrate each year.  The same God who continues to give good gifts.

This year my favorite gift wasn’t one wrapped under the tree, it wasn’t made by human hands, and there wasn’t a box or gift bag big enough to place it in.

It’s a gift that had more givers than I can scarcely count, yet one ultimate Giver that never ceases to amaze me with His goodness and His faithfulness.

My favorite gift by far?  The gift of a new home and new beginnings… for Nana.  This is the gift I’m most grateful for this season.

Yet simply “a new home” doesn’t begin to give you the full picture for how this new home came about and what truly makes this gift so meaningful.

Oh, how does one wrap this up?

(pun intended)

I do believe the full version of the story is in order…

So that is indeed what I’m dishing out:

After a loved one dies, people often say it’s wise not to make any major life changes.  To allow yourself time to grieve and process and get familiar with the new “rhythm”of life.  Once Papa was gone, Nana did just that, specifically in regards to her house.  Not necessarily because anyone told her to, but rather because she was content and comfortable to “stay put.”  She hired a friend to mow the grass and neighbors helped with plowing snow from her driveway, starting up the generator anytime the power went out, and assisting her when technical difficulties would arise with the computer and such.  When her basement flooded, friends from her church came to the rescue, installing a sump pump and digging the necessary trenches.  We were all grateful for kind neighbors and friends and their willingness to lend a hand when needed, yet we all knew, Nana included, that “staying put” wasn’t an ideal long-term solution.  J and I recruited for her to downsize and move closer to us, and Nana eventually became amenable to the idea.

Parting with her home though, her’s and Papa’s home, downsizing, sorting-through decades of treasures, packing up and moving, moving on, was no simple step for Nana.  Understandably so. Papa and Nana had bought their home together several years earlier when they’d made the big move across states and country, far from the home they’d known for so long, from the area in which Nana had been born and raised and where she had lived the majority of her life.  Papa, especially, had been so excited about the move, excited about new beginnings, and their newly constructed home out in the country.  They’d had fun purchasing new furnishings, having some even custom-built to fit their space and new decor.  It was a beautiful home on a nice lot of land as well.  It was where Papa had wanted to remain for as long as was absolutely possible when he’d become sick, when that tonuge-twisting anaplastic astrocytoma tumor had made itself apparent and its ill-effects ensued.  The home where Papa did indeed remain up until his final day on this earth.

So it was with mixed emotions, that Nana finally did take the leap, putting her house, her’s and Papa’s home, on the market early this past summer.  She didn’t know for sure where she’d end up, but she was willing to step out in faith and wait and see where God would lead.

So with house officially on the market,  the “waiting and seeing” officially began.

Or at least the “waiting” did.

We all waited for the perfect offer to come in.

And we waited for the “just right” new home to come on the market in her desired neighborhood.

Yep, waited and waited and waited we did….

But nothing happened.

Days and weeks and months passed and there were no “nibbles” on Nana’s beautiful home, much less any offers.

And no homes became available in her desired neighborhood either (except for the one that smelled horribly of moth balls, ick!, but, clearly, that one didn’t count).

So Nana, half-heartedly, dropped the price on her house.

And then we waited some more.

Weeks passed.

And still nothing happened.

(insert crickets chirpping here)

So Nana dropped the price once again.

And,then, (drumroll, please), just hours later, as if right on cue,  Nana’s realtor called…

A house had just gone on the market in her target neighborhood!

Could this be “the one?”

We scheduled an appointment to see it ASAP.

And as soon as we walked in, I knew… knew this was the place.  The place for Nana.  It reminded me of her current house, just smaller.  It seemed like there was just the right spot for all her furniture pieces.  And the lot was one of the best in the neighborhood.  The association would take care of all the maintenance and it was much closer to our place.

It was…

Perfect.

Well perfect except for two itsy-bitsy, minor details:

One, it was way-overpriced and two, Nana’s house still hadn’t sold (in fact, those darn crickets continued to chirp).

Drats!

So I did what any sensible person would do and attempted to finagle and figure out how we could make this place happen for Nana.  After all, clearly it was perfect, so there had to be some logical way to make/force the pieces to fit into place.  I knew houses going on the market in this neighborhood were rare and certainly this one wouldn’t last long.  Yet try as I might, it just didn’t make financial sense.

There was nothing we could do but sit and wait (some more) and see what would happened next.

And while we waited, I prayed that God would somehow work it out.  That He would save this place for Nana, because He must know it was meant for her.

And then something miraculous happened.  After just a few weeks of waiting, Nana received word that she had two back-to-back showings scheduled for her house (and if you knew how few and far between showings were for her home in the rural countryside, you would agree that this was, indeed, a miracle).

And if that wasn’t enough, another miracle:  an offer came in!  And after a bit of negotiating, a price was agreed upon.  (Months earlier J had asked me what price I would be comfortable with Nana’s house selling for, and, for no reason than “just because,” this was the exact price I’d voiced to him at that time… mere coincidence?)

And guess what?

Of course you’ve already guessed it, but I’ll tell you anyway…

God had saved that “perfect” place for Nana, had saved it just for her.  And even softened the seller’s heart to drop the price, even so far as to drop it a couple thousand less than Nana’s “top-dollar” offer.

Because God is good like that.

And He was watching out for Nana, even in the little things of what piece of land her new house would sit on and how its walls would be configured for furniture placement.

But God didn’t stop there.

He then sent in the cavalry.

Nana had a few measly weeks for closing, and in spite of all the months of waiting prior, little packing had been done.  Packing up an entire house-full of STUFF can be daunting for a family, much less an individual.  Pile on top of that closing details and inspection issues to remedy and it can be pretty overwhelming.

And that’s where the cavalry came in.

Ladies from Nana’s church, 1 or 2 a day, five or six days a week, for three weeks, coming in and packing up boxes upon boxes, room by room, until Nana’s house was packed and ready.

Ready to roll.

But wait, there was still the task of getting all that stuff from point A to point B; another monumental task in and of itself.

So the cavalry continued to roll in fresh troops.

In the form of 20+ men and boys, age 16-70, a crew of infantry loading box upon box, awkward, heavy pieces of furniture, and don’t forget that piano (no need for a dolly).  All there for an evening of “fun” (i.e. back-breaking labor).  With prayers of encouragement, words of thanks, and the biggest moving van on the lot along with two large trailers to boot.  Complete with a cleaning crew of two lovely ladies, mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, vacuuming dust bunnies, and getting the house ship-shape for closing.  Not to mention food provided to feed the whole lot of them.  And all this a mere week before Christmas.  Cavalry, shining knights on horseback, or absolute saints; absolutely gifts from above.

Mr. head-mover himself, the man who rallied these troops from Nana’s church, had done so with a call to arms via email.  “This is in honor of [Papa],” the email read.  “Because he had a servant’s heart.”

And hearing this choked up Nana and myself, because truer words could not be said.  We knew Papa, could he have been there, would have himself shown up for someone in need… he himself had shown up more times than either of us could count, to give aide in such a way and countless more.

And I was touched, overwhelmed, by this outpouring of love, such a demonstration of being Christ’s hands and feet, packing and moving Nana, all these individuals from her church.  I was touched because Nana and Papa both did, and Nana continues to do, so much for others, both of them having servant’s hearts, jumping at the chance to help when given the opportunity.  And now here it was, “pay-back” time, Papa surely looking down from above with a smile that Nana was being so well taken care of in her time of need.

And the cavalry continued to advance.

Again, a couple days later, 20+ men, some different than before, along with 4 ladies helping to unload the truck, unpack boxes and move Nana into her new place.  With donuts and coffee whisked in by others to reward the faithful troops.  Again with smiles and prayers and words of encouragement.

Wow! (you know, the jaw-on-the-floor kind of “Wow!”)

Christ’s arms wrapped around us in human form.

The gift of a new home and so much more.

This isn’t to say though that good gifts are always easy gifts when you’re the one on the receiving end.  For even as we are sure and certain this is a good gift, it’s still a difficult one.  For in opening her hands to receive it, Nana has had to let go as well.  Let go of her’s and Papa’s comfortable and familiar home, the one they shared together, in order to receive a new home, one that is simply “her” home, not “their” home.  One that holds no memories of their past 40+ years together other than the memories being unpacked from the boxes.

A new home, where new memories will be made; hopefully many full and happy ones.  A new home where “good-byes” must be voiced in order to usher in new “hellos” to what’s ahead.   New friends to be made and welcomed in, and new traditions to begin.

A letting go of what was…

To welcome in what will be…

(In the midst of the packing, Nana gave me some oval frames (shown above), ones that had belonged to her grandmother.  I painted and repurposed those frames into chalkboards, one of which I “regifted,”, so to speak, back to Nana, as a welcome gift for her new home.  On it, I wrote one of my favorite Bible verses, one that has offered me such hope after my own losses. I am confident that God has good plans ahead for Nana in her new home, plans to prosper her and give her a full-of-hope future).

So we enter into this new year with our good gifts, grateful for what we’ve been given and expectant for what lies ahead.

Happy New Year!

Happy 2016!

 

 

In the days and weeks that followed Papa’s death, I found myself at a loss as to how to do this grief “thing.”

The first Sunday after Papa died, I was getting ready for church, and I remember looking at myself in the mirror, unsettled and half thinking, half praying,

Lord, I don’t know how to act.

It felt so awkward, facing a bunch of people, passing them in the halls, sitting in the sanctuary, chatting after church.

What would I say, how was I to act?

Would I be a mess or be ok?

And if I was “ok” would people think I was too cold?

And if I was a mess, would people shy (or run) away?

I didn’t want people to ignore the fact that my dad had passed, but I also didn’t want them dwelling on it too much, making it that much harder.

Was I really ready to go out there and face the outside world?

But Lord, I don’t know how to act….

And it was one of those moments where I didn’t hear an answer booming down from heaven, but rather a still small voice in my spirit, which I believed to be a clear answer from above,

Act like my child.

In that response, I was able to take a deep breath and realize that was all God was asking me to do, just act like His child and trust Him rather than getting caught up in myself and worrying about acting, or not acting, in a certain way.

When we got to church, walking in went just fine (the service had already begun, so we were able to slip into our row during worship time quite unnoticed – which was fine by me).   The pastor preached (I have no recollection about what) and at the end of the service, as we were all standing up and the pastor was giving his closing words, I was caught off guard when he announced to the congregation that I’d lost my dad and to please be praying for me and my family (so much for slipping in unnoticed).  I was touched for the concern and prayers, I just wasn’t expecting the request to be brought like that before our entire congregation, many of whom most likely didn’t know me or that my dad had been sick.

As we sang our final worship song, I turned to J and whispered, “Don’t leave my side.”

It’s our usual routine to go our separate ways after the service to pick up the boys from their separate classes, but this morning I didn’t want to walk those halls alone.  I wanted J’s moral support by my side.  So that’s just what he did and I don’t remember the particulars of the encounters we had with friends, but I remember it all went ok and I was glad that I’d stepped out of my comfort zone and shown up, even if pulling the covers over my head was what my natural instincts told me to do.

In those first couple of months, friends would ask me how I was doing, and I’d honestly tell them that I was doing pretty well, but I’d also tell them that I still felt numb and that I assumed the hard part would hit later (experience had taught me that grief sometimes works like that).

At that point, J and I were no strangers to grief; we’d lost his mom suddenly and unexpectedly several years prior and had also gone through a miscarriage early on into one of my pregnancies a few years after that.  We knew that grief often gets harder before it gets easier.

In some ways I felt like it was similar to my experience with my second and third c-sections.  The first time around with J Jr., the c-section was unexpected and I was going in blind, having no idea what I was in for or what the recovery was like.  I was just along for the ride when they took me into the operating room and then when I went through the recovery process.  But the subsequent times, I knew what to expect, and although I knew I’d get through it, it was hard not to look ahead with a little dread at what was to come (except for the new baby of course, which makes all the momentary discomforts well worth it!).

Grief is kind of like that (minus the sweet and rewarding baby part).  The first time around it turns you on your head, turns your world upside down and shakes out all the pieces, leaving you with a mess of figuring out how to put “normal” life back together again.  It catches you off guard, but since you don’t know what to expect, you’re just kind of along for the ride.  But as grief is faced with subsequent times, it’s hard not to have that sense of dread; knowing it’s going to be messy and unpredictable, and hard.  Knowing that the waves will come, but not knowing when, not knowing how.  Knowing they can hit you years later at the most random times (who knew picking up a half gallon of OJ at the grocery store could trigger a smile-worthy memory of my mother-in-law and bring with it tears of sadness right there in aisle 12?).  Knowing that the first year the pain is acute and its a “getting-through,” and that the second year the pain is more of an ache and it’s a “wow, they’re really gone and I sure do miss them,” and that after that it gets a little easier year by year, but the missing is always there, the hole their presence leaves always there.

All that to say, I wasn’t going in blind this time, and I knew the emotions would hit and it would be rough and I wasn’t looking forward to that.  I wished that there was a fast-forward button that I could push to just get past the hard part, quickly, and land me back on more solid, happier ground.  But unfortunately, that’s not how it works.  And in the working through it, sludging through the muck and mire of it, that’s most likely where the healing comes. That and the surrender.

That’s one thing that I’d learned in my previous losses that makes things different this time around.

The surrender.

After J’s mom’s death and our miscarriage,  the hurt was acute.  I kept having this urge to take a stack of plates (lots and lots of plates), and hurl them one by one at a brick wall (some brick wall somewhere), till they were all smashed to a million shards against that darn brick wall.  In reality, I never wanted to actually hurt anyone or anything during that time, but the thought of throwing and punching and kicking some inanimate object was often on my mind, the feeling that all that would somehow help alleviate the pain, somehow help release what I was feeling inside.

I distinctly remember one particular moment in the midst of that hurt, I was sitting alone in our family room, sitting in our red and green plaid arm chair praying.  I was pouring out my hurt and my heart to God, telling Him that I just wanted to fight something, I just needed to fight something.

And in His still-small-voice kind of way, God spoke to my heart:

Why are you coming to me with your fists clenched?  Your dukes up, ready to fight?

Why do you want to fight?

Open up your hands.  Come to me with your palms wide open.

Surrender.  

That was a defining moment for me.  It didn’t take the pain away, but it changed my perspective.  It made me realize my anger in my grief and my desire to fight for control over a situation I had no control over.

When I came to God with hands wide open, I was choosing to surrender to His will, to trust Him in the hurt and the unknown.  And that act of surrender allowed His peace to flood in, and allowed Him to place in my open palms the good things He had in store for me (and for our family).

So I’m sure coming from that place of surrender helped in dealing with the loss of Papa.  That and the experience of seeing his health and faculties decline in those two months prior to his death. The surrender and the seeing of his suffering  helped in the letting go and the being more ready to say goodbye.

There was a peace in knowing, sensing so strongly, that it was Papa’s time to go, it was God’s timing and His grace to take him home when He did.  There was no question in my mind of the “why?” this time around.  That’s something else that previous experience helped me deal with.

There were many “whys?” surrounding J’s mom’s death.  Perhaps because it happened so suddenly.  Us visiting with her as “usual” one day and the very next day, her experiencing bleeding in the brain, going into a coma, and just days later passing from this earth.  There was no time to say goodbye, no time to begin to prepare for her loss.  It shook our world.

The first mother’s day after my mother-in-law’s death, I remember sitting in church, listening as the pastor preached on the passage about Jesus healing the woman who experienced continuous bleeding (I was always puzzled at the pastor’s choice of this story on Mother’s day, but most likely there was some tie-in that I missed on this particular day).  I knew this story, but as the pastor spoke, tears streamed down my face and I questioned God:

If you healed this woman of her bleeding Lord, why didn’t you heal my mother-in-law?

You could have healed her, God…

And immediately I sensed God answering my tearful questioning:

But I did.

It took me a minute to let this answer sink in:

But He did????

Yet slowly I understood.  Yes, God had healed my mother-in-law; fully and wholly.  She’d always had a bad heart (speaking physical heart here), and now, in heaven, she was fully healed, fully restored.  Running, leaping; no worries, no fears.  God had healed her, just not on this earth.  Not as we left behind would have chosen, but as He chose.

Perfectly healed.

I’ve found that experiencing death and loss forces you to dig deeper; if you let it.  It has caused me to realize all the more how finite and fleeting this life is, how temporary it is.  It has made me realize, more than ever before, that this world is not our home.  Not our final home, anyway.  We are simply passing through.  There are far greater things yet to come.

I went to a couple of sessions of a grief support group after J’s mom died.  I was struggling and wanted to know more of the stages of grief and what was “normal,” etc.  The one thing I took away that has stuck with me ever since was one participant’s take on things; his perspective after losing his college-age daughter in an auto accident.  It was nothing profound, but just the way he spoke about it made sense to me.  He said he made peace with his daughter’s death with the perspective that we live in a fallen world, it’s not perfect, and bad things happen.  We are not immune to this.  He said he didn’t believe that God caused or willed his daughter to die, but rather that it was just a result of living in an imperfect world.  He believed that God was faithful in the midst of it, but not that it was God’s will for his daughter to die in that moment.

You can get all theological here if you so choose, but I choose to share this man’s perspective.  Truly, God’s will is fairly straight-forward, for us to know Him through a relationship with Him and for us to glorify HIm.  He uses all sorts of events to draw us toward Him, but I don’t believe it is God’s will or desire for His children to suffer and experience loss.

Several months after Papa’s death, in my women’s Bible study group, the age-old topic of “why do bad things happen to good people?” came up.  One woman asked why God would not prevent bad things happening to His children, and another brought up that if we knew our own child was going to do something that would cause him physical harm, surely we would step in and do everything in our power to prevent it.

And in that moment, it clicked.  Clicked in more than it ever had previously, al least.  We have such a temporal, earthly view of suffering.  When we ask God why He is just standing by doing nothing while His children suffer, we completely forget His ultimate sacrifice.

Wouldn’t a loving Father step in and do anything in His power to save His child from harm?

But He already did.

Don’t we get it?  He already did.  He already made the ultimate sacrifice.  He sacrificed His very own son, Jesus, in order that we might be saved; in order that our pain might be wiped away and that we would live fully, eternally (as in FOREVER), in peace, fully loved, fully healed, fully whole, in His presence.

And I’ve known this since before I could even write my own name, but it’s never sunk in so fully as it has in just the past few years.

Our life here is but a vapor, a mist; it is quickly passing.  And no, no one wants cancer, or the death of a loved one, or a disabled child, or financial instability, or war, or broken relationships, but this world is not our ultimate home.  This world is flawed and that’s why we so desperately need Jesus and that’s why in His perfect, absolutely boundless love for us, God, our Father, chose to give us Jesus, to pay the ultimate price on our behalf.

Don’t we get it?

Do you get it?

I’m not saying the problems of this world are trite.  They’re not, and we feel them to the fullest degree.  There are times when we bawl our eyes out and the pain weighs heavy on our hearts.  Times when the world seems to be pressing in on all sides and its all we can do to keep our heads above water.  Times when we’re at a loss and desperate for answers….

But if you believe in God, you (we, me), must also believe His word is true.  That He is for us, not against us.  That He sees the big picture and His good will prevail.  That He is with us and promises to be faithful.  And He will be faithful.

This world is not our home.  Better things are yet to come.  Do not lose heart.

“For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come.” (Hebrews 13:14

Just yesterday, in searching for a song for another post, I stumbled across this one (below) and found it so fitting for this whole theme of surrender.  Haven’t been able to get it out of my head since and have subsequently hit up YouTube for it more times than I can count… just maybe.  One thing I’m looking forward to about heaven is being able to sing like the angels – you know where you just open your mouth and you’re perfectly in key and rockin’ all the notes and lyrics?.  For now, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the voices of those already blessed which such a voice (and sing along in the privacy of my own home).

I lean not on my own understanding, 

My life is in the hands of the Maker of heaven…

I give it all to you God, 

Trusting that you’ll make something beautiful out of me…

Nothing I hold onto…

I will climb this mountain with my hands wide open…

 

Just listen and be blessed:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ma6syhsYvKw

 

“To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.”

-Isaiah 61:3

 

Lord, these hands are wide open, make something beautiful from these ashes….

 

 

 

 

The outpouring of love & support during Papa’s illness and after his loss blew us away and made us realize to an even greater degree how blessed we were (and are) with a wonderful support system of family and friends.

If I could, I’d have one of those photo grids (little boxes with head shots of people all forming one big square grid) so you could see each and every one of the dear faces of everyone who helped us during this time, but, alas!, my graphic arts skills are sorely lacking and no such grid is happening any time soon.  Shoot!  So we’ll just pretend….

(enter grid here)

But first, allow me to back-track a bit to highlight that this “support” thing is no simple matter:

It was a number of years ago, soon after J’s mom died, that I heard from a friend how a mutual friend (whom I’d lost touch with) mentioned to her that he & his wife had decided to pull back from reaching out to us in order to provide space for those closer with us to reach out.  I didnt (and don’t) hold this against this friend, but at the time, I was a little hurt that this friend would feel this way.  Frankly, I considered his rational completely ridiculous.  Why would anyone choose to hold back from offering a kind word, a card, or some other form of acknowledgement and concern for someone they knew had just experienced such a great loss?  Make room for those closer to reach out?  Isn’t there plenty of room for any and everyone to reach out?

And yet, before I begin to sound too condescending, I must admit that just a few years later, I found myself acting in a similar way:

Very close together, I had two people whom I knew, lose loved ones.  My good friend’s sister lost her mother-in-law and a prior Bible study leader lost her father.  I didn’t have a lot of contact with either of these people, but certainly knew them well enough to send a card and offer my sympathies; so I decided to do just that.  I soon found myself in the card aisle, debating over the wording of countless sympathy cards, finally narrowing it down to two cards and purchasing them.

And if that was that, and I went home and wrote a little note and mailed out those cards, there’d be nothing more for me to say here than “Way to go!,” but, unfortunately, that’s not how it played out.  No, I came home and read over those cards again and balked.  I decided the wording in the cards was too cheesy, too trite; I decided maybe I wasn’t close enough with these dear people to send a card with such wording; I decided maybe it would be better to just not  send a card at all.  So I didn’t.

I pulled back and did nothing.

Nothing.

Absolutely.  Shamefully.  Ridiculous.

Pretty much I decided to focus on me and how the receivers of these cards might think about me if I sent sympathy cards that might somehow miss the mark.

Me.

I cringe every time I recall this story because I’m ashamed that in the moment of grief for two people I cared about and was hurting for, I decided to take the low road and focus on myself and how my actions might be viewed, rather than taking the high road and just doing something, anything, to tangibly let others know that I did indeed care and was praying for them.

Here’s the thing, the bottom line, and the reason I think it’s hard to know what to do, what to say, when someone is going through a tragedy:  in reality, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, anyone can do to take the hurt away, to make it easier, to “fix it” when someone has lost a loved one.  There are no perfect words in a card, no just-right meal, no incredibly thoughtful gift that can make it all better.  And yet that’s just what we want to do and that’s just what makes it so difficult.  We see a friend suffering and we want to help, anyway we can, but we feel helpless, feeling that any effort falls short.

And sometimes it’s easier to just avoid the pain and do nothing at all.

Cause what the heck are we supposed to do???

Just…

show…

you…

care.

That’s it; that’s all there is to it.  Just do something, anything, to let the person know you care.  And then realize that you’re only a small piece of the puzzle, an important piece, but just a piece.  The full breadth of encouragement does not lay wholly on your shoulders, but is shared by all those who are surrounding your friend as well.  In my experience, I didn’t notice what my friends didn’t do, but rather what they did do.  Each person (including you!) has a unique way in which they can encourage and lift up a hurting friend.  And as everyone tangibly cares in their own ways, gaps are filled and spaces overlap, all together creating a wonderful picture of love.

 

Can I tell you something?  I received a lot of cards, and the majority of the “Hallmarky” wording of all those cards I barely scanned.  In the wake of losing Papa, with memorial service and scads of other details, welcoming guests and meals, and continuing life as wife and mom, there wasn’t a lot of time to just sit and ponder the wording in those cards.  And frankly I didn’t care what the generic wording read.  I really only cared about one thing:  the name signed at the bottom of those cards and any personal note that might have been included.  I would read that name, or names, and my heart would be warmed and encouraged; They know and they care!   So as I apologize for those who agonized over “just the right” card for me in the Target aisle, the truth of the matter is, all that mattered to me was your name.  All that mattered is that you cared and you made sure I knew it.

But sympathy cards were just one aspect of the support we received .  There were so many other ways people showed they cared (during Papa’s illness and after his passing).

Here are just a few ways that stood out to me (some of them are being repeated here):

While Papa was sick:

• Friends stopping by with hot tea that first night in the ER
• A cross-country family friend sending a restaurant gift card for me and Nana to go out to lunch
• A friend and her kids stopping by with a meal and staying to chat & play
• Friends and family watching the boys so I could attend Papa’s important doctor’s appointments
• A friend sending me a Groupon for a massage
• Dinner out with girlfriends who knew what it was like to have a parent with terminal cancer
• Friends taking our big boys along on a fun family outing so J & I could have a low-key day at home
• Friends (neighbors) watching our boys next door while J & I went for a walk at a nearby park
• Emails/texts/calls from multiple friends and family members to check in for updates and offer up prayer

After Papa’s passing:

• A friend leaving flowers for me to come home to after arriving back from the hospital the night Papa passed
• Friends dropping off lunch & dinner(s) the day after Papa’s death
• Calls/emails/texts/Facebook messages offering remembrances of Papa as well as their sympathies
• A friend joining me at the florist to help me pick out an arrangement to have at Papa’s service
• Another friend watching my boys during said trip to the florist, making it (a lot) more peaceably
• A cross-country friend dropping everything to fly out and help for several days surrounding the memorial service
• Our couples’ Bible study group gifting us a beautiful birdbath with adorable bird statue (a friend’s parents’ small group had this tradition whenever a parent passed)
• A cousin sending storybooks for our boys about losing a loved one (Heaven is for Real and Chester Raccoon and the Acorn Full of Memories )
• J’s coworkers sending a beautiful flower arrangement
• My women’s Bible study group sending an edible fruit “flower” arrangement
• Friends and family providing food for our extended family lunch the day of Papa’s service
• Friends and family coming the not-so-close distance to Nana & Papa’s church for his memorial service
• Friends helping out in the kitchen (and providing food too) for lunch for our extended family the day after Papa’s service
• A friend organizing a meal list and multiple friends bringing meals to us three times a week for weeks after Papa’s passing

The above list covers 50 or more individuals, (5-0!), and I’m sure there’re more I’ve left out.  Do you get the picture?  These individuals all lead busy lives of their own, with work and spouse and kids and a hundred other demands on their time each day.  It would be insane, if not altogether impossible, for just one of them to shower us with all the acts of kindness listed above.  And yet, yet, the actions of so many friends, all these kind acts weaved together, created such a beautiful fabric of support and love and care when I (we) needed it most.  A beautiful picture of the body of Christ working individually, yet together, and my family being greatly blessed in the process.

Just do something to show you care.

A day and a half after Papa died, a good friend called to check in.  She’d emailed me the night of Papa’s death, but this was the first time I’d spoken with her since.  Like myself, she is not a “phone person,” and she made me smile when she admitted that she didn’t quite know what to say on the phone, but had told herself, “I just need to put on my big girl panties and make the call.”  She figured she was a close enough friend that she should call at a time like this.

A couple weeks later, I was at church and passed someone I knew, but not very well at that point.  She turned to me and said, “I’m so sorry about your dad.”  I thanked her and then there was a bit of an awkward pause and she added, “I don’t know what else to say.”  I responded something to the affect that I knew, and it was ok.  And it was ok.  More than anything, I just appreciated that she acknowledged my loss and offered her sympathy.

About a month after Papa’s death, there was one night I found myself in a scramble to get dinner on the table before getting the family out the door for a church function.  Meals had recently stopped coming from friends and I wasn’t quite back in the routine of regular meal planning.  I was short on time this night, and planned to make use of some pot stickers and fried rice that I knew was somewhere in the depths of our freezer.  I unearthed them, only to find that the pot stickers were freezer-burned beyond recognition and the fried rice was months (try a year!) past its expiration date.

E-Gads!

I had no back-up plan for dinner and the panic was beginning to set in.  I was in that place of grief where the numbness is just beginning to subside and the pain is starting to rise to the surface.  Being quick on my feet and getting food on the table seemed like an overwhelming task right then and there.

I was stuck.

Head stuck in the freezer and brain stuck in “What the heck am I going to do for dinner?!!”

And in that moment,  as if on cue, I heard a “Hello!” and looked up, out of my fog and panic, to see the face of a friend.  And she might as well have been wearing a halo and wings, because it seemed like there was a chorus of angels singing around her and a light shining down from heaven, right down on where she stood with something that appeared to be a casserole dish in her hands.

In the midst of multiple kids shouting, running around, in and out, she explained that she wasn’t sure if I’d gotten her message (I hadn’t), but she decided to just stop by anyway.  She had extra chili that she’d made and she was dropping it off for us if we’d like it.  Someone had let her in, and there she stood.  In my kitchen.  Right there with dinner in hand.  Right when I needed it.

Just like that.

How did she know?  

Willing to just pop on in, literally, not knowing if we’d have dinner already on the table or not.  She could have easily talked herself out of it, worrying about how she might be received, but instead she chose to think of us and followed that thought with some spontaneous (and oh so very timely) action.  She didn’t know, but God did.  She felt prompted and acted on it, and as a result I felt God’s love showered down on me.  A tangible act that showed God cared for me in the midst of my grief, even in the little things like getting dinner on the table.

 

 

All three of the above stories, all involving different individuals, illustrate the same thing.  These dear people cared and did something about it.  They all cared enough to let me know it even when it was a bit uncomfortable.  And in a way, that made it even more meaningful because they all cared enough to put their own feelings or insecurities aside and take a step out of their comfort zones.

Something I wish I’d been willing to do when I first bought those two cards just a couple years before.

 

 

Now fast forward to just a month or so after Papa’s death, a woman and her two grown daughters lose their husband/father.  These women had been in my Bible study group at the beginning of that year; I knew them, but not super-well.  But I knew them well enough to hurt with them when I heard of their loved one passing, and this time I didn’t let my own selfishness get in the way of letting them know that.  I pulled out those two sympathy cards I’d bought previously, plus another one I happened to have on hand.  I didn’t worry about the wording being just-so or perfectly fitting.  I added a verse I had on my heart for this family and my prayer for them in their grief.  And I signed my name at the bottom, sealed it, and placed it in the mail right then and there.

And I don’t know how it was received, but I’m glad I did it, and don’t regret it one bit.

Time is too short and we are too finite to find the perfect act of kindness to express our sympathy to those who are hurting.  It’s not up to us to erase their pain, but we all have the opportunity to take part in offering support and a kind word when it’s needed most.  And who knows how that word or action will fit in perfectly, right when it’s most needed, and speak volumes to the hurting heart of another?

So don’t hold back.

Step out.

And do that something; that one thing, that’s on your heart.

You won’t regret it.

 

 

I’ll end with a link to the song “I Am” by the David Crowder Band.  This song fits so well with how I felt during the time of Papa’s illness and after his death.  In the middle of our storm, I truly felt God was holding on to us, and one really big way He did this was through the love and support of so many dear friends and family members.  I am so grateful for all those who stepped out and did something, who truly acted as God’s hands and feet, holding us up and walking along side us through our storm.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77SuukJEJ2Q

 

For the past two months, 74 posts total, you have journeyed along with me as I’ve relived and retold the story of my dad’s (Papa’s) journey with brain cancer.  Now as I came to the end of that story, the story involving the last two months of his life, and then his death, I find myself grieving all over again, grieving Papa, and grieving the end of this journey once more.

About two and a half months ago, I was talking with a friend of mine (one of those DPSG members) about this story, how I had most of it written except for the last few posts, how I’d planned to publish it soon, but how I was struggling with the end.  I was hesitant to make the leap… to officially publish it before everything was “just so.”

But my friend encouraged me to just dive in, that at some point those last posts would fall into place and that, in the meantime, I should just start publishing the posts I’d already written.

And so I did, and here I am, with “Day 75-77” I find myself at the “end:”  the end of the daily journey I’ve written with all its texts and emails and notes and photos and memories.

Yet, with that being said, this isn’t the end of this story.  Papa’s earthly journey may be over, but mine certainly isn’t.  And I’m so glad of that.  I thank God for that.  For lIfe has continued and God has been good and He’s proven Himself faithful even in the wake of very difficult circumstances and aching loss.

So you can expect to see several more posts, after-the-fact reflections on the process of working through grief, the support of so many friends, God’s signs of faithfulness in the midst of it, and more.  These posts will not be coming daily though, and I appreciate your patience in the process : )

Thank you for journeying with me in this, for those who journeyed with me “back then” during those two+ months, and those who have just recently walked along side me as you’ve read each post. Don’t be discouraged; this indeed is not the end.  The journey continues, and with it comes hope; hope and much more.

 

Text: (from a friend)

Hey Kar, How are you?  Have your family and friends headed home?…  When the dust settles we will be due a long walk/wog and catch up.  Also if you and J need a date night some time soon let me know – we can watch all three boys here one night so you can reconnect without a crowd… Our boys would love it and it must be impossible to get time for just the 2 of you with so much going on.  Offer stands whenever you need it.

Me:  Thanks for the kid-care offer, would love to take you up on that soon.  Although at this point I might just fall asleep in my coffee if J & I went out…

 

My Reflections:

After the rest of our family and friends have departed, Mark and his family stay for a few more days.  There are outings to the park, gardens, and the local yogurt joint with my nephews and my boys, and family dinners with the whole lot of us.  We enjoy the time to spend together without so much on the to-do list.

All too soon it’s time for Mark and family to head home though.  Times like these make it even more apparent how hard it is having so many miles between us.  Visits are not just a jump, hop, and a skip away.  But we’re grateful for the time we’ve had together, even under the hard circumstances.  I know Papa would be glad to see all his grand boys together like this.  And I’m glad that just two months before his diagnosis, Papa did see his grand boys all together like this, just under much different circumstances.  Mark and family had been out for a visit then, when everything was still “ok” and we were all in the dark that that would be the last time we’d all be together with Papa.

I’m glad for the good memories from that trip, but also for good memories from this trip too.  Cause we’re family, just minus one on earth presently.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love and safe travels Mark & family!  (Next time you come out, I think we’re going to need a bigger couch for this crazy crew of boys!)

 

 

 

Text:  (Me to my life-long friend as she’s en route)

Slept till 10!  Hope you’re getting some rest too!  Safe travels home!

 

My Reflections:

I do something unheard of for me:  I sleep in till 10 AM!  The past week and a half have been a blur, (heck, the past two months have been a blur), and I guess my body finally revolted and took a stand;  “Enough’s enough!  More sleep, now!”

Somehow a “normal” morning (albeit the sleeping in part) mothering three boys seems a welcome reprieve compared to the upheaval that’s been life lately.  As I sip my late morning coffee with Little M by my side, one of my big boys snaps a photo….

 

A photo which perfectly encompasses this little moment of rest; rest and a big sigh of relief.  Relief that we made it.  Made it through the trauma of Papa’s death, the relaying of the hard news, all the arrangements that had to be made, the preparations for his service, the kind condolences and sweet time with family and friends.  In sum, the awful, the hard, the tedious, the good, the sweet.  All packaged together, it’s enough to make this introvert (and probably most extroverts) want to just find a cozy hole and crawl right in.

I’ll be back in the spring, but until then, don’t mind me, I’ll just be hibernating in the nearest cave.

I’m still not sure how to wrap my head around these past months, and now Papa’s death.  I know grief is rough and it usually gets a whole lot harder before it gets easier; but in this moment, this moment right here, I’m fine with just allowing myself a chance to breathe.

And giving myself permission to stay in my pajamas for as long as absolutely possible.

With any luck, I won’t even need to change come bedtime.

 

Texts:

From a friend:

I woke up this morning thinking about how nice your Dad’s service was.  You can tell that you thought about every detail… you definitely got a lot of really good traits from your Dad.

From another friend:

I was so glad I got to hear all those interesting stories about your dad last night!  You’re so blessed to have a dad like him!

 

My Reflections:

Extended family is still in town and they gather at our place for lunch.  Soup, salad, breads and desserts have been provided by friends, and other friends have come to help in the kitchen to make things even easier on us.

So nice to be able to enjoy time with family.

 

There’s reason to celebrate too.  It’s my cousin’s birthday and there’s birthday cake and a round of “Happy Birthday, to you,” and of course the usual blowing out of the candles.

 

Last night we celebrated the life well-lived by Papa, and today we celebrate another year of life for my cousin.  An awesome reminder that life is a precious gift and each day, each year, is worth celebrating.  Happy Birthday, cousin!  So glad we can all celebrate it with you today!

 

There’s time for food,

And rest:

 

And reminiscing over old family photos:

 

My favorite moment of the day is after tummies are filled, dishes are done, and so many of us gather around the table sharing stories and laughter.  Moments like these are golden:

 

Before goodbyes, we take some group shots for posterity (because gathering this all-over-the-U.S. family doesn’t happen very often).

 

 

 

So blessed to call all these awesome individuals family.  So grateful for their support and love; and for the way Papa has impacted us all.