Guided By Silent Love ~ & Writing Assignment #1

 Midmorning Wednesday and I'm feeling totally overwhelmed, I have too much to do, too much to be concerned about and I can't locate a file on my computer that I HAVE TO HAVE for the estate lawyer. Why do I have to do all of these things!!  I search and search and suddenly I come face to face with an old Email from Dale.  "Oh that's just perfect, let's add the fact that Dale is gone and I miss him beyond reason to my other woes this morning!" I mumbled.

He always knew what to do, he always had an answer.  Where was he now! I felt the tears start to stream down my face so I grabbed my purse and keys and headed to my car.  Where was I going? I didn't know but I was headed there fast.  Tears kept falling and I began praying for direction...not for where I was headed at the moment but in my life!  Where am I going? Why do I have to wade through all of this paperwork with all of its rules and regulations and Can't Dos?

My common sense took me to a few places that needed my attention. The bank, the post office and then my stomach growled making me even more aware of the humanness of my sorry situation. I spotted Panda Express so I flipped on my blinker and pulled into a parking spot with a least some partial shade to keep the car a bit cooler on this unusually hot June day.

I walked inside and after staring at the order board for a few minutes before I realized I wasn't concentrating, I just quickly ordered the first thing and then nodded when she asked if I wanted chopsticks.  She smiled with what could only be classified as a "sympathetic smile" and handed me the chopsticks and a fortune cookie.

Funny how you are forced to eat more slowly when you use chopsticks. "Hmmm....I don't ever remember not knowing how to eat with chopsticks." I muse.  My Dad, who had been a soldier in Japan in WWII taught us how to use them when I was too young to know that everyone else didn't also learn to eat two ways..the fork way or the chopsticks way.

Dad...Oh how I loved him.  I lost him too.  Many years ago.  I was only 28 the day he died.  He too, like Dale, always had answers for me.  So did my Grandfathers and Grandmothers and Mother and Aunts and oh dear they are all GONE!

Tears burned my eyes and I stuck my chopsticks back into the food that I couldn't eat now.  I spied the fortune cookie sitting there waiting patiently for me so I smirked and whispered "Oh sure, why not" it will probably tell me I have a "cheery nature and make people happy". Ha Ha.  I wrestled it out of it's plastic covering and cracked it open. It read simply and reassuringly.....

  "You are guided by silent love"

I felt a warmth pass over my body and my troubled mind that seemed to melt my fears and it gave strength to my human weakness.  I knew this was true. I have felt all of their love silently all these years since they have been gone, guiding me, walking beside me.  I have a whole army of loved ones guiding me on with unmistakable love and concern.  I can still remember the stories they told on earth, when I could actually hear them and I remember the love they expressed when they actually held me in a hug.

And suddenly a story that Dad used to tell jostled its way to the forefront of my mind. I gathered my things and dumped my leftover food into the trash and walked to the car, grateful for the shady parking decision I had made earlier, I slipped inside and sat.  Allowing the story he told so many years ago to play again in my mind.

His Army unit was marching, ever so quietly, single file in a low swampy area that snaked in and out of the secluded areas with thick foliage on a humid day under the scorching sun on the island of Okinawa. They were on the move to a safe location while trying to avoid enemy fire. The areas that could provide shade were infested with mosquitoes.  The going was rough and their nerves were frazzled.  But they followed their Sargent who was getting guidance on his walkie-talkie.

Two of the soldiers near Dad started mumbling and complaining. They could see that if they all just went up on the ridge they could get to where they needed to be in half the time.

"No!" my Dad and several of the other soldiers whispered. "Follow the command!"

 But still the two soldiers murmured about the heat and the mosquitoes and the stupidity of what they were being told to do when it was obvious there was a better way. "Sarge knows more than you do!" Dad heard a soldier caution them in a low voice.

And on they marched slopping through the mud and silence. Suddenly the two soldiers darted away from the ranks and up the hill and stood silhouetted on the ridge.

...Two shots from enemy fire.

...Two soldiers dropped lifelessly to the ground.

The remaining soldiers hurried their steps following their leader and they all made it to safety, exhausted but glad they had obeyed the command.

Then Dad would tell us that it is important to realize that there are times in life when to follow the commands and rules of those who have a better knowledge of what is best for us will get us safely through our trials.  Even the trial of life itself.

So I drove back home. I pulled out my lengthy "To-Do" list and tackled them one by one, crossing all of the t's and dotting all of  the i's. Turns out I knew where everything was and I was able to find all of the answers.  With the silent guidance of love from my angels on the other side of the veil I found the strength and clarity of thought to do it along with the reminder that I will benefit from following the rules, even those that seem a bit stupid from my limited point of view.


Awhile ago I began sculpting a WWII soldier in memory of my Dad and his dedicated service to a war that threatened the safety and freedom of his family.  I thought I'd share it with you here.






Now let's get started on writing your Autobiography!!

EVERYONE HAS A STORY - Writing Assignment #1

Last week I mentioned how I can assist you in writing your autobiography by giving you assignments in each Sunday's blog and within 52 weeks you'll have your history written...to date.  First of all, it's important to note that the ancestors that I love the most are the ones who left their stories in a form written by their own hand.  First hand accounts through the ages that have inspired me and tied me to them.

I have had several groups where Brothers and Sisters join and write their assignment each week and share it via Email with each other.  It has proven to be a fun experience seeing each other's take on life in the same household.  Remarkably different!  Cousins joining together to share their assignments has been another experience that has been sheer delight.  I even heard of a psychologist who used it for his patients who figured out why they are the way they are through doing the assignments.  That was kind of cool to hear!  And then there was the Quilting Group who watched for the assignments each week and a Book Club and oh yes that Purple Hat Ladies Club!  So whatever it takes...just do it and have fun doing it.

ASSIGNMENT #1 – GETTING TO KNOW YOU

I'm so glad you'll be joining us!  The first assignment is different from the ones to follow; it's more of a state-the-facts kind of thing.  But I have found in all my genealogy hunts that when I can finally read (in First person) someone saying their exact name, birth date and birthplace and parentage and children...well I could just kiss them!!  And then the stories that follow that information become even more interesting.

  

Also, what I suggested to our classes (but please do whatever is best for you) is that you get a 3 ring binder and give it a title...like My Personal History or the History of.....  And then each week print out a hard copy, punch it and put it right in the binder.  It's a great idea to save it to your computer too but when it comes right down to it....paper is the thing that lasts (the format never changes or becomes obsolete and upgrades don't happen!)

Decide how you want it to look right from the start and set up your document (i.e. font, spacing, margins etc.)  - so that each week you follow the same basic format and then each page will look the same when it is in your book.  Also, please note that the assignments DO NOT always go chronologically.  I found that mixing it up a bit kept it more interesting.  So don't number the pages.

So like I say...this one is different from the assignments to come but kind of fun too.  It gives important genealogical information and fascinating facts about you...the main character of your story!

Part 1

Your Full Given Name

Do you know the reason you were given this name? (Named after, etc.)

Your Date of Birth:

Your Place of Birth:

The Places You Have Lived: (Dates here are great if you can)

Your Mother's Full Name:

Her Birth Date and Place:

Her Death Date and Place of Burial:

Your Father's Full Name:

His Birth Date and Place:

His Death Date and Place of Burial:

The Names of Your Brothers and Sisters:

Continued next page -

The Date and Place of your Marriage:

The Full Given Name of Your Spouse:

His Birth Date and Place of Birth:

His Parent's Names:

The Full Given Names of Your Children:

Part 2

Complete this however you'd like.  In story form, a straight list, or wax poetic. You could also include photos and recipes if you'd like.

These are little facts that I would have loved to have known about our own Grandma but alas, we only really know that her favorite flower was the white rose, or do I just assume that since Grandpa planted the white rose bush for her so he could pick a bouquet for her each Anniversary.  Maybe she liked lilacs best but again that's an assumption because she had those big bushes by the house!  Oh, wouldn't it be nice to really know fun little things like that?  Here's your chance to make your own personal favorites be a part of your history.

What is Your Favorite: 

(Feel free to change the order)

Sport:

Flower:

Meal: (you can include recipes here)

Dessert: (you can include recipes here)

Vacation Spot:

Leisure Activity:

Restaurant:

Book(s):

Author(s):

Color:

Scripture Verse:

Scripture Hero:

Latter-Day Hero: 

Do you remember one "Birthday Wish" you made when blowing out the candles as a child?

Have Fun!  Check in next Sunday for Assignment # 2 - it's a more creative writing one!

She Lost All Hope ~ & An Introduction to Writing your Personal History - the easy way

So I am back to the dream of hope that I mentioned in a previous blog….

While meandering aimlessly down the aisles of Hobby Lobby the other day, I sighed and said “Am I really going to be able to do this "alone" thing!?!” (Did I say it merely in my thoughts or did I say it right out loud?)  I’m not sure but there in front of me I suddenly focused on a plaque that simply said in white letters as if scrawled on a blackboard:

HOPE

 I stopped, my hands squeezing the handle of the cart and stared at the word.  Hope.  It’s a tiny little word, isn’t it? But I realize more than ever that I need it, I CAN’T lose it because as you know, “She lost all hope” is what they say when someone quits.  Whether it’s a mental, emotional or physical challenge, or working on a goal or even life itself; to lose hope is to lose it all.

 So what is it?  Can we easily define it?  Do we cling to it; do we work on it; protect it or polish it every day like a treasured possession so as to never lose it? It seems there is a power to it that pushes or pulls us along this journey of life that we are all on.  So I determined I needed to take a deeper look into it.

So on this quiet Sunday morning I find that….

In the Old Testament, Job, who suffered and overcame more loss than most, instructs us: “For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.”

It appears that to have hope is to possess a guiding light and a power that motivates us to go on; propels us forward; encourages us to succeed even when it seems impossible.

I remember as a child the first inklings of hope being the possibility of unwrapping a wished for gift on my birthday. And now days as I try to get some exercise, it’s putting one foot in the front of the other again and again and again in the hope that I will reach a goal.  As a young mother my hope was that my sons would grow up healthy and strong and have beautiful lives. As a businesswoman I hoped that my hard work, by my husband’s side, would bring satisfaction and enough money to support our family.  As an artist, it’s the hope that my work will someday touch others in a positive way.

To the sick there is hope that an answer and maybe even a cure will be found.  To the weary there is hope that there will be rest.

Wow….Hope is the power that keeps possibilities and dreams alive. Hope is the energy that strengthens our hearts and our bodies and our souls and makes us get up and move. Hope is so strong that it can energize soldiers to be victorious in a ruthless battle and yet so fragile that it can instantaneously shatter at the moment of a mere whisper or an unsolicited thought. Hope is different from Faith.  Hope is different from Love.  Hope is different from a wish. The opposite of hope is despair.

So even though there are times when I feel just too miserable and can’t believe that I could possibly feel better…I must never relinquish my grasp on that beacon of hope that draws me forward so as not to slip under the waves of despair.  It tells me that life is good and I can work my way through this tunnel, step by step, into a future with possibilities and the ability to do all of the things that I have yet to do.

But, and this is the critical question I did say right out loud:  "How do I grasp it, hold onto it and use it?" I randomly flip open a little “thought for the day book” that is by my keyboard and my eyes rest on this quote by Jane Howard:

“Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music – the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people.  Forget yourself!!

Or in other words as that great commandment instructs:  “Love your neighbor as yourself”

Is that the answer? And an idea floods my mind and heart, actually an idea I had many years ago when asked to teach a class in “Writing your personal history for posterity”.  It turned into a class that I taught over and over again over the years and for which I developed a weekly assignment that encouraged my students to write their story because as Helen Keller said:

“Every human being‘s life is a story.  A unique story that nobody ever lived before and no one will ever live again.”

Hundreds of people have successfully used these assignments and it occurs to me that if I share the assignments with you each week for the next 52 weeks, you will have your life story (to date) written!  No charge of course…it’s just a way for me to help you, my neighbor, unlock your unique story that no one else can tell! (Don’t let someone else tell your story; it won’t be the same story)  You don’t need to know how to write, just answer my questions and express your thoughts.  And by doing it, you are not only creating something of great worth but you are actually nourishing my hope!  (Sorry, it circled back to me LOL, like that old saying “That’s enough about me, let’s talk about you…so what do you think about me?” Ha Ha)

Are you game, you beautiful souls and interesting people that are reading this blog?  I’ll start with the very first assignment next Sunday!  You don’t have to share it but keep it, print it out and put it in a notebook, treasure it and someday your grandchildren and great grandchildren will read it and it will give them the power they’ll need to hold onto the hope that will pull them through their own trials.  It’s a kind gift of yourself to them and as I’ve found in writing this blog, cathartic for yourself as well during times when you think you might have lost all hope.

I think it was Oscar Wilde who said: “Be yourself because everyone else is taken”. 

We’ll start there….next Sunday.

I didn’t buy that plaque at Hobby Lobby but I just now put a little post-it on the edge of my computer screen with those four little letters:  H-O-P-E.

Hope – It's both a noun and a verb isn't it! And with your help, I hope to never, ever lose it.

Alone But Not Lonely

Algebra has never been my strong point but I woke up this morning with this equation playing over and over in my head:

We minus One still equals We

  (W-1)=W

It made me smile, not only to think of my high school Algebra teacher’s claim that we will in fact use algebra at some point in our lives after graduation but I smile at this new concept that I am not merely an “I” but still a “we”. 

The “alone” part of being a widow is the biggest hurdle to peace. The over powering feeling that even in a crowd of people “I am ALONE” or “I’m Single” or “I’m a widow” and having to ask for “A table for one please” are identifying lables that are foreign and uncomfortable and I am lonely.  But with this new equation in my mind, perhaps I can reach the milestone on this journey through widowhood where memories and reminders of Dale bring me joy.  Am I slowly shifting away from the intense pain of loss?

But then as I think about it….this “being alone” thing…Dale has been with me (both seen and unseen) for most of my life, well since I was about 3 years old….

We lived in a home that had been built by my great-grandfather.  A stately edifice surrounded by acres and acres of fertile farmland.  And this wonderful, grand old place had a turret way up on the second floor that in the eyes of two little girls standing way below, it looked to be the locked tower of a castle. We would clasp our hands to our chests and call out beseechingly, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel!  Let down your long hair!”  But she never did.

One day there (and as I say, I was about 3) I was swinging swinging swinging on the squeaky swing set in the yard.  It seemed I could fly so high…way back and then sweeping up seeing the ground; then the long lawn; the house; the top of the house; the top of the trees and then the clouds and then the blue blue sky and then back again.  Over and over again until all of a sudden I put my feet down and ground to a halt as in my mind I saw a young man, he looked to be a handsome prince, I liked him and I knew right then that he was going to be my husband and best friend.

So I have been a “we” since that day!  Just because I can’t see Dale now doesn’t mean that he won't be a big presence during my remaining earth life.  And, like I waited all those years for him to take my hand and lead me into a new life, I will wait for him to come back and take my hand and lead me into a new life again.  And just like I had things to do in the years before we met the first time, I have many things I need to do in the years before I meet him again.  It gives me such strength to know that he will be just a thought away during any given moment of these remaining years.

As I type, my mind wanders to others who have been unseen but by my side all of these years…

It was also at this tender age of 3 in that big old farmhouse that two books took a prominent role in my development and psyche when they entered my life. They are also the first two books I remember.  The first book was easily accessible to me at all times; it was called “The Little Red Hen”.  Her adage had become my motto but never so importantly as now: ”Then I’ll do it myself!” said the Little Red Hen…and she did! 

The next book was an oversized volume the color and texture of rich creamy linen inscribed in golden letters announcing what awaited as I carefully opened the cover and entered into – “The Great Paintings of the World” - The color illustrations were printed on clay-coated paper and glued onto the pages at the top border.  This book was high on a shelf in the living room and I had to ask Mother or Dad for it which I did, often.  I would retreat to a cozy corner, sit down and lean against the built-in bookshelf where I nestled the book (nearly half my size) onto my knees and explored the world of wonders within.  The 10 year old Christ child holding a candle so luminous as to show the redness as it radiated through his fingers; the Mona Lisa who smiled at me; the old man with the oversized warty nose holding his granddaughter on his lap whose loving eyes spoke of unconditional love.  How was it possible that someone could draw this way?  I was fascinated, I was moved, and I was educated. 

Throughout my life I felt these paintings whisper to me from beyond the doors of the great museums of the world; The Metropolitan in New York City, The National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., the  Galleria degli Uffizi and the Bargello in Florence, The Louvre in Paris, the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, The Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel in Rome, the British Museum and the Tate Gallery in London, The Art Institute Museum of Chicago, The de Young and Legion of Honor Museums in San Francisco, the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum and The Museum of Fine Arts of Boston, the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto Canada, Thorvaldsens Museum and Frederiksborg Castle in Copenhagen and the Honolulu Museum of Art on the island of Oahu, to name a few.…..I have visited each Museum - actually I should say more appropriately that I have explored each Museum, every nook and cranny for days on end and each time as I turned a corner and encountered one of my “Great Paintings of the World” in the original form, in the original size, in the original vibrant and rich brushstrokes, mounted in ornate golden frames the same color as the inscription on my big book; I felt undeniably at ease, and took pleasure in a visit with an old friend.  

I studied Art History in college and learned of the lives and works of these great artists.  This ultimately led Dale to send me to La Academia delle Belle Arti in Florence Italy and subsequently the Loire Valley in France, Scottsdale, AZ and Seattle, WA for my education in sculpting. I visited the Uffizi so often to study the incredible sculptures on display there that one day a couple approached me.  “Do you speak English?” they asked frantically. “Almost exclusively” I replied.  They had come to Florence with a tour from their cruise ship. The majority had chosen to see The David at the Academia but they wanted to see Boticelli’s Birth of Venus at the museum. It was time to rejoin their tour group to take the bus back to the ship and they were hopelessly lost in the museum.  “Could I help them!!”  It delighted me that not only could I lead them through the maze of greatness to the distant exit doors (labled Uscita which meant nothing to them) but also quickly point out some highlights as we scurried along - like the only painting from the Renaissance by a woman artist (Artemisia Gentileschi) considered worthy enough to hang in the gallery.

Following the discovery of “The Little Red Hen “in my childhood, I came to love the magical writings of Hans Christian Andersen, Denmark’s favorite son. The Little Match Girl was my favorite, followed by the Little Tin Soldier, The Ugly Duckling and on down the list.  Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen is one of the world’s oldest and most respected theme parks.  I remember reading in my grandfather’s missionary journal that he and his companion visited there one day nearly 100 years before me.  And since I found myself with 2 months in Denmark one summer (Another gift from Dale) and since Tivoli Gardens was located just down the street and across the Rådhuspladsen (Town Hall Square) from my hotel, I decided to check it out one summer evening.  Since it doesn’t get dark until after 11 pm, I entered the gates at 9.  I strolled through the lovely gardens and shopped in the unique boutiques; I ate salmon served on Danish blue china and sipped fresh lemonade from a crystal goblet at a small round table in an outdoor café, naturally the table was spread with a white linen cloth and had a large, fully opened pink rose in a cobalt blue vase. I read that the electrical parade would begin after dark so after dinner I followed the crowd to what appeared to be a good spot and waited.  Suddenly fireworks popped and music filled the air and the parade began meandering down the walkways and through the crowd.  Giant puppet-like figures lit from within weaved and bobbed and I suddenly realized that they were all characters out of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. All of my childhood friends in an incredible production.  I couldn’t hold back the tears from the joy of youthful memories. In the jostling of the crowd I was bumped and looked down at the little lady standing next to me, about my age (50 something) she was Asian and her cheeks were also covered in happy tears. She looked at me and said something in Japanese, I looked at her and said something in American and she took my hand and squeezed it and for a moment we were just two little girls in our own corners of the world - wide eyed and entranced by the words of a Danish author.  We were jostled again by the filtering crowd and she was gone but I was in awe of the power and far reaching effects of the written word.

A few weeks later on the Island of Fyn, in the city of Odense, the birthplace of H.C. Andersen, I lingered in the garden at the museum built in his honor.  Actors put on a theatrical production with song and dance on the outdoor stage and then filtered through the crowd made up mostly of families with their little blonde children eager to meet their favorite characters.  The Little Match Girl walked up to me and said “Hej”(pronounced Hi!).  I took her photo as if she were a long lost friend.  Throughout the city of Odense, you come upon statues of H.C.’s heroes and heroines. The river that ambles gently through the town has boats shaped like lovely white swans for families to spend lazy Sunday afternoons laughing and splashing as they drift along. What a brilliant writer he was to touch so many people.

I shook my head when I thought of me sitting in my 7^th grade English classroom in California pondering the assignment of writing our life story. I penciled a genealogical fact-based essay of my life so far and feeling satisfied, dropped it on the teacher’s desk as I walked out the classroom door. The next day, my paper was passed back to me with “D” BORING” written in large red letters across the top half of the manuscript.  And in that very moment I determined I would learn from my author heroes who never, ever bored me with their words.

In Paris, several years ago, Dale and I walked from our pied-à-terre to the Place des Vosges to a corner building known as the Hôtel de Rohan Guéménée, the apartment of Victor Hugo. Just to be in the home of the man who penned The Hunchback of Notre Dame and our favorite novel of all time, Les Miserable was an experience of great significance.  As was the day we were allowed to stroll through the Paris Opera House conjuring up each detail of Gaston Leroux's book The Phantom of the Opera.

I realize now that these writers and artists have accompanied me; inspired me and upheld me throughout my life even though I haven’t been able to actually see them, as long as I think of them, I’m never really alone and that helps me to understand that with Dale: We minus one still = We and I’m not lonesome. As long as I take joy in our memories and prepare to be with him again one day the warm comfort of him is just a thought away.  And as long as I keep those memories alive, I'm never really alone.

So from now on when I go to a restaurant and the hostess asks “How many?” and I say “One” well, it’s ok, it's not a sad label.    Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely.

><><><><><><><>< 

To be continued...

To Dream a Dream of Hope

I watch her from across the room.  I’m nearly hypnotized by the movement of her hand. She works from her comfortable arm chair with her feet propped up on an overstuffed footstool, a quilt in the softest hues of baby blue and cream covers her legs as she works on it within the large wooden hoop.  Her needle gathers tiny little stiches, a dozen or more of them before she pulls it, tailing its long thread, up and away.  I can just barely make out the sound of the quiet whoosh as her nimble fingers guide the needle through the layers of fabric and is pulled with a long length of thread, up and away; and then her needle dips down again to gather up more stitches like long drinks of healing water before pulling up again with that nearly silent whoosh.  Again and again and again. It makes me calm, it makes me feel peaceful, it makes me feel protected and loved, like the baby who will soon be wrapped in this exquisite work of art -One more of nearly 500 babies who have been swaddled in the comfort of her loving gifts.  I say gifts, because she never sells her quilts but quietly and without ceremony gives them to family, to friends, and to hospitals.  She delivers many of these precious comforters, which she tenderly folds with thoughts of love and a heartfelt prayer, to women’s shelters and clinics where many of the babies enter into a cold, uncertain world and leave the clinic surrounded in the love and warmth of one of her quilts rather than wrapped in a newspaper.  It seems my sister is unaware of the sense of dignity that envelopes these new mothers who give birth under such trying circumstances; just a frightened young woman on her own until that first cry, and then...she becomes a mother with a helpless and very dependent child. But with just this touch of dignity which very gently sparks a warm glow in her soul, she cradles her baby in the luxury of this unexpected gift of unconditional love and allows herself to dream dreams of hope that she may not have thought possible before.

 My thoughts float to my son who used to live and work in Hawaii. His job at a Department store required daily deliveries of a hand truck full of neatly stacked boxes containing chocolate covered macadamia nuts to local office buildings.  Each day he’d pass through the loading dock and catch sight of a pair of smudged and worn hiking boots attached to the weary feet of the disheveled transient who slept off his addiction behind the store’s dumpster.  Day after day he would see him and worry about him and say a silent prayer for him.  One day, near the dumpster he spotted a can of spray paint.  He felt compelled to stop and pick it up.  He shook it and heard the familiar thump-klink-thump of the beebees inside. And with a quick test-spray on the dumpster he saw the can was filled with shiny, Olympic gold paint.  Without hesitation he pointed the tip towards those hiking boots and he didn’t stop spraying until both boots were shiny and golden.  Then he tossed the can into the dumpster and walked down the street with a smile on his face as he imagined the surprise the man would find when he finally awoke from his stupor. What he didn’t expect to see though later that night as he glanced out the window from his table at the restaurant was this transient walking down the sidewalk, his matted hair had been combed, his ragged clothes had been buttoned and straightened up and he walked with his head held high, a man with dignity, a man wearing golden boots.

These are gifts, quietly given, that touch people’s lives for good and make them feel unique and cared for like the important person that he or she is.

My musing is interrupted as my sister who has just taken the final stitch, removes the wooden hoop and inspects this completed masterpiece.  No two are ever the same, just like each baby that will become heir to their very own keepsake is a person that is a unique masterpiece.  This steadfast, reassuring quilt that will be loved and cherished throughout the ups and down of childhood days until it is finally folded and tucked away in a treasure box waiting to swaddle their own new baby years down the road.

One day, several years ago, my sister sat down with a new quilt and took the first stitch. A perfect way to spend her birthday she felt. But the doorbell rang and she sighed, reluctant to break away from the peace that comes with each new creation.  But she carefully pulled the fabric from her lap, laid it on the footstool and with the intricate pattern still in her mind she padded to the front door and turned the knob and pulled it open.  In the brilliant morning light she was astounded to see her large deck and front yard covered with women holding babies wrapped in her quilts and many children of all ages holding the quilts that they had treasured for years and they were all singing “Happy Birthday to You!  Happy Birthday to You”!

These quilts didn’t begin with the thousand tiny hand stitches. First the carefully chosen fabric (several kinds for each quilt) chosen for their hue, their designs and their fabric type all skillfully matched with her masterful eye, are cut into many pieces and then arranged into a pattern, new to each and every quilt; taken to her sewing machine and stitched together, building from the center out. Batting is laid upon a solid piece of coordinated fabric and then topped with the pieced piece; then out comes the ruler and pencil and hundreds of lines are drawn in painstaking order before the hoop is attached and she sits down with her needle and thread to hand quilt.

Likewise, it has been with great effort that I have had to pull the pieces of my life together that were shattered that cold January day that I called 911 when Dale was unresponsive.  When the firetruck and ambulance arrived moments later and the 4 EMTs surrounded his chair and told me he wasn’t breathing, all I could do was to stand back and watch as they pulled him to the floor, cut open his shirt and started resuscitation procedures; over and over they pushed on his chest and called out to him to breathe. Was I breathing? I don’t think I was! Eventually one looked up at the clock and announced the time.  “No!” I whispered. And out of their bag one pulled paddles attached to a unit that they quickly adjusted, placed the paddles to Dale’s chest and yelled “Clear!”  Every ounce of my body shook uncontrollably, tears flowed and I prayed like I’ve never prayed before.  This could not be happening. And suddenly, there was life.  He wasn’t gone.  The dear sweet wonderful men, who did not give up, strapped him to a gurney and rolled him out the door and into the blue and white ambulance, climbed in, shut the door and down the long driveway they all sped - past the fire truck, down the tree lined lane and through the gate.

I stood at the door of the house.  The silence was unbearable and I was unable to move until a fireman came up behind me, he’d stayed to clean up and put away the supplies.  He gently told me that he would close up and I was to get in my car and follow the ambulance to the hospital, if I was ok to drive.  I nodded and turned to go back into the house to get my keys and purse and cell phone.  The fireman had the living room back in order.  The leather arm chair Dale had been sitting in was back where it belonged.  The only thing that my eye focused on were the black streaks and marks on the white maple wood floor left from the rubber soles of the men’s shoes as they frantically moved about the floor to save this man they didn’t even know but who was the heart and soul of my life.  In my altered and helpless state of mind I found myself wondering how I would be able to remove those black marks from the floor.

I climbed into the car and backed out of the garage.  I held onto the steering wheel with all of my might to control my shaking hands and replayed in my mind the directions to the hospital that the fireman had given me.  I took a deep breath and headed out.  The traffic was bad, I hit every light red and I was glad to know that the ambulance would have zipped through the red lights with its siren blaring and lights flashing. I passed a billboard I’d passed many times before that announced in large digital letters the current waiting time at the Emergency Room. 7 minutes it’s flashed.  Oh good, please Heavenly Father, watch over him, watch over them, watch over me.  And then I realized I needed to call my sons. They lived in different states, a plane ride away.  Their voices were calming to me, these boys of mine who are now men.

The word spread and within hours family and friends from all over the country were boarding flights and cars to be with Dale.  For three days they came and for three days he lay in the hospital bed surrounded by doctors and nurses and machines and needles and fluids and loved ones.  A tear would roll down his eye and I knew he was in pain and also saddened that he couldn’t communicate.  I discovered that he could raise his shoulder to mean yes.  I knew - we all knew the time was near.  I wanted each dear person who had journeyed so far to be with him, to have some one-on-one time.  They all knew that he could hear what they were saying and they all had time to talk about their good times together and to say goodbye.  I called our grandson, the two of them; he called Dale “Pa”, were the best of friends.  I held the phone to Dale’s ear and tears ran down Dale’s eyes as he listened to the beautiful words of this young man. I called my dear sister and held the phone up to his ear.  She told him in no uncertain terms that he must promise her that he would watch over me!! He raised his shoulder several times, “Yes, yes, yes”. There were times over that 3 day period when he seemed to be “away”.  I asked him where he went?  Was he with family on the other side?  His shoulder went up, YES!  I asked if he was with Pops, his Grandfather and hero and his shoulder went way up. YES!!!!  I asked him if he was ready to go and he slowly raised his shoulder.

I kissed him and whispered, “We’ll always have Paris”-  his whole body relaxed and he smiled and I knew it was time to call everyone back in.  We prayed and I sat at his side with both of my hands on his arm while his dear family and friends stood around his bed.  Several minutes later I felt a surge of energy pass through my hands and he was gone.  The machines stopped, and it was clear that he wasn’t there anymore.  The pieces of my life lay shattered. How on earth would I go on?

It’s been a year and four months now.  And I find that my life, which I thought was falling apart, is starting to fall into place.  Like the scraps of fabric in my sister’s quilts - a pattern is developing, a purpose is emerging.  It has been a lot of work, a lot of tears and loneliness, a lot of faith and I know that will continue. Sometimes it is only with the hands of the Savior that I am able to have enough strength to make it through a day, sometimes it’s only with Dale’s sweet messages and obvious things that happen that only he would be able to mastermind from where he now stands, sometimes it is only with my dear son who challenges me and encourages me and sees me through so many trials, sometimes it is because of my grandchildren who inspire me and love me and want to hear my stories and encourage me to write and to draw and see life through their eyes and sometimes it is only through the love of my dear sister and brother-in-law who have sacrificed more than anyone can comprehend to be here for me.  It is with them that I have a place to be right now.  A place of respite, a place of faith and prayer, a place where laughter is once again possible and the idea of dreams are once again conceivable.  A place where meals are served, holidays are still celebrated, where “Miracles happen to those who believe” and where when I take a break from all of my work and efforts I can sit on the sofa by the tv and watch the steady up and down motion of her quilting hand which gives me comfort and peace and calm.

And with a spark of dignity, like the new mothers and the man with the golden boots I dare to dream a dream of hope.

Story to be continued……

Type dale

Wednesday....Another sleepless night...I fidgeted and tossed and finally sat up in tears.  Unable to find comfort in my loneliness and worry I demanded right out loud "Dale I need you to be here with me and I need you to let me know that you are!"

I immediately felt the words:  "Go to your computer"

It was the very last thing I wanted to do at 2 am.  Was I supposed to work? But the instruction was strong so I flipped on the lamp at my bedside and squinted my tear filled eyes as the light cut through the darkness.

The warm glow of the computer was waiting for me like the friend it has become.  The stalwart artificial intelligent friend that finds the answers to so many of my mortal questions.

"Now what?" I stated as I hovered my hands over the keys.

"Go to Google"  I felt

Okayyyyy.  I almost rolled my eyes.  "I'm here, now what?"

"Type....dale"

At this point I didn't question but just typed in the 4 letters that spell my love and best friend's name...dale.

Up came this:

Urban Dictionary: dale 

www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dale

 ·          Urban Dictionary

A very loving loyal and kind human being. Has the looks of an angel and the personality of a saint. A dale will never let you down and will be there for you always ..

It was so like Dale to make me laugh by saying something like he has the looks of an angel and a personality of a saint but then what stood out to me as if the letters were darker than the rest was: Dale will never let you down and will be there for you always.

My heart was calmed, my fears dissolved and I smiled. I was not alone and I knew it.

I went back to bed; clicked off the light; snuggled under the covers; closed my eyes and slept soundly til morning.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

It's been quite a journey, this unscheduled, unwanted, unbelievable voyage of widowhood. This morning I read the words of  Ralph Parlett:

Strength and struggle travel together. The supreme reward of struggle is strength.  Life is a battle and the greatest joy is to overcome. The pursuit of easy things makes men weak...

I look back over the last 16 months since Dale died and I see how I have been strengthened by each struggle I have had to overcome. It has been with faith and hope and the love of family (and of course Dale who never lets me down and is there for me always) that has made it possible for me to get up each morning before dawn, put on my brave and head out into the daily unknown to conquer those struggles.

I saw a little sign for sale in a charming lakeside shop yesterday that read simply:

"Faith makes things possible...not easy"

I don't pray for ease but I pray, in faith, for strength.  I'm seeing that things are not turning out the way I thought they could (the easy way) but oh the blessings that have come my way through faithfully pushing through the struggles!

Each solution seems to also bring another set of challenges but I'm seeing that they are all important milestones leading me to Dale and an eternity together and....until then, I know, because he told me... he's right here for me as well. Whew.

Thank you dear reader for letting me share my thoughts as I seek the right footings along this cobblestone AND blossom strewn path. I'm sending my love and appreciation to you for your kind thoughts and moral support.


                                           

What can I give him?

It's early.  Very early, I'm up before the sun as is most often the case. Oh how I used to love to wake up in the morning and see the dappled sunlight spill into the bedroom, slip across the floor and gently touch the quilt on our bed.  Dale enjoyed mornings in the forest.  His homemade pancakes were hearty with lots of pure maple syrup or his Irish oatmeal would fill our bowls and then stick to our ribs to nourish us for a morning's labor. 


I awake now before the sun.  I'm not as lonely that way.  I purposely miss the morning ritual that began each new day with us...together.


It's Dale's birthday today.

What would we be doing this morning if he were still alive? He loved spring, he loved to travel and explore and we always seemed to find a new place to discover on his birthday. We would pack our cameras and tripods, climb in the car and stop at every opportunity to photograph spring breaking through as the earth unveiled a fresh new season.


A new start...spring.  I should be exhilarated that my home finally sold, for good this time, just last Friday.  It's a relief and a milestone and it was a new start on a lovely spring day.  But the reality is that our home is gone now.  I realize it had to be, I realize it's what I wanted and I also realize that a fresh start also means saying yet another goodbye.  Goodbye old home in the forest with the view of the river and the rolling pine covered hills and the eagles soaring overhead and the deer peeking in our windows.  Thank you for the memories, for the laughter and for the sorrow that painted his last years like a watercolor wash spiraling uncontrollably over the paper; a chaos of intricate multi-colored patterns and then, voila....a painting.  I'm glad it was his last home, he loved it there.  I'm glad that the new owners will experience the spring flowers that will have popped up to welcome them.  The hyacinth, the snowdrops, the blossoming fruit trees and the budding lilacs.


Last spring I wondered how I could survive without him. So many things have happened, so many little miracles have filled my heart with proof that he still loves me and cares for me and watches out for me.


I wrote this in my journal a few weeks after he died.  I read it again before I turned out the light last night.  It's one of the sweet reminders that has given me the strength to endure the pain of loss and to relive the happy times that feel like such a precious gift to me now, this is what I wrote:

SOMEWHERE MY LOVE

“Somewhere My Love” is the theme song from the movie “Dr. Zhivago”  It was the song that was playing as we danced our first dance together on the night we met. While we were dating, Dale gave me the gift of an Italian music box that played this song.  It became “our song” and it played as we danced our first dance as husband and wife at our wedding reception.

It’s been just over 3 weeks since Dale passed away.  This morning while I was getting dressed, the music box that has been sitting on my shelf for years suddenly started to play.  It played just the first 4 notes…Somewhere My Love…  I had long since forgotten the words to the song so through my tears I came to my computer and searched for the lyrics.

 I have experienced many impressions, thoughts, and indications from Dale these last few weeks that have given me great comfort in knowing that he is still with me and taking care of me.  This message perhaps means more to me than anything because it says exactly what I know he wants me to hear and wants me to keep in my heart and naturally it is in the style of poetry that he wrote for me throughout our life together.

Somewhere my Love,

There will be songs to sing

Although the snow

Covers the hope of spring.

Somewhere a hill
Blossoms in green and gold
And there are dreams
All that your heart can hold.

Someday we'll meet again, my love.
Someday whenever the spring breaks through.

You'll come to me
Out of the long ago,
Warm as the wind,
Soft as the kiss of snow.

Till then, my sweet,
Think of me now and then.
God, speed my love
'Til you are mine again.

Each stanza touched my heart as if he were whispering the words into my ear. 


Each word a gift to me.  But what can I give him today for his birthday? 


Many years ago he wrote a poem and he would often recite this line to me:

"I've saved a place high on a hill where the morning's first rays will kiss you good day" 
 
Perhaps I'll "put on my brave" this morning and allow myself to witness the sun's first rays again.  The morning of his birthday, my little gift to him...of me being strong. A little stronger than yesterday, a lot stronger than a year ago.  I'm going to be ok.  He'd like that.

Happy Birthday, here's the sun rising on your birthday just now.  It's going to be a good day.