Settle Down

A few weeks after Dale died I received a very kind email from a business associate sending her most heartfelt and empathetic condolences. She understood because she had lost her husband 5 years before. I asked her how she survived it.  How did she pull through? She responded, “I simply read all I could find about strong women and used that as my guide”.

I took that to heart and started reading the stories of my ancestor grandmothers. Strong physically, mentally and spiritually, these were women who overcame trials and survived! They were successful in all areas of their lives and were heroes to those who followed.  As I researched, story after heroic story unfolded as if they were telling me, “Hold on, you can do this!”

One morning, not long after the funeral but after everyone had left and I was alone, I was overcome with the burden of getting that huge house and acreage ready to sell and to find a place, yet unknown, to start a new life! A daunting and frightening undertaking. With the weight of the world on my shoulders I walked into the kitchen and stood at the sink. No dishes to do because I had eaten a bite of a leftover sandwich standing in front of the open refrigerator an hour earlier, so opposite from the full-fledged breakfasts that Dale so loved and we prepared together creating mounds of dishes to load into the dishwasher.  But today, the sink was empty and all the dishes and pots and pans and napkins and pitchers and silverware and place-mats were in their places in the shelves waiting for a meal that wouldn’t be happening. The normal routine was not there and the heaviness of grief and worry seemed to have a deafening beat inside my head.  

And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw something moving across the tile floor, OH NO! A trail of ants coming in through the bottom of the door and across the kitchen right up to where I was standing.  That was it.  I’d had it, on top of everything else do I really have to deal with ANTS!! It was like they were suddenly the biggest problem in the universe - the one thing that made all of the rest too much to handle!

And then...I heard a soft feminine voice, a whisper like a soft feather against my ear as if it was coming from someone standing next to my shoulder and also looking at the moving trail, remarking in the most loving tone, “Well, at least they are not rattlesnakes!”

Amazingly, I was instantly calm. I knew it was a grandmother from ages ago telling me to calm down, see this for what it is and that I could do this.  I realized that she’d had it a lot worse in life and survived it all using her wits, courage and much prayer and that gave me strength. And it gave me power...and it gave me...the idea to get the broom and the dustpan and scoop up the ants and carry them out.  I had some good organic ant spray that I used around the base of the door.  Came back in, washed my hands in the sink and fixed a decent breakfast - taking time to thank that thoughtful lady from long ago for caring for me.

Since then I’ve found courage in times when I didn’t think I could. Strength when it isn’t logical that I should have strength.  Calm when I need it most. I continue to discover stories about my ancestors (both women and men) that overcame tremendous heart aches and hardships in their lives. Dale was one of those men. 

Yesterday though I was feeling overcome with the fear of a heavy burden that I was carrying and feeling at the breaking point I suddenly just flipped on the radio and immediately heard Phillip Phillips wailing…

Settle Down, it’ll all be clear

Don’t pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

It you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m gonna make this place your home.

And for the very first time in the million times I’ve heard that song, I felt Dale standing next to me, like that thoughtful great great grandmother had done before and he made me understand in an instant that he is in heaven making a home for me in that place!  Not any time soon… but when I’ve done all that I need to do here, he’ll be there ready for me.  That concept instantly calmed me down, I suddenly figured out what it was that I needed to do about that big frustration I had been stewing about (which didn’t seem so big any longer). And you know what? By settling down it became clear, everything isn't just about, nor does it end, here. There is such a wonderful place to work towards.

It’s a happy thought now to ponder that perhaps those strong women who continue to inspire me will come by to visit us in that heavenly home that Dale is busy preparing so I can thank them for their help.

Brave

It takes a certain amount of bravery when a handsome young man is standing in front of you with a diamond ring saying “Will you marry me?” to say..”Yes I will” knowing it changes the course of your life forever. It also takes a certain amount of bravery to stand at the hospital bedside of that same person many years later, hold his hand and whisper to him that it’s ok to “let go” even though it changes the course of your life again.

How did I get to be that brave? How do I bravely face each day now?

I am keenly aware that bravery is a solitary thing.  It’s something that is done on your own. Even if you are surrounded by other people.  Like that first day of kindergarten when you are standing half way between your mother and the door of school house. Safety is running back into the arms of a loving mother, it takes bravery to turn and walk in the door into the great unknown! To do that you have to look inside yourself and without realizing that bravery is not the absence of fear but pushing on anyway, you wave goodbye to Mom, clench your little fists, turn and walk through the door.

You alone make the final determination whether you ride that bike for the first time without training wheels, or jump into a swimming pool the very first time, or become a young woman, or change your hairstyle or wear your first pair of high heels! On your own you fall in love, even though that takes two…you have to be brave enough to let go of your heart and give it to someone else!

You have to be brave to move out of the childhood home where you were loved and cared for by devoted parents all of your life and start a home of your own.  Brave to have children, not only to give birth but to be responsible for teeny tiny human beings who rely on you for everything, every minute of every day. And then when you have loved them through all of their literal and metaphorical bumps and bruises with more love than you thought possible you have to be brave enough to let them go...to brave the world on their own.

On through the years when life gives you problems and challenges you find the courage to move on through them. As Mary Tyler Moore is quoted as saying, “You can’t be brave if you’ve only had wonderful things happen to you.” As part of our life's journey, along with the wonderful things come financial issues, disappointments, loss of grandparents and parents and the dreaded health problems requiring us to put on our brave.

Hillary Weeks in her song “Brave” ardently prompts us:

In the moments when the walls seem way to high,
trust your instincts, breath and start to climb,
Cause you have always been...

Brave, you are brave!
Let your brave come through and let it define you,
Cause you were meant to be brave…

When you think you can't,
Strong when you have fallen,
Bold enough to stand and be...

Brave. Brave. Brave, you are brave!
Let your brave come through and let it define you,
Cause you are meant to be...

Brave, you are brave!

I recently came across a love letter Dale had written to me many years ago when I was away from home visiting my family and he wrote, “…I’m thinking of the challenges we have faced in our marriage but so grateful that none of our problems were with each other”.  Definitely holding hands and linking our courage together was a stronger force than just one brave person alone. But nothing in all of these years of being brave, alone or united, fully prepared me for being without him. Mainly because it’s a constant and ongoing thing this bravely facing the world alone now. I wake up every morning, discern the need (yet again) to put on my brave and find a purpose in order to make it through another day. Because the truth is, as to quote (in part) Jason Mraz in his song I won’t give up…

I don't wanna be someone who walks away so easily
I'm here to stay and make the difference that I can make

But glancing once again at the post-it note on the edge of my computer screen that spurs me on by proclaiming, “You Brave, Brave Warrior You!” I am well aware that even though I’ve used my personal free agency to bravely maneuver through these challenges that…well…it always starts with a prayer and then...

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas

I am strong, when I am on your shoulders

You raise me up, to more than I can be

And that’s really the true secret to being brave right? Every decision to be brave, from entering the kindergarten doors to now starts with a prayer.

The Soroptimist Club

When I was a very young girl living in a small town, my father belonged to the Soroptimist Club. (A business club a the time for all professionals, today mainly for women).  

He would attend the meetings and would come home..well…happy!  I had recently learned the word hippopotamus in school and wondered if Soroptimist was similar so I asked, he chuckled and explained that an Optimist is someone who sees the best in things.  He is able to look at the world as a positive place and the challenges as opportunities to make it better. And a Soroptimist is a super optimist.

 His club met to resolve the town’s problems in a positive way like designing the park so that it would be a fun and safe place for little children to play or making certain there were good books in the library for us to read. 

I liked the idea of being a Soroptimist and I decided that very day that I wanted to be one.

I have to admit though that finding joy and being an optimist, let alone a sorpotimist since Dale died has taken a lot of emotion and time and genuine effort.

I’ve done a pretty good job at patching my broken heart as I’ve journeyed the long road without him and a few days ago I finally felt strong enough to enter the garage and stand and look at the tall metal shelf filled with big plastic file boxes many of them labeled “Dale”. I sighed and hesitated just long enough to determine if I was strong enough and then whispered…”Ok, Dale tell me which one!” One seemed to stand out to me so I pulled and pulled and shifted things and pulled again and out it came.  I carried it to the house and plopped it onto the table. It was heavy. It was sealed with rainbow colored duct tape. I remember sealing it up as I packed things up after he died thinking…”Someday I’ll be able to do this”. Once again I hesitated, was this the “someday”?  I decided it was and quickly pulled off the tape before I could change my mind.

A dusty file smell permeated the room. Old papers, old treasures and then I saw a large file with dozens of cds. Cd’s he had hired to be made of all of our family and ancestor photographs. Thousands of photos! It was a hidden treasure.  Which one first! Everything was labeled by number, few by name so each will be a fun discovery…but wait…there is a silver one that isn’t labeled at all.  I decided to check that one out first so that I could label it or throw it away if it was blank or unnecessary. I opened the cd slot on my computer and popped it in. Whirring Whirring Whirring and then….a scratchy title…it was our wedding video from 1971!  It had been transferred to this dvd from old 8 mm video film!  For an hour I sat at my computer entranced and the amazing thing is that I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel the pain of his death, I didn’t hurt….I simply FELL IN LOVE WITH HIM ALL OVER AGAIN!.

This wasn’t just another Band-Aid on my heart it felt like…like…Healing!

L. Tom Perry is credited with saying “Enduring to the end is definitely not a Do-It-Yourself project”. With a great amount of gratitude and humility I have arrived at this point with steady and sustained progress with the help of my compassionate family and friends and in every lonely moment of every passing day as so beautifully written in Psalms (147:3): “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”

 I am blessed.  I am healing and I am definitely…still in love with my best friend.

FIRE!!!

When my Dad was a young teenager he lay in bed in his room in the attic of his parents old wooden farm house.  There was an unusual stillness in the cold air he thought as he plumped the pillow and wrapped himself tighter in the homemade quilt trying to fall asleep in the old metal framed bed.

A horrendous BOOM and a ragged flash of lightening, the brilliance and whiteness like he’d never seen before, tore through the ceiling and struck the floor at the foot of his bed.  A nano-second later the room was engulfed in flames. He grabbed blindly for his shoes and made his way to the door and down the wooden stairs.  His young sister was screaming, his father was yelling for him to help get things out of the house, his mother in her long white nightgown was already wrapping things into a blanket to be dragged outside. The young boy rose to manhood as he thrust his shoes out the door and piled sacred belongings onto the rug and pulled them out onto the porch and into the yard away from danger. Again and again he ran in to the burning inferno to save what he could.  Finally his father yelled, “That is enough, it will have to do”.  And the family stood with smoke in their lungs and soot on their hands and faces and watched their beloved home burn to the ground. The rain drops were useless against the fierceness of the flames.

Standing there he finally realized that his feet were sore and cold and so he looked for his shoes.  What he found was one shoe and his old childhood wooden pull toy dog.  About the size of his shoe he scoffed as he remembered grabbing what he thought was a pair of shoes.  So these were his only personal belongings now; the pajamas he was wearing, one shoe and an old wooden toy.

Several years later, this boy who had become a man now but not yet twenty years old was a soldier fighting hand to hand combat on the battlefields of Okinawa.

I quote here from the November 2012 issue of the Marine Corp Gazette: 

Okinawa: The Final Great Battle of World War II

An American triumph through bloodshed

Volume 96, Issue 11

Author:  SSgt Rudy R. Frame, Jr.

The Battle of Okinawa started on 23 March 1945 with all major combat operations ending on 23 June 1945. The island of Okinawa is located approximately 350 miles south of mainland Japan. It is the largest island in the Ryukyu Island chain, the southernmost prefecture of the then-Japanese Empire. The strategic importance of this island cannot be overemphasized. In a time when an invasion of mainland Japan was necessary to end the war, Okinawa was an essential preparation ground and jumping-off point for the impending invasion. The island’s airfields were indispensable to the launching of bombers and long-range escorts for the preparatory bombing for the land invasion of mainland Japan. This battle involved the Japanese Army, minimal Japanese naval efforts (due to a lacking naval power), and the last of its airpower concentrated in mass kamikaze formations. The allied power consisted of a combined force that was largely American with some British naval support, along with the Joint Services of the U.S. Army, Marine Corps, and Navy.

At this point in the war both the Americans and the Japanese had developed their command, control, and communications in ground warfare to the best level of efficiency they could. The Japanese were far more rudimentary with a simple, straightforward concept—to kill every single American fighter possible and hold the defensive line until it was utterly broken.

This concept of defending, delaying, and withdrawing to another defensive line was a change in tactics for the Japanese. Typically the Japanese Army mounted a Banzai run once the defensive line could no longer hold, always resulting in large numbers of Japanese soldiers being torn apart by American machineguns, mortars, rifles, and an assortment of small arms. This tactical change was the brainchild of GEN Ushijima whose intent was to have his men live and hold out as long as possible in an effort to slow the American advance toward Japan. The decision as to when to withdraw to the next defensive line was made ultimately by GEN Ushijima, who received reports from his many officers along whichever one of the three defensive lines was being held at the time. GEN Ushijima held each line until its fate was sealed but there was still opportunity to tactically withdraw, set up in the defense, and start the process all over again.

The elaborate communications network under the Shuri Castle where GEN Ushijima’s headquarters was located allowed him to make informed decisions as the castle was a highly defensible position at the center point of the middle Shuri defensive line. The naval contributions of the Japanese, which were almost nonexistent, were best exemplified by the Japanese Navy’s own suicide run from their final massive 70,000 ton battleship Yamato being destroyed when it was spotted on its way to Okinawa. The Yamato was loaded up with just enough fuel to get to the American fleet and ordered to fight to the death; its strategy was to beach itself near the Shuri line and decimate American troops already pinned down by the 100,000-strong defenders of the Shuri line while also taking advantage of any opportunity to sink American ships. Japanese air power was no longer intent on defeating the Americans in head-to-head battle but was instead depending upon its kamikazes. At this battle the first mass formations of kamikazes were utilized against the 5th Fleet.

The American command, control, and communications were as efficient as they could be by 1945 after nearly 4 years of battling in the Pacific. The advancement of communications processes and independence within small units created a new level of efficiency on the battlefield. There were still command-level issues in appropriate decision making but the majority of them were eliminated as all the commanders were already battle hardened; in addition, the small unit leaders largely made up for command and control failures by improvising and adapting to every obstacle. Units had developed a cohesive esprit de corps throughout all of the units in the American Services.

On 21 June the final contact for the Battle of Okinawa began. Instead of staying on the defensive, GEN Ushijima conducted one final offensive that, if successful, would have extended the battle further. Like most of the Japanese offensives on Okinawa, it was an utter failure. Though Ushijima made his troops aware of his respect for the honor they had given the Emperor by delaying the Americans for nearly 3 months, it was not enough. Ushijima wrote the following in a letter before committing ritual suicide on the 22 June:

To my great regret we are no longer able to continue the fight. For this failure I tender deepest apologies to the Emperor and the people of the homeland. We will make one final charge to kill as many of the enemy as possible. I pray for the souls of men killed in battle and for the prosperity of the Imperial Family.

On 23 June all major combat operations ended on the island of Okinawa. Over the 3 month battle more than 8 million artillery and mortar rounds were fired, the equivalent of more than 1 round per second. For some, the silence after the battle was over was almost deafening. In total, more than 12,000 American service members were killed and more than 38,000 wounded (many from combat fatigue) or missing. The Japanese military lost more than 110,000, but the greatest loss of life by the Okinawan people. Anywhere from 40,000 to 150,000 of the Okinawans perished during the battle. Even with all the carnage, it was at Okinawa that the largest number of Japanese soldiers were taken prisoner (more than 7,000—an unprecedented number).

My Dad was there day and night through the thick of it, a Top Sargent leading his squad of brave soldiers.

And then…it was over and the “silence was almost deafening.”

He was assigned to peace keeping duties in Tokyo. He initiated the plan and then directed the building of a small movie theatre and helped teach the young Japanese boys how to play baseball and served with the Military Police. 

Walking back to the barracks after dinner one evening he heard the unmistakable cry of “FIRE!”  He ran around the corner to see the large barrack building consumed in flames. Oh boy, he’d seen this before, another home being burned to the ground.  Without a moment’s hesitation he ran inside to grab his most precious possession, the photo in a small brass frame of his young and  beautiful wife, the one that he had carried through the entire battle. The one that gave him the courage to fight and to survive at all costs. The photo of the love of his life who would bare his children into a world that was now safe for them. There was no time to grab anything else.

How his life changed in these horrible times.  How brave he was! I was born a bit over 7 years later.  He was a loving father who taught us to be patriotic as he removed his hat and put it over his heart as a tear would fall from his eye when the uniformed color guard would march by with the flag in our small town’s big parades. The reverence and honor for the flag remained the same through his life, whether at 4^th of July celebrations or baseball games, always a tear, always his hat held over his heart.

I awoke early this morning thinking that I needed to write and think about these experiences of my Dad. Perhaps it was because the last thing I read last night was a quote by Gordon B. Hinckley:

“It is good to look to the past to gain appreciation for the present and perspective for the future.  It is good to look upon the virtues of those who have gone before, to gain strength for whatever lies ahead.”

The day Dale died was like a lightning bolt had ripped through my life and then the silence became deafening. Emotions and loss so powerful that I will never, ever be the same. My life changed.  So many of the precious things are gone. And I’m left to deal with the charred remains of my heart. I fill my days with things that I deem important or valuable and muster on but the fact remains that rebuilding from the fire that raged through me (and flares up still) will keep taking time. But it is a powerful realization I've had today that my father went through terrible ordeals, survived and mentored me with his stories and the privilege to observe him overcome  those devastating experiences to become a successful husband, father, religious leader and human being that many years later gives me the strength for whatever lies ahead.

Thank you Dad.  I love you.

Pride and Predicament

My mother was the youngest of five daughters born to a tall, handsome farmer and his charming and always elegant wife.  The girls were beautiful.  Each with their own distinct personality and talents. Each a favorite among the school girls and longingly admired from a distance by the boys. There was no greater love though than the love that these sisters had for each other.  Such little women as these could conquer the world and be very well dressed doing it.  They were well read and they were trained in the art of decorum and they could all set a pretty table. Their father was happily surrounded by these 5 young ladies who adored him; took after their petite and classy mother, blessed his life with laughter and drama and gave him so very much to worry about.  A primary concern of his being that they were to avoid pride at all costs.

How often the girls fretted about it. To have pride must be something far worse than anything else. I’m sure they never actually made a plan of action but when my mother, the youngest, came of age it was a well establish procedure.  Compliments were deflected rather than enjoyed. (The accepting of compliments that is - not the giving of them. Giving them to one another was done freely and honestly, and filled with love) But a response to, “What a pretty dress!” would often be answered by something like, “Oh dear, it just makes me look so fat!” or “I know that color is all wrong for me!” or “It would look so much better on…” well enter the name of another sister here!  And if they showed accomplishment in any number of their many talents, the response to praise was the same…a humble denial that it was not anything at all to be sung about. This way they could do well but not appear to be egotistical or proud.

This procedure was never actually explained to the next generation of girls, the daughters of these sisters, we were always just reminded of how Grandpa warned that his girls (and now we were included) should not be found having pride. It seems that through our childhood observations what we girl cousins unconsciously adopted instead was;

1) the strong sense that we could do whatever we wanted to do in life and

2) an innate ability to over indulge in the art of self-criticism

 A state (I’m reluctant to acknowledge) of Pride and Predicament.  The predicament being that ironically this attempt at humility through self-criticism actually forces you to think about yourself more than you would otherwise. 

So let’s think about this:

 C.S.Lewis said that:

 “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”

But then there’s Einstein who said:

So let’s don’t throw the whole self-criticism out. Perhaps we could call it self-analysis. Would that put a more positive spin on it?  Self-analysis requires comparison though right? And as luck would have it…

And Theodore Roosevelt warned that:

I suppose that’s because comparison could lead to jealousy…..

Ok. That can’t be good because….

So….instead of making a comparison why not take the advice of Ralph Waldo Emerson who said:

“Our best thoughts come from others”

And start saying:

And perhaps if we look at those successful people who are doing things that we truly want to do (or to do better) as mentors rather than someone who makes us feel poorly about ourselves then we are opening the whole world up to possibilities.

 

Remembering of course that we can still be successful if we follow our own abilities and talents and don’t think we have to do what everyone else is doing! Einstein warns:

And it’s good to remember too that:

And so now…..

And say…..

And then we can say!!!

And then, AND THEN!!!

Bye-Bye Pride and Predicament and hello Peace and Progression!

Break Through or Break Down?

It’s raining today and suddenly, out of nowhere it's 40 degrees!  The snow mounds that have been piled too high to be able to see around are melting and creating riverlets of slush.  Just walking to the mailbox was an adventure.

Too warm for a coat?

Do I need galoshes for heaven’s sake?

 

Will I float away down the street if I slip? 

I tip toed cautiously in the snowy areas alongside the flowing stream of ice cubes to retrieve what turned out to be nothing but ads in the mailbox and then made my way back inside deflecting the silly urge to look for something to launch down the little icy river running down the driveway. 

It isn’t winter anymore I concede but neither is it spring.  It’s hovering somewhere in between. Even the Canadian Geese floating on the real river look a little frustrated dodging the chunks of ice passing by. I’m sure I heard one squawk “Oh Come On! Let’s get to spring already”

I sigh as I grasp the fact that the day is a bit like me. Working on an art project today (over and over and over again..the old Draw, Paint, Rip and Repeat cycle) and feeling it just wasn’t right at all I wondered if I was on the verge of a break through or a break down!

And when helping someone the other day with ideas of things to do in Paris, something Dale and I did so many times I looked at the little sign that reads “Paris is always a good idea” and for one brief moment I hovered between the delight of that thought and the darker feeling of reaching for my felt tip pen and updating it in a graffiti sort of way to say “Paris isn’t always a good idea!”  Well it is for everyone else but it was such an “us” place that the very idea of going back without Dale is …well it isn’t a good idea at all.

Later that day I sat reading a good book, reached the end, sighed and once again felt the old recognition of living my life alone and for the first time I hovered between I’m not okay and feeling something new, something like...I’m okay! Not just the academy award winning performance of “I’m OK” but actually experiencing it.

So maybe spring will really arrive, maybe I will have that artistic breakthrough and although I’ll never go to Paris again perhaps, just perhaps I’ll want to.

Quilting Bee

As a child my doll Betsy and I spent great gobs of time lying on our backs looking up at the large quilt being made over our heads to the sound of the cackles and chatter of my grandmother’s quilting bee friends. Betsy and I were surrounded by dozens of feet, clad in orthopedic type shoes, supporting dozens of legs, covered in beige colored hose rolled and tied in knots just below the dozens of knees that were covered in a variety of the floral print fabrics of homespun dresses. These womanly limbs served as if pickets in the fence that enclosed my little encampment.

Because of the light on the ceiling, my view of the bottom side of the quilt allowed me to see dozens of hands working, working, working up on top. The teeny tiny stitches of each needle eventually blended together to form an intricate pattern of blossoms and leaves and curly ques.  I loved these times. I was always alone in the crowd, being the only child there since my sister was at school and my Mother had dutifully dropped me off on her way to work.  But oh how I delighted in the story being told with those needles.

Curiosity would eventually get the better of me and I would find an escape route, come to the top side of the quilt to run my fingers along the stitching that followed the expertly pieced design and take in the whole masterpiece.

Another treasure would soon be ready to be bound and folded and stacked with the others at the church bazaar where it would be sold allowing the women to hand a nice cash donation to the bishop for the good things that were needed for those who had less.

I’ve been sick this week, spending much more time than usual lying on my back in bed looking up at the ceiling.  This time, it is my mind not the nimble fingers of the quilting bee ladies that is stitching together the story. Remembering things that have been, imagining things that will come. An intricate pattern is developing.   It was Robert Frost who said: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”  Dale dying did not stop the progression of my story.

There is still so much to learn and to do and to accomplish before my life quilt is ready to be bound and folded and handed to Heavenly Father as a Thank You for this beautiful gift of life. It won’t be as intricate or beautiful or varied or even as colorful as other life quilts but I’m determined to have it be a one-of-a-kind-me life quilt. A pattern being woven with my life experiences lived the best that I am able.

I need to remember to stop every once in a while (like today) and take a look as if from the top looking down to make sure things are going right, even if the seam ripper must be used from time to time or a flaw mended or patched or a new direction required because amazingly...life goes on.