So Far I’ve Survived 100% of my Worst Days

Last month, as the days were dreary with grayness and dampened by continual rain, my sister fell ill with the flu. I gave her a little stone with the word STRENGTH etched onto it. She said just seeing it helped her hold on through the long painful days and sleepless nights of coughing coughing coughing and finally through sheer determination and in answer to many prayers, she is well again and this week…she gave the stone back.  She knew that this week I’m the one that needs strength.

Margaret Thatcher once said that “You may have to fight the battle more than once to win it” and I’m thinking that’s the case as I clasp the stone in my hand and ask the Lord “What woulds’t Thou have me learn from this experience?”

I turn to my ancestors, reading story after story and examining photo after photo, I fly through the decades and further back into the centuries as their names, some so very foreign, roll off my tongue and I get to know their strengths. Strengths that I realize were often grown out of trials. Triumphs out of tragedies. Beautiful blessings rising from the ashes of great loss.

Between the dates of their births and the dates of the deaths, these people lived. They made their lives matter. Some were great soldiers who fought in great wars, some were farmers who fed the hungry with the fruit of their labors, some were religious men and women who saved souls and gave succor, some simply pushed forward one step in front of the other and inspired others to do the same. So many women that raised children in love and taught them values and integrity even in the most trying times. So many of them lost their husbands and continued on, courageously learning to be strong on their own. I see that they were always growing, always having challenges and overcoming them. I recognize that these experiences won’t cease, because that is life.

I read once that sometimes when you’re in a dark place you think you’ve been buried, but actually you’ve been planted! So I ask again, “Lord, what woulds’t Thou have me learn from this experience?”

I search and find a statement by Orson F. Whitney that gives me strength as I read it … “No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude and humility. All that we suffer and all that we endure, especially when we endure it patiently, builds up our characters, purifies our hearts, expands our souls, and makes us more tender and charitable, more worthy to be called the children of God.”

And Larry Richman stated: “Trials give us opportunities to show the Lord and ourselves that we will be faithful. We can choose to feel sorry for ourselves and ask, “Why me?” or we can grow from our trials, increase our faith in the Lord, and ask, “How can I be faithful in the midst of this trial?” We can let adversity break us down and make us bitter, or we can let it refine us and make us stronger. We can allow adversity to lead us to drift away from the things that matter most, or we can use it as a stepping-stone to grow closer to things of eternal worth.”

I somehow feel that my ancestors knew that.  Knew it and even embraced it and created lives filled with successful triumphs and courageous, intelligent solutions.

Can I?

Well, actually, as the saying goes, I guess that so far I have made it through 100% of my worst days. So give me strength here I go and with a good deal of hope...here I grow…again.

Giant Problems

Good Morning World.  It’s another day, another chance to put on my courage and face today’s Goliaths. It seems that in times past I was able to hurl huge boulders at the challenges that arose each day, stand triumphant with my hands on my hips and with my chin in the air exclaim, “Ha! Take that!!”

But as I get older the metaphorical stones in my slingshot are smaller and the thrust has less oomph even though powerful Goliaths return day after day…the old familiar health issues, the general being-a-widow issues, weather related issues and the assorted people utilizing their free agency to get in the way of my free agency issues.

But today instead of summoning the strength to go to into battle, my thoughts float to a distant memory of “The Little Chapel in the Pines” nestled in the forest a few miles from our cabin. We spent the summers of my childhood at the cabin and this became our Sunday morning meetinghouse.  It was a tiny log cabin with a few benches inside; too few on many occasions as most often we would sit on logs arranged in an orderly fashion outside with the doors and windows of the little church flung wide open. We could hear the organ, sing the songs and almost hear the talks, if they projected really well.  I loved sitting out there in the forest, with my family; looking down the length of the log I can still envision my Dad next to Mother holding my baby brother and then my sister/best friend next to me.  The smell of the pine trees filled my senses and the frolicking and chattering of the chipmunks and squirrels supplied endless entertainment. Wild strawberries flourished around the logs and I would secretly (in all of my childhood innocence) select the brightest red one to eat with the bread and water of the Sacrament when it was passed to us. Delicious!  I felt I got to know Heavenly Father at this little church. Surrounded by the beauty He created and the peace that came with it, I felt Him close and I cherished it.

I have been to many of the great cathedrals of the world with all their exquisite architecture and inspiring artwork and I’ve been inside many, many modern chapels but etched into my heart are the pristine moments I felt while sitting on that little log in the forest; studying the soft brilliance of the shafts of morning sunlight filtering through the trees and humming the hymns at the Little Chapel in the Pines.

I think the most powerful stone in my arsenal was also nurtured there in the forest since the organist had a rather small repertoire and each and every week we would sing…”Did You Think to Pray”.  I listened to the words as my Dad sang it.  The song somehow made me happy even though it was laden with phrases like “When your heart was filled with anger” or “When sore trials came upon you” or the worst one... “When your soul was bowed in sorrow” all things that my contented nary-a-care in the world little mind could hardly begin to comprehend.  But the chorus always solved the woeful problem “Oh how praying rests the weary, prayer will change the night to day, so when life seems dark and dreary, don’t forget to pray”.

Prayer has been the most dominant stone I’ve used against the many Goliaths I have faced since Dale died. In my arsenal bag I also have other smooth, well used stones labeled ‘Sing’  ‘Study’  ‘Laugh’  ‘Renew’ ‘Serve’  ‘Be Aware’ ‘Music’ ‘Art’  ‘Ask for Angels’ ‘Love’.  I’ve heard it said that sometimes God will put a Goliath in your life for you to find the David within you.

When I was studying art and sculpting in Florence Italy I took upon myself the project of sculpting the hand of David.  Many days I walked into Galleria dell’Accademia to study and marvel at Michelangelo’s famous David.  Towering 17 feet tall, the sculptor had created the youth’s likeness in a single giant size block of marble. A magnificent tribute to a boy who had overpowered the dreadful Goliath with a single stone slung from a slingshot - powered by prayer. David had become the symbol of Florence who stood to fight against its much larger foes and who faced Rome with his warning glare.

His hand held the stone and I worked on that hand day after day for weeks in bringing it to life in clay with my own hand. I felt the power of that hand and the power of that small stone.  I thought of that little girl sitting on a pine log in the forest singing…”When sore trials came upon you, when your soul was bowed in sorrow..Did you think to pray?”.

David surely did.  Prayer was the power behind the stone.

He had to actually do something with that stone though. He followed his prayers with inspired actions.  And so today, this morning as daylight sets in, I need to do the same since a giant problem has already raised its ugly head and even though the forecast for the weather today; COLD AND WET has proven to be accurate…I need to head out quickly but before I leave my room this morning I will pray and I will armor myself with my metaphorical stones and head out to battle this foe while keeping in mind Thomas S. Monson's reminder that "There will be times when you will be frightened and discouraged. You may feel that you are defeated. The odds of obtaining victory may appear overwhelming. At times you may feel like David trying to fight Goliath. But remember - David did win!"

On a Note of Triumph

I came upon some old letters the other day. Letters my father had sent to my mother during the long, unspeakable horrors on the battlefields of World War II.  The letters are filled with hope, encouragement, bravery and love in a frightful time that was so often out of their control. Their words gave me strength and a new perspective for the challenges that I face today.

And then in one letter… it was over, this war that involved the entire world was simply...over. 

Just today, I heard someone reciting “The Prayer” as heard by an estimated 60 million people as they clustered around their radios on V-E Day in 1945 a few months before V-J Day.

I can close my eyes and envision Mother (only 20 years old) with her parents and sisters sitting together, clasping hands in grateful, tearful jubilation having just heard that the war in Europe had ended. And as Grandpa turned the radio knobs hoping to land on a clearer signal, they would have listened with tears in their eyes to the hope that this prayer provided.

“The Prayer”

An Excerpt from “On a Note of Triumph”

By Norman Corwin

(First broadcast on CBS May 8, 1945)

Reprinted in a "Reverberations" article posted by Peter Manseau 7/24/2013*

Lord God of trajectory and blast,
Whose terrible sword has laid open the serpent
So it withers in the sun for the just to see,
Sheathe now the swift avenging blade with the names of nations writ on it,
And assist in the preparation of the plowshare.

Lord God of fresh bread and tranquil mornings,
Who walks in the circuit of heaven among the worthy,
Deliver notice to the fallen young men
That tokens of orange juice and a whole egg appear now before the hungry children;

That night again falls cooling on the earth as quietly as when it leaves Your hand;
That freedom has withstood the tyrant like a Malta in a hostile sea,
And that the soul of man is surely a Sevastopol 

Which goes down hard and leaps from ruin quickly.

Lord God of the topcoat and the living wage
Who has furred the fox against the time of winter
And stored provender of bees in summer’s brightest places,
Do bring sweet influences to bear upon the assembly line:
Accept the smoke of the milltown among the accredited clouds of the sky:

Fend from the wind with a house and a hedge
Him who You made in Your image,
And permit him to pick of the tree and the flock,
That he may eat today without fear of tomorrow,
And clothe himself with dignity in December.

Lord God of test-tube and blueprint,
Who jointed molecules of dust and shook them till their name was Adam,
Who taught worms and stars how they could live together,
Appear now among the parliaments of conquerors
and give instruction to their schemes;

Measure out new liberties so none shall suffer for his father’s color
or the credo of his choice:
Post proofs that brotherhood is not so wild a dream
as those who profit by postponing it pretend:

Sit at the treaty table and convoy the hopes of little peoples through
expected straits,
And press into the final seal a sign that peace will come
for longer than posterities can see ahead,
That man unto his fellow man shall be a friend forever.



*Journalist Peter Manseau posted:

In his masterpiece, “On a Note of Triumph,” broadcast on V-E Day, 1945, Corwin put his skills as a deadline poet to work in the creation of secular scripture. Celebrating the Allied victory in Europe, he used the opportunity not for chest-thumping but introspection. He surveyed what had been gained and what had been lost in the war, and in the closing moments of the 58-minute broadcast, entwined the ancient tradition of divine petition with the technologies and politics destined to grant or deny the prayers of the future.

The broadcast gave Corwin a larger simultaneous audience than any writer had ever had before. It ran twice on all four networks and was heard by more than 60 million people—at the time nearly half the U.S. population. Out of a technology that seemed to some to breed isolation, Corwin used his radio pulpit to reach the biggest congregation in history.

What Do You Say To a Widow?

One spring morning many years ago (I think I was 9 years old) my eager and smiling family settled into the family station wagon and joined a caravan of other folks from our little town who were heading to a distant natural hot springs area. The intended journey's end being an Olympic sized indoor pool that was filled with water from the natural hot springs.  Warm and inviting, albeit a bit murky, it was a pleasurable outing for our winter weary bodies and souls!

My father used to tell me that I had taken to the water like a fish, which indeed I had as I learned to swim in the lake along with the rainbow trout when I was just over three.  And so entering the pool area after our long journey and quickly joining up with my best friend, Kathy, we took each other’s hands and skipped to the diving board at the deep end of the pool to the sound of “WALK” coming from the life guard tower. 

There was a line at the diving board. We waited, eagerly watching as swimmer after swimmer clad in bathing suits and those uncomfortable rubbery swim caps, jumped or dove into the warm water. I was in line before Kathy and when it was finally my turn I climbed up, walked to the end, bounced up and down just a bit and then jumped in feet first. 

Down, down, down I went.  I remember thinking that wow this was a very deep pool but my feet finally touched the bottom and I pushed off and while hoping I had taken enough breath to make it back to the top I headed up.  Above me but still well under the surface I saw Kathy.  Her arms and legs were flailing and she was turning as if confused as to which direction was up and which direction was down. I simply grabbed her hand as I was passing by and together we rose to the top. Still holding hands we swam to the ladder and climbed out of the pool; she went to her mother and I headed back to the line for another fun jump.

Many years later the conversation went to that spring day and Kathy said, “Thank you for saving my life!” Frankly I didn’t think it had been a big deal.  I hadn’t stood like Supergirl at the edge of the pool and heroically jumped in to save a drowning victim; I had simply just been there and reached out my hand.

So many times since Dale died I have felt like I have been drowning emotionally and then someone is just “There” and reaches out their hand and saves me.   

My cousin mentioned the other day that her neighbor had passed away leaving a widow about my age. One would think that after all that has been said and done over the last three years that I would be an expert in knowing just what to say.  The truth is, the last thing I could say is that I totally understand what she is going through.  Surprising as that is, it has occurred to me that we all grieve differently. We all experience a different loss.  I remember when my father died, I was 28 years old and I had idolized my dad, we had been very close. At the funeral that was attended by hundreds of people, several came up to me individually and said, “I understand exactly what you’re going through, I lost my dad too!” Even though grateful for their kindness, my first thought was, “But you didn’t lose MY dad!” No one else can totally understand your loss and no one will grieve exactly the same as you do. 

It is a journey we each must take alone but oh how we need your helping hand!

Some people come to this earth like magnificent lions and others, just as important, come like peaceful lambs.  Some have talents that the world can enjoy in museums or concert halls while some present to a smaller group, their smaller gifts from the heart which are just as important. Some come with the power to teach and lead some with simple words that calm a trouble soul and uplift hearts.  Some have compassion for the few some can organize great works of humanitarianism, both equally important.

To me, it seems that the differences in each of us is what not only makes the world go round and what we alone can give but it is also what makes us unique and makes us find others who fit our uniqueness (whether alike or polar opposite) and fall deeply in love.  A love that is so strong that it hurts beyond anything else when you are parted. If grief is the price of love, then I accept it. Realizing it only hurts this much because our relationship mattered.

So what can you say to a widow?  Well in all humility and hoping to help…I can tell you what you might want to reconsider saying:

Even though you mean it and the widow knows you mean it…in my experience, these statements don’t really help:

• “It will get better”  (That’s not for you to judge.  I read once but can’t find it again where someone said “You don’t get over it you get through it…it doesn’t get better it gets different)

• “I understand” (You can’t possibly)

• “Call me if you need anything” (it’s the equivalent of saying kiss kiss “Let’s do lunch”)

• “You are blessed. It surely could have been worse” (so what if it could? He’s still gone!)

• “He’s in a far better place” (better than being here by my side!)

• “He was too good to be on this earth” (perhaps but what does that say about me?)

• “I’m here for you if you ever need me” (Great. But don’t say it unless you can and will actually follow through with that)

• “I’m sorry for your loss”  (that simply means - I needed to say something and that is generally accepted and I probably won’t ever  talk to you again anyway)

• “Time heals everything” (Nope…time can make you stronger, time can give you things to do but you never heal and become your same old self again no matter how much time passes)

• But after all this I must say that the worst thing you can do is to say nothing at all.  I have felt how some people don’t know what to say so I just don’t ever hear from them. 

So what Do you say?

Something like…. I am so sorry.  I can’t begin to understand how you feel losing him. But I have come to understand that grief only happens to those who have loved deeply like you two did. Please know, that I love you and I care.

And then, when you can, reach out your hand.  In a way that only you with your unique talents can. Every heartfelt act along the way is a rescue. It doesn’t have to be heroic.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There are some heroes that I would like to thank here though.  My sister and brother-in-law have given more than anyone will ever know to make certain I am ok.  My son also makes certain at all costs that I am cared for and not one day goes by without hearing from him in one way or the other even though he lives many states away. And my cousin with her daily emails giving me support and encouragement. They all treat me like I am a different me but still me!  I adore all of you and will spend eternity trying to think of a way to repay your heroic acts of pure love. I so need you and your unconditional love.

And of course to quote the words of a hymn, “How Firm a Foundation” that I sing often…

Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed,

For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.

I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,

Upheld by my righteous, upheld by my righteous,

Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.

                                                                                       image found on Pinterest

The Time of Your Life

I came upon a photo today that I had taken of Dale in Italy. He was leaning back in a bistro chair sitting at an outdoor bistro table in front of a trattoria in a charmingly rustic neighborhood in Lucca. His face is relaxed and looking heavenward as he absorbs the early spring sunshine. He is happy to be there, happy to be with me, happy with life. I want to kiss the photo! I want to hold it up against my heart. It makes me happy!

My mind journeys to that moment and how it came to be.  I remember a journal entry I had made while sitting at a table on the terrace of our Florence apartment. Suddenly feeling the need to remember every detail, I look it up...I called it.... 

Midlife Chrysalis

 How peculiar…a mere whisper of a thought, quiet and uninvited, and yet it transformed my life forever.

♣♣♣

Peeking around the green leaves of a blue hydrangea, a young and healthy caterpillar heads out into the wide and marvelous world to explore. Her eyes are filled with wonder envisioning the endless possibilities of things to see and do. Eventually though, being both intelligent and practical, she settles into the important things in life and gets to work, munching and toiling her way towards building her dream home.  Ever aware of the dangers of swooping adversaries, she employs her wit and intuition, and begins spinning and weaving silken strands of thread into a cozy, cradling home.  She works with joy and dedication, until, she takes one last look at the outside world, spins the last thread around her head and closes her eyes to rest.  It is warm and peaceful and she is tired and happy. Contented, she sighs; “That will do.”

And then, a voice, sweet and so soft as to be nearly silent, whispers, “But there’s more”.

♣♣♣

I sit at my kitchen table and scan the elements that make up my earthly kingdom. Polished and gleaming, the fully stocked kitchen makes an attempt to beckon me to try a new recipe. But I ignore that and instead, tilt my head to spy around the large Italian-style fruit arrangement on the table to check the blaze in the family room fireplace.  I approve of its crackling flames assured now that it is sending gray tendrils of lazy smoke up the chimney and out into the mountain air.  The view from the window nearby displays the mountain peaks draped in frocks of glittering snow.  I’ve worked hard to build this dream life.  My husband of thirty-three years is in far off Canada on business, but will be home tomorrow.  He swept me off my feet when I was eighteen years old and the ride has been an exhilarating one.  Kindred spirits from the start we had the same dreams and looked at the wide, wide world with even wider-eyed wonder.  But first, we must eat.  So work, work, work. And then enter the children.  Oh the children!  Two boys.  Two little people, who each, at the moment of their own births, make their way into our hearts and teach us that love actually multiplies to the second power. Through the years we find better jobs, build bigger houses, cheer from the grandstands at baseball games and wave goodbye to little scouts heading out for day camp. We see them go to the university and watch them fall in love with their dream girls.  I cry happy tears at their beautiful weddings and then, just today, my very own, perfect in every way, grandson looked into my eyes with his own crystal blue ones and said, “I love you Gwama”.  I pull the turtle-neck of my cozy cashmere sweater up to my chin and with contentment, I sigh, “That will do!”

And then, a voice, sweet and soft as to be nearly silent, whispers, “But there’s more.”

 Unexpectedly, uninvited tears stream down my cheeks.  The blue satin bow on the tiny white box tagged, “My Childhood Dreams” that has been tucked away in the confines of my heart for all these years is tugged loose and the lid opens. Childhood dreams pour out as if from a Pandora’s Box.  “Me: the artist, the photographer, the writer, the world traveler, the speaker of foreign languages”.  The unrealized titles spin around my head like rare and unattainable butterflies.  And I cry.  I’m too old now, 52, what I have . . . will have to do.

My cell phone rings and then rings again before it jolts me back to reality. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands and click it on. 

“Hello?” I say in forced cheerfulness.

“You’re crying!” my husband knows me far to well!

“No, just day-dreaming, what’s up?”

“Pack your bags!” he says.

“Oh, Dale, it’s a bit cold in Toronto right now isn’t it?” I moan.

“No, not to Canada!  You’re going to Florence Italy.”

I’m shocked into silence.  A rarity it seems as he is compelled to ask, “Hey are you still there?”

“Yes, I mean I think so, I mean…huh?”  I attempt to make sense of his words as I try to speak.

He explains, “I just saw a documentary on TV about an art school in Florence Italy. It’s perfect for you!  And I’m sending you there!”

“Oh I couldn’t, I just couldn’t…could I?” I ramble on…more like myself now.

“You’ll have to send some photos of your work and apply.” He instructed.

“Oh there’s the glitch!” I sigh and feel my heart sink from the height it had just soared.

“No, take pictures of your drawings. You can do this.” He persisted. “You’ve spent all these years working in my business, raising the boys, putting everyone else first and now it’s your turn, I want you to do this”.

  

With his voice cheering me on through the cell phone, I made my way up the stairs to my studio/sewing room/craft room/computer room and gazed at the drawings pin-tacked to the wall.  Figure drawings I had done years ago.  “I’ll do it!” I said.  “I WILL DO IT!”  He gave me the web site address and hung up, first reminding me of his arrival time the next morning.

The next moments were more like a child trying to jump into a swimming pool for the first time instead of a middle-aged adult woman.  Step to the edge, back away, try to gain courage, realize you don’t have any.  You really want to…you don’t want to at all. Leave the security of the solid ground and jump into the unknown?  Am I crazy?  Yes!  I decide….Yes, I am!  And I grab my digital camera and take the plunge, I snap picture after picture of my work.  Several, 8x10 glossies later…I download the application from the internet, fill it out in a shaking hand and seal it all in a priority envelope.  Done.

At just what precise moment a caterpillar begins to realize that her chrysalis stage is nearly over and a metamorphosis is approaching, I don’t know.  But this moment was mine.  The silken cocoon, which I had woven around me with love and earnest, was starting to feel a bit tight for my emerging wings.  Wings I hadn’t allowed myself to believe I had!

 ♣♣♣

 And so began my metamorphism and my 8 month sojourn in Tuscany spent stretching and spreading my wings.  I sit at a table now on my canopied terrazzo overlooking the wonders of Florence and scan my adopted kingdom while nibbling on a arugula salad topped with pears, walnuts and pecorino cheese drizzled with golden honey.  Four months into my experience, Dale sold his company and flew to my side, where he has also taken up the art of leisurely lunches, strolls through museums and palaces dripping with the highest quality of inspirational artwork, cooking the Tuscan way, long train rides through valleys adorned with ancient vineyards of grapes and olives and with great contentment, absorbing “la dolce vita”. We'll stay here for at least 4 more months and then we'll spend a summer in the Loire Valley in France for the next adventure.

I thought we would live forever, I thought for sure that Dale would always be by my side. If I had known then that 10 years later he would be gone...would I have believed it?  I couldn't have imagined that I would climb back into that cocoon and have to...albeit reluctantly, force my way out of it and spread my wings once again.

Life is certainly a journey and I see more and more how important it is to value every step along the way. I'm reminded of a thoughtful moment in my mother's later years when she, in all her wisdom, sighed and told me, "You know...Time goes by without you realizing you're having the time of your life."

So for what it's worth, and it's worth a lot.  This, right now, right here... is the time of my life and I'm going to make sure that through the ups and downs, I enjoy it.

Hope Springs Eternal

The first thought that came to my mind as I drove away from home this morning and felt the warmth of the sunshine on my face was “Hope Springs Eternal!”  A proverbial phrase that I have used occasionally throughout my life but just now looked it up to discover it was coined by the poet Alexander Pope in 1732 as part of a poem intended to convey that it is human nature to always find fresh cause for optimism.

I like that. And the fact the word “spring” is used (even though with a different meaning) certainly applies to how I felt on this day, just a few days past the official first day of spring.  The sky was that hue of blue that calms and enlivens at the same time, the clouds were fluffy and white without a hint of snow in them. The grass was working hard to look green among the sprigs of winter brown still lurking in the lawns.

It was the kind of day that made me wish I was a poet.

C.S. Lewis taught; “Don’t say something is delightful, make us say delightful when we’ve read the description.” 

Alas, I’m not a poet or I would be able to express how I felt when moments after driving away I spotted the first Snowdrop flowers of the year –as white as the snow that once covered them but attached to stems colored a true spring green.  There’s no other color as hopeful as spring green don’t you agree? And the blossom’s very smallness, purity, bell shape and  firmness is a perfect way to announce the beginning of spring and offer an inkling of hope!  But my words are not enough; I would so like to be a poet.

If I were a poet I would be able to tell you how I felt when I stopped at the park and saw the squirrels running about, leaping from branch to branch and up and down the trunks of the trees, not in desperate search for food but it seemed they were enjoying the sunshine and the freedom to MOVE.  Not unlike the children on the play equipment, still dressed in warm clothes but laughing and squealing at the pleasure of being outside while their mothers stood together talking and nodding to each other and expressing their joy with animated gestures.

If I were a poet I would be able to express how I felt watching a father and his young son rolling by on their matching skateboards on a dry sidewalk, no ice to dodge!

Or how beautiful the words of a poet would be if she captured how I felt when I heard the chirping of birds or noticed how the sun glimmered on the lake.

Or the moment of joy like an unexpected ray of sunshine I felt at the entrance of a bookstore when a young man opened a door for me and smiled like I mattered. What a hopeful feeling it is to know that chivalry is alive and well.

Oh how a poet would be able to make you enjoy the pleasantry I experienced when I stopped into a French Bakery and nibbled on a Palmier pastry that brought back memories of finding that same kind of gooey delight in the shape of a palm frond in my Easter basket as a child.

If I were a poet I would be able to describe my overwhelming desire to share this “here comes spring” day with Dale! Oh dear, there is that inevitable and involuntary twist of the heart and the heavy sigh.

Quoting C.S. Lewis again (as I often do) “Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.”  

You think you are fine and then…you realize you’re alone, not just alone but the much darker form of loneliness which murmurs "I'm without him."   I yearn to have the poetic words that follow that flow from inner turmoil to "hope springs eternal" or to even have the words that explain how that actually happens over and over and over again. 

Perhaps thinking again of the snowdrop and the children playing and the young man and the French pastry were like moments of wordless poetry that guided me gently from grief to hope. Hope that I can still live a purposeful life. Hope that I can be of service. Hope that I can still love each thing of beauty and each person I meet and make the rest of my life be one that Dale will want to hear all about. And then to hear him say …”That was delightful.” And maybe, just maybe it will be like poetry to his ears.

 I’m hopeful.

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.