Make it Beautiful

 The LORD will surely comfort Zion and will look with compassion on all her ruins; he will make her deserts like Eden, her wastelands like the garden of the LORD. Joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the sound of singing

 Isaiah 51:3

The dream felt real to me. The garden grew up around us, scarlet rhododendrons and sunshine yellow daffodils pushing their way through the cracks in the pavement beneath our feet. I breathed in the flowery fragrances of the blooms, marveling at the spring-like abundance so late in the autumn. 

I felt a light touch on my arm and smiled at my husband. His image was wavy, translucent. "You did this," he said and waved his hand at the abundance around us. His silver wedding ring--nestled in my jewelry box for the last 15 months--gleamed in the sun.

"I'm no gardener," I said and shook my head. "Everyone knows I make plants die."

Ron smiled gently. "Yes, you are. You've made beauty for me, for the kids, for your students, for your readers. You've taken what was hard and painful and made something beautiful from it." He stamped a strong foot onto the pavement. "You've done what very few people could do."

I took a deep breath. "I did what I had to do."

Ron took my hand. His hair, fully gray the last time I saw him in his casket, was the blue-black of his twenties. "That's just it. You didn't have to." His voice became a gentle whisper. "I know how awful it was, how exhausting."

"For both of us," I said. I noticed that his form was beginning to fade, the lovely blossoms of my garden clearly visible through his frame. "Stay," I said softly.

"I can't," he said. "If I was here," and he turned his head, taking in the abundance around us, "none of this would have happened. I just wanted to tell you, well, I knew you'd be okay. When I had to leave, I knew you'd make a new and wonderful life for yourself. I knew you'd help the kids to move on." He plucked a single pink rose from a bush thar had sprung up next to him. No thorn pricked his hand. He held it beneath his nose for a moment, his clear lungs breathing in the fragrance. "It's your turn now," he said and handed the rose to me.

I took it and touched its velvety petals. "It's lovely," I said.

"Just as your life will be," Ron said. "Your long life. You have lots to do." He blew a kiss towards me. "I'm so proud of you." He melted into the garden.

And I held onto the rose, breathing in the heady fragrance of my husband's love. 

One Last Gift

4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
Revelation 21:4

It's been four months. Exactly four months. The memory of that night will, I think, never fade. Bonnie and I walking into the house to see Ron sitting in his chair, sleeping. The call to 911. The house full of EMT's and police. Bonnie's phone call to her husband and her brother. My calls to my Dad, my brother, Ron's brother and mom. My call to my best friend Chris.The breath caught in my throat as the EMT's tried to revive Ron. The tears that choked me when my husband was pronounced dead. Allen, who lives on the upper edges of the autism spectrum, holding an ice cube in each hand to keep himself centered. The older kids gathered on the back deck, arms around each other.

We'd known the moment would come. But not this soon.

Four months. I've moved through 123 days now, taking care of final arrangements, dealing with insurance and medical equipment. I've been beside Allen as he used magical thinking to come to terms with the sudden death of his father. I've been there for the older kids and let them talk when they needed to, cry when they had to. I've tried to be a support to Ron's mother. I've gone back to work as an ESL teacher in an urban high school. I've paid bills and kept house and found a way to manage without Ron's social security income. I've picked out a grave marker. I've stopped waking up at night to check on Ron, who slept downstairs in a hospital bed for the last nine months. I've rearranged the living room, pushed my queen size bed to a corner of my bedroom. I've moved on. A little, anyway.

But the 13th of every month throws me back to that night 123 days ago, that night when I came
home to find Ron had, quietly and without fanfare, slipped away. I keep the tears at bay by keeping busy, teaching my students how to construct a sentence in English, working with the kids at church, playing Rack-o with Allen.

Plain and simple, I miss Ron's presence. Not his illness or the nursing tasks that fell to me. Just,
well, him.

I feel no guilt at his death. I know the truth of what my oldest son, Dennis, said to me the night his father died. "Mom, you sacrificed your life for Dad. No one could have done more than you did." In that truth there is some consolation. Despite the challenges of the last 19 years, Ron knew he was loved.

But still, the 13th of each month--and every month has one--looms. A hard day to get through. So far, there have been four of them, different from the other 119 days in their sharpness, the details of his final day imprinted in my brain.

In the early hours of today, November 13, the fourth of the 13's I've lived without Ron, I was given a gift. In the early morning hours, when I was poised between sleep and wake, huddled beneath my blankets in the knitted shawl I call my Widow's Wrap, the door to my bedroom opened. Ron walked it. Actually, he strode in. Not the Ron who 123 days ago fell asleep in his easy chair and woke up in Heaven. Not the Ron who suffered through 26 surgeries. But the Ron whose pictures sit on the shelf in the dining room, smiling at me as I wrote this blog. The well Ron, The whole Ron.

"Don't wake me up," I told him. "I don't need to get up until the alarm goes off."

He walked over to the bed and gently lowered himself to the mattress. "I didn't come to wake you up," he said. He laid down next to me and put his arms around me, warming me the way my Widow's Wrap had during the cold night. "I just came to tell you that I'm okay. I wanted you to know that."

I think he stayed for a while, until the alarm went off and I found my wrap pulled up around my shoulders.

Maybe I was dreaming. And maybe not. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

What matters is this: Ron, sick for so long, is now okay.

And I guess that means I can be okay, too.

WIDOWED: It ends with an "E"

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

John 13:34-35

The phone rings at 6PM Sunday evening, the display flashing the number of the medical examiner's office.  The two older kids have gone home with their partners, Allen has taken over the computer in my office, and I am sitting in the living room, sipping from a cup of tea and trying not to look at Ron's empty chair. I pick up the phone.

"Hello."

"This is Jenny," says the voice on the line. "From last night." I inhale sharply, the images and sounds replaying in my brain. EMT's. Flashing lights. Ambulance. Police. Hurried phone calls. Panicked offspring. 

"I wanted to tell you that we've ruled your husband's death as natural causes, due to cardiac arrest. He simply fell asleep and his heart stopped. He would have felt no pain, had no warning."

I let my breath out slowly. "Thank you," I say. "It helps us to know that."

There is a pause on the other end of the line. I take a sip of my tepid tea. My relationship with this young woman will be brief, based only upon this heart rending loss. I know nothing of her faith, but I say it anyway. "It helps us to know that Ron fell asleep and, when he woke up, he saw God."

Jenny does not respond. I wait, years of practice in hospital ER's and trauma

wards teaching me patience. "You know," she says quietly, "this job is pretty sad. I see a lot of the same thing, day after day. And the families I meet sort of blend together. But," and I think I hear her voice crack a bit, "I'm going to remember your family."

I manage a weak laugh. "Well, we're pretty memorable," I say, thinking of how my tall children--most over 6 feet--towered over the petite young lady who came to examine Ron.

"You are." I can imagine a smile. "Because your family showed me something I seldom see in this job. Love."

Love. It hasn't always been easy. There have been too many surgeries, too many hospitalizations, too many chunks of Ron torn away from us in the last 19 years. Things that should have been his responsibilities fell onto me. And the last two years, when Ron needed help with everything, were particularly grueling. To the outside world, it would appear that Ron's later life held little worth.

But the world would be wrong. Every time he was hospitalized, we were given a chance to demonstrate our faith. Not a surgery or an infection or a treatment happened without prayers for doctors and nurses, without hymns and Bible verses filling his room. Without cards from my students, holiday decorations, visits from our children, and as much love as we could pack into a ten by ten foot space. 

Matthew 28:19-20 tells us to " go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,  and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you." As a new believer at the tender age of fourteen, I wondered if I would have the courage to enter the mission field and go to foreign and unknown places.

There are few places more foreign, unknown, terrifying, and unpredictable than hospitals. Yet those became our mission fields. 

"When I was examining your husband," Jenny continues, "I could see he had been well cared for. He was clean, no bruises, no sores. It was evident to me that he'd had excellent care. But even more than that was what I heard from you and your children in the kitchen." She sighs. "Too often I hear people arguing when someone dies, blaming each other, fighting over possessions. But you and your children were telling stories about your husband, crying some and laughing some, sharing good memories." Her voice gentles. "He was someone I wish I had known."

I am touched by her words and I choose my own carefully. "We know Ron is in

Heaven," I say. "We have faith that his struggle is over and he is with God."

"It was nice to see that faith," she says. "And I just wanted to tell you that, well, your husband and your family shared something special with me. Gave me some things to think about."

Jenny and I talk a few more minutes. She says I should feel free to call her if I have any questions about Ron's death. I know I will not. Jenny's entrance into our lives has been brief, but I cannot help but believe she is richer for it.

As I hang up the phone, I see in my mind flashes of the many hospital rooms Ron has inhabited. We planted seeds there. It had not been our choice, but we went into the world we had been thrust into and preached the gospel the best way we could (Mark 16:15).

I get up from my seat and head to the kitchen to warm my tea and as I do, I pause at the chair where Ron so recently sat, the chair where he died. I give it a pat and smile.

Even at the end of his life, Ron was an example to other people.

Soul Deep

Some times it takes a while for things to sink in. Last Sunday, a student at college, after hearing about Ron's recent illnesses and continuing hospitalization, says this to me: "You must really love him." I am busy at the moment--I am always busy--so I tuck the comment away for later mulling. Like many tiny seeds, it settles in and begins to grow.

When I, at the knowledgeable age of 20, married Ron almost 40 years ago, I suspected that his love for me was greater than my love for him. It worried me, what I saw as an imbalance, so I did everything I could to be the best wife possible. I saw love, lo those many years ago, as a finite quality. You had only so much to give and you weren't getting anymore. The births of my three children showed me that love could be all-encompassing. So much was my love for my children, I feared I would have none left for my husband.

I need not have worried. What I did not know at the beginning of our marriage, I began to discover after the first twenty years.

Love grows. It grows deep.

It is not, I hasten to say, the love advertised in sappy Hallmark cards or in Harlequin romance novels. Real love, deep love, love meant to last a lifetime, grows through trials and triumphs, joys and sorrows, gains and losses. The birth of our first son, Dennis, was a gain. The loss of our second child was not. And so it went on, tallies being put into a ledger sheet of negatives and positives, more or less evening out. If not the stuff of fairy tale endings, it was still a good life. I was content.

Chronic depression first came to live with us in 1995, putting our marriage vows to the test. Ron's personality changed as mood swings took over. I struggled, at times, to recognize in him the man I had married. I thought about leaving him--more than once--but I still hoped and prayed we would find our way out of the maze. During his calm periods, there was enough left of Ron to convince me that he still dwelled  inside. I stayed. We managed. But as more and more of my husband's self was given over to his fight against unseen forces, I found myself growing in strength, and courage, and faith.

More positives to the ledger.

People--well-meaning, I am sure--asked me why I stayed. My answer was, I thought, a reasonable one. I stayed because my marriage vows had meant something to me. I stayed out of duty and commitment. I assumed, without really examining it, that it was also out of love.

We were already pretty heavy on the negative side of the balance sheet when the infamous red pickup truck struck and all but killed Ron. We'd survived--by the skin of our teeth, I might add--a lengthy hospitalization at Friends' the summer before and I was hoping for a little calm in my way too hectic life. Fast forward over the last 15 years to many hospitalizations and surgeries and we arrive at last Sunday and my student's words, still working their way into my brain.

"You must really love him."

My 20 year old self, wearing the white veil and saying "I do" couldn't  possibly have known this, but life and love are not a balance sheet. Love, when allowed, takes root and grows. It starts with that tiny seed--the quickened pulse, the slightly dizzy feeling when near the loved one--and it takes root in our soul. It is watered by both tears and joys. It becomes a part of you. It became a part of me.

Acquaintances, both old and new, always express astonishment at what our family has been through and particularly at how I have managed to hold so many things together and still maintain a positive attitude. Yesterday, on  the way home from visiting Ron in his current hospital, I asked my daughter why this is. Do people think I've lost my own marbles because I continue to do this? Have I , indeed, gone around the bend myself?


She smiled at me. "They think, Mom," she said, "that you are the most amazing woman they have ever met. They think that they couldn't do what you have done." She hugged me. "And you don't even know how amazing you are."

I cannot claim to always be amazing, because it is hard to have a husband who has been so ill and continues to require much care. But Ron has become so much a part of my life and my spirit, that the word "love" does not come close to expressing what I feel. It is, I hope, what God intended love to be when He saw that lonely Adam needed a help-mate in the Garden of Eden. My choice to continue with Ron also means I make the choice to continue growing and allowing the love of both my husband and God to take root in me. I recognize that others might not be able to do what I have done. I do not judge. I do what I need to do and, in same ways, I do it for me as much as for Ron. Love has been planted in my soul.


A while back, an acquaintance of mine said that she would like to "be me when she grew up." I reminded her that my life was far from easy. "I know," she said wistfully. "It's not your life I admire. It's the grace with which you live it."

I quit keeping track of the balance sheet long ago.  A life cannot be measured by positives and negatives. While years ago, I considered myself to be content with life, I now know that I have come to a better state. Despite being mostly tired and sometimes discouraged and often upbeat, I have joy that does not depend upon outward trappings.

Soul deep joy. Soul deep love.

So, does anyone else want to be me when they grow up?

It Matters Whom You Marry: Before and After

My daughter is planning her wedding. She and her fiance want a very simple affair with less than a hundred people. They are not concerned with the flowers or the music or the food at the reception. They are concerned with making sure their marriage will honor God. This is what they put their energies into as they move towards June 28, the day they will become husband and wife.

My daughter's happiness spills out of her and I rejoice that she, who has seen so much hurt in her young life, still has the capacity to love someone as much as she loves Jared. I thank God for that. But I also take a little credit. Somehow, in the midst of a home life where their father has been hospitalized more times than not, my children still believe in everlasting love and Christian marriage. What a miracle! How has this come to be?

This morning I saw a blog on Facebook entitled "It Matters Whom You Marry." The intent of the blog was to give advice to young Christian girls on how to choose their future husband. And as I read through the five suggestions given by the author, God revealed the answer to my question to me. The reason my children can all still open themselves up to loving another is this: I chose the right man. And, equally as important, he chose the right woman.

Since Ron's car accident in 2000, our lives have been divided into "Before" and "After." Our marriage is  no different. So to well-meaning doctors and acquaintances who ask me, "Why do you stay with him?" I respond with my own list of five.

1. IT WILL IMPACT YOU SPIRITUALLY.
Ron and I began attending church together shortly after we started dating. In the year before our wedding, we read through the Bible together using a couples' devotional. I had come from a Catholic background and Ron had been raised in the Baptist church. We built up one another's faith. We took on ministries in our church right away and started every meal with a blessing. When we had children, we dedicated each into God's family and made sure they were fed spiritually. Sunday School, Church, Evening Services, and Wednesday night prayer meetings were our weekly routine.

In the after time, there are Sundays when Ron cannot get to church. I go without him when I feel that I can leave him, letting others at church know that he is thinking of them. The accident has altered Ron in many ways, but it has not altered his care towards others. He calls those that are hurting or sick and tries to cheer them up. Does it impact me spiritually? Definitely. Ron's illnesses bring me closer to God. I have spent many, many hours praying in hospital rooms and trusting Ron's very life in the hands of the Great Physician. There has never been a time in the After that I have not been able to ultimately say, "God can handle this."


2. IT WILL IMPACT YOU EMOTIONALLY.
In the Before time, Ron was a kind person who was not afraid to show his own emotions. If I cried, he held me close and handed me his handkerchief. He never once accused me of being a cry-baby or a weak woman! He did all he could to keep me balanced. I tend to take on too much in my life, and Ron always tried to get me to set priorities and keep myself safe in all ways.

Ron is still the same kind person, even though his own emotions are often out of whack. I do not cry much in these After days, simply because my life is too full and time is precious. I would rather pray than cry. But the first 20 years of our marriage gave me the groundwork I needed to become a wife and a mother. My emotions now channel into my writing, which Ron whole-heartedly encourages.

3. IT WILL IMPACT YOUR PHYSICALLY.
Ron worked hard to support us. When we married, he was making little more than a hundred dollars a week and I was going to school. Money was tight. Money has always been tight. Material things did not matter that much to us. We always had a warm, safe house and food to eat. We had enough to share with others in more need than us. Ron worked a second job from time to time when the kids were small. If a child needed shoes, he did without. He even welcomed the series of "Lost Boys" into our home, fellows who would stay with us for a while seeking some stability. It certainly impacted his wallet, but I never heard him complain.

Ron is no longer able to work. I work two jobs now to support us and provide for Ron's medical needs. I try not to complain, although I do get tired from time to time. He is the first one to suggest I take a day off or sit and rest for a while. It is advice I do not always take. But because I know the bulk of our support depends on me, I take care of myself. I watch my weight, exercise, take vitamins, and try to get enough sleep. If he is snoring too loudly, he will move to the couch so I can sleep.

4. IT WILL IMPACT YOU MENTALLY.
Yes. And yes. Ron told me early on in our dating days that he had a bit of a temper. It was never, ever directed towards me or the kids. I desperately wanted to finish my bachelor's degree, and Ron helped me make that happen. The fact that he did not have a college degree himself did not impact the decision to encourage me.


I now not only have a bachelor's degree, I have a master's and a doctorate. Mentally, it is sometimes challenging to handle all of Ron's medical and psychological issues. But I am grateful that I was prepared to support us with my advanced degrees, and that my ability to understand medical issues has helped me to panic less when a surgery looms. I have sometimes wondered if I would have all the education I do if Ron had not become ill.

5. IT WILL IMPACT YOU RELATIONALLY.
I have a small, but close, family. I also have really good friends. Ron supported the time I spent with my family and friends and made sure we divided holidays up evenly. I will admit I have lost some friends in the After time. There are those who just do not understand that my time is very limited. There are others who do not "get" while I am still with Ron. I do not need those people.

The friends I hold dear now are the tried and true friends, those who have seen me through crisis after crisis after crisis. Even if I do not see them as often as I would like, I know that they uphold us in love and prayer. I maintain a close relationship with each of our three children as well. In the After time, they have adjusted to a different sort of Dad. But they have adjusted. Ron continues to support my friendships. I have a standing monthly dinner date with a close friend. Only the end of the world would make me miss it. Ron would not suggest it.

If you want to read the original article that prompted by thoughts on this snowy day, here is the link.
http://thechristianpundit.org/2012/08/15/it/

I'd like to leave you with just one more thought. Marriage is about hope. As Emily Dickenson noted, it is the thing with feathers and can quickly fly away. But choosing the right person to marry makes Hope cling to the branch despite the storm. Hope does not promise it will be easy. My marriage of 37 years --yikes!--has not always been easy. Ron's illnesses were not something I could have predicted when we said our marriage vows.

 For better or worse.

I meant it.

A Memory in Three Parts: Part Two

November 30, 2002.

Mom is dying. Nothing we can say or do will change that. Last night, pouring over family photo albums and telling stories about her, we had come to terms with it. And while it had taken us until dawn to decide, we know we are making the right choice. She has lived her life with dignity and fortitude. We will allow her to die the same way.

The small hospital room is full of people now: the nurse who will turn off the machines that are keeping Mom’s heart going, the doctor who will monitor her response, my brother, my father. One of the nurses has given me a memory box. Into it I tuck a few of the cards from the windowsill, a yellow rose from the bouquet Dad brought in, and a locket of her hair. “Her rings, too,” says my father. He is kneeling by the bed, his hands holding onto hers. I nod and he moves over, releasing her left hand to me.

Her hand is cool to my touch, the skin paper thin, the blood vessels blue against the pale ivory. In the real world, Mom is olive skinned, but here she takes on the pallor of a ghost. Her knuckles are swollen with arthritis. I kiss her hand gently, the white gold of her engagement diamond brushing my lips. Carefully, not wanting to cause her any discomfort, I slide the tiny ring off her finger. Her hand smells faintly of Jergens lotion; she kept a bottle by the sink, lathering the lotion onto her hands after doing the dishes, the diamond ring safely in a china dish. For a moment, I hold the ring in my hand. It is still Mom’s, still carries with it the memories of childhood; the ring glinting in the sun as she hangs sheets in the summer sunshine; the ring sliding through my hair as Mom plaits my braids; the ring catching on my sweater as I kiss her goodbye. I place it into the memory box lovingly and draw in my breath. The wedding ring will follow it.

But now Dad stops me. His voice chokes, but his words are clear. “I put the wedding ring on her,” he says. “I will take it off.” I slide over by the bed, allowing Dad access now to her left hand. On the other side of the bed, my brother, Harvey, holds her right hand. Dad takes Mom’s hand and raises it to his lips. He kisses every finger, the palm, the swollen knuckles. Then he speaks to his wife. “Betty, “ he says, “52 years ago, I put this ring on your finger and you became my wife. I am taking this ring off now, but it does not mean you are not my wife. Forever and always, you will be my wife.” Then he slides the ring off and it joins the other mementoes in the box.

Dad nods to the nurse, who flips the machine to off. Mom’s chest continues to rise and fall. It could be hours, it could be days, the doctors have told us. My brother and I have decided, however, to say our own goodbyes now. Each of us, in turn, gives Mom one last hug, one last kiss. Then, arms around each other, we depart. The final goodbye must belong to Dad.

We stand outside, however, seeing our parents through the room’s window: Mom lying on the bed, the last  breaths escaping from her body as she eases her way out of this world, and Dad, his head buried in her shoulder, reluctant to let her go. After a few moments, he raises his head, kisses her on the cheek, and kneels with her hand in his.

This is love, I think. Not the fairytale, happily ever after love that people find  impossible to emulate. This is the love that has survived life, two children, lost jobs, financial burdens, illnesses. This is what my brother and I will take with us today, as we leave Mom and Dad to their final goodbyes and each of us returns to our own often difficult lives. The trappings of love may be superficial, but love—enduring, pure love—needs nothing else.

This is the One

To my daughter and my almost son-in-law, who have found each other.

THIS IS THE ONE

This is the one who

                Will fold my daughter’s life into his own

                Will stand at the front of the church, waiting expectantly

                                As she appears in the doorway

                Will take her hand in his, sliding a circle of white-gold onto her finger

                                And making a promise he will never break

This is the one who

                Will find a house halfway between his and hers

                Will arm wrestle her bedroom furniture down our winding stairs

                                And into a borrowed pickup truck

                Will let her hang brightly colored curtains at all of the windows and

                                Tissue paper stained glass made by her pre-school class

This is the one. The one who

                Will show up for holiday dinners and family birthdays

                Will answer the phone when I call, holding it at arm’s length and shouting,

                                “It’s your mother!”

                Will accept that time with her does not belong to him alone.

He is the one who will

                Hold her hand as she labors in childbirth, buckle my grandchild into a car seat, and make sure to teach truth and light

This is the one who

                Will laugh when she laughs,

                Hold her when she cries, wiping each tear from her freckled face

                And tell her that of course she does not look fat in those jeans because she is perfect.

And he will mean it.

This is the one who will, in the inevitability of life’s harsh realities,

                                Stand beside her at a grave side

                                Pulling her to him as she says good-bye

                                Not caring that she stains the lapel of his good black suit—his only black suit—with     

                                                Her streaked eye shadow.

Because this is the one who

                Despite heart-breaks and broken dreams and lost chances and love left behind in a deep, long, valley of hurt,

                God has brought to her.

In the vastness of a universe often lacking in the essential ingredient of compassion, it is not really one person, one man, one woman

But God

                Who is

                The One.