DAD'S COAT: A CHRISTMAS STORY

Matthew 25:40

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'

Allen and I are wrapping Christmas presents, enjoying a “Dad moment” as we remember the
crazy shapes Ron would wrap presents in so no one could guess the contents. Allen sticks a bow
onto a gift--just a plain old shirt box--and whispers to me conspiratorially. “I already knew what I was
getting Dad for Christmas,” he says. 

“Really?” I say in surprise. “Dad died in July. How could you already know what he needed?”

Allen sighs. I know he is processing the words that will make sense to both him and me. Reconciling
himself to his father’s death five months ago was not easy and my autistic son spent weeks
believing his father would come back again if only he could find the magic formula. “Well,” he begins,
“Back when I thought Dad was coming back..” his voice catches "...I was thinking that Dad
needed to be safe and protected. You know, from all the illnesses and stuff.” He looks at me for
confirmation and I nod. “So, I wanted to get him a big coat--like the firemen wear--to protect him.”

As always, I am touched by the heart of my youngest son whose concern for his ill father was a
focus of most of his life. It is a moment before I can trust my voice to answer. “I am sure Dad would
have appreciated that,” I say. “But you know, we gave Dad a new coat last year.” I swallow.
“He only wore it once.”

Allen does not reply. He picks up another gift to wrap. “I still wish I could give Dad something.”

So do I, I want to say. But a person who is living in the Heavenly Kingdom has no need of material
items. Still, how could we honor Ron and his life? I begin to recall the gifts of years past and the
many, many years when we had no money to give anything to each other and scraped together
Christmas for our kids. Then, a thought enters my mind.

“You know,” I say casually, “my school is collecting things to give to the homeless population in
Philadelphia. Every Tuesday, a group goes down to Center City and gives out hats and gloves and
scarves.” I take a moment to fight back tears. “How about if we give Dad’s coat away?”

Allen considers it. “We’re sure Dad won’t need it?”

I shake my head. “No. Dad has no need of a coat. You know where he is, Allen. You know he’s not
coming back.”

There is a sigh. Allen’s acceptance has been hard won and is still tenuous. “I know,” he whispers.
“Sometimes I just like to pretend he is.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay to pretend that. So, what do you think? Should we give Dad’s coat
away?” I go on wrapping presents as his atypical mind processes the information.

Finally, there is a nod. “Okay. Can I be the one to put it in a bag?”

“Of course,” I say.

The next morning, I pick up the bag Allen has left on the enclosed porch and carry it out to the car. Even though I was the one who suggested it, I am strangely reluctant to give the coat away. It seems so final. I bought the coat a year ago with hope: hope that Ron’s physical therapy would help him improve to the point where he might be able to leave the house; hope that with assistance  from his nursing aid and the elevator at church he might once again be able to join me at Sunday services; hope that a few small steps taken outside on the sidewalk might lead to a walk around the park, a Saturday in the spring sitting on a park bench watching the boats sail down the Delaware River, a family outing to a Phillies’ game. 

None of which happened. I feel the weight of the lost hopes as I heft the bag into my car and drive to
school, my eyes smarting tears, my heart breaking. I carry it into the school and it sits behind my
desk, an accusation. Why did I continue to hope? Why did I continue to think things would get better?
Finally, I ask a student to carry the damning bag upstairs to Brother David. I can breathe easier
when it is gone. Back home, I only tell Allen I have given the coat to the school.

During the days up to Christmas, I struggle to maintain some Christmas cheer. I engage with my students and the Christmas traditions of a Catholic high school in the best ways I can: the Ugly Sweater Day, the cookie exchange, the Secret Santa pick. At home I collapse after supper, going to bed early and waking up still tired. I plod along, expending emotional energy at school and with Allen, and helping my two older children as much as I can. I pack away more of Ron’s clothing for the Good Will donations and I order his grave marker at the cemetery. I put up a small tree for Allen and me, I unpack decorations. I function.

It is the day before school breaks for Christmas and I am getting my classroom ready for the students
that arrive before the first bell, students who are still learning English and crave the warm safety of
my ESL room. I am humming “O Holy Night” and taking deep breaths whenever I think of my late
husband. Ron loved Christmas. Everyday, I swim through the thick memories to surface with my
students.

I am switching on the lights when Brother David appears at my door. “Merry Christmas,” he says and
I respond. “I wanted you to know,” he continues, “that your husband’s coat found a home yesterday.
We were able to give it to a homeless man who was very appreciative.”

My heart swells even as tears spring to my eyes. I can feel Ron’s warm smile bathing me. My husband had a generous heart.

"But it's funny how it happened," says Brother David. "We'd had the coat a few weeks, you know, but
we didn't meet anyone that needed a 4-X coat. Then, on Tuesday, a large man came by and said
he'd been looking for a coat but he could never find one to fit him. He said he didn't often come down
near City Hall, but someone he barely knew told him to come see us. In fact, he couldn't remember
ever seeing that person before. So he came down and there we were. And your husband's coat fit
him perfectly."

I nod but find I cannot speak.

"He said," Brother David continued, "that he'd been offered some construction work over the holidays
but he knew he needed something warm to wear. He'd just about given up finding a coat. He was
wearing a couple of sweat shirts, but that's all he had. When we gave him the coat, he cried. He said
it gave him hope that he could turn his life around."

I am crying right now, realizing that the hope I held for the coat I'd bought for Ron had been fulfilled
after all. Brother David reaches out and hugs me. All day, I hide this gift in my heart, thinking of how my son will react when I tell him his father’s coat is now protecting someone else.

Back home again, Allen has hot tea ready for me and I settle into my chair. “Dad’s coat found a home
today,” I tell him. I tell him the story from Brother David. Allen smiles, then is thoughtful for a moment.

"We should hang up Dad' stocking," he says. "Because it feels like Dad is still here."

"He still is," I say as Allen dives into the box of Christmas decorations to retrieve the stocking. "And he always will be."

Sympathetic Joy

I’d see her around town occasionally, this woman who had once attended church with me. At the diner or the market, we’d bump into each other and exchange a few pleasant words. We’d ask about the kids—we had sons of a similar age—and talk about our church ministries. Somewhere in these brief exchanges over a decade of years, I’d learned that her husband suffered from bipolar disorder. I murmured sympathetic words; I knew what that was like. We’d part ways after a few moments, each of us going back to a challenging life. I seldom thought about her between our sporadic conversations.

I saw her again on Saturday, this woman of my acquaintance, sorting for buried treasure at the church rummage sale. We spoke, of course, making the same cursory comments we’d been making for years. Nice to see you. Beautiful day. How are your kids?

And then she said the unexpected, totally out of keeping with the little I knew about her: “I’m getting a divorce.”

I got it. Standing there with a covered casserole dish in my hand, balancing the cookie sheets I was holding for my daughter as she tried on a pair of jeans, I got it. Years of care-giving, arguments with a spouse that often lacked reason, raising a family on a shoe-string budget, doling out money to medical professionals who could offer no real hope all took their tolls.

I fixed my face into what I hoped was an appropriate expression of compassion and touched her hand. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know what it’s like.”

She knew my words were not empty. She nodded. “Of course you would.” We said a few more words, promised to pray for one another, and went back to our days.

As she turned down another aisle, I tried to find the words to describe what I was feeling. Empathy? Concern? Nothing seemed to fit. As my daughter returned with her 50 cent jeans and we continued on our rare day out, I shelved the thought for later on.

I took my thought out again the next day and looked it over. I turned to my thesaurus and the internet to try and pin down the words that would say it. I finally settled on a Buddhist philosophy: sympathetic joy.

Part of me was glad for this dear woman, glad that she would now be free of the demands of care-giving, relieved of senseless arguments and messy clean-ups and the burdens that come with being the Well Spouse. I pictured her in a small, sunny apartment somewhere, time healing the wounds caused by the illness of a spouse. I admired her courage, because I knew what it must have taken for her to reach this point. Dreams are not easily relinquished.

But along with the joy was the sympathy. Divorce meant the loss of the future she had planned as a bride, holiday dinners with an empty chair, grandchildren visiting on alternate weekends. I remembered the last thing she had said to me before we again parted ways: “It just got too hard.”

I know hard. I know exactly what hard tastes and smells and sounds and feels like. Being the Well Spouse is a solitary endeavor. We do what we do for the most part alone. Often our families do not understand or see it all. And sometimes the immediate family of the Ill Spouse would rather pretend the situation did not exist, casting the burden of an ill adult child onto the one unwittingly who said “I do.” It is easy to go blithely about when you do not hear the night demons screaming.

I prayed for her today, my fellow Well Spouse. I pray she has peace in her decision. I pray her adult children support her. I pray her church supports her.

And as I prayed, I was forced to again ask myself the hard question: Why do I stay? Why do I sacrifice so much for what seems to be a never-ending cycle, with one ailment after another plaguing my husband? Why do I live always waiting for the other shoe to drop? I am often exhausted by the burdens placed on my shoulders. There is no longer light at the end of an incredibly long tunnel.

Do I lack the courage to leave? I do not think so. I have seen myself become, these last fifteen years, a woman of daunting courage. Do I fear reprisal? My own children would understand. There is no one else whose opinion would matter to me. Do I think God would punish me? I believe that God, having created me, knows the limits of my body and my soul. I think He would be saddened, but I do not believe in a vengeful God.

So, then, why?

It’s a complex question. After 37 years, so much of me is tied up with my husband that it is sometimes hard to separate. My Well Spouse acquaintance commented that she no longer knew which things belonged originally to her and which to her husband.  It is more than just possessions that are shared. A lifetime is not easily dissected. Routines established are not quickly disbanded. Hope dies hard.

These are all reasons for staying. But the real reason is simple: I stay because I can. Despite my considerable vision problems, I am well and healthy.  I can still find joy in teaching and in writing. I can still laugh with girlfriends and have the kids over for supper and watch a movie with Ron. Our life has been bent, but not destroyed. If I have had to change my plans of a little retirement house at the beach where I can write all day, so be it. It is the price of the Well Spouse. I can still spin my dreams, however fragile they sometimes seem.

But I can recognize my own fragility as well. I can no longer work 60 hours a week and retain a bounce in my step and a twinkle in my eye. I cannot function solely on gallons of tea and the “someday I will write my novel” mantra. I’ve put that dream off for too long. I may need someday, let’s just face it, to come to the same decision as the woman at the rummage sale. The thought is always with me, a dark cloud over the head of a comic strip character. It may never rain, but the dark cloud still dangles above.

I recall the words of a former pastor, spoken at the very beginning of my journey as the Well Spouse. He took my hands in his and said, “Linda, I know that you will do everything in your power to help Ron. But if, at some point in time, years from now, you find that you can no longer do this, I will understand. I will not rebuke you.”

I can only pray that, should that overhead dark cloud descend, I will not rebuke myself.

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.

Hearts Are WIld

 November 26, 2013

"Now, where do you come from?" the Queen of Hearts says to Alice.

 Alice replies, "Well, I am trying to find my way home."

"YOUR way?" retorts the Queen. "All ways here are my ways!"

Thus ensues a ridiculous game of croquet with hedgehogs being used as the balls and playing cards as the wickets. It is an unlikely game, filled with misadventure and threats of "Off with her head!" issued by the angry Queen. And all poor Alice wants to do is get herself out of that danged rabbit hole and back home.

It is all most of us ever want, but sometimes we need to put up ridiculous and seemingly meaningless rituals to get there.

We are on our way home, home from the hospital and the last of the tests Ron needed to endure before he could get the clearance for the ketamine infusion therapy. The tests have taken most of the day and involved a stress test, a tilt table test, and other measures of cardiac health. I have held my own breath the entire time, remembering that many, many people are praying for a positive outcome. As my friend Madeline told me on Sunday, "This will work because it HAS to work."

It has to work, it has to work, it has to work. That was the mantra as we headed up to the hospital and negotiated the morning rush hour traffic on Broad Street. It is to work it has to work, it has to work. We are the Little Engine that could, Little Toot the tugboat out on the foggy ocean, the Brave Little Toaster. We are the epitome of Alice and Dorothy and Luke Sywalker, trying to find our way back to a world we once knew, one that made sense to us.


Hearts are tricky things. They are the central organs of our bodies, the one that keeps us moving and living and loving. But, according to the ancient Egyptians, they are also the seat of our emotions and breakable. Hearts can be affected by our diet, our exercise, and our lifestyle. They can be transplanted successfully from one human being to another. But scientists have not get found a way to live without one. Even the Grinch had a heart, albeit a small one. But, as you will recall, his heart grew and grew and grew when he, too, finally found his way back home.

Years ago, when the infections that have always plagued Ron during his many hospitalization began to affect his heart, we were told that the damage was irreparable. An enlarged heart works harder to pump the blood. Four years ago, we were told that Ron's heart was working at about 12% capacity, making him out of breath all the time. We resigned ourselves to it. Ron endured another surgery to have a pace-maker/ defibrillator   inserted. Of course there were complications--there always are--and the simple two hour procedure took five and resulted in another infection. Ron carries a card in his wallet in case his bionic powers sets off alarms in stores and airports. But in the last four years, the defibrillator has never gone off.

Yesterday was the ultimate test. As the doctors at Hahneman Hospital put Ron literally through the ringer, I continued the mantra. It has to work, it has to work, it has to work. Finally, by 4 o'clock, the doctors exited the exam room, clearly puzzled.

"We can't find anything wrong," they said.

What's that, now? I am not sure I recognize the words. They sure sound like English, but I am not used to hearing them.

"We even called his cardiologist--Dr. Lee--and she faxed us his records. His heart was damaged, no doubt. But from what we can see, well, we don't really know how to explain this, but, his heart looks okay." They shake their heads, these three men in white coats. They look at me expectantly. Surely there is a rational explanation for this?

I shrug my shoulders. "Everyone we know has been praying," I say. They nod, unconvinced.

"Well, " they say, "there's no reason we can't put him into the ketamine program."

Hearts are tricky. They can be damaged and scarred and still keep on beating. They can suffer attacks and come back to function again. They can break and they can heal. They can hope and love and never ever stop believing that somewhere out there is a place called home.

It has to work, it has to work, it has to work. We are now several steps closer to what we hope will be our own way back.

To all who are praying, who have upheld us these last thirteen years, who have never given up hope, accept our deepest gratitude. We are not there quite yet. But, like Alice when she finally realizes just how ridiculous the Queen of Hearts and her court are, we are finding our way back.

We may yet find our way out of the rabbit hole.


 

How Great is Our God!

Pastor gave me some words this morning and asked if I could arrange them into "something" for our hymn sing tonight. Here is what God gave to me:

HOW GREAT OUR GOD!

            The greatness of our God is seen

-in sky

-in sea

-in forest green

Living creatures, great and small

Reveal the God

Who made them all.

Unbelievable, inconceivable

Is the greatness of our God

He knows us

And enfolds us

-When times are cold

-When we get old.

Living creatures, great and small,

Reveal the God

Who made them all.

Our thoughts are known

To our mighty King

When we hurt

When we sing

He provides for our every need

Our every act

Our every deed

He will never leave us, nor forsake.

Our creator makes

No mistakes.

Living creatures, great and small,

Reveal the God

Who made them all.

Our Savior will return

And joy will fill our hearts

In the moment we will know

From God

We will never part.

Worthy, worthy, worthy

Is the God of our worship

He is worthy of our praise!

Magnify Him with Thanksgiving

Gladly our voices we raise!

Living creatures, great and small

Reveal the God

Who made them all.

Arranged by Linda Cobourn, from words provided by Robert Kauffman