Tag: memories

Thriving…

by lovesdoves, posted in Emotional Health, Family health, Spiritual Health

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A long, long time ago, when I was 12 or 13, I read a book called, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. It was a book that evoked an extremely emotional response in my young life. It opened my eyes to how blessed I was to have a family, immediate and extended, and a Heavenly Father that loved me, unconditionally. I hadn’t known there was any other way and it created compassion and thankfulness and appreciation in my heart. A part of the story refers to a young sapling tree that had pushed it’s way through the cracks in the sidewalk in Francie’s neighborhood, a symbol of how, even in the most adverse circumstances, we are created to survive. Nasturtiums, this flower, are experts at that, and they always remind me of that “revelationary” time in my life when I learned that we were created to persevere, survive, and even more than that, to thrive in a beautiful, compassionate, and thankful way as voices for God and servants of His Kingdom. I spotted this flower on my way to lunch with my own precious flowers, my daughters, and felt overwhelmed by God’s loving promises to me as I revisited that time in my life.

Thankful&Grateful. Live Well.

 

 

 

Love… Dad

by lovesdoves, posted in Emotional Health, Family health, Spiritual Health

I walked back inside our home with tear-stained cheeks, and wondered if the crew foreman from Siebenthaler’s had ever had to deal with a weeping woman as he did his job… as he and his team simply, yet meticulously, planted a white oak tree.

They were done and ready to move their equipment to a new delivery site… he had watched me walk around the tree several times, taking photos as I moved slowly around it’s trunk, then he got back out and walked over to me… he said… “I’ve never seen one so perfect from all sides… from ever angle it’s beautiful”. I looked up at this burly man, after watching him remove the remains of a bradford pear that had grown there for 20 years and move the dirt with grace and precision to establish a home for this new tree that would grow to be 75 feet someday, and his soft words registered with me… and I explained to him why my husband had gone out to their nursery to chose this specimen, a straight tree with an exemplary shape… why it was so special to me that they had taken the time to make it so perfectly right for us… why it wasn’t just a tree, but a symbol of the love that a father has for his son… a symbol… that he had written about ten years before for his eldest son’s surprise 40th birthday party.

A couple of months ago, after Jim had died, I found this note that he had scribed to Terry. This treasured poem was healing, filled with sentiments of adoration, and it provided a plan of action. To replace a tree that we had lost with a white oak tree in remembrance of Jim’s life and his love for nature, trees, and conservation… something relevant to his life… something that was of importance to him… something that we will see each time we leave our home and as we return… and we will think of him… and I know that he is pleased…

“Happy birthday, son – they tell me you’ll be forty,

I guess I knew that anyway – or at least, I “orty”.

I’ve been your dad for all those years and you have made me proud,

A statement I’ve made many times out loud.

Proud not just of your profession or your fatherhood,

which would be enough for some,

But proud to have retained your love – and of the man that you’ve become.

Forty years is nothing, if you’re a white oak tree –

It means that you’ve grown straight and tall – and reached maturity.

In the forest of life with other trees, your rightful place you take,

The secret to remaining strong is to bend, and never break.

This lesson you have seemed to learn, and the pleasure that it brings,

I hope that you will stand so long, they’ll have to count your rings.

This secret celebration has us all about to burst – I must admit it

But your birthday’s not ’til the twenty-first

And that’s when you’re “gonna” get it!

Love… Dad”

Sands of Time

by lovesdoves, posted in Emotional Health, Family health, Spiritual Health

This past weekend I brought home a little bag of sand from our oldest daughter’s home in Savannah, Georgia. I do that. I collect earth from the places that we visit.

I am very nostalgic, and aside from photos and videos, I look for special ways to archive memories, so they can be revisited whenever I want to peak back in time. When we traveled, Terry would find a hat, or a wicked awesome t-shirt to take home, and the girls would find little things that intrigued them that would make their way back with us, too, but I loathed the process of searching through the tourist trap gift shops with all their trinkets and novelties. To me, those objects didn’t represent the time that we had spent together and would hold little long-term meaning as I looked back over my life and the memories that we had created as a family in fabulous places around the world.

 

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So I started collecting the earth… sand, soil, rock. I would find the perfect spot to scoop up a handful of this God-hewned memorabilia and sift it down into a vessel for transport home to Ohio where I store each in a magnetic container in my living room. This display is an organic, meaningful, changing piece of art. I am mesmerized by the differences in the samples that I’ve acquired. Each is so diverse in color and texture, completely unique to the area that it came from, whether it was the beaches of Italy where my grandfather used to play, or the beaches of Cape Cod where my brother and sister and I played, or the beaches of Virgin Gorda where our daughters played, each is so special to me because of the time that we had spent there with the people that we love.

As I was preparing this sand for its new home here with us, I had a revelation. That just as sand shifts and changes constantly, so do our lives. Sometimes we are prepared for those changes and sometimes they happen regardless of our thoughts or expectations. And though the landscape of our lives is ever-evolving… developing and growing and uncertain at times… I still find magnificent beauty in it. I actively choose to appreciate each day with thankfulness and joyfulness, and for the new opportunity that it represents to serve God and the people that He loves.

Another thing that I have come to understand and embrace… when I resist it the least, when I let God do the sculpting of my life, that is when it’s the most effortlessly beautiful, just like the sand dunes of the Cape. That’s when my heart is at peace, that’s when I can be in the present moment, or enjoying the memories of the past with my collection of earth. Resisting resistance is part of my living well life.

 

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“Hey, babes…”

by lovesdoves, posted in Emotional Health, Family health, Physical health, Spiritual Health

Even with all the joy and anticipation of a new little life… my heart still aches from missing my dad, especially today. He loved his granddaughters (and sons) so much. And along with the rest of us, I know that he would be getting pretty excited about the birth of his great grandchild.

I have a very difficult time believing that he died 4 years ago. I feel like he is still such a huge part of our lives and our families. I know that is the tricks of the mind, because the day he died is so clearly painted into the memory of my consciousness that I can never escape it completely.

June 16, 2007

It was the Saturday performance of recital weekend. And it started early as they always have with lots to do. Prepping, gathering, planning, and anticipating the thrill of the day. Dad had stopped taking my calls out of exhaustion… he was sleeping more and more, so I knew that he was being challenged by this disease, I just didn’t realize the extent… I know now that my intellect was in denial about the serious reality of his health condition. He had been diagnosed with colon cancer, 45 days before. And I always knew that he would get better… I was with him when the doctor gave him the diagnosis, I was with him as we left the hospital, and he clearly told me that he was not going to die. I believed him… because I couldn’t imagine my life without him. And he was my dad. And dads are strong. Fighters. Warriors. Heroes. So when my brother, David, called the morning of June 16th and said that Dad was struggling, I knew we needed to go. All of us. Because it was time. And then life became blurred as the 5 of us got ready for the drive to Columbus in 2 separate cars. And I remember calling people and I remember Jenny helping and I remember thinking that I had to get there fast. Really fast. That I had to see him. That I had to be there. That there would be something that we could do. That this wasn’t real.

And at 11:44, we pulled up. To the house that I had lived in with my mother and father and sister and brother. And we got out. And I remember feeling so surprised because everything looked the same, and there was this beautiful sunshine and delicate breeze. A perfect day. A day for gardening. Or gathering.

Today it was for gathering. I remember hugging my mom as we came inside. Holding her tight. I remember being unafraid as I climbed the stairs to my parent’s bedroom. And walking in. And my dad was awake and I felt relief. And he said “Hey, babes”… like he always did… And then he said, “You got here fast…” And I reminded him that I learned to drive from him. And then he told me that he and David had been playing cards, and he secretly showed me the 8 of spades that he had stashed under his pillow, to ensure his own victory… and I remember trying to be so brave. For him.

The lightly perfumed breeze was lifting the curtain in the room filling it with an angelic sweetness and he told us he could see strawberry fields. And people playing bocce ball.

He knew it was time too. And he had waited for us. To say good-bye without saying the words. He laid back down. And closed his eyes. We got close to him, holding him, supporting him, while the tears streamed down our faces, and Terry prayed for mercy and for thankfulness… that we would all be together again some day. And then dad’s breathing slowed, and at 1:15, it stopped, as we held him. Loving him. Missing him already. Still missing him.

Even in the sadness of his death, I can find the joy from his life. In the songs that he would make up, that my girls still sing… or the dances he would do, that  would make us laugh… or the phrases that he would speak (that shouldn’t even be repeated), but that are still remembered (and repeated). I keep this photo on my desk, of Dad with the girls being silly together… because it always makes me smile.

It made me smile today.

Live well.

Lisa