Never Walk Alone

Please listen to the song... It will inspire you, as it did me. 

Listening to this song brought back a memory that is painful to think of, but too beautiful not to share.  In the 44 years since this happened, I have never put this down in writing.  It is time.

I was just a girl, 15 years old; I had spent the last two and a half months waiting for my grandfather to come home from the hospital. He and I had lived alone together for over a decade, most of my life, and I could not imagine living without him. I planned on how I would care for him, but most of all, how we would have more time together, to laugh and share our thoughts. But that was not to be.

My father had moved him from the hospital to a nursing home, and after just a week there, knowing he would never return home, he gave up on living.
I saw him two days before he died, on a Christmas Eve, when I had promised that when Christmas day came, I would be there with him.  That also was not to be.  My father decided that he did not feel like going into town on Christmas, and I had no way to get there.  Christmas was a bleak day without him, but the next day and the days that followed were even darker.  He died the next day, alone.  When my father came to tell us, I felt like I was going to die too. 

In the days that followed, I kept up with all that he had taught me.  Chores were done, as they were supposed to be done, with the exception of dishes and bringing in kindling and firewood to heat the house.  I didn’t feel like eating, so that chore, that I had so despised, was not necessary. And my heart felt cold like a stone, so why heat up the rest of the place.  At night, I lay down in my bed, the house dark, empty and silent, and cried myself to sleep. 

The day of his funeral came, and I was not prepared for the emotions I would feel.  The long ride to the cemetery from the church was familiar, having done that with my mother and grandmother’s funerals, but this time, my grandfather, who was always my support and comfort went along for the ride in the hearse.  I sat in silence, afraid to cry. 

The graveside ceremonies, with the 21-gun salute, the folding of the flag, the quiet prayers committing his body to the ground, all were a blur. And then they began to lower the coffin into the ground.  Something snapped inside of me. Like some tight band that held me together just broke loose.  I sprung into action to try to save him. I screamed, “No!” at the top of my lungs and ran toward the gaping grave hole, with every thought and nerve within me to get him out of there and keep him forever.  I almost made the jump into the grave, but my brother and my friends held me back.  No matter that they held my body back, they could not keep my heart from going down with him into that grave. 

I do not even remember the ride back home.  The days that followed were cold, bleak, empty.  I wanted to die.  Tears fell like a flood for days on end, until there were no more tears.  Just emptiness.  I was alone. That was it.  Abandoned again. Just the same as when my mother died and my father moved me in with my grandparents. Daddy didn’t visit much, only long enough to give a tongue-lashing, or dole out some form of punishment.  Emotionally and physically, I had been abandoned, but I had always had my grandfather, even after my grandmother died.  My child like mind felt that this was someone who was invincible, who would never leave me.  Only now, he had, even if not by his own choice.  Living each day now seemed a fantasy that I would never achieve. I was alone.  I could not do this on my own.

One of those nights, trying to sleep, unable to come to terms with what my life would be like from now on, I picked up a little book my grandfather used to read to me when I was very small.  It was a little story book, with stories from the Bible, with a picture on the cover of Jesus with children sitting in his lap.  I began to read, and as I did, I felt a presence in the room.
No one was there, but someone was.  Something within me recalled the same feeling as I had when I was a little girl out walking in the corn field alone.  I remember coming to tell my grandfather about my friend who walked with me in the corn rows, and how he was watching over me so I would not get lost among those tall stalks of corn. 

I continued to read, still feeling this presence with me.  And there, on the very last page, was the answer to who was with me in the darkness of that night.

“I will never leave you nor forsake you, for Lo, I am with you always.” 

My senses and my knowing suddenly came to life, and I knew it was He, the one from the corn field.  I suddenly knew he had been with me through each of these dark, shadowed nights of sorrow.  I knew suddenly that He had always been with me, in the corn fields, at every graveside, in the fear and the torment that life had brought. He had always been with me.  He had not forsaken me. I felt His presence so strong, it was like I could have turned my tear stained face around, and seen Him standing there.

 Thus began my entrance into adulthood. At too early an age, without worldly guidance, I began to grow up.  I came to know the One who would walk with me every day of my life. I began to understand that He was always there to hold me, comfort me, guide me and watch over me.  

I still felt loneliness throughout my life, but it was never because He was not there, it was because I had pulled away to other things.  Whenever I would come to myself and understand that I was the one who was absent from Him, the loneliness would leave, and I would feel His presence. 

I will never forget that night.  Every time I recall it, I remember the fear, the sadness, the feeling of being abandoned. But I remember more, the knowing that Jesus, Yahweh, God, was with me, and that I never walked alone.    

So where have I been lately?

So where have I been, you ask.  Good question.  I have been here, or at least part of me.  Back on December 7th, when I was just getting into full swing, I went out for my morning walk and ended up in the hospital. 
So I have to tell you the story, before I get on with the rest of my blog, so you will understand why it has taken me so long to get around to this. 

It was a beautiful, dark December morning, at 6:30.  Being myself, I figured I could get in a good walk before I started work, then do my work, then more Christmas shopping, then off to the nursing home, then…. More stuff, that was not to be.  

Our dear little Piper, all 75 pounds of her, spooked all of a sudden, running in front of me and tripping me.  I went down face first, hitting the dumpster with my head, cutting my cheek and eye. But we shall not stop there, nooo, we must do this right. 

The leash was wrapped around my left wrist; the dog ran right, launching me through the air.  And, when I collided with the pavement, out popped my shoulder from the socket. Thank the Lord, I hit my head first, so I was at least stunned. 

But I was lying in the middle of the street, in the path of the cars that would soon be leaving for work, wearing black clothes on black pavement.  I was sure I would soon be a speed bump, so I tried getting up. However, my left arm didn’t want to come with me, it was just laying there, above my head, sort of disconnected, like a toy dolls arm that gets ripped off. 

What do you do when there is no one around and you get in a Pickle?   You cry to Jesus.  I just said a quick prayer, something akin to “Jesus, you are the only one can get me out of this mess.” and then I cried out for help. 

The maintenance men at our complex don’t come in until 8:00 or so in the morning, so I figured maybe someone in a nearby apartment would hear me.  But I was so wrong.  The Lord had this one planned out.  One of the maintenance men had just pulled up to get an early start.  He ran over, said “Oh, my”, dialed 911 and caught my dog.  Then he went down to our apartment, woke my daughter and delivered Piper to her. 

The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics were having a dickens of a time trying to figure out how they would get my arm and me into the ambulance.  It might have been easier for them had it been totally ripped off. But they rigged up a couple of boards, one for me, one for my arm, and off we went.

Remember I said that I think the Lord had this one planned?  Well, if the maintenance man was not enough evidence, then the paramedic who rode with me was.  I just looked at him and asked him if he knew Jesus, and he said, “I sure do.” And right then and there, he moved up by my head, held my hand and prayed for me and for my family. 

It was a short ride, probably because of the morphine he gave me, and the next couple of days were a jumble of putting the arm back where it belonged, stitching up my face, throwing up blood, because of course, I ruptured something inside when I hit, and broke my ribs, front and back.   A couple of days there, and I got to go home, where the true agony would begin.

I discovered that when you injure an arm, you can’t sleep.  Oh, I could fall asleep with a pain pill, and get all of 15 minutes of sleep, but if you added that up over the course of 24 hours, I was getting a couple of hours of sleep a night. 

This incident changed a lot in my life besides sleep.  I used to love to watch America’s funniest home videos and Dumbest stuff on wheels.  My daughter even commented that she wish someone who saw my accident happen had recorded it, because she was sure it was hilarious to watch.  But something inside me gets a little sick now when I see a skateboarder go head first on the concrete or a car drive through a store front.  It’s something like sympathy, with a little nausea thrown in.  I started watching “ the Doctors” now. 


So here, at home is where I still am.  If you were wondering.  My arm still doesn’t cooperate with me, in spite of repeated physical therapy sessions commandeered by a physical therapist that puts an army general to shame.  However, I am able to type now.  I just FORCE my arm and hand  to do my bidding. I can get along fine if I just lift my hand up and put in the proper place.  And occasionally the fingers on that hand get confused so I am thankful for spell check, even if it doesn’t recognize my name, and wants me to be “Sustained”.  Which I am.  Clearly sustained by Jesus. 

Now that you have the whole story, I can get on with the real thing of writing.  All that time, moving around, but not doing anything left lots going on inside my head.  I have lots to get caught up on.  Thank you all for being so patient with me!