From Grief to Gratitude (Not by chance encounters)

Last week I went to the nursing home to clean out my dad’s stuff, donate things, and take home what we had decided to keep.  I was first greeted by Margaret, one of the three ladies who live in the first room by the back door.  I always enter by that door, and so it became natural to greet these women and speak with them for a little while. 

Margaret, who is a stroke victim, saw me and with her one good hand firmly gripped on the wheelchair, began wheeling toward me fast as she could.  When she stopped in front of me, burst into tears, and proclaimed in her stuttering voice, “Your daddy died.  We won’t see you anymore!”   My immediate reaction was to comfort her and tell her, that I would not abandon her.  Then on to my dad’s old room, and from his roommate, Johnel, I got the same exact reaction and gave the same response.  As I walked around saying hello to the residents and the nurses, the same thing happened over and over again. It occurred to me that although this may have been a natural response from them, because of the years I have visited there, that there was another possibility.  It was totally possible that God was speaking to me through these souls.  So I made a promise to go back to visit. 

This week, I kept that promise.  I took Johnel his usual hamburger, took Margaret some CDs from church, hugged a few others and actually took the time to learn something about their lives.  As I was finishing my visit last evening, Doris came out of her room and handed me a note.  It said, “To my new friend, love Doris.”  Doris had come to me the day after my dad passed and said, “Anyone gets a hug from you, gets blessed.”  I thought about that.  The residents may feel like they are getting blessed, but mathematically speaking, who gets the greater benefit?  Each of them gets one hug.  If I hug ten of them, I get ten hugs. 

I left there feeling blest and headed to Michael’s Art store.  My office had taken up a donation for me, and purchased a gift card.  I figured I could use that to buy some canvas and paint and perhaps painting might ease that pain I feel from time to time when I think about my dad. 

I searched around, looking for the best deal and found the biggest canvas I could find.  I have plans for this, I thought.  Picked up some paint too, and then headed to my car. 

As I stood there trying to fit it in my trunk, a man wearing a backpack and looking forlorn was walking past my car.  He said to me, “You can put that seat down and put it in through there.”  I tried, but it still would not fit, and as he stood there watching my feeble efforts, He said, “My mother just died” and began to cry.  Immediately, my entire being was awakened with the need to say something comforting, but all I could muster up was, “I know how you feel, my dad just died.”  As we both stood there with tears in our eyes, it became clear to me from his speech that he had a mental disability. Of course, the usual thoughts came up- I am standing in a parking lot in the dark, in close proximity to someone I don’t know, who clearly is not with it, maybe he will hurt me, maybe he is lying so he can rob me, etcetera, etcetera. However, something else was awakened inside of me also, the dire necessity to comfort this man.  So he told me of his situation, his mom had been his caretaker, she had recently died, his family wanted to move him to Portland, Oregon, and he did not want to go, and I interrupted with, “Because you have a routine.” His eyes grew wide open with amazement, and he said, “How did you know that?”   And how did I know?  Because I was in the same boat?  Or because the spirit of God was telling me?  Over the course of our 20 minute long conversation, I learned his name was Gus, that most people would not talk to him, that he felt he was a sinner and going to hell, and that he was so lonely and grieving he wanted to end his life, but could not figure out how to do it.  I grabbed his hand and we prayed in that parking lot, in the dark, with onlookers from Michaels thinking that the man was trying to mug me. 

Was it chance that this man, who shared the same grief I had just walked past my car?  I do not think so, nor did Gus.  When we left the parking lot, he wandering off back toward wherever it is he stays, and I getting into my car in amazement, the crowd dispersing, my thoughts were that God provides chances in your life to bless you.  Perhaps in those chances you were at that place at that time to bless someone else.  Maybe those chance encounters are not just chance. The Lord knew all along what time I would be at the parking lot.  He knew when Gus would be there.  He knew when I spoke to someone at the nursing home they would become my friend.  He knew they needed me, and that I need to be needed.  But He also knew that I needed them.  To reaffirm my faith in God’s interaction with people.  To let me know He is near me.  To comfort my own heart by comforting others. 

Those encounters were not just by chance.  They were by the design of my Maker.  I might be blessed enough for others to see a glimpse of my Savior in me.

Please listen to the song and let it bless you. 

In His love, Susie  

Past Grief to Gratitude ( Learning from those who have passed on.)

Shortly after I wrote the last blog, my father passed away. Like the Good Marine he was, he heard the words March Forth, and so on March 4th, he went on to his eternal rest.
It was not unexpected.  He had been in a nursing home for 4 and  a half years, in extreme pain, but during that time, he worked out a lot of things that were left unsaid over all the years.  On Thanksgiving of 2012, we were riding in the car out to my son's house for dinner and I glanced over and saw him crying.  Thinking it must be some extreme pain, I asked him if he was ok.  He said to me " I don't know how you can love me after all that I did to you."  It broke my heart to see him so repentant, but it also cheered my heart, for here was a man making amends after so many years.  I told him this.  "Dad, I ask Jesus the same thing every day."

I learned some things from my father over the course of his life.  Both good and bad can teach us if we care to learn. From the bad, I learned what not to do.  From the good, I learned what to do.  Here are the most important things I learned from Daddy, from both sides.  

Be kind one to another, loving and forgiving, even as Christ forgave you.  Be kind to every one, but be especially kind to those of your own household.  The legacy you leave behind lives on in them, for good or for evil.

Forgive as you have been forgiven by the Lord and keep short accounts when you say or do hurtful things.  An unforgiving spirit ties you to the grudge, not the person. If you were the offender, do everything in your power to make things right. If you were the offended, forgive and leave it to the Lord.  

Love in deeds, not just in words. Mean what you say, when you say, “I love you”. Show it in the things you do. This includes everything you do, but most of all what you do for the Lord. Most people will never know how much the Lord loves them, except through your actions.

 

Never argue with a fool, and pick your battles carefully. Some people will never be convinced with words, some battles are not worth engaging in and the ones that are, are won through Christ, and not by your own opinion.  A soft answer turns away wrath.

Finish what you started. Never put off to tomorrow what you can do today.  We are not promised tomorrow.  My dad was notorious in our family for never finishing the projects he started. Nevertheless, in this most important thing, the race he began with his life in Christ, he finished well.  

Well done, Daddy, well done.   

(Please take a moment to listen to the song above.) 

    

Past Grief to Gratitude (The Unspoken Things)

                               

Last weekend I had my grandchildren over to spend the night and part of Saturday.  They came armed with blankets, pillows, toys and energy.  I was foolishly unarmed, because I assumed one would not need armor for the glorious presence of grand children.  I was already worn out from the day. After all, I am not a spring chicken. 

I soon remembered that children are not herd animals.  They enter through one door as a group, and immediately split off into separate entities, with different mind-sets and one goal; to conquer everything in their path. There is no possible way of making them go in the same direction because each of them has something different they want to do.  And they all want to do their own thing at the same time.  Within seconds of entering my abode, their stuff and mine was everywhere it should not be.  It was hard to find a trail to the kitchen. 

Then the questions. Not in orderly fashion, mind you, but in rapid-fire succession as if an automatic assault rifle had just exploded on its own, sending shrapnel of questions every which way.  My ears shut off after a while. 

I began to think what would these children, who have been raised in front of a TV and brought up with a multitude of electronic gadgets, be like if they had been raised in my era.  I shudder to imagine the mayhem. 

My grandfather, affectionately known as Grandad, was my sole parent.  He took on this responsibility when I was the tender age of six, when my mother went to be with the Lord.  Soon after that, my father remarried, and I obtained a brother who was only 4 months younger than I was.  We were not herd animals either, although we did run as if we were a wolf pack.  Rounding us up was darn near impossible. Much like my grandchildren.  And he took this on at the ripe old age of 73. 

My brother and I had free run of 50 acres, a river that ran miles and miles, plains and prairies that spread hundreds of miles.  We tromped around every one of those miles exploring every piece of dirt, every rock, every tree, inventing our own games.  Had my grandchildren attempted some of those games, I would be in a mental hospital right now.  I thought of the things my brother and I had tried.  Like the multitudinous attempt to fly, off the roof of a two-story barn with a sheet, off of cliff walls 20 feet high without a sheet, jumping into flood waters so the water could eject us on the other side of a culvert. Oh and trying to ride a bull that had no intentions of letting us. What stress we must have put my poor grandfather under, and how on earth did he survive it?

Then there were those teenage years, when I am sure, had he had any hair left, he would have pulled it all.  Those nights of waiting up, wondering where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing. 

He was, as they called it in his day, unflappable.  For all appearances, he was always calm, cool and collected.  He always had an answer for every question, and a question for all of my foolish answers.  He never argued about anything, and his word was his bond.  He was a living example of Christ. 

And yet, for as much as I admired him, following him everywhere and trying my best to emulate his example, I don’t remember ever telling him “Thank You” for the things he taught me.  To be precise, I don’t remember ever telling him “I love you”.  I suppose I assumed that he knew how I felt about him, since I wanted to spend every waking hour with him up until my teenage years. I also don’t remember having ever expressed gratitude for him pouring himself into our lives, without withholding anything of what he had or of who he was. This ungratefulness to the man who was the integral part of my life, until I found Christ. 

I remember the night that I found Christ.  It was the night after my Grandad had passed away.  I was alone in the house, in the dark, in my heartbreak.  I turned to a little book that Grandad had always read to me at bedtime.  That book, a child’s book, was about Christ, his life, his God Head, His sacrifice, and His victorious resurrection.  Although at the time, I was turning to God because I had no one else, I did not understand that it was the simple words of one caring man, the one I had lost, that pointed me to the one who would be the source of my comfort.   It was as if Grandad knew all along that God would take care of me, should it happen that he was no longer here for me. 

The grief I experienced for years with every thought of him was an interminable source of pain.  I wanted someone to blame for my loss.  Even when my own children were grown, I had figured out in my head that he could have possibly lived 120 years, so they could know him.  It was like I could not let go. 

Yesterday I figured out why.  Although there was plenty of talk about him, the things he said and did, there had never been that spoken gratitude for having him in my life.  In another round of missing him, I finally got it, and it brought me to my knees.  He had been put in my life to guide me to the One who would sustain that life.  And he had taken on that task in the later years of life, when one who is retired should be relaxing and enjoying life.  He had taken on the stress of raising an unruly, adventurous child, and had completed his task as best he could.  As I will with my own grandchildren, God willing. 

But there was still the matter of that unspoken gratitude.  The grief of losing him had hung around so long, it had overwhelmed the truth of what it meant to have him in my life. I prayed about this, and then I began to speak it out loud. 

“Grandad, I don’t remember telling you I loved you, but I think you know now that I loved you, admired you and respected you, with the very core of my being.  Thank you for all the things you taught me, from how to sweep a floor, deliver a colt or a calf, leave the wild things wild, to respecting the life of every plant, animal, and human on this planet.  Thank you for the nights spent lying out on the lawn, teaching me the constellations, and the long talks we had.  Thank you for taking on the raising of an orphan without batting an eye, and for making my childhood a fun adventure.  Thank you for your sense of humor, your diligence to Godly things, and even for those ugly pajamas you made.  Thank you for sharing your time on this planet with me.  It has made all the difference in my life.”

Then began the prayer that will begin the true healing past this old grief.  “Lord, thank you for this man you put in my life.  Thank you for leading him and teaching him, and providing all that we needed.  Thank you for your providence that made this specific man my parent.  And thank you for his life.  He showed me the way to you, and demonstrated what peace and love can come from a life well lived for you.  Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.”