Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts

The Finger of Blame and a Hand to Hold


I'm working on a blog series about the strengths & struggles of being a "more-sensitive-than-most" Christian woman. I'd LOVE to hear and include your perspective, so I'll be doing some short surveys.  e-mail me if you'd like to be included. Or sign up here: http://eepurl.com/vVfE1

I'll be switching from Feedburner to MailChimp for blog delivery soon. e-Mails will come from Cheri Gregory. 

My mother and daughter in 1991.
Mother got lost two weeks ago.


Inside her own home.

The house she designed forty-five years ago.

Lost inside her own home.

To me, this feels worse than the day she did not recognize me.

Far worse.

You see, Mother’s always been a "home body." Decorated and redecorated with impeccable taste. Dressed to match her decor. Spread beautiful tables for family and friends.

So we've comforted ourselves with our commitment to keep her at home, in her favorite place.

But now, so abruptly, her safe haven has vanished.

She is lost inside her own home.

Molten anger simmers within as I ponder the inventor of a disease such as Alzheimer's.

Who would perpetrate such a masochistic cruelty on such a gentle giver?

And why?

The answers come tucked in a long-forgotten memory.

* * * * *

It’s my third year of teaching, and I’m staying after school to catch up on grading.

I’ve spread out a quilt so my 6-month-old daughter can have some “tummy time” while I work.

Suddenly, the classroom door slams open. The 16-year-old who earned a conduct slip for disrespect that morning saunters in.

Then stops.

Right at the edge of the quilt.

He looks at me.

A sneer curls his upper lip.

He looks at my baby.

A fierce gleam flickers in his eyes.

He stares straight at me and lifts his size 13 shoe over my daughter’s fragile head.

His eyes narrow, and his wordless message thunders in the silence:

I hate you.  I want to hurt you.  So I will hurt her while you are helpless to do anything but watch. Hurting her will hurt you far more than anything I could possibly do to you.

* * * * *

I flew to southern California last Thursday. Over the weekend, my father, brother, and I had the kinds of conversations we were never meant to have.

By the time I flew home Sunday night, we’d planned Mother’s funeral. Now, we await the date.

As the lump in my throat makes each breath a battle, I picture that heavy foot above that precious head.

I remember the unleashing of my “mama bear” instincts as I drove those astonished boys from the room and scooped my baby girl into my arms.

I anticipate the day when God will stop this bully once and for all.

Until then, He feels all our hurt plus the protective “Papa Bear” pain of watching when He’d rather be rescuing.

Until then, I will point the finger of blame away from us.

And cling, in mutual comfort, to His scarred hand.


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My Major Problem with a Mini Promo


As our family waits for The Hobbit to start, five words in a pre-movie advertisement turn me into a crazy person.


Five words make me spontaneously shout, “That’s not true!”

(Which makes my son try to shrink his 6’ frame and my daughter try to shush me.)

It’s not the advertiser’s fault that their fancy five word phrase catches me the wrong way today. They’re just doing their job: selling fun, risk, and hope.

But tears sting my eyes as I furiously text a note to self:

"For me, 'Normal can never be amazing' is a LIE."

 Here's why:


A normal Christmas Day would have been amazing.


To have Mother bustling about the kitchen, correcting all my cooking mistakes and calling out, “Harvey, the volume!” when Mozart’s concerto booms too loud in the living room. To have one of her enormous fresh flower arrangements in the middle of the table so we could play to play our yearly game of try-to-talk-through-the-centerpiece.

Instead, I spent four hours cooking alone in Mother’s kitchen while she lay on the couch, only vaguely aware of my presence or identity. 


A normal Monday back-at-school next week would be amazing.

To have Pastor Jon welcome our students back from Christmas break with his warm hugs and just-for-you smile. To have him lead another class discussion about how what the Bible says applies to nitty-gritty everyday living.

Instead, we will be shock-walking from class to class on Monday, in the throes of raw grief, wondering what we will do without the man who has lived the heart of God’s grace in this place for two decades. 


That Daddy is alive and almost back to normal is amazing.

After a New Year’s Day hike took longer than expected, my father fell 50 feet down a ravine where he waited for hours in the freezing darkness until the rescue helicopter was able to airlift him to safety. 

Instead of reeling from a second loss in two days, we are celebrating that his sprained ankle and scalp lacerations are healing.


For me to agree that
  • normal isn’t great...
  • normal isn’t fantastic...
  • normal can never be amazing...

...would say nothing about “normal” but speak volumes about my own capacity 
  • to see greatness.
  • to feel the fantastic.
  • to be amazed.

But I vehemently disagree.

I shouted, “That’s not true!” in the theater, I’ve been rehearsing it in my heart ever since, and I’m pounding it out here for anyone who’s read this far.

“Normal can never be amazing” is a lie.

  • After almost 22 years of parenting, I know that one “normal” conversation between my strong-willed daughter and her stubborn-as-a-mule mom (which would be me) is so amazing that it deserves a holiday or postage stamp or fireworks or all three.
  • After a high-risk pregnancy and pre-term delivery, I know that a “normal” birth is mind-bogglingly amazing, and every time (okay, almost every time) my 6’ tall “preemie” annoys me I remember the incubator and am astonished anew.
  • After 25 years of marriage, I know that one more “normal” day together is a startlingly amazing gift to be treasured as if it’s our last...because it just might be. 

Part way through The Hobbit, Gandalf says, “Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I have found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.”

With this, I whole-heartedly agree.

And I re-commit to intentionally cherish -- by choosing amazement amidst the “normal” -- the people and life I am so lavishly blessed to call mine.


Your Turn:
  • What's your response to "normal can never be amazing"?  (Please feel more than free to disagree with me!)
  • When I invited Facebook friends to agree or disagree with "normal can never be amazing," a whole discussion of definitions ensued. How do you define "normal"?  "amazing"?
  • Anything else on your heart!

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Day 12: INSEPARABLE (+ Missing Loved Ones at the Holidays)



Each day during The PURSE-onality Challenge: "A Holiday-Ready Heart" in October, Untangling Christmas by Karen Ehman and LeAnn Rice, will be our give-away prize!  

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Day 11: MASTERPIECE (+ Being Content With What I DO Have)


One of the #1 holiday struggles for many is missing loved ones who are no longer with us, especailly if it’s our first holiday season without them.

Today’s verse is such a powerful reminder that even though we may be separated from people who gave us love, we are never separated from God and his love.

No power in the sky above or in the earth below –
indeed, nothing in all creation 
will ever be able to separate us 
from the love of God 
that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Romans 8:39 (NLT)

For years, I’ve held back all memories of my Grandma Pudleiner because my final ones are so painful: her lying unconscious in a hospital bed, full of tubes, fading rapidly. 

But God is walking me along a healing path, teaching to grieve my  losess without losing myself in them. 

In fact, in the process of honoring my sadness, I’m re-discovering so much of myself that has been locked behind decades of stoicism. 

Writing this letter has been a slow dance back through the pages of time. Tears fell freely as I wrote, freeing me to revel in fond memories rather than stay chained to regrets.

Dear Grandma,

You’ve been gone for more than half my life, now.

I think about you when we go to California Pizza Kitchen. I always order their Dakota Smashed Pea and Barley soup because it tastes ever so vaguely like your amazing split pea soup. 

I think about you as December approaches. Christmas Eve was doubly special in our family: the night before we celebrated Jesus birthday and the night we celebrated your actual birthday.

I think about you when I hear the first few notes to the Alleluia chorus. How you loved singing in the Messiah each year! 

I think about you when I hear the first few notes of O Holy Night, your favorite Christmas song. You lured me to the piano every Christmas Eve, where I’d play while you sang for pure joy, hitting even the “oh hear the angel voices” and “oh night divine” notes with utter abandon. And you always left me a dollar on the piano as a thank you. 

It was your birthday, but I got the dollar. 

Somehow that made sense back then. 

Now, not so much.

I wish I’d taken the time to get more than the yearly dollar. 

Like the recipe for your streuselkuchen. Your almond kuchen. Your nut roll. And especially your nut candy. 

We have the wooden molds shaped like walnut halves. But no recipe. 

The top half was always light brown and tasted a bit like butterscotch, and the bottom half was darker brown and chocolate-flavored. 

When I took the halves apart, I could see the tooth-pick holes from when you pulled each half out of the mold. (I think I remember seeing you run your finger under tap water to moisten each half before sticking them together but it’s been so long, I might be making up that memory.)

I miss more than your German sweets, of course. 

I miss passing our shared copy of Lad a Dog back and forth, re-reading it over and over until it’s all but fallen apart.

I missing walking to your house on Wednesdays after school, sitting at your kitchen table (spread with the crocheted gold tablecloth–your own “fancywork”!) and having you ask me about my “boy-a-friend.”

I miss all the wacky baldness cure advertisements you'd cut out of magazines and surreptitiously leave on Daddy’s desk. 

I miss the crush you had on Daniel. I didn’t realize you were so crazy about him and so excited about us getting married until we found the envelope marked “Daniel and Cheri,” full of carefully saved dollar bills, in your desk drawer after you were hospitalized.

(You would love our kids. Annemarie has your creativity; Jonathon, your quiet mischief!)

I miss hearing you tell your childhood stories. You always laughed at how you were such a slow runner that the only prize you ever won was an unexpected “last place prize” one day!  And you always wept when you told about crying through your eighth grade graduation because you wanted so much to continue schooling. 

You worshiped the ground teachers walked on. The medical fields were all fine and dandy, but to you, there was no greater calling than education. In your last few weeks, I don’t know if you knew that I was starting my first year of teaching. I tell myself that you did. 

I miss the unconditionality of your love. You needed nothing from me and wanted everything for me. 

This Christmas season, I will attempt a streuselkuchen. It won’t be the same, but I’ll keep playing with the recipe until I get it close to yours. 

This Christmas season, I will crank a CD of The Messiah up to full volume (and, yes, I’ll be sure to stand when the Alleluia chorus comes on!) 

This Christmas Eve, I will sit at the piano and play O Holy Night (and give an extra dollar when children's offering basket comes around at church.)

This Christmas, I will bask in the blessed memory of 22 years with a grandmother who loved me so very dearly.

Ich liebe dich, Großmutter.  


Cheri


Your Turn!
  • Is there someone you will be especially missing this holiday season? 
  • How do you / could you incorporate a special honoring of a loved one in your holiday celebrations?
  • What has helped you learn how to grieve losses so that the memories bring more blessing than sorrow?
  • Anything else on your heart?




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