She Left One Year Ago Today - I Still Miss Her

She was known as Grandma Gloria to the neighborhood children, as Mom to her own children, as Gloria to her friends, but I knew her as Aunt Gloria - a safe place, an adult I could count on. I remember her as kind and caring and her home as a welcoming, familiar place. Second in familiarity only to my own home and the homes of my siblings. As I pause on this day, the first anniversary of her passing, to remember her, many memories come to mind, many pictures of her stored in my mental scrapbook. A few stand out as representative of the woman I knew her to be.

One day when I was in Kindergarten, I got off the bus, as usual, but something not usual at all faced me. I couldn't find any of my family at home. Being the youngest of 6 children living on a dairy farm, our house was rarely empty, so it was a surprise to come home and find it so. The first person to come to mind, the first safe place to go besides my own home, was Aunt Gloria's. Her phone number and my own were only one digit different, so I memorized her number almost as soon as I knew my own. I used the green, rotary wall phone in our kitchen and called her. I explained my predicament and she told me to come right over. She would watch me from her kitchen window as I crossed the road and walked to her house, making sure I arrived safely. I did arrive safely and there I stayed until my parents came home.

She was also my Primary Class Sunday School teacher. I sat at the wooden table in a metal folding chair while she taught us stories from the Bible and lessons about God and life. She had a habit while she was teaching of twisting the pieces of her pen back and forth - tip out, tip in, tip out, tip in. With each turn you could hear a little click. This was part of Sunday School in her class. To this day, when I twist a pen open or closed, I think of her. Funny the little things that stick in our memories and bring a person back to us as clearly as if they are still right there with us in the room.

Often for school we had fundraisers that required us to go door to door selling one thing or another.  In middle school and high school, it was chocolate bars. I hated this ritual of going door to door selling things. Somehow to me it felt like begging and I hated the rejection of people saying, "No." But Aunt Gloria never said no to whatever I was forced to sell, she was always a sure sale and not only to me, but to other kids in the neighborhood. As a kid, I appreciated that sure sale, that generosity, that kindness that made doing something I hated a little less painful.

Another time as a young adult, I had two friends over for homemade pizza. We had the pizza assembled and ready to pop in the oven when we discovered that the element had gone bad and the oven that was supposed to have been preheating was stone cold. Once again I dialed that ever familiar number. Sure, we could use her oven. What temperature did we need to have it set at? Off we traipsed across the road, carrying our pizzas, across the lawn, up her front steps, through the living room, and into the kitchen to bake our lunch - catastrophe averted.

She was just that kind of person - warm, welcoming, generous, and hard-working. Although she had a house to run, food to preserve, lawn to mow, a farm to help her husband run, 5 children to raise, and church functions to attend, her home was clean and tidy any time I visited and despite her many activities she always had time for people.

A couple of months before she passed away, I went to her home to borrow some photos for my mother's memorial service. We had a lovely time reminiscing about the past, hearing stories of her earlier days. When it came time for me to leave, she told me to come again and not to wait so long next time. Sadly, I wouldn't have many more opportunities to visit her and the next time I came it was to help her daughter care for her as she faced her final days.

She was a lovely, gracious lady - a safe and welcoming place for many youngsters and friends alike.  She is loved and missed.

A Tribute to Dorothy Colwell

Dorothy Colwell grew up during the Great Depression. She was born at home in the town of Windsor and lived with her parents, maternal grandmother, older brother and two sisters on the family farm. 

Dorothy remembered growing up without electricity or indoor plumbing, and her father cutting large slabs of ice from a nearby pond to keep their food cold year-round. She told stories of her grandmother churning butter, the matched pair of work horses her father used in the fields, of times when the men from the community gathered at their home to harvest the crops. Her parents were hospitable and often housed teachers from the one room school where her father was a trustee and where Dorothy attended school.

Dorothy began attending Windsor Central School when she entered 7^th grade. She met fellow classmates Jessie Spafford and brothers Arlyn and Floyd Colwell who were to become life-long friends. She knew Arlyn was interested in her when he walked into their high school classroom and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Dorothy married Arlyn when she was 19 and he was 20.

Jessie, Floyd, Dorothy, Arlyn - Senior Trip in NYC

Dorothy and Arlyn started life together with few possessions and a home that was a “fixer upper” duplex they shared with Jessie and Floyd.  

In the years that followed, five children were born—four daughters and one son. Dorothy and Arlyn remodeled the house eventually making it a one family home on their farm. They endured their share of hardships—back surgeries for Arlyn, one of their barns burning to the ground, and their youngest daughter being hit by a car resulting in a broken hip and five weeks in the hospital. Through all these things their love for each other deepened and their strong faith in God sustained them.

Newly Remodeled Kitchen

Ten years after their youngest daughter was born another baby girl joined the family.  

               

Dorothy was a hard-working, loving wife and mother. As Alzheimer’s robbed her of her memory, she forgot Arlyn had passed away and often asked for him and looked for him, concerned for his welfare and longing to have him with her. She loved him until the day she died five days after their 72^nd anniversary. For her, even death did not part them.

She gave birth to six children and loved each of them. She prayed for them individually daily. As they grew into adulthood she sought to find the balance between active, loving involvement in their lives and giving them the freedom to live their own lives and pursue their own dreams. Her greatest desire was that each of them and their descendants would know and love her Lord Jesus Christ.

Her children blessed her with 18 loved and enjoyed grandchildren. They were welcomed in her home and allowed to play freely. She read to them, did crafts with them, helped with their homework, went on excursions with them. Later she attended graduations, showers, weddings, and other happy events in their lives. Very little caused her eyes to sparkle more than having her grandchildren and great-grandchildren visit her.

Dorothy was a devoted follower of Jesus Christ and spent much of her life involved in serving Him through the church. As a child and on into her 30s she attended West Colesville Baptist Church. She used her musical ability to sing solos and in duets or trios with her sisters and others. She led the teen girls Explorer Group in Pioneer Girls Club. Together with the girls in her group, she planned many activities and parties to help the girls earn their badges.

In the late 1960s, she and Arlyn along with several other couples from Windsor met together to form the Windsor Bible Baptist Church. They remained active members for more than 40 years until health issues forced them to pull back. Dorothy was active as a Sunday School teacher for young teen girls. She again used her vocal talent for singing special numbers. Several times she was responsible for signing people up to do special music.  Additionally, she directed several children’s programs, was active in Ladies’ Missionary Fellowship, served in Awana, and organized meals for families in need.

Dorothy was an exceptional homemaker. Although she was a meticulous housekeeper, a good cook, and industrious in gardening and preserving food, her shining gift was creating a home. Her home was a place where people felt welcomed and comfortable. When her children were young, her home was the neighborhood gathering place to swim, play ball, and hang out. She hosted the Colwell family reunion for many years. As her kids grew and grandchildren came along, she hosted family gatherings and her home continued to be open to youth and adults.

Creative and ingenious she liked to sew, crochet, decorate, paint, do plastic canvas, and other crafts. She and Arlyn often worked together on gifts for their children or grandchildren. Taking after her mother, Dorothy wrote a column for the Windsor Standard for several years and contributed a chapter to the book Historical Essays of Windsor.

Dorothy was a talented, gracious woman who touched many people. But to her children she was “Mom” the one who loved us and believed in us no matter what, our staunchest encourager, our best friend. We are thankful for her love, her example, and her belief in us. We rejoice she is in Heaven, while simultaneously grieving the hole her passing has left behind here.

               

One of her favorite verses was:

Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am they God:

I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee;

Yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

Isaiah 41:10 KJV

The Rascals Together Again

Back of the Picture says "The Rascals" 

On October 31st, my father's last living sibling joined her brothers in heaven. I felt deeply saddened by her passing.

While she lived, I was pleased to know that I would see her at family events and looked forward to seeing her. I enjoyed catching up with her and I enjoyed the stories of her younger years that she would share. I found her presence comforting. She was the last who could share stories with us of her brothers and what it was like growing up. She had answers to questions we had not asked of our dad while he was still alive - often because we had not thought of them. It was a comfort to know that she was only a phone call or short drive away.

I remember her from my childhood as a strict but loving mother and a generous caregiver. She worked as a nurse in pediatrics for the majority of her adult life. On her weekends off, she came to my grandfather's house (kitty-corner to our home) to clean, cook and tend his garden for him. My grandmother died when I was only two, and, from the time of her passing until he died, my aunt came faithfully every other weekend to care for him.

I remember staying at her house to play with my cousins and going there for Christmas dinners. Forever in my mind it will be the little pink house, even though I believe they changed the color many years ago. I have happy memories of those times.

I remember that she had asthma and an allergy to cats that would quickly bring on an attack. I remember she had strong feelings about what was safe and unsafe for the children she saw come through her unit at the hospital.

I appreciated her, loved and admired her when I was a child, however, it was as an adult that I felt a much stronger connection to her. My parents lost their house to fire in 2009. They lost nearly everything they owned, including several heirlooms. She, in the tradition of her mother and herself, made a quilt for my parents. They put it on their bed and it was a beautiful daily reminder of her love and generosity to them.

My father passed in 2011. During his final illness my connection to her grew much stronger. She came to see my dad several times during those last two weeks - both at the hospital and at our home. She talked with him and made sure to tell him what was most important for her to say and for him to hear before he passed. She was kind and supportive to us, his grieving children. She gave me an example of how to say good-bye to a loved one.

At her funeral, I heard many stories of how she had touched many people in similar ways to those I had experienced. People told of her generosity, her giftedness in sewing and knitting things for others, her kindness and the cards or visits they had received from her. They spoke of her sense of humor, her strength of character, her love for God. Many people will miss her, I among them.

Yet, we grieve with hope. I know that she is together with the Lord she loved and also with her many family members who had gone before her. She is part of a grand reunion and waiting to celebrate with us when we join her there.

Reconciling What Was with What We Wish Had Been

With the passing of Father's Day last Sunday, I was thinking about my dad. In so many ways he was a good father, but he was not perfect. And, in so many ways I was a good daughter, but I was not perfect either. Sometimes, I remember sweet times together: vacations, quiet times at home, exploring the back roads of America, working in his sawmill or up in the woods, or just the wonderful man that he was. Then at other times old scenes play through my mind, scenes of times I wish I could change.

When he was alive, there were times I had to reconcile what he had done with what I wish he had done, but nowadays, I think about things I said or did that I wish I could change. I remember times that I acted selfishly or said things in anger that I regret. I remember times I was impatient or inconsiderate and I feel sad and grieved.

I cannot go back and change these things. While I can learn from them, and seek to act differently in current relationships, I cannot change what was. In these times I remember an admonition given by a pastor friend to mourners at the funerals he performed. He would tell them that the person who had passed was now beyond all the regrets, failures, imperfections, and hurts of this life. I am comforted by that and have hope in the fact that now my dad can see perfectly and that he understands in a way he could not here on earth.

Still, I feel the grief and sadness of my failures. Then I hear the gentle whisper of God's Spirit to my heart,

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins 

and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9 ESV)

Forgiveness.
Not everyone who reads these words will identify with what I am about to say, in fact, some may have had a very different experience, but I was blessed with a dad who was willing to forgive. I know that if he were here and if I were to go to him and apologize for these failures of mine, he would forgive me. He loved me and nothing I have done would keep him from loving or forgiving me. My challenge now is to live in the truth of his character and his forgiveness.

The same is true of God. He too will forgive me for my failures and when I live in the truth of His forgiveness, I find freedom.

The last person I must forgive is myself. Surely if God and my dad can forgive me, I too can forgive myself.

What Was.
Each of us have our own stories of what was. Some stories may be about our own failures and some stories may be about how the failures of others have impacted us. In either case we cannot change what was, yet what was may have left wounds that need healing, scars that are still raw and tender.

What We Wish Had Been.
Perhaps we wish that things in our past had been different, that our parents had been or acted differently, that our siblings had made different decisions, that we had made different decisions. Bitterness and grudges may hold us captive. Broken relationships may have resulted. Cycles of life that hold us in defeat may plague us. A blog post or a few verses will not heal these things for they are complicated and take time to heal. Still there is HOPE!!! Healing is possible.

Reconciliation . . . Forgiveness.
Healing begins with forgiveness - forgiving others and seeking and accepting forgiveness from others. A few years ago I wrote about forgiveness and reconciliation. If you'd like to look at those posts, click on these links: forgiveness, repentance, and reconciliation. Forgiveness is critical to reconciliation and healing. Although the journey may be long, it is worthwhile and leads to freedom, hope, and abundant life.

Blessings as you seek to reconcile what was with what you wish had been.

When Mother's Day is Painful, Making Meaning

For the mother who has lost a child, the woman who has never had children (but wishes she had), for the child who has lost a mother, for the family who is slowly losing a mother to a debilitating chronic illness, for the mother estranged from her child, for the child estranged from his mother, Mother's Day can be painful. For many Mother's Day is a painful reminder of what has never been or of what has been lost.

Mother's Day is coming up this Sunday. For me this day has always been a joyful celebration of the woman who has had more influence and impact on my life than any other. As I watch my mother succumb to Alzheimer's Disease (AD), Mother's Day becomes bittersweet. A sweet opportunity to celebrate my love for her and her influence in my life, as well as bitter as we face the daily reality of her slow but continued decline. Additionally, this day, this year is the anniversary of the day my father stepped into heaven. Painful, yet not hopeless.

For many Mother's Day is a painful reminder of what has never been or of what has been lost. It becomes a day to get lost in work, to medicate the pain in one way or another, to ignore it, or to get through the day the best one can and breath a sigh of relief until it comes again next year. Is there a better way? Is there a way to make meaning out of the pain?

God gave us a great gift when He gave us the ability to choose how we would cope with the circumstances we face. Thankfully we can chose to take the pain we feel, even the overwhelming pain, and take steps to make meaning out of it. In the beginning when the pain is raw and fresh, the steps may be small and deeply personal. As the pain begins to recede and we begin to adjust to the loss, we may be able to do more and more to make meaning from our pain. 

Here are a few ideas to cope with a painful day in a positive way.

• Write a letter. Write a letter to the mother or child that is gone, even to the child that you wish had been. Tell them what you're doing, your thoughts about them, what you wish they were here to enjoy. This letter can be kept in a special place for cherishing, attached to a balloon and sent away, or destroyed if it is deeply personal. 
• Give to a motherless child. Look around for a child (young or old) who may be having a difficult time on this day. How can you encourage him or her? How can you ease their pain and make this day a positive memory for them?
• Honor those who are childless with kindness and understanding. Childlessness whether through infertility, miscarriage, or singleness can be painful. Acknowledging the contribution these women make into the lives of others is a gift of hope and encouragement.
• Take time to share memories of the lost mother or child. On this day we think of our mother who is gone or the child whose seat is now empty. They are in our thoughts, but sometimes they get caught there. It is good to not only think of them, but to talk of them, to share memories, to tell stories, to savor the person we still love and to introduce them to others. 
• Give to a bereaved mother. Be sensitive to the woman who has lost her child(ren) either through death or estrangement. What act of kindness would comfort her on this day? What word of encouragement would refresh her heart and lift her mouth in a smile? 

I have suggested a mere handful of ideas. I'd love to hear your ideas.

What are other ways to make meaning when Mother's Day is painful?

When the End is Near

arztsamui on freedigitalphotos.net

In two impersonal, sterile hospital rooms two separate families gather to keep vigil, to say good-bye.

Previously the doctors have had the hard conversations - the loved one is no longer responding to treatment and the prognosis is grim.

The patient and his or her family too have difficult decisions to make, hard conversations to hold. Words must make their way past a lump that forms in the throat, around sadness that breaks the heart, through tears that glisten in eyes and spill down cheeks, and finally formulate in a brain dazed by shock. These conversations require great courage.

The two families keeping vigil had these hard conversations. One family chose to deny the reality of their loved one's situation. The other family chose to let go. The patient chose to let go of this life and his family chose to let him go.

Letting go of this life and of a loved one is a heart-wrenching decision and it can also be an immense gift of love.

The family who denied reality and rejected the option of palliative care, of hospice care watched their mother, wife, and grandmother die painfully. Her death was a traumatic event both for her and for her family.

The family who chose to let go also chose hospice care. Hospice focuses on palliative care--keeping the person comfortable through the dying process. Hospice is not about heroic efforts to extend life, but about helping a person to die peacefully and helping a family to cope with the heart-rending loss of their loved one.

For many there comes a point when the doctors and other medical professionals have exhausted their options, when the treatments have failed. At this difficult moment in life, the choice becomes how to let go, how to face death. Hospice care, palliative care can help families make this difficult transition with support, care, and comfort.

Alzheimer's - Another Face of Grief

Grief wears many faces. The person standing in the unemployment line. A family that lost a home and pets in a fire. The mother who lost a child. The father who receives the news that his child has a serious birth defect. The woman who has to have her leg amputated. The husband who has to bury his bride. The young surgeon who receives a diagnosis of terminal cancer. The grandparents who know their granddaughter died at the hands of a drunk driver. The person who receives news of a life-changing chronic illness. The family who loses a beloved pet. Alzheimer's Disease (AD) is yet another face of grief.

AD takes away a loved one little by little. A once active, well-spoken woman who raised 6 children, ran a home, mentored young women, loved her husband, sewed clothes, sang at weddings begins to change. At 82 she watches the home she designed and her husband built for her burn to the ground. Her family notices that she is defensive, angry, having difficulty understanding some important factors of her husband's diabetes. Is it the beginning of Alzheimer's or the trauma of losing her home and having to start again in her early 80s? She and her husband move into their new home and she seems to become more like herself, yet there are still small changes.

Then her husband dies. After 65 years of marriage, a huge loss. A loss that would send anyone reeling. She adapts to living alone, but slowly changes become more apparent. She is unable to fill her own pill case, then she is unable to remember to take her pills. Her meals become more and more simple until she is having trouble even operating the microwave. She begins to have trouble remembering people. Eventually she is unsure of who people are and how they are related to her.

Slowly, over the months and years her family loses her, while she is still with them. Sometimes she remembers them and other times not. Her speech becomes garbled and communication becomes difficult as she struggles to find the words to express her thoughts. Social ques are missed and behaviors are often inappropriate.

Her body is still there, becoming more and more frail. She, a once vibrant, active, hard-working, talented woman becomes trapped inside a frail body and a confused mind. Still there are vestiges of the woman that once was - a clinging to her faith as she recites John 3:16 like she is holding fast to a lifesaver in a treacherous sea; her love for music as she plays the piano at 2 a.m. or watches Lawrence Welk over and over; her dislike of clutter and desire for order. Somewhere under the disease, inside the frail body, occasionally peeking out of the traitorous brain is the essence of the woman that once was.

Her family grieves. Lost is the opportunity to taste her cooking. Gone is the ability to carry on an adult conversation with her. Left behind are excursions to museums, parks, zoos, berry picking, gardening, and shopping. Recipes and memories that have not been written down may become extinct. Yet in the midst of all the losses, of what was that will never be again, there is an opportunity to keep recreating the relationship. Where we used to go shopping, now we watch episodes of Lawrence Welk. Where once we watched movies together, now we read children's books or look at photo albums. Our activities change, but while she remains there is the chance to love her, to minister to her, to enter into her world and connect however we can. There is the chance to hear her voice and to hear her play the piano, the opportunity to hug her gently, to comb her hair, to take her for a ride or to church. Every moment is filled both with grief and with the opportunity to seize every chance to cherish her presence while she is still here.

The Gift of Presence

In 2007 I was going through a difficult transition, my life was changing and I decided that it might be time to get a pet. I had wanted one for some time, but my busy life wasn't conducive to having one. However, my schedule was slowing and I saw an opportunity to bring a pet into my life. After much debate whether bring a dog or cat into my home, I realized that a cat would fit my lifestyle much better. I prayed and asked God to bring along the right kitty for me. In just a short time, one of the girls in our youth group showed up one night and said that after youth group her mom was bring a new litter of kittens for us to meet. That night I met a teeny-tiny black and white kitten named Adirondack. I held him on my chest and he just snuggled in and slept easily over my heart. I fell in love. A few weeks later he came home with me.

Adirondack seemed like a big name for a tiny little guy and I wanted his name to be significant to the time of life I was in. I searched and searched and then finally find the perfect name. Dakota means "friend" and it has proved to be an apt name. He has been an excellent little friend.

On September 5, 2015 about 5:35 a.m. my sweet little Dakota passed away. It happened far too quickly in my opinion. I received a diagnosis of diabetes for him earlier that week, although the vet noted a possible problem with the liver as well. We decided to treat the diabetes and see if that was the primary issue. On Wednesday night I brought home his diabetic food and he dug right in and was acting quite normal. When I came home from work Thursday night, he had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. I was concerned and spent much of the night with him. When I arrived at the vet on Friday morning for a diabetic tutorial, the vet shared my deep concern. After a discussion of options, and many tears, I brought my little buddy home with IV liquids and pain meds. Over the next 19 hours I cared for him tenderly and was able to say good-bye.

Later I was talking with one of my sisters and she commented that I probably confided in Dakota a lot. I replied that I really hadn't. Although I talked to him constantly, my conversation with him was focused on him. As I tried to explain to my sister, I realized that the greatest gift Dakota gave me was presence.

When Dakota entered my life, I had lived completely alone for 10 years. After he came to live with me, I wasn't alone any more. When I came home, he often met me at the door. He entertained me with his antics - he had a big, quirky personality combined with intellect - and became the source of many a story. And he taught me that while I expected him to obey, I also needed to respect his likes and dislikes and take them into consideration. I learned to read his body language.

Over time we developed habits that created a connection and a pattern to our lives. Part of our morning routine was him jumping up on the bathroom sink for a drink. I'd turn on the water he'd take a drink and then jump down. I'd turn off the water and he'd come right back so I'd turn the water back on. After doing this two or three times. I warn him that "Mama's not playing this game anymore" and he'd take a long drink.

When I brought him home the first time, I was determined that I wouldn't kiss him and that he would not sleep in my bed. That first night I put him in a basket next to my bed and even though he was only about 4 or 5 inches long, he had sharp little claws and promptly climbed my dust ruffle and comforter so that he could cuddle with  me. I picked him up and put him back in the basket. He'd cry and then up the side of the bed he'd come. After doing this over and over again until 2 or 3 in the morning, I gave in and we both had a good night's sleep. Until Wednesday or Thursday morning of week he died, I regularly woke up to him on the foot of my bed. And as you can guess, I had come to kiss him regularly.

My last words before I left for work each morning were, "Bye, bye, my boy. Mama loves you. Be a good boy. No shenanigans today!" When I came home at night, often he'd meet me at the door and if he didn't I'd find him and we'd have a cuddle. He would follow me and want to be in the room I was in, sometimes close by, other times just watching me, seeing what I was up to. Of course he slept for hours every day, but even in his sleep he seemed to always know exactly where I was.

He was present with me. He was present when I found out my parent's house had burned down. He was present when my Dad passed away. He was present when I lost some of my dearest friends and my church exploded. He was present when I was working, when I was sick, when I was sleeping, when I was relaxing, when I was sad, when I was happy. The one time he wasn't present was when I got angry and he became my gauge. If my voice took on even the slightest sign of anger he'd run and I knew I needed to calm down.

Cat and Mouse (on top of the shower rod)

Petting him was calming. Hearing him purr was music to my ears. He was present with me. He was a sweet companion in times of loneliness. He was my travel companion back and forth to my parent's home on hundreds of trips. He was my playmate in the little games we played. He was comic relief that made me laugh over and over again. He was my protector from mice, spiders, and bugs. He was the writer of my Christmas letters. He was the subject of anecdotes. He was a source of connection with other cat lovers. He was a continual source of love. Above all he was present and he was one half of an irreplaceable relationship.

In time I hope to have a new kitty friend and I hope to have an amazing relationship with that little furry friend, however my relationship with Dakota cannot be duplicated because he was a living creature with his very own personality. He gave me many gifts, that collectively can be called the gift of presence.

A Foursome . . . And Then There Was One

For nearly 70 years the two couples were friends, family, a foursome knit together by common experience, by love, by friendship, by blood.

The two men, brothers, were born just 11 1/2 months apart. Arlyn, the older of the two was a sickly child. Although the two boys started school one year after the other, because of Arlyn's illnesses they were soon in the same class and remained so until they graduated from high school.

The girls, Dorothy and Jessie, met and became friends in 7th grade when Dorothy came to the "central school" in town from her one room country school. While in high school, the two girls worked together one summer in a laundry. They walked many--MANY--blocks from the house where they boarded with Dorothy's aunt and uncle to the laundry. On the way to and from work, they passed a Catholic church. The unfamiliar sound of the nuns chanting morning prayers unsettled them a little. At the laundry they each had their own set of duties, one ran a mangle that pressed the sheets and the other ironed uniforms.

High school passed quickly and graduation was before them. At their class night before graduation, they did a skit that showed Arlyn married to Dorothy and Floyd married to Jessie and living in a duplex. The skit proved to be a self-fulling prophecy. Floyd and Jessie married first and moved into half a house owned by his parents. When Arlyn and Dorothy married a few months later, they moved into the other half of the house.

While they were sharing the house, the two couples continued their friendship. Both women were pregnant during this season. Jessie gave birth to a son and later Dorothy to a daughter. They crocheted together, visited, and helped each other through the early days of marriage. Each couple created a home side by side with the other to care for their budding families. However, after a few short months their paths took different turns.

Arlyn worked on the family farm and Floyd and Jessie went to Bible school in preparation to go to India as missionaries. Although separated by many miles and different life experiences, when Floyd and Jessie returned from India, they settled again in the same small town where they were born. The two couples continued their long time friendship.

For about 2 weeks each year all four were the same age. Floyd was the youngest of the four and Arlyn was the oldest. Between Floyd's birthday and Arlyn's birthday all four would be the same age, then Arlyn would turn a year older and it would be another 11 and 1/2 months before they were all the same age again.

Life was busy with raising children and building their businesses. Grandchildren came along. The blessings and the hardships of life happened.

In their declining years the two women often talked on the phone about mutual interests and the men worked together to track their church's finances. When the Arlyn reached the end of his life, Floyd visited him often during the week he was in the hospital. Unable to drive that far, Floyd's son brought him faithfully. After Arlyn came home to be cared for by hospice and his children, Floyd and Jessie continued to visit, once bringing a yummy rotisserie chicken for Arlyn's family for supper.

As Dorothy faced the grief and loneliness of widowhood, Jessie called her with encouraging words and the comfort of her friendship until Jessie's voice became too weak to be heard over the telephone lines.

Now only one of this foursome remains. Arlyn, Jessie, and Floyd have been welcomed to their heavenly home, rejoicing to be with their Savior, rejoicing to be reunited with their loved ones. Dorothy remains, longing for her husband especially, missing the other dear ones who've gone before. One day the foursome will be reunited and together they will worship the Savior they loved all their lives long. Until then, Dorothy's family cherishes the days and hours they have with her.

Yeah, Though I Walk - Making Meaning - Helping

In the summer of 2012 “Making Meaning” became deeply personal. My church—where I worked and the center of my spiritual and social life—went through a spiritual and relational 8.0 earthquake. As I went to work each day, I encountered the emotional, spiritual, and relational debris of broken relationships, betrayal, heartache, and anger. I not only wanted to find some good, some purpose in the loss of my closest friends and the flaying of my church, I NEEDED to find good and purpose. I needed a reason to go on.

I wanted to be a part of the solution, part of healing the damage done. I wanted to do what I could to prevent it from ever happening again. My life changed that summer in a way that it will never change back and I wanted and needed that change to be good, to have purpose, to help someone else, at least in the end.

Below are some stories of others who have chosen to make helping others a part of finding a path through their grief.

Brian Sager lost his teen daughter as the result of her deep depression. He has helped others by sharing the lessons he learned in a blog post. To read Brian’s story, click here.

Thomas Gray lived only six days. His parents made the courageous decision to donate his body for transplants and research. Click here to read the story of the difference Thomas made in the lives of others.

The Maria Fareri Children’s Hospital is a family centered hospital for children in Westchester, NY. To read about Maria and her family’s legacy, click here.

Rachel Joy Scott was a victim of the Columbine shootings in 1999. Her father speaks in schools and to youth challenging them to “start a chain reaction”—Rachel’s mission. To hear about it, click here.

Inheritance of Hope was founded by a young family whose mother received a terminal diagnosis. The foundation was set up to help other young families facing the loss of a parent. To hear their story, click here.

The Compassionate Friends provides support to families who have lost a child. Families can get involved to receive support or to help provide support to others.  To read more about this organization, click here.

  

Helping others manifests itself in many ways.  Here are just a few more ideas to help make meaning and purpose from the loss of a loved one by helping others:

• Establishing a scholarship to help a student headed into a similar field in which a loved one participated.
• Establishing or donating to a fund to help end a disease the loved one suffered with.
• MADD (Mother’s Against Drunk Driving)
• SADD (Student’s Against Drunk Driving)
• Donating a loved one’s body for research or organ transplants.
• Donating to a cause that was important to the loved one.
• Become involved in helping others who’ve suffered a similar loss.
• Participate in one of the many fundraising and awareness raising walks – cancer, MS, autism.
• Write a book, article, or blog post about your journey and the lessons learned.
• One woman created a workbook and workshop to teach people how to write letters of affirmation to their loved ones before it was too late.

What did I do to help others because of the summer of 2012?

I stayed when I wanted to leave. I stayed to help my church in its healing process. I took classes to become a coach, particularly a grief coach. I hope soon to begin a masters degree in counseling because I want to be both available and skilled in helping people walk through their grief and pain to find hope, healing, and well-being.

What suggestions would you offer? 

How can people make meaning out of profound loss?

Yeah, Though I Walk - Making Meaning - Impact

As we remember our loved ones and reflect on our memories, on the stories that keep their memory alive, we can see the ways that their life has left a lasting impression on ours. Maybe it is lessons learned. Maybe it is their influence on how we think or live. Maybe it’s the way they saw life and how they helped us to see it. Making meaning includes taking note of the ways in which their life made an indelible mark on ours.

Two stories that I did not share in this series are also two people who left a mark on my life that cannot be erased.

  

My dad died about a mile from the house in which he was born. In between he made his home within that one mile all of his life. He traveled from time to time, but he always came home to stay in the fertile green river valley. When I was young, I did not understand or appreciate my dad. As I matured I came to understand him more and as I understood him I appreciated him immensely.

I came to understand that he loved his family with a deep, enduring love – an unconditional love. I came to know in my heart of hearts that even if I did things he didn’t like or didn’t approve of, he would still love me. I knew that he would always love me.  I knew that he would always love each of his children and my mom. His deep love, his ability to “MacGyver” things, his dependability gave me a sense of security, of things being right with the world.

Now, in the years since he stepped through Heaven's portal, I have come to see that my view of men, of what makes a man masculine and a good man has been shaped by the kind of man he was. I find I notice first men who bear a physical resemblance to him - tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. However, more important are the things that made him who he was: hard-working, dependable, filled with deep faith, intelligent, stable, quietly witty, a dry sense of humor, uncomplaining. His abilities also come into play: his ability to fix almost anything, to build, to create. He was a man who could both laugh and cry, who was far from perfect, but big enough to say he was sorry when he messed up. He loved his wife faithfully, cared for her, provided for her, lived with her, laughed with her, and was her lover for over 65 years. Men, good men, masculine men come in many shapes and sizes with unique and individual personalities and this is good. Still, I am discovering that I am most drawn to those men who are in some ways a lot like "dear old dad." This speaks strongly to the love, respect, and appreciation I have for the man who was my dad. 

 *     *     *     *     *

The other story is of a kid, a young man in his early twenties who entered my life wearing a blue baseball jacket and blue baseball cap. My life was never the same after I met him. We are parted now, sadly, for over the course of the 20 years I knew him, I had come to love his family as if they were blood. Our lives had been woven together through a myriad of experiences – births, deaths, trips, celebrations, defeats, and the day-to-day little things that come with sharing life. All of that has ended now, but still he left a mark on my life that will never go away.

He entered my life after a season where my self-image and my faith had taken a major beating, a season where I came close to walking away from my church and seriously questioned God. He came as a 21 year old "kid" to lead the youth ministry in a small country church. It took awhile for us to trust each other and for a friendship to grow, but eventually it did. However, he did not come to that church to stay and after 9 short months he graduated college and left us to marry his fiancée and to live near her college so she could finish her senior year.

The night of his farewell party he gave me a gift. In a place where I had felt used, abused, and discounted, he treated me with love, grace, dignity, and respect. His simple act of acknowledging my humanity and validating it, was a gift no one had given me for a long time. Eventually, I came to serve in another church where he also served and here I met his family and grew to love them. In this church and in the sheltering love of this family, I learned about love, experienced affirmation, and also learned about grace.  Because of his openness to letting God minister through him, I experienced healing at a soul level. Old hurts and wounds were brought to the surface. Forgiveness, love, and grace were applied and I healed and grew and learned things about myself and about God and life with God I never imagined I would. 

I am thankful for these two and for each of the people in the stories in this series. Each one has left a footprint on my life, each one had an impact.

As you reflect on loved ones now gone, I’d love to hear how they have impacted you.

What lessons did they teach you?

How did they influence your perspective?

What one thing about them will you always remember? 

Each of the stories in this series, is the story of one or more persons who touched my heart, who left a footprint on the path of my life. For a time we shared the journey, we walked together, and then they were gone and emptiness settled where they had been.

How can a person cope in the face of profound loss? Life goes on when it feels like it should stop. Our world as we know it has ended, yet the earth keeps spinning on its axis. The sun continues to rise and set. Yet, it seems like it should stop. But, it doesn’t and we too must carry on. But how?

Each person will grieve in their own way.

I journal. I write about the pain, about the memories, about the joy that was and the sorrow that is and in time the hope of what might be someday. I look back at old journals, reminding myself of where I have been, of the obstacles God has brought me over, the trials He has brought me through. I meet myself as I was in younger years. I am reminded of forgotten little intimacies with loved ones. I tell our story and look at it from a variety of perspectives and I wrestle with questions and doubts.

In time, I come to a time and place where I am ready to do the work of “Making Meaning.”

“Making Meaning?” What’s that? We long for the life of our loved one to matter – to be remembered, to have value, to have made a difference. We long for our relationship with them to have mattered, to have made a difference. Making Meaning is our process of discovering how their life mattered and what we can do to remember it and to share it with others.

I’ve broken this final “Making Meaning” section into three parts: Remembering, Impact, and Helping.

This first part is “Remembering.” What can we do to help ourselves and others remember our loved one and the ways his or her life mattered?

Create a scrapbook. Share your favorite memories of the person or create an overview of their life. Preserve letters to them now of things you'd like to tell them if you could. Describe memories of a specific trip or event you participated in together along with pictures and memorabilia. 

A memorial website. Last Memories is one site that allows you to create a page in memory of your loved one. Pictures can be posted. Articles or letters about your loved one, your feelings, your processing can be written. People can respond with memories or words of comfort of their own.

Tattoo the person’s face or name on your body.

Facebook. Maintain the person’s already existing account or create a page in their honor. Here friends and family of your loved one can continue to post messages, memories, and updates.

A garden. Set aside a space for a garden as a memorial to your loved one. It might be one that incorporates some of their favorite flowers or a small pool or waterfall – a place of beauty as a reminder of the beauty of their life.

A special gravestone. A gravestone that has a meaningful picture etched on it. One family chose to have a picture of the family farm etched on the patriarch’s stone. Another who lost a young child had her picture etched on the stone. Other’s have the stone shaped in a unique image.

Plant a tree. Planting a tree is a living reminder of your loved one and is especially appropriate for someone who loved the outdoors or who was concerned about the environment.

Write a letter. Write a letter to your loved one. You might want to save them in a special box or scrapbook to be reread periodically. If you prefer to write privately and intimately, you may want to destroy the letter once it is written. The act of writing the letter can free thoughts and emotions that might otherwise be trapped inside. When you are wrestling with an issue that you would have discussed with them, writing a letter might help you to see from their perspective as you think about how they would have responded. 

A Christmas ornament. Whether you choose one special ornament to lovingly hang year after year or to add an ornament in their memory each year, this can be a way to continue to include a loved one in your Christmas traditions.

A piece of jewelry. You may want to have a piece of their jewelry reset or redesigned as a wearable reminder. Origami Owl and Keep Collective both offer custom made jewelry so that you can design your own memory piece.

Repurpose their clothes. I have heard of both pillows and stuffed animals being made from a loved one’s clothes. Often clothes retain the most powerful of all memory triggers – the scent of a person. These huggable items can bring the person close both visually and through fragrance. 

This is only a few ideas for remembering a loved one. 

I'd love for you to join the conversation and tell us other ideas for remembering a loved one.

I am not compensated in any way for the links provided in this post. 

Yeah, Though I Walk - This Cannot Be! - My Drummer Boy Student

He was a student in my eighth grade English class the first year I taught. He never stopped moving and he never stopped drumming on his desk. I watched him grow from a gangly, rather awkward young man that some compared to the old TV character Steve Urkle into a polished, debonair college man. He was full of humor and laughter, worked hard, and was a kind and generous young man. He was also honest and not afraid to speak the truth even to one of his teachers. I became a better teacher because he was brave enough to respectfully speak truth. 

I remember the day he came into class and told me his father (a leader in our church who I loved and appreciated) had died of a heart attack. He had me convinced this was true for several minutes until he ‘fessed up that it was just a prank. I also remember the times he was working in the school cafeteria and gave me my lunch for free and how he worked hard to gather donations to take to families in need in our community. A prankster? Yes. A heart of gold? Yes.

I came to school on March 28, 2007 and the mood was somber. One of the teachers pulled me aside and told me that My Drummer Boy Student had been killed the night before. He was out with some friends from Quinnipiac University and he got on his motorcycle and pulled out to leave. No one seemed sure what had happened, but he was thrown from the bike and died a few minutes later in his girlfriend’s arms. Oh, this could not be.

At his funeral we heard about other pranks he had pulled such as convincing a family during his college days that he was an Egyptian Jew while attending their Passover. Another time he sneaked past a friend’s driveway warning system and scared one of his friend’s brothers. We also heard stories of his ability to form and maintain friendships and the many ways he had touched the lives of others. He was particularly sensitive to the individual needs of his friends even from a very young age.

My Drummer Boy Student is missed deeply and by many. His parents established a scholarship at our school in his honor.

Oh, yes! And, he actually took drum lessons after that first year I had him as a student and eventually played as part of our worship team.

Yeah, Though I Walk - A Hesitant Farewell

         

I hesitated. People in dark clothes with somber faces stood in small groups on the gentle slope. In a nearby field of clover and alfalfa the sound of a tractor hummed and a hay bailer whirred. Overhead the sun was bright and warm; it seemed out of place. My eyes burned with unshed tears and I felt a lump in my throat. I did not want to bend down and pluck a flower from the bouquet. I did not want to lay that flower down. I did not want to say farewell.

Whimsical . . . warm . . . friendly . . . cheerful . . . caring . . . compassionate were all words I would use to describe Jill. I had come to this town alone several years ago to begin a new life as a teacher and youth worker. On the day I moved in, our youth pastor and one teen, a handsome young man named Kyle, came to help me carry in an array of boxes from the truck and arrange furniture in my new apartment.  Kyle was helpful, polite, a little shy, and yet personable.  My encounter with him as he lifted boxes and bundles, and rearranged furniture (until it suited me just right) left me with a warm, pleasant memory.  As I settled into my new life, I saw Kyle occasionally at church or youth group.  After a time, a pretty girl started coming with him. Before long it became apparent that Kyle and his blonde-haired, freckle-faced Jill had a very special relationship. I enjoyed watching them grow together and was delighted when eventually they were engaged and married. Although I didn’t see them often, I enjoyed talking with Kyle and Jill when I had the chance. They greeted me with smiles and hugs and plied me with questions about my life and I asked them about high school, then college, and most recently, their teaching jobs and new home. 

Although young, Jill was a cancer survivor. She had gone through chemo, hair loss, insecurity about relationships and love, and the fear of impending death. I think perhaps it was that close brush with death while she was still a teen that gave her that extra-special quality of reaching out to people, of seizing every opportunity, of facing life with energy and enthusiasm.

As I started to reach out my hand to pluck a flower and then pulled back, I remembered a moment three days before. I had been walking down the hall in our church, unsuspecting, when our pastor’s daughter stopped me.  Normally a bubbly, outgoing, happy person, Carrie seemed subdued.  She asked, “Did you hear about Jill?”

“No.  What happened?”  I replied, a sense of foreboding coming over me.

“My dad got a phone call last night to come to the hospital.  Jill was in a car accident.  She died.”

             Memories of Jill and Kyle flooded my mind as I tried to take in this news. I had just talked to Jill at church the week before. As always Jill’s face had been aglow with a smile that included her eyes, her cheeks, her eyebrows, even her nose.  Also, as always, she asked me a million questions about me and redirected the conversation back to me after she had briefly answered my inquiries about her.  Whenever I saw Jill and talked to her, I felt like I was the most important person in her world at that moment.  How could Jill be gone? She had been coming home from her graduate classes in a bad rainstorm. On a curve her car had gone off the road and she hit a tree. I heard the facts. I understood the facts. Yet still my mind and heart struggled to comprehend that Jill was gone. 

I hesitated.  I didn’t want to pluck a carnation from one of the many baskets.  I did not want to say farewell.  If I pulled a flower from the arrangement and laid it on Jill’s casket and walked away it would be real and it would be final, too final when I didn’t want to say farewell at all. I felt the pain of losing someone I didn’t know well, but who had touched my life. I felt the pain of losing the opportunity to ever know her better. I had thought I would have many years to build a friendship, but now I saw I never would. The chance had passed me by. I regretted every instance I hadn’t taken time to talk to her longer, all the opportunities I had missed to really get to know her.

I looked across the casket at Kyle, his face etched with pain, in some ways so like a lost, lonely little boy, in others so like the strong, mature man he had been forced to become overnight.  Kyle was surrounded by his family. His mother and grandmother were seated beside him.  His father and brothers stood behind the chairs. His father laid one hand on Kyle’s shoulder and the other hand on his mother’s shoulder. Jill’s family was there too. There was no way to disguise the raw pain they all were enduring.  The tears streaming down cheeks, the jaws set hard, the eyes so sad, the drooping mouths told the story of their pain. 

I hesitated.  I felt a strong resistance deep inside.  I did not want to say farewell, but really that choice had already been taken from me.  Jill was gone and no one had asked me if that’s what I wanted.  Surely no one had asked Kyle, his family, or anyone in Jill’s family. Yet, Jill was gone and we were left with her memory and countless questions all beginning with “why” or “what if”. We’d had no choice whether she lived or died, but in our love and grief we had all come together on this day to lay to rest someone we loved, someone who had made a difference in our lives.

I hesitated.  Then, at last, I bent down and pulled a flower from one of the baskets surrounding the casket.  I fingered the pink carnation for a moment; still fighting the struggle within, still loathe to say farewell.  Then I laid the flower on the casket as my heart whispered, “Farewell, Jill, you loved well and were loved well. Farewell, dear one, until we meet again one day.”  

Yeah, Though I Walk - Shock - The Math Teacher's Wife and Son

Tuesday, February 10, 2004 started like any other day at school. I was teaching Bible to high school students and thinking of things I needed to accomplish throughout the day. During my morning free period I walked through the gym to the church office to return a stapler. The secretary was on the phone. She motioned me over and held out a piece of paper for me to read. The words were simple . . . and terrible. “Math Teacher’s wife and baby--dead.”  She ended her call and explained what had happened. The Math Teacher’s Wife and Infant Son had been in a serious car accident. The Wife was gone, passed through heaven’s portal and The Son was being airlifted to the area trauma center. The Senior Pastor could not be found nor could she find the Youth Pastor. She asked me to find the Youth Pastor and ask him to go to the school office.  I looked in a couple of his favorite haunts before I found him.

He was in the computer lab, chatting with another teacher. Not wanting to disturb the classroom or be overheard, I whispered the news of what had happened and told him he was needed down in the school office to be with The Math Teacher.  He took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

Once again we gathered the middle and high school students in the sanctuary. I remember standing at the doors, directing the students into the room. Three of our senior boys stopped me--each of them either an EMT or volunteer firefighter--they wanted to know if it was another 9/11 situation and did they need to go serve? I was so proud of those young men, so proud.  I told them that no although this was serious it wasn’t another 9/11 situation and they didn’t need to go.

Our Science Teacher explained to our students what had happened. Again we spent much of the day in grief and prayer. Our Youth Pastor went to the trauma center with The Math Teacher and grief counselors from another church in the area came and met with our students. In a small school such as ours all the high school students knew the Math Teacher and many had met and bonded with his wife and son as well.

“Why? What will he do? How will he survive this? Why?” echoed over and over throughout the day.

The Math Teacher’s wife was killed instantly. His four month old son died at the trauma center a few hours later. We were a somber, sad, and mourning school. This was the beginning of a season of asking “Why?” as a school, of wondering what God was doing.

plamoya.com

Over the next two years we walked with The Math Teacher through his grief and loss and saw him marry again. He established a scholarship at our school in memory of his son, a scholarship for a graduating senior who planned to work with children. Each year the scholarship is given out accompanied by a stuffed Winnie the Pooh, the little guy’s favorite.

What kinds of things have you established as a memorial to a lost loved one? 

or 

What would you like to establish given the opportunity?

Yeah, Though I Walk - Learning about Grief

In 2002 I began to awaken to an awareness of grief flowing through the experiences of my life.  In typical Dar fashion, I wanted to understand it, so I began to study grief. My learning was primarily at an intellectual level at this time. I read books about grief, particularly those written by people who had experienced profound loss in one form or another. As I read, I reflected in my journals about what I was reading and learning.

With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I am thankful for the reading and searching I did at that time, yet, as is often the case, the theory and the reality were different. As I have experienced deeper losses of my own, I learned lessons of my own. The books, others’ stories, had given me a foundation and perhaps words to label my experience. Still the experience was not an intellectual thing as the learning had been. The experience was emotional--painful and at times overwhelming. Things I expected based on my reading didn’t happen and things I didn’t expect took place. I realized the truth so oft repeated in grief work – everyone’s grief is unique to them.

One lesson from my reading, learning, and contemplation brought theory into reality in a positive and helpful way.  I had observed that those who accepted the reality of their loss and were able to courageously face it and do the hard work of grief were also the most able to continue on and have a healthy productive future after a significant loss.  In the face of my own loss, I found this to be, for a time, a draining task, hard emotional work, and yet, I am thankful to have been able to process my grief in a way that honored those lost and that deepened my life, my soul.

However, I am getting ahead of myself. God had more grief experiences for me to observe, to feel as a peripheral participant before I faced my own deep losses. 

“Part 3 – What is God Doing?” will explore some of those grief experiences. 

Has a particular book or person's story helped you in your journey through grief?

Yeah, Though I Walk - 9.11.01 - Everyone Has a Story

On that lovely autumn day with a clear, brilliant blue sky, I was in my classroom teaching Bible to high school students. After my first class, I headed to the church office for my weekly Tuesday morning meeting with the Youth Pastor. The secretary seemed alarmed and mentioned something about the World Trade Center, but I was focused on the upcoming meeting and didn’t really pay much attention. However, the Senior Pastor stood in the doorway of the Youth Pastor’s office. Our Senior Pastor was a big man--tall and broad shouldered and he filled the doorway. He didn’t move, so I stopped and looked up at him. He asked me if I had heard the news. When I shook my head, he told me that the World Trade Center had been hit by an airplane. Each of the towers had been hit. My thoughts quickly turned to the Youth Pastor’s father and brother-in-law who both worked in Manhattan. The Senior Pastor, the Youth Pastor, the Church Secretary and I paused to pray for our country and for those in the towers. Then the students were gathered and we went to tell them and walk with them through the horror of that day. 

The Senior Pastor stood in front of the auditorium like an unmovable, unshakeable rock and told the students that some days shape our lives and our world and this was one of those days. He not only told them the news, he put it into perspective and he prayed with them.

Throughout that day and in the following days we prayed often with our students and we waited. Being little more than an hour northwest of New York City, many of our kids had parents or other family members that worked in the WTC or were police or firefighters in the City. We prayed and we waited. We waited for news of rescue, news of a loved one coming home.  As we talked it seemed that everyone knew someone who had been affected, that everyone had a story of how the Attack on America had directly impacted them. We watched and waited and prayed. One student’s mom escaped the Towers as did the Youth Pastor’s brother-in-law. Their lives were forever changed. The firefighter father of two of our students went into the building, but never came out. Others from our church were at Ground Zero doing rescue and recovery work.  We watched, we prayed, we waited, and everyone had a story.

On September 13, 2001 I penned the following:

Everyone has a story . . .

Stories of pain, shock, terror . . .

Everyone has a story . . .

It was a bright, clear Tuesday.

The sun shone brilliant in a cerulean sky

Over the Big Apple

The capitol of the world

New Yorkers bustled along the streets

Walking to work

Riding the subways

Hurrying about their daily tasks.

Overhead, a jet airliner whined

Spectators commented on how low it flew.

Then the horror began.

The North Tower of The World Trade Center was hit . . .

A direct hit, by a 767.

A city stood in shock

People fled the building

Then 18 minutes later the horror grew

A second plane flew straight into the South Tower

A cloud of fire mushroomed up the building

From where the plane had hit.

About an hour later the South Tower collapsed.

To those who watched it looked surreal, like a horror movie

Except it was real . . . oh, too real for all of America

A plane flew into the Pentagon

Both Towers of the World Trade Center collapsed

Thousand buried in rubble

Fires raged

Screams of terror

People fleeing

The dead and the living buried

The brave rescue workers

The innocent business men and women

The airline passengers

The day-care children

The suicide mission hi-jackers

A city . . . a state . . . a nation watched in horror and shock.

The sky filled with debris

Smoke . . . dust . . . papers . . . bits of buildings . . . bits of people

The hospitals filled

The news dribbled out

Thousands around the nation waited

Did those they loved survive?

Today, 2 days later many don’t know

We still grieve

Flags fly at half staff

Police patrol our streets

Our military is on alert

The terrorists have struck

We put on a brave face

We vow to bring justice

But our hearts . . . our hearts grieve

And deep inside, below our anger

Below the confusion

Below the hurt and pain

We’re a nation afraid

Terrorism has never struck so close to home

And we’re afraid of what will come

BUT GOD

The two most important words in all history

BUT GOD is still in control

BUT GOD still lives

BUT GOD still loves

BUT GOD is unchanged

If our world is turned upside down

If all that we know is destroyed

If the horizon we’ve known all our lives disappears

If the people we love are gone

GOD REMAINS

Our refuge . . . our fortress. . . our grace giver . . . our life giver . . . our hope . . . our strength . . . our peace . . . OUR ONLY HOPE – THE GOD WHO NEVER CHANGES!!!!!!!

What are your memories of 9.11.01?