Thanksgiving memories, grief and gratefulness

The surgical glove turkey bouquet that inspired my daughter's writing.

My daughter had her hands in soapy dish suds when I asked her for inspiration for a blog post. She had lots of ideas. One of them was to write a Thanksgiving memory. Before I could apply myself to write, she had finished a memory that she wanted to share with me.

She was so inspired by her own suggestion that wrote in-between washing the dinner dishes. She'd wash some dishes. Stop, dry her hands, and write a little bit. Then stop writing and wash some more dishes. Then, stop, dry her hands, then write some more. By the time she was done with the dishes she had composed a Thanksgiving tribute.

She read her narrative to her father, sister, and me. (Her brothers happened to be off somewhere.)

Her memories undid me.

I had started to type a Thanksgiving post while she was doing those dishes but I didn't get very far. The draft is still sitting in my stack of unfinished posts. I even went back to it after she had read hers to me. But I had been undone.

I had asked for an idea and received some therapy instead.  Somehow whatever it was that I was going to write dimmed in my mind. Instead, I cried. But instead of alone tears, we cried together the four of us that night.

We cried quiet, silent tears. For just a little while. It didn't take long and we all hugged together on the couch as we cried together. Those tears sure felt better than the Alone Tears we cry. Better than the sadness we carry in our hearts all alone. At least that's part of what I learned that night. That I wasn't the only one still feeling sad, still grieving.

Still grieving the death of  Papa, my husband's father. And perhaps we are still grieving the many days up to his death. Perhaps we are still crying the tears that we didn't have time to cry while up close we watched him suffer.

Papa on the left with his brother that same Thanksgiving of the turkey bouquet.

I often hover alone in my sadness wondering why my friends don't understand why I might still be sad. They seem surprised: "He was your father-in-law. Were you that close?" They look at me quizzically, especially if their own father-in-law has passed and they can see they haven't experienced what I am experiencing. But...that isn't the point.

Or maybe it is.

We all walk different paths. We have different journeys. While I'm part of the human race, therefore I do experience emotions that others experience. It's just that sometimes the people I'm rubbing shoulders with haven't had a similar enough of a journey to understand me at that moment in time. Especially without words volunteered from me about the path that I've been walking on. But sometimes it is hard to volunteer words when the path of crisis didn't allow time for feeling, for processing, for figuring out. And somehow it goes numb, or at least it's all so mixed up you don't know what to feel and all you really want is a nap.

Until two years later when my daughter writes and reads about Thanksgiving memories, putting into words what we were feeling, even if we didn't know it before she read her words.

There it was: an epiphany! It is right here in this house that I need to look for comfort. Right here with my own people: my husband, my daughters, my sons. These my closest of friends. We have traveled the paths together. The uncomfortable changes. The front row seat to suffering. The amazing provisions. The answered prayers. And... the lingering sadness.

Here is a source of comfort that I had overlooked.

I was cheered that night of the tears and the group hug on the couch. Perhaps it is why it was easy to speak of Papa over the Thanksgiving table.

We shared memories and laughed. We ate and talked and reminisced and sat in the hot tub he kept running. We slept peacefully in the house that he and Grandma lived for more than twenty years.

It was a peaceful Thanksgiving and I'm giving quite a bit of credit to a reading shared, a group cry and a group hug before we headed off to Grandma's house. We added to that long conversations, long naps, and easy laughter.

A peaceful Thanksgiving for which I am grateful. Amen.

"Give thanks in all circumstances. " I Thessalonians 5:18

Some circumstances are just easier to give thanks in than others. Wouldn't you agree?

Celebrating a man deeply admired

 

Happy Birthday to my Father-in-law, Clarence. October 22, 2014, would have been his 81st birthday. He was a man who worked hard, played hard, and loved deep. He had a twinkle in his eye, an easy laugh, and a hankering for sweets.

For a little over twenty-one years, I have lived near my father-in-law. Yet, I learned more about the depth of his character during the last 13 months of his life than all the years before. Oh, his character was there all along but the depth of it was revealed through a long trial of watching him struggle to breathe in the hospital for months. It is hard to remember those days of suffering – it was equally hard to see his wife so distraught at his distress. And yet, it was in the suffering, that I saw a man worthy of my deep admiration.

He left a strong legacy in his daughter and five sons. This year he celebrates his birthday with Jesus.

In a few days from now, we will remember the last day we saw him alive. Then, a few more days and we will remember the day he went to be with Jesus. We miss you Clarence!

 

 

Some links to the other part of the story:

An answered prayer just for her 

A cheerful heart is good medicine

Walking in the shadow of death

When Coca-cola made me cry

and one of my favorites from this season:

Remembering Right Things

We grieve with hope, as it says in I Thessalonians 4:13-14:

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus."

A lesson learned walking in the shadows of post-crisis

Although I've been heard saying 2012 was one of -- if not the -- hardest year of my life, now that I have endured 2013, I change my answer. 2013 was harder. It was a year of living in the gray shadows of the drama of 2012.

In 2012, I felt pulled and tugged in many different directions. The two major events were four bonus kids for nine weeks and Kip's dad being in the hospital for 5 months. During these times, I have never felt more exhausted in my life. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. Responsibility-wise.

Yet during this time, people surrounded us. People noticed us. Hauling eight children around is quite noticeable. Having four children in hospital waiting rooms is also quite noticeable. In addition, the family of God surrounded us with prayers, cards, gifts, and hands-on-support. It was beautiful.

Many memorable moments of deliverance were woven into our lives.

Then in 2013, things quieted down. Quite thankfully! I no longer wrote daily on the Caring Bridge website. I no longer texted desperate pleas for immediate prayer. I had time to sleep. I had time to cry. 

Yet, it felt harder than it had before. 

That was so strange to me.

Was it because I like being center stage? Was it that people prayed more during that time? Was I more spiritual then? Did I have my focus in a better place?

Or perhaps it was something else.

Not that I had sinned. Not that I had fallen from grace. Not that I needed attention.  

Instead I am re-learning to walk by faith after a long season of flying on eagle's wings.

Isaiah 40:31 says, "Yet those who wait for the LORD will gain new strength. They will mount up with wings like eagles. They will run and not get tired. They will walk and not become weary."

It feels strange. As though I am walking on land after riding on a boat or a roller coaster for a long time. Familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. I have walked on land most of my life. As most of my life has also been non-crisis.

But what is truly different is that I haven't walked in daily life after crisis before.  I am walking in the land of shadows, both in the shadow of the drama of 2012 and in the shadow of the valley of death.

It has felt strange this walking in the strange, gray shadows. He is still sustaining. Still giving grace. Still making me aware of how much I need him.

But now I am learning to walk in this new place. Not a place of grieving from far away, as it was with my brother-in-law's death. But this time a place of grieving from nearby and up-close and personal. And from a responsible human being perspective.

He is still sustaining. But I don't need wings anymore so I'm relearning the walk of faith from here on this side of the strange, gray shadow lands. A needed walk, step-by-step.

Walking in the land of gray shadows. Learning what it means to walk by faith after having been mounted on eagle's wings.

What lessons have you learned walking in the shadows of difficult seasons?

 

Also linking with Jen at SDG. 

My Top 5 Blog Posts in 2013

Well, well, well... another year has come to a close. In reflection and celebration, I am listing my top 5 Blog Posts that had the most views for 2013 that I actually wrote in 2013. All of them revolve around the health crisis event we experienced with my father-in-law essentially being in the ICU for four months. May they provide hope for the readers. Click on the titles of the post to read them.

 #5 Post: For Days We Feel Like Crying

May the words of this post encourage someone else so that they know that they are not alone. There are days when we all feel like crying.

Sometimes in this past year when I have felt like crying; I have wondered if it is left-over sadness that didn't have time to come out as tears when the crisis actually happened.

#4 Post: A Taste of Normal in a Sea of Unknowns

If your life has ever been turned upside down, perhaps you will enjoy this post as I explore how nice it felt one day in the ICU to see a bit of old normal in the topsy-turvy world of medical unknowns.

Learning to take the moment of peace when it is offered is a gift.

#3 Post: Stories of Faith from the ICU

In September of 2012, my father-in-law had a tumor removed from his brain stem that began a four-month journey in three different hospitals and one rehab unit.

That time marked our family. We learned deep lessons of submissions, prayer, neediness, and comfort.

This post is the index page for a series of posts that I wrote about the stories of faith that we learned during the season of my father-in-law being in the ICU.

My hope is to share the comfort that God gave us during a difficult time in an effort to encourage others for the trials that their weary hearts may be going through just as it says in II Corinthians 1:4, "so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God."

There is comfort. There is hope. At times, there is even laughter. Every story is different. The endings are not all the same, yet there is hope for every weary heart. Sometimes it's just a matter of finding it or believing it or both. 

#2 Post: Remembering the Right Things

After the crisis of my father-in-law being in the hospital for four months, he finally went to his own house. We began to experience some relief as he continued to improve. But it was a struggle to keep remembering how God had helped us in every moment.

Instead I was struggling with only remembering the hard stuff. I think some of that is normal to process the difficulties of an event after the fact especially because in the moment of crisis one is caught up with responding to the needs at hand but our souls need time to process the gravity of a situation. 

In this post, I spend time recounting a few of the memorable times of when people showed up and touched our hearts. Ultimately, that was God being kind even in the midst of sorrow and suffering

#1 Post: How looking outside my kitchen window taught me something about faith

Simple observations of the tree outside of my kitchen window taught me a lesson of faith. I shared it here. Not only was this my most viewed post that I wrote last year, it also had the most comments. That hasn't always been the case. I spent more time on this post than most. The response encourages me to spending more time writing and crafting each post. May your faith continue to grow in 2014. 

 

 Honorable mention:19 reasons I love my husband

I have added a bonus mention because my top-viewed post of all time was written in 2012 on our 19th anniversary. Honorable mention may be misleading since it has 10 times the views of my number one post of 2013. Hope you enjoy it. 

Happy New Year!

 

{day 18} Walking in the shadow of death

Walking in the shadow of death.

We are definitely doing that now since Clarence, my father-in-law, died. But it is so interesting because I've been wanting to write about walking in the shadow of death since last fall when my father-in-law's health crisis began.

I didn't know how to write about it. It didn't feel valid to write about it. Or perhaps right is a better word? It didn't feel grateful to speak of walking in the valley of the shadow of death when he was alive. When we were fighting hard for life, how could it be that we walked in the valley of the shadow of death? 

We lingered many days in the In-Between. Staring at oxygen levels. Doctors telling us: "This is no longer ethical" & "We didn't think we would get this far." Back then it was the shadow of death looming ahead of us; now it is the shadow that comes after death. 

Now I know that walking in the shadow of death comes before and after death. Not just after.

Now, that he is gone, I know that we experienced a miracle.

If you compare the pictures from when Clarence left the hospital to three days before he died, which was about a 10-month time span, you can visibly see the miracle. God granted life. God give him more days. For a brief time, the shadow receded just a bit. God gave Clarence the determination and will to live. He gave each one of us a part in how He was working --  whether it was a doctor, a nurse, or  a sibling who was the one to make the called to intervene, to be pushy, or to ask that question about that procedure. God used many hands to bring about the miraculous.

Today, a little over one month after the death of my father-in-law, it feels valid to say that we have been walking in the valley of the shadow of death for quite some time. 

I picture big mountains that cast shadows. Last year we lived in that cold, looming shadow of death before my father-in-law actually crossed the line of death. Often it was cold, looming, dark, unknown, and definitely unwanted. We had  reprieve. We experienced miracles. There were the long miracles. It is amazing to see where he came from to where he was just days before he died: Days of hope, progress, and sunshine as we celebrated his 80th birthday with a pirate cake with my 8 year-old son, right before he died.

I still feel somewhat in shock that he is gone. I have been in the throes of details -- planning funerals, helping my husband, and dealing with a rear-end fender bender. I have never known the solace of being busy in the midst of grief. It has not been my role previously. It feels quite like an ill-fitting garment.

I feel so unfocused. I really wanted to focus this post, this writing on the shadow of death. But in the darkness the pathway of grief seems so dark. It is hard to describe. Much of the pathway is borne alone, especially for my mother-in-law.

* * *

The shadow of death
Mountains high
Looming clouds
The pathway winds around to heights he cannot see
The pathway leads down
He went up
We linger down here in the shadows
Shadows
Cold, lonely
But we know that he is walking without his walker
Swallowing without trouble
Eating ice-cream and beef
Talking with no trouble of all
Worshipping his savior
And we linger here in the shadows
It will be sunny again
There has already been warm spots
The warm hugs of caring friends
Food for many
Plants, flowers, prayers, well-wishes
Trumpet calls, a flag given
Speeches given

Yet the valley loomed large
We walked in its shadows long before he breathed his last breath
The coldness of the shadows

The need to remember
Not to fear
For He is with us

He was with him in the ICU
With her staring out the window
With us and the stove light on
And the hospital calling saying they intubated him again

We felt the long, cold shadows of death
Death of the grave
Long before
The sting of the last breath

But for now, for him
He has taken the last great leap of faith
His faith has become sight

Our faith is still faith

He is holding my child, his grandchild
They wait for us
And one day we will sing together
Great songs of our redemption story
Oh the glories far surpass the trials of now

But for now,
We look through papers
And settle estates
And wish he was here

  * * * 

This is part of the 31 Day series: 
The Clarence Chronicles: Lessons of Faith from the ICU

Click HERE to read Day 1, which links to all the posts in this series.

* * *

Click HERE to read other 31 Dayers who are also taking the 31 Day challenge.

For days we feel like crying...

Today my heart has been raw again. I have felt like crying almost all day long. My heart is tender. Another layer has been unwrapped. This hope. This nervousness. The anxiety. The gratitude. It is all mixed up together.

This stripping away of what is important and what isn't. I am so thankful for lollipops. He can have lollipops. Flavor in his mouth. A few months ago he was begging just for an ice chip and to go home. He could have neither.

Now, he can have ice chips. Lollipops and popsicles. And he is content. And I am so thankful that he is alive. He is breathing. His mind is with us. It is him. And yet, all he can have is an ice chip here and there. He can't even swallow his own saliva. And I am grateful. And yet, there is nothing easy about that.

I am not ungrateful. He is breathing his own oxygen. He is pushing air out of his lungs and the mark goes up. Two months ago, "it was stuck." But he didn't have the lung strength to even move it.

There was the middle of the night phone call. Being put back on the ventilator. The middle of the night phone call. The light on. Intubated five times. Finally moving from one hospital to the next. Wanting to hope that they could help. But...but...but...it was hard to keep hoping.

Hard to keep hoping when he would improve and then get worse. Hard to keep on hoping. And yet here we are still hoping. He is still here with us. And we are so grateful.

Yet, what a hard road. Intubated five times. MRSA. Pnuemonia. Tracheostomy. Wanting to die. Wanting him to wake up. Wanting him to speak. He speaks. He has woken up. He sends me email. He laughs at our jokes. And tries to do the chicken dance with us.

And today. I feel like crying. And crying. Perhaps it is for all the tears that my husband hasn't cried. We talk about how I cry for him. It is for the days when he thought he was dying. And the day he wanted to die because it was just too much. And it is crying because God has spared his life. And we can talk to him. And he can talk to us. And God has helped him be content. I've watched a man willing submit to what God has for him.

I thought we were submitting and the Lord would take him to his heavenly home. But that has  not been the road. So far. Not yet. As I read in Beowulf, "Death awaits us all." Not exactly comforting words but true. None of us know how many days that we have. And really we don't know how many more days he will have.

My father-in-law would type that he was ready to have coffee with Jesus.

He is improving. He is walking. He is working an exercise bike. He is breathing without oxygen. So why do I want to cry all day? He is moving to the next step of rehab. He is getting closer every day to going home.

Maybe I cry because he spent his birthday and Thanksgiving in the hospital. And Saturday is his 50th wedding anniversary. They were suppose to polka together. He is close. Maybe he will polka again. Maybe it is because he has suffered greatly. Maybe it's because he tells his granddaughter I love you.

I don't know exactly why I cry. Except that God is at work. He is making my heart much more tender. I am not bitter. I am tired. I am thankful for even this trial. God has worked so mightily. And I am overwhelmed. I am overwhelmed.

So overwhelmed that my heart can barely even comprehend the tragedy in Connecticut. I have a 7 year old boy in the first grade here in TN. And I can't even imagine the grief that is overtaking. My heart was already full right here. In my own world. I just can't even imagine the stunned, overwhelming grief that is being experienced there. My heart aches for them, too.

And so I cry.

* * * 

I wrote this post last December. It is 8 months later today when I post this. My father-in-law was recovering from brain surgery at the time. Three hospitals, one rehab center and four months after the intial surgery (and about a month after I wrote the original post) he went home. He still has trouble swallowing his saliva but he eats on his own! Plus he's been directing an addition that is being put on their home.

I still have days where I struggle with sadness which I believe is left-over from the last few years. Today is one of those days. But this post was much better written than what I can compose today.

* * *

May it encourage someone else that they are not alone. There are days when we all feel like crying. Perhaps it is just left-over sadness. Thanks for letting me share some of it today with you.
Love, Kathleen

Linking with Jen & Emily this week.

Siblings round the table at day's end

Siblings 'round the table
At day's end
Many years since it's been
Just us

Wives, husbands, kids
Usually
Take their place around the table

But not tonight

Not at the end of this day
Nor at the end of that day
Both days
Breathing has been labored

And we gather

Because breath and life have been a struggle
In & out
Out & in
Labored & heavy

It is just the siblings here now
Children grown enough
To leave the adults
At the table
No in-laws either
They are busy taking care of other things

Just us

Gathered at the table
At the end of the waiting day
The miles apart
Have lessened

The tubes
The struggling of breath
The need for cheering one another's hearts
That comes by being in this loss
Together

Together
Around the table
Where we fought about whose turn it
Was to do the dishes
And we teased and scolded
And ate many meals
Siblings only
Just like the days of old

Except now
The battle is for life and breath

We wish it wasn't the suffering
That brought us here
Yet, we are
Together again as
Siblings round the table
At days end

* * *
Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Empty room. Empty heart.

There is an empty place on the floor of my bedroom. A week ago it had the sum of the world's possessions for a young boy, minus the bed and the bike at his grandma's house. Three boxes. Two held his clothes, socks, underwear, shirts, pants and shorts. Some were given to me by his mom. Some had belonged to his cousin. Some had belonged to my sons. One box had his pictures from the airshow, the drawings, the AWANA store.

But there are no boxes on the floor of my room anymore. There is no boy, saying, "Mrs. Jaeger." in his 5-year-old slur that could not pronounce Rs or Ls. No one has awakened me in the night with a bad dream this past week. No one has enticed my youngest into pouring soap all over the counter of the  pink bathroom. My 6 year old has not enticed anyone to throw wet chalk at the back door this week. There's been no biting or wrestling or sandbox playing.

It is cleaner in my room. And in the boys room where the sleeping bag has been put away. My house is cleaner. More convenient. Easier. This week.

I can clean the floor of my room and the boys room. But what do I do with this place in my heart? Do I clean that, too? But how? Because having him here was cleaning my heart: revealing my selfishness, requiring me to think beyond my own inconvenience.

What do you do when you don't want to go back? But you weren't sure how you would keep going forward? What do you do when life has changed and it wasn't your decision for him to come or to go?

I didn't like having nothing left of me. It felt terribly uncomfortable to only be able to rely on the grace of God. But yet I don't really want to go back to relying on me and my strength.

How do I live like I need Jesus all the time when it doesn't feel like it quite so much?

Nine weeks he came to live with us. One day we did not know him. The next he was here sharing our lives whether we liked it or not. He shared our airshow, our cousins, our clothes, our food, our grandparents, our bathroom, our tree house, our sandbox, our swimming excursions, our excitement of riding in the new 'swagger-wagon'.

Sometimes we didn't mind.

Sometimes we did.

Now, there is no one sleeping in the bag in the middle of the boy's room. There are no boxes in my room.

And there's a big gaping hole in my heart left by a five year old boy who doesn't live here anymore.

Oh fill me, Lord, with You and not with me. Fill me afresh today with You. Fill Yourself in the places that you pushed away in my heart, revealing my deep selfishness. Fill it still with your wonderful, matchless grace. 

Keep me in the palm of Your hand as you did when  I could only rely on the grace of God and the prayers of the saints to get me through each step of every day. Amen.

  * * *
Linking up with Jen and Emily.

Camp, Change, Loss and Being in the Moment

I didn't mean to stay away so long. The kids & I went away to camp for a week. We loved it. And I thought I would return to blogging right away. Wrong! My husband stayed home to job hunt. After 17 1/2 years at the same company, he was laid off the week before we went to camp. (Yes, it was a surprise! But not so much as he looked back.) So we've been doing a lot of reassessing, thinking, talking and reminding ourselves that it is not Saturday.

After camp, we attended two funerals (older women-- one from our new church and one from our old church) and mourned the loss of Grandma and Grandpa's dog who also died while we were away at camp. Our hearts have endured much loss in the past year: this was the fourth and fifth funeral we have attended in eight months, plus two pets (our cat & our grandparent's dog) and daddy's job loss.

All of our losses reminded me of this verse, "What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things, I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that comes from God and is by faith." Philippians 3:8-9. Now it is a little out of context, but it helped me gain perspective on all that God is doing in our lives and the character formation that I am seeing in all of us. And that we still have so much to be thankful for.

In other news, I have been pondering this post at Rachelle Gardner's blog about her vacation and unplugging and being there in the moment. While I was away at camp, I did not miss for one second the lack of a computer. I was there in the moment working hard, playing hard & sleeping hard. But when I got home, I've been drawn to the computer (although I am having to share it more with a job-seeking hubby). I want all of life to be more in the moment. Being there with these four kids in the here & the now while they are still here under my roof.

So in addition to life changes and lots of activity, I'm pondering how much I want to be blogging. Haven't decided, yet. But the slower activity on my blog (not that I have ever posted at a rate that I'm aiming for.. .sigh...) is due to all these things. And I thought someone out there might like to know.

Kathleen

p.s. We've been experiencing much peace in the job loss/hunt and much love & encouragement & support from friends and family.

Nineteen Days

Nineteen days I have been away. Nineteen days that have marked my life. Nineteen days of mostly walking quietly, listening, seeing what needs to be done and doing it. Asking a few questions and listening some more. When asked "will you do this?", saying yes whether I wanted to or not or whether I had done it before or not. My willingness made me qualified for the task. My willingness made me want to do the tasks. Just like the others around me.

I joined their willing example when I arrived to the loving vigil. I was allowed to step in and link arms and serve. There was waiting; there was giving pain meds; there were phone calls; there were photos; there was laughter; there were tears; there was tension; there was love. And there were lots of hugs.

There was really good food, wine and beer. There was labored breathing. There was ice cream. There were groans. There was chocolate. There were stories. There was laughter. There were tears. There was waiting and lots of hugs. There were family and friends who were really family, too. There was little sleep. There was a quiet last breath.

And I was there. Usually I live 900 miles away but I was allowed to be there, for nineteen days.