We arrived at church on Sunday (a couple of sundays ago now), dropped the older boys off at sunday school, and then headed into the service. Which, I might add, had not started yet. Pretty good for our first trip to church with Archer along. We sat down, and I flipped through the bulletin as usual. I noticed right away that the celebration choir was singing a couple of my favorites, and then I turned further and saw one of the later hymns... "Children of the Heavenly Father". I am sure I had heard it before, but because it was one that we had at Amelia's funeral, it will always evoke strong emotions and memories for me. I don't think it was something that P would notice, but I didn't point it out. He may notice that my shoes don't match my outfit very well, or that the wall hanging is a little too high or low, but a specific hymn, not so much. However, as we sang the second hymn, I stopped singing, my mouth couldn't form the words, and I didn't have the air to push them out. I didn't expect it... Maybe I had never paid attention to the words before - I mean really paid attention. Soaking up the words and their meaning.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend
================================================
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
--------------------------- and then these words-----------------------
Be still, my soul, though dearest friends (my daughter) depart
And all is darkened in the vale of tears;
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears.
================================================
As much as I hate the pit in my stomach from grieving, and the missing that is so painful at times, I must say that God was tender. He was tender and close. His love for me evident, despite the hurt I was experiencing. I don't think I realized it at the time. I was probably still confused and mad about everything. I am a little passive aggressive though, even with God (pathetic, I know). You know - when you say, "no, I'm not mad at you", and then you are quiet and sulky despite 'not being mad'. I prayed to Him, I sobbed and hung my head, I pouted my lips and asked why, but I still said, "no, God, I'm not mad at you." I didn't understand why us, or why her, and even though I will never know why --- at least I'm not mad anymore. I will still look at other people and wonder why us and not some other family... but then I will also think of how close He was to me during that time, and I will crave that forever. I am thankful that He was close to me. I will know His heart in a way I couldn't have before. I will know His love in a way I was incapable of before. Just as the hymn says, "I better know His love, His heart," AND I DO. He did, "soothe thy sorrows and thy fears" too.
It is not my job to understand how He chooses to- as the hymn says, "order and provide" and it is okay that it is a mystery to me, because He is a mystery. A loving and just God who orders the heavens and earth and knows when a sparrow falls, and yes, is still a mystery. He is a big, HUGE, almighty God, and He chose to come close to me... as close as my own skin. I miss my daughter, I always will, but later in the service when I sang "Children of the Heavenly Father" I didn't cry. I didn't cry for her, or for us who live without her on this earth. This time it was "Be Still My Soul" that brought the lump in my throat. Because those words were my experience exactly. He was all of those things to me. He was so very real to me during a time when I wanted to look the other way, when I wanted to ignore Him. However, it is impossible to ignore your own skin. It's there, all the time, and you live in it. I get to live everyday with His spirit in me, but those days when the outside world was foggy and my head and heart were wounded from grief, the Father was close, so very close to me. I miss only two things about those early days. One - everything about Amelia was more fresh in my mind, and two - God's tenderness and closeness.
And during a time of turmoil and restlessness in my heart, He stilled my soul, as only He can.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Two babies: one in our hearts, one in our arms...
When I started looking through pictures of Archer, and seeing him welcomed by his brothers and dad, it was such a blessing to see their joy. Joy that was anticipated a year ago with Amelia, and stopped short when she arrived. I have these two pictures that are similar, and yet so very different. How we talked about her arrival for weeks and months prior, telling the boys how things would change once she arrived. Not just "the boys" anymore... Nothing prepares you to try and explain birth, a new sibling - now in heaven, and the realities of death to an almost three and almost four year old. It is impossible to hide your emotions, nor should you try, I guess... I remember the tears rolling down my sweet husband's face when he showed Amelia to O-dog. I'm not sure my heart hurt more than at that moment. How different it was this time around. We will never forget, but we can't let that overshadow enjoying every minute with our youngest.
This time around it was such a joy to share Archer with them. They asked questions and just stared at him. They told strangers about him, whether or not they wanted to know or not. A man in the elevator gets the full scoop on their new brother. "His name is BABY" says O-dog. "And his middle name is BABE" adds Ev-babe. My mother telling me how they just beamed as they told the man about their new brother, who was named "Baby Babe" at that time, apparently. In some ways I feel that the addition of this new sibling, alive and well might be a healing balm for their hearts. I know that O-dog certainly doesn't hold back from telling Archer how much he loves him. They both hug and kiss him, and practically smother him with their bodies attention. He is almost 6 weeks old, and he is still getting oodles of love.
As for me... There are times when the grief seems to hit me like a ton of bricks. One minute I am beaming at my new son, and then wham-O. I never seem to know when it is coming, and I guess that is just the way it always will be. The other day I was checking for a stinky surprise in Archer's diaper, and I was blown away by the fact that I didn't ever change Amelia's diaper. I know she had one on. A tiny little pampers swaddler, with a yellow stripe down the butt. I took it off and put it back on once. Did she have the same one on the whole time? Was it the same diaper she wore under the dress she was buried in? Why didn't I check? Why would you? I don't know... There are just things that I never thought about before, but now that I have a newborn in my arms, I think about them. I forgot about all of the squeaky sounds, the sharpness of their little nails, and how their legs don't seem to unfold even when you pick them up. It is healing for me to hold our sweet little Archer, to dream about the days ahead with our three sons. And yet, while he is in this newborn stage, I also can't help but think of our daughter, forever a newborn in our memories. Forever the child who is very much a part of a family, yet is present only in our hearts.
I miss you, baby girl. You have a little brother, now... you are a BIG sister...
I know you know.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Archer's story... part 2
So... we went up to the labor and delivery floor after parking in the garage, and found ourselves in an eerily similar position as we were a little over a year ago. I was in tears, and a little neurotic. They asked if I would sit down and answer questions, which I promptly answered "no" to and said I would like to be hooked up to a monitor immediately. Last year, with Amelia, I sat through over 4 pages of questions and information receiving - things like, "when you take your baby home, you will need to... blah, blah, blah..." and "you need to sign this, so that we have the information right for the delivery of your baby... blah, blah, blah..." I just knew I might punch someone in the face if I had to sit through that again. So they had a nurse take me into a room to be monitored - the same room as last year. The same monitor, the same bathroom, the same... almost everything. Almost everything, because this time, she found his heartbeat, not without some skepticism from me that the heartbeat was indeed his and not mine. (They found mine last year, and thought it was Amelia's for a little while --- because mine was racing) She also found mine, and said that mine was indeed slower than his, and that there were two heartbeats present. So everything was not the same, my nightmare, although fresh in my mind, was not going to repeat itself this time. I still had not felt him move since I had gotten there, but his heartbeat on the monitor was a relief, and his lack of movement was most likely because of the constant contractions which were evident on the monitor as well at that point.
The boys were troopers. After abruptly being awoken from their slumber, they managed to transform themselves into chatty little boys that acted as if they always get up at 3 in the morning. Ev-babe was full of questions about everything in the room. O-dog was more reserved, and his memory of that room was probably similar to ours. Ev was likely too young to remember a lot of the emotion that was in that room last year.
I was put on some iv fluids to get the contractions to slow down, which they did somewhat. If I was going to deliver vaginally on my own, they may have sent me home. But when the called my doctor, he said to plan on keeping me, and delivering in an hour because the OR was open and I was already there, as long as P and I didn't have a problem with it. Uh... no. We were more than ready to have this little one in our arms. My c-section was scheduled for friday morning anyway, and since it was tuesday, and I was contracting regularly, it was a go.
I didn't feel baby move until almost 4:30 am, and for the peace of mind alone, I am so glad we went in when we did. I would have been an even more frazzled wreck by that time.
My friend Julie was able to take the boys. What a blessing her friendship has been to me. She was even able to get the chatty boys back to sleep. :)
My nurse last year, the one that was first to try and find Amelia's heartbeat with the doppler, the one that held my hand as I found out there was no heartbeat on the ultrasound, the one that prepped me for surgery, and cried with us - complete strangers... was on duty that morning. She had been busy with a delivery earlier, but stopped by to tell our nurse she was there and wanted to see us.
That morning was full of so many emotions. Similarities and differences between what we experienced last May. I can't even describe the roller coaster of feelings I had. The sounds and smells of the OR, and the routine procedures leading up to the c-section. I am thankful for the memories of O-dog's birth too. His birth memories, mingled with Amelia's, and now Archer's. Everything went well. He was born at 6:07 am, and his cry was the sweetest sound. Garbled at first, and then escalating - music to my ears. Praise God, our son was here.
The boys were troopers. After abruptly being awoken from their slumber, they managed to transform themselves into chatty little boys that acted as if they always get up at 3 in the morning. Ev-babe was full of questions about everything in the room. O-dog was more reserved, and his memory of that room was probably similar to ours. Ev was likely too young to remember a lot of the emotion that was in that room last year.
I was put on some iv fluids to get the contractions to slow down, which they did somewhat. If I was going to deliver vaginally on my own, they may have sent me home. But when the called my doctor, he said to plan on keeping me, and delivering in an hour because the OR was open and I was already there, as long as P and I didn't have a problem with it. Uh... no. We were more than ready to have this little one in our arms. My c-section was scheduled for friday morning anyway, and since it was tuesday, and I was contracting regularly, it was a go.
I didn't feel baby move until almost 4:30 am, and for the peace of mind alone, I am so glad we went in when we did. I would have been an even more frazzled wreck by that time.
My friend Julie was able to take the boys. What a blessing her friendship has been to me. She was even able to get the chatty boys back to sleep. :)
My nurse last year, the one that was first to try and find Amelia's heartbeat with the doppler, the one that held my hand as I found out there was no heartbeat on the ultrasound, the one that prepped me for surgery, and cried with us - complete strangers... was on duty that morning. She had been busy with a delivery earlier, but stopped by to tell our nurse she was there and wanted to see us.
That morning was full of so many emotions. Similarities and differences between what we experienced last May. I can't even describe the roller coaster of feelings I had. The sounds and smells of the OR, and the routine procedures leading up to the c-section. I am thankful for the memories of O-dog's birth too. His birth memories, mingled with Amelia's, and now Archer's. Everything went well. He was born at 6:07 am, and his cry was the sweetest sound. Garbled at first, and then escalating - music to my ears. Praise God, our son was here.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
August 3rd... sweet Archer's story... part 1.
I slept for the first couple of hours of this day, in my own bed after supper out with my hubby. The rest of it was an emotional roller coaster, ending with a sweet baby boy nursing in my arms, with a quiet hummm of hospital sounds.
I woke up at about 2:20 am and as I frequently did, I had to go to the bathroom, but before I ventured out of bed, I waited to feel little one... a move, a kick, something... nothing. This had happened before with him, and usually I would talk myself into "everything's okay" you are just being a worry-wart, and eventually I would feel him, or at least have enough peace about it that I would be able to go back to sleep. I don't know if it was my escalating hormones, or the fact that I was having braxton-hicks so frequently, or maybe it was just my memories of Amelia. I was beside myself. I have a doppler, but it was not a comfort as I didn't know if I was finding his heartbeat or mine. I knew that mine was fast, and his (if it was his) seemed slower than normal. Possibly because he was being squeezed by constant contractions. Paul was awake already, and knew something was bothering me. I will admit I cry at odd times (I am a woman) and because he is the most perceptive male I have ever met, he knew this was different. To be honest, I think we were both ready for this little one to be here, and both of our nerves were shot (a few months ago, actually). He said, "let's go in". I didn't hesitate, and with boys in tow, cute as bugs in a rug, asking from the backseat "why aren't we sleeping?" we were off.
Okay - back up ten minutes... This is not only Archer's story, not only the story of our rainbow baby, but it is God's story too. I had a moment when you just know it's God, because it could ONLY be God.
I would like to say that God knows. He knows, He always knows. Before I officially woke up Paul (he was already awake wondering why I wasn't getting back into bed), my phone buzzed - a text message. Seriously? At 2:31 am, at the exact moment I was up and crying and worried sick in the middle of the night, I get a text message from my big sister who lives two states away. This is what it said,
-------------- "Praying for you:-) and your boys". -------------------
I know God knows me, I know He knows my story, my every need before I know it, but sometimes He shows me He knows it. I love it when He does that. I love how He knows each one of us. When we doubt He does, and when we wonder if He is even real, He knows... and loves us anyway.
I guess this is the end of part 1, because I haven't figured out how to nurse Archer without using atleast one of my hands, nor do I have the patience to type with only one hand.
To be continued...
I woke up at about 2:20 am and as I frequently did, I had to go to the bathroom, but before I ventured out of bed, I waited to feel little one... a move, a kick, something... nothing. This had happened before with him, and usually I would talk myself into "everything's okay" you are just being a worry-wart, and eventually I would feel him, or at least have enough peace about it that I would be able to go back to sleep. I don't know if it was my escalating hormones, or the fact that I was having braxton-hicks so frequently, or maybe it was just my memories of Amelia. I was beside myself. I have a doppler, but it was not a comfort as I didn't know if I was finding his heartbeat or mine. I knew that mine was fast, and his (if it was his) seemed slower than normal. Possibly because he was being squeezed by constant contractions. Paul was awake already, and knew something was bothering me. I will admit I cry at odd times (I am a woman) and because he is the most perceptive male I have ever met, he knew this was different. To be honest, I think we were both ready for this little one to be here, and both of our nerves were shot (a few months ago, actually). He said, "let's go in". I didn't hesitate, and with boys in tow, cute as bugs in a rug, asking from the backseat "why aren't we sleeping?" we were off.
Okay - back up ten minutes... This is not only Archer's story, not only the story of our rainbow baby, but it is God's story too. I had a moment when you just know it's God, because it could ONLY be God.
I would like to say that God knows. He knows, He always knows. Before I officially woke up Paul (he was already awake wondering why I wasn't getting back into bed), my phone buzzed - a text message. Seriously? At 2:31 am, at the exact moment I was up and crying and worried sick in the middle of the night, I get a text message from my big sister who lives two states away. This is what it said,
-------------- "Praying for you:-) and your boys". -------------------
I know God knows me, I know He knows my story, my every need before I know it, but sometimes He shows me He knows it. I love it when He does that. I love how He knows each one of us. When we doubt He does, and when we wonder if He is even real, He knows... and loves us anyway.
I guess this is the end of part 1, because I haven't figured out how to nurse Archer without using atleast one of my hands, nor do I have the patience to type with only one hand.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
When your heart beats outside your body...
I am smitten.
Absolutely beside myself,
IN
LOVE... again.
It feels so good to look at him, to hold him in my arms, and to see our family holding and loving on him... I almost have guilt. Why is it that my eyes cannot stop gawking at his goofy faces, wondering why he raises his eyebrows, why he has the biggest pouty lips, why he grimaces with pain, and then smiles all in the same 13 seconds... and all without making a sound and all with his eyes closed. Aaaah... newborns... our newborn... our son.
Born screaming and flailing around at 6:07 am on Tuesday, August 3rd.
We are blessed.
Introducing, our fourth child, our third son:
I will do another post soon which will have birth details, and more pictures. His first name was something that we liked. His middle name brought tears to my eyes when I read the meaning, knowing I would always think of his life, especially the beginning, being covered by prayer. Samuel means "God has heard" or "God is listening". We know that God is always listening, and he always hears our prayers. We also know that just because He hears our prayers doesn't mean that the answer is yes. Sometimes it is no, sometimes it is yes, and sometimes it is beyond yes. We thank Him for his "yes" to our prayers for Archer, and we hope that his life continues to reflect God's love and hope.
I will never forget when we told my grandma that we were expecting this new little one. With tears welling in her eyes she told me that she had been asking God to send us a new baby, "unless He had a better idea". I am in awe of her faithful and disciplined life. Always aware of who calls the shots, and who she is bringing her humble requests to. I thank God for her witness to me.
We knew that this new life was covered in prayer and that many people were praying for him before they even knew he existed. In our opinion, the meaning of Samuel reflected the fact that these particular prayers brought before our God were heard and answered, and to our delight, with a yes. God always hears our prayers, and even though the answer isn't always a yes, it is good to remind ourselves that the answers are always what is right for our life, and that God always deserves the glory, no matter what the answer is. May God always get the glory for Archer's life, and my uneventful pregnancy.
Absolutely beside myself,
IN
LOVE... again.
It feels so good to look at him, to hold him in my arms, and to see our family holding and loving on him... I almost have guilt. Why is it that my eyes cannot stop gawking at his goofy faces, wondering why he raises his eyebrows, why he has the biggest pouty lips, why he grimaces with pain, and then smiles all in the same 13 seconds... and all without making a sound and all with his eyes closed. Aaaah... newborns... our newborn... our son.
Born screaming and flailing around at 6:07 am on Tuesday, August 3rd.
We are blessed.
Introducing, our fourth child, our third son:
Archer Samuel Heath
8 lbs.
20 1/2 in.
I will never forget when we told my grandma that we were expecting this new little one. With tears welling in her eyes she told me that she had been asking God to send us a new baby, "unless He had a better idea". I am in awe of her faithful and disciplined life. Always aware of who calls the shots, and who she is bringing her humble requests to. I thank God for her witness to me.
We knew that this new life was covered in prayer and that many people were praying for him before they even knew he existed. In our opinion, the meaning of Samuel reflected the fact that these particular prayers brought before our God were heard and answered, and to our delight, with a yes. God always hears our prayers, and even though the answer isn't always a yes, it is good to remind ourselves that the answers are always what is right for our life, and that God always deserves the glory, no matter what the answer is. May God always get the glory for Archer's life, and my uneventful pregnancy.
Friday, July 30, 2010
A Time To Mourn...
A belated update...
Grandpa Art's heart stopped beating on July 13th, 2010, in the minutes before I finalized my last post. I found out only a half an hour after I finished writing it. He was not suffering from dementia or alzheimer's. He was himself, even in the end. He was ready to meet Jesus, and to take his first peek at heaven. He told everyone in his hospital room the night before that he was leaving, and that he would see them all later. He also talked about just seeing beyond the "corridor"... not a typical word for this South Dakota farmer. He was ready to go home.
He chose the scriptures that were read at his funeral, one from chapter 14 of John, Psalm 23, Psalm 121, and Ecclesiastes chapter 3.
I'm not sure how I might convey to you the kind of person Grandpa Art was, but I would like to try. I will give you some snippets from that weekend, and from the years earlier, when I first came to know him. The weekend of his funeral was spent celebrating a life well lived, and mourning our loss... our great loss.
As I stood in his kitchen, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for O-dog, a kitchen that was small and familiar, all I could do was think of the first time I had toast in the morning after staying at Art and Alma's. Grandpa Art was so concerned that I didn't want peanut butter on my toast. He asked once, and then again...
A: "Sherri, here's the peanut butter for your toast."
me: "I don't put peanut butter on my toast. Jelly is enough. Thanks, though."
----- five minutes pass, a couple conversations about the day, a news story on the t.v. -------
A: "We've got plenty of peanut butter here, Sherri, you'd better have some."
me: "No, really, I'm fine - peanut butter isn't usually something I eat in the morning."
A: "Well, if you change your mind - here it is. It will be a while before lunch" (said with a teasing smile)
I don't know why this exchange came to mind this last weekend, but it reminded me of how intimate breakfast at their house was. How you couldn't sneak peanut butterless toast by this man well into his 80s at the time. And how special you felt to have one of the seats at their table, in their home, even as a visitor, the
"new girlfriend" of their grandson.
To be honest, I always felt like my grandparents set the gold standard of grandparents (and they do), so I was caught a little off guard at how my husbands' grandparents (all 4 of them) seemed just as genuine and loving as mine. I have been richly blessed in that department, and as they each age with every passing year, as we all do, and we keep having to let go of one more, and then one more... I find my heart overwhelmed with gratitude and pain. It is so very difficult to let go of them. They lived in a different era. One where honor wasn't a medal or a badge, but how you lived. An era of honorable men, and dedicated, classy women. I think of my own grandpa Alvin, who is still living, but has struggled with some health problems. How the stoic farmer can be both stern and tender. He feels deep, and he loves even deeper. He portrayed a picture of Christ's love for me, one of affection and tenderness, when I needed it most. After my dad died when I was 12, I needed him not in a disciplinary-dad figure, but one of open arms and tenderness. He never withheld his whiskery cheek for a kiss and a hug. I still love the fact that when I take my babies to meet him, he will never shy away from holding them or just sitting and watching them, listening to them coo. I truly believe that God provides for our needs, using people that may not even know they are doing His work. When I met people at Art's visitation - people I had never met before, it was evident that he had served a purpose in many peoples' lives. He sowed seeds of good into peoples' lives. He was a servant of the Lord, and we were all blessed to have been a part of his life.
As I sat in the church pew during Art's funeral service I was reminded of a Christmas eve service, sitting in between Art and his grandson, my hubby. The same pastor who talked about wisemen, camels in the desert, and baby Jesus in a manger on Christmas eve, now tried to make it through scriptures and a eulogy without letting his emotions get the best of him (key word being tried). Poor Pastor Augie, doing his best to honor the memory of Art, his friend. It was a beautiful service. Across the aisle sat more than a dozen veterans who were part of a color guard, honoring Art not only for his acts of bravery in the military, his years of service in the same color guard, but also for his friendship.
I thought of the first time I had seen him since Amelia died. I was just sitting in the living room, and the boys were watching a cartoon on t.v. He cleared his throat, and went on to tell me me how often he thought of us, and how he wasn't too good at writing notes to people, but that he wanted me to know how sad he was when he heard the news about Amelia. She had impacted him, and he wanted me to know. If there is one thing that has become glaringly obvious to me in the past year, it is that no one likes to talk about death, or mention people who have died, especially young people, particularly babies - it is scary, it is horrible, it is to most... unmentionable. I get it. I have been there, on the other side, unsure what to say, or how to say it - scared into silence. I now understand that it is an impossibility to cause the bereaved person more pain. I also understand the awkwardness, and I try to assume that people think about Amelia, and they just don't ask about her or say anything out of fear. I will never, ever forget when he mentioned her to me. I know that Art was a brave soldier, evidenced by the honors and medals he received in WWII (from Gen. Patton), and by the fellow veterans who stood to honor him both at the church and at the cemetery. To me, however, his bravery never shone more brightly than the moment he mentioned my daughter's name, recognizing her life, even though it meant he would have to risk seeing my tears. It was brave, simply put. Although I didn't shed a tear that day, the tears roll down my cheeks today - touched by a few simple sentences he didn't have to say, but did anyway. It was honorable.
Throughout the cemetery service, the color guard stood there stoicly in a line next to us, their eyes focused elsewhere, their minds surely thinking of the man who stood next to them for so many years, honoring others who had gone before. Art felt it was his duty to honor the men who had served this country, to be a part of that same color guard - something he respectively did for years, sometimes more than once a week. The veteran who brought the flag to Glenda and Fred, like several of the other veterans, was in his 70's, and as he approached us with the pristinely folded flag, his breath was labored, sweat dripped from his brow, and he honorably choked through the few sentences he had to say.
The gunshots rang in my ears, followed by the sweet sound of trumpet taps, floating in the deafening silence. I sat on a folding chair, thankful that I didn't have to stand in the sizzling heat 36 weeks pregnant... and thankful to be 36 weeks pregnant. I sat there with my feet upon the all too familiar green indoor/outdoor carpet. I thought back to sitting at their kitchen table for the first time, not knowing for sure I would marry their grandson, not knowing for sure I would ever be back again, not sure which direction was south, not sure I would be able to convince Art I didn't really want peanut butter on my toast, and that I would make it until lunch time without it. All the things I wasn't sure of then... and yet how sure I was that even though a stranger, the newest person at their table, I felt special. Even though I was not their grand-daughter, I was welcomed and made to feel important.
At the cemetery I was feeling special to be under that tent, to be holding one of his great-grandsons on my lap, and to be honoring his memory, his life.
"There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace." Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Grandpa Art's heart stopped beating on July 13th, 2010, in the minutes before I finalized my last post. I found out only a half an hour after I finished writing it. He was not suffering from dementia or alzheimer's. He was himself, even in the end. He was ready to meet Jesus, and to take his first peek at heaven. He told everyone in his hospital room the night before that he was leaving, and that he would see them all later. He also talked about just seeing beyond the "corridor"... not a typical word for this South Dakota farmer. He was ready to go home.
He chose the scriptures that were read at his funeral, one from chapter 14 of John, Psalm 23, Psalm 121, and Ecclesiastes chapter 3.
I'm not sure how I might convey to you the kind of person Grandpa Art was, but I would like to try. I will give you some snippets from that weekend, and from the years earlier, when I first came to know him. The weekend of his funeral was spent celebrating a life well lived, and mourning our loss... our great loss.
As I stood in his kitchen, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for O-dog, a kitchen that was small and familiar, all I could do was think of the first time I had toast in the morning after staying at Art and Alma's. Grandpa Art was so concerned that I didn't want peanut butter on my toast. He asked once, and then again...
A: "Sherri, here's the peanut butter for your toast."
me: "I don't put peanut butter on my toast. Jelly is enough. Thanks, though."
----- five minutes pass, a couple conversations about the day, a news story on the t.v. -------
A: "We've got plenty of peanut butter here, Sherri, you'd better have some."
me: "No, really, I'm fine - peanut butter isn't usually something I eat in the morning."
A: "Well, if you change your mind - here it is. It will be a while before lunch" (said with a teasing smile)
I don't know why this exchange came to mind this last weekend, but it reminded me of how intimate breakfast at their house was. How you couldn't sneak peanut butterless toast by this man well into his 80s at the time. And how special you felt to have one of the seats at their table, in their home, even as a visitor, the
"new girlfriend" of their grandson.
To be honest, I always felt like my grandparents set the gold standard of grandparents (and they do), so I was caught a little off guard at how my husbands' grandparents (all 4 of them) seemed just as genuine and loving as mine. I have been richly blessed in that department, and as they each age with every passing year, as we all do, and we keep having to let go of one more, and then one more... I find my heart overwhelmed with gratitude and pain. It is so very difficult to let go of them. They lived in a different era. One where honor wasn't a medal or a badge, but how you lived. An era of honorable men, and dedicated, classy women. I think of my own grandpa Alvin, who is still living, but has struggled with some health problems. How the stoic farmer can be both stern and tender. He feels deep, and he loves even deeper. He portrayed a picture of Christ's love for me, one of affection and tenderness, when I needed it most. After my dad died when I was 12, I needed him not in a disciplinary-dad figure, but one of open arms and tenderness. He never withheld his whiskery cheek for a kiss and a hug. I still love the fact that when I take my babies to meet him, he will never shy away from holding them or just sitting and watching them, listening to them coo. I truly believe that God provides for our needs, using people that may not even know they are doing His work. When I met people at Art's visitation - people I had never met before, it was evident that he had served a purpose in many peoples' lives. He sowed seeds of good into peoples' lives. He was a servant of the Lord, and we were all blessed to have been a part of his life.
As I sat in the church pew during Art's funeral service I was reminded of a Christmas eve service, sitting in between Art and his grandson, my hubby. The same pastor who talked about wisemen, camels in the desert, and baby Jesus in a manger on Christmas eve, now tried to make it through scriptures and a eulogy without letting his emotions get the best of him (key word being tried). Poor Pastor Augie, doing his best to honor the memory of Art, his friend. It was a beautiful service. Across the aisle sat more than a dozen veterans who were part of a color guard, honoring Art not only for his acts of bravery in the military, his years of service in the same color guard, but also for his friendship.
I thought of the first time I had seen him since Amelia died. I was just sitting in the living room, and the boys were watching a cartoon on t.v. He cleared his throat, and went on to tell me me how often he thought of us, and how he wasn't too good at writing notes to people, but that he wanted me to know how sad he was when he heard the news about Amelia. She had impacted him, and he wanted me to know. If there is one thing that has become glaringly obvious to me in the past year, it is that no one likes to talk about death, or mention people who have died, especially young people, particularly babies - it is scary, it is horrible, it is to most... unmentionable. I get it. I have been there, on the other side, unsure what to say, or how to say it - scared into silence. I now understand that it is an impossibility to cause the bereaved person more pain. I also understand the awkwardness, and I try to assume that people think about Amelia, and they just don't ask about her or say anything out of fear. I will never, ever forget when he mentioned her to me. I know that Art was a brave soldier, evidenced by the honors and medals he received in WWII (from Gen. Patton), and by the fellow veterans who stood to honor him both at the church and at the cemetery. To me, however, his bravery never shone more brightly than the moment he mentioned my daughter's name, recognizing her life, even though it meant he would have to risk seeing my tears. It was brave, simply put. Although I didn't shed a tear that day, the tears roll down my cheeks today - touched by a few simple sentences he didn't have to say, but did anyway. It was honorable.
Throughout the cemetery service, the color guard stood there stoicly in a line next to us, their eyes focused elsewhere, their minds surely thinking of the man who stood next to them for so many years, honoring others who had gone before. Art felt it was his duty to honor the men who had served this country, to be a part of that same color guard - something he respectively did for years, sometimes more than once a week. The veteran who brought the flag to Glenda and Fred, like several of the other veterans, was in his 70's, and as he approached us with the pristinely folded flag, his breath was labored, sweat dripped from his brow, and he honorably choked through the few sentences he had to say.
The gunshots rang in my ears, followed by the sweet sound of trumpet taps, floating in the deafening silence. I sat on a folding chair, thankful that I didn't have to stand in the sizzling heat 36 weeks pregnant... and thankful to be 36 weeks pregnant. I sat there with my feet upon the all too familiar green indoor/outdoor carpet. I thought back to sitting at their kitchen table for the first time, not knowing for sure I would marry their grandson, not knowing for sure I would ever be back again, not sure which direction was south, not sure I would be able to convince Art I didn't really want peanut butter on my toast, and that I would make it until lunch time without it. All the things I wasn't sure of then... and yet how sure I was that even though a stranger, the newest person at their table, I felt special. Even though I was not their grand-daughter, I was welcomed and made to feel important.
At the cemetery I was feeling special to be under that tent, to be holding one of his great-grandsons on my lap, and to be honoring his memory, his life.
"There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace." Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Thankful for 35 weeks and 94 years
I don't think there are many people who don't know what we are having, but in case you are in the dark, we are expecting a boy. I am a little over thirty-five weeks along, and have been going in for weekly non-stress tests for a few weeks already. I will continue to go in every monday until August 6th, which is our planned c-section day.
I know that God has the number of our days planned before any of them come to be, and as 36 weeks nears, I can't help but think about Amelia's last moments on earth. I would be lying if I said I don't worry as that day approaches with this baby. I wonder how long his heart will beat upon this earth. I think about the sweet man who turned 94 last month, the man my husband calls "Grandpa Art". The man who is ready to go home... his heavenly home, and yet his heart beats here. I think of this little man inside of me, and I worry that his heart won't beat another 4 weeks, and I don't know why I worry... Maybe his heart will beat for more than 94 years. Maybe he will have the chance to marry a Godly woman, raise children for the Lord, hold and know his great-grandchildren, and minister to his family for decades, like Grandpa Art.
Only God knows what is in store for Art and baby boy, these two that I have been thinking of so much lately. And His ways and thoughts are higher than mine, and more importantly He is faithful and trustworthy. So I will not worry, but pray for my own lack of trust, and rest in His plan for each of these men.
I know that God has the number of our days planned before any of them come to be, and as 36 weeks nears, I can't help but think about Amelia's last moments on earth. I would be lying if I said I don't worry as that day approaches with this baby. I wonder how long his heart will beat upon this earth. I think about the sweet man who turned 94 last month, the man my husband calls "Grandpa Art". The man who is ready to go home... his heavenly home, and yet his heart beats here. I think of this little man inside of me, and I worry that his heart won't beat another 4 weeks, and I don't know why I worry... Maybe his heart will beat for more than 94 years. Maybe he will have the chance to marry a Godly woman, raise children for the Lord, hold and know his great-grandchildren, and minister to his family for decades, like Grandpa Art.
Art feeding Ev-babe, at the young age of 90.
Baby boy
35 weeks and 1 day
You have to look around the grey blobs in front of him, but it is worth it.
Love these sweet little lips - can't wait to kiss 'em!
I could stare at this little smirk all day... I am going to feel bad when his birth actually happens, because I am going to throw his peaceful, happy little world upside down. (Okay, so I will only feel a little bad, or in O-dog's words - "a tiny, piny, peeny" bit bad)
There are so many emotions swirling around his arrival, and I know that it is only by God's grace that I am able to experience the unabandoned excitement for his tangible entry into our world, into our arms, into our home... It doesn't happen every moment of everyday, that I am able to feel so much anticipation for him without reservation, but when it does, I admit I embrace it whole-heartedly. I have to. He deserves that - this little man...
I am thankful for the 35 weeks and 2 days I have had so far with this little one, and how my heart aches for more, and is ready for years to come with him. Nonetheless, I am still thankful, for today. I am also thankful for Amelia's 36 weeks. Thankful I am her mom. Thankful that her heart beat here for 36 weeks, even if it broke mine.
And as for Grandpa Art, who just turned 94, the one in the hospital bed a state away, I can only pray that we are all so blessed to touch as many lives and hearts as he has. If you knew this man, you would know that he is still touching lives, and there are probably nurses who just met him who will remember his spirit for a long time to come. We all have our God-given jobs to do, and he knew his. He was as focused on the heavenly prize as anyone, and no matter when he is made whole and healthy again in heaven, and his heart stops beating here, we can all be thankful for the gift... the treasure of however many years we knew him of the 94 he had on this earth.
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