The End of Vigil Time: Tuesday's Post

Our vigil has ended. 

My beloved father died on Thursday, May 7.

Quietly. Peacefully.

He didn't die after a long illness or after a courageous battle with cancer or due to complications of COVID-19. He died of old age.
His 96 year old body finally allowed him to let go. During these past seven weeks of our caring for him 24/7, he died "one grain of sand," as my sister said, or as my husband said, "one half pound at a time."

He died prepared. He died without fear. He died a faithful man. He died knowing he was fully and deeply loved. 

Our grief is only matched by our relief.

A few days before he died, I thought about how when my mother was close to death, our family gathered around her bed for a prayer service led by my parents' pastor and dear friend. Just as we were beginning, the phone rang, and it was my husband and son saying they were on their way from Cleveland. They were with us, too, as we expressed our love.  

The first great grandchild in the family, Maren, was only a few months old at the time, and she added her babbles to our tears and words of love. Mom, who had seemed unresponsive, reached out to Maren, and our daughter climbed into bed with Mom and placed Maren next to her. 

Mom said, "I am so blessed." Her last words. 

Oh, how I wished it had been possible to gather in that way for our father, grandfather, great-grandfather, dear friend. 

Instead, one of Dad's last mornings I asked him to close his eyes and to imagine us all standing around him. Then I named each one of us, slowly, allowing him to feel the presence of each one of us. 

Each name was like the tolling of a bell.

Nancy
Bruce
Kate
Mike
Maren 
Peter
Geof
Cricket
Scott
Teresa
Andrew
Emily
Celie
Christian
Felix
Harriet
Amy 
Ted
Phillip
Marissa
Alli
Pastor David
Pastor Paul

Our family has grown in the seventeen years since my mother died, and it took quite sometime to go through the list, but I could tell Dad saw and felt each one of us in his heart. 

At the end I read a prayer his pastor had sent me, a prayer I read to Dad several times in the last days.

     "God of all creation, loving Savior of the cross, be with Dick and family today, as they navigate the last stages of this life.
     He is your dear and precious child, and alongside him, I call out to you on his behalf, knowing that you are already tending him, and that your promises are sure. 
     Give him deep peace in his heart and assurance that all will be well through your Son, our Savior Jesus Christ."

Once again Dad expressed how much he loved all of us and how loved he felt. 

Who could ask for more than that.

An Invitation
Who needs to know you love them? Tell them. 

Tuesday's Reflection: Thinking About My Mother

My mother died at 3:45 a.m. Saturday, April 5, 2003. Her last words spoken softly hours earlier were "I am so blessed." She died peacefully at home in my Dad's arms with my sister and me close by. She died without fear, knowing she was fully and completely loved. At her last breath, I said, "Amen. She's gone." 

And life without her physical presence began. I started missing her the very moment she died, and although I no longer shed as many tears, I continue to miss her and that feeling of being a motherless child will live with me, as a second skin, the rest of my days. 

The first All Saints Day after her death, I gathered a number of pictures of my mother, creating a Betty Anne Shrine. *Mom as a little girl, a toddler, with her grandmother. Her entry into the world was not welcome, and thus, there are few baby pictures of her. *Mom in her 20's, in her beauty, sitting on a porch stoop, legs primly crossed at her ankles, hands folded in her lap. Someone has said, "Let me take your picture." *A formal portrait of me with Mom. I was about a year old with hair neatly combed and my pink pinafore starched crisp. She is beautiful in her young motherhood. *Mom and my grandmother, her mother, and me on a summer day on the farm--short sleeved dresses, white anklets for me, high-heeled sandals for Mom. I am about 6, which means Mom is 31. All three of us are chubby. *Mom and I on Kate's wedding day. Mom wearing floral silk and her hair perfectly coiffed, as always. She looks small next to me. Cancer had not yet whispered its presence.  *Mom and Dad standing on the front porch of our home at Sweetwater Farm on a fall day, a crisp, smell the apples and gather the pumpkins kind of day. *Two Christmas pictures: one of the three of us siblings with Mom and Dad. Dad is holding her hand. One of Kate and I with her, and she is holding Maren, only weeks old. We knew that would be Mom's last Christmas, but she radiates with holiday joy, wearing a red blazer and holly decorated Christmas heels. Oh, how she loved shoes.

As I sat with those pictures, I recited words from a book I had used the first month after my mother's death, Meditations for the Passages and Celebrations of Life, A Book of Vigils by Noela N. Evans. Using a vigil for grief and loss helped me create a boundary for the expression of my grief, confining it to a scheduled time and space. Then I could move through the rest of the day, functioning, responding, meeting and greeting, filtering the sadness out of the everyday interactions. Flo, at the post office who always commented on my stickered packages, did not know I was ready to burst into tears. The clerk in the grocery store who asked me each time where I got my colorful mesh bags, did not know I could barely speak because of the pain. That sheltered and reserved time, when each day I recited the day's meditation, saved me.

On Sunday, Mother's Day, one of the vigil lines reappeared in my heart. "Your participation in my life was a treasure beyond words, and I hope you can feel my appreciation." I added, "And my forever love." 

She is, of course, still present in my life. For example, when I fold and smooth and refold my napkin during after dinner conversation, just like she did, she is there. When I put on a piece of her jewelry, I feel and see her hands slipping the ring on my finger and gently adjusting the necklace at my throat. I get out of the car and smooth my coat or sweater, and my motions are hers. These moments are gentle reminders, "I am here, and I love you."

One of my dearest friends whose mother has died also is convinced our mothers are responsible for our friendship. "I wonder if our mothers' spirit met and said, 'Let's get our daughters together--they would be such excellent friends.'" That feels so right. As a sign of their love and understanding of what we most needed in our lives right then, they brought us together. We needed each other and perhaps our mothers needed each other, too. Through this gift of friendship, our mothers' love is tangible in a new way. It is all love. 

Our daughter-in-love lost her dear mother far too early, the year before she and our son were married. On Mother's Day her ritual is to sit in the backyard and lift her face to the sky and toast her mother with a vodka tonic, her mother's favorite. She tells her how much she misses her and loves her. The love continues. And always will. 

It is good to remember. It is good to feel our heart stop for a second in a recognition of what we miss. Who we miss. It is good to remember the treasures passed on to us and to lift our faces to the sky and say "I am so blessed." 

One way we are all connected is that we have each had a mother. Some were better mothers than others. Some were better mothers at certain times in their lives than others, but we are here because of our mothers. And that is a blessing, indeed. I am grateful for my mother and for yours. 

An Invitation

If your mother is no longer alive, in what way is she still a presence for you? If your mother is alive, in what way is she a blessing for you now? I would love to know.

Tuesday's Reflections: Vintage Handkerchiefs for When Tears Come

One of my traditions when someone in my circle of life dies is to send a vintage handkerchief to one who mourns. For when tears come. 

Over the years of collecting antiques I have gathered quite a lovely stash of these colorful floral and holiday-themed hankies. Carnations, roses, tulips, lily of the valley. Scalloped or lace-edged. I  recently washed and ironed the heart-filled Valentine hankies I used in February, and when I put them back in a drawer, I noticed hankies wishing a Happy Birthday, given to me by friends who know I always have a hanky in my purse and one tucked in a pocket. I have a few state-themed hankies--Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Ohio--and recalled how I had attempted to collect one for each of the 50 states, but they are long gone, having sold them in garage sales or at one of the antique mall booths we used to have. One especially fun hanky in my collection illustrates the calorie count for favorite foods like strawberries  or almonds or even a scotch and soda! In the square with a picture of a box of candy it says "danger." Too cute. 

When I packed for my trip to attend this recent funeral, I ironed a fresh hanky to fold into the sympathy card for my dear friend whose husband had just died and one for me, too, for I knew it would be hard to hold back the tears when I saw my friend in her newly-widowed state. 

When I unpacked after returning home, I added to the pile of laundry the rumpled, slightly damp hanky I held onto as I approached my friend during the visitation before the funeral itself. She has been a good and faithful servant. Steadfast during her husband's long illness. I don't know the whole story, and I don't need to know more, but perhaps someday I will, if it is helpful for her to share it. If and when she does, I hope I will have hankies handy. For when the tears come.

Sometimes when I sit with a spiritual director, tears fill the eyes--hers and mine. Sometimes the directee is embarassed, and if so, I try to reassure that if tears come, it is because they must. They signal a moment of truth, of light, of release, of depth and new understanding, of love and connection. 

In a way I am not surprised I have collected these vintage hankies, for I am someone who cries easily. I cry when I feel something deeply and when I am touched by the poignancy of someone else's feelings, whether I know them or not. Sometimes my tears have gotten in the way of complex and sometimes painful conversations that need to occur, bringing a difficult discourse to a halt. Long ago, however, a therapist told me I could learn to talk through my tears. Having a hanky in my hand helps. 

Unfortunately, my supply of these vintage hankies is diminishing, and I need to replenish my supply of sympathy cards routinely, as well, for the need seems to arise more frequently. Yes, we  are touched by loss more often the longer we live. That can't be avoided, and it is good to be ready. Therefore, my handkerchiefs are folded neatly in a pile in a drawer scented by a lavender sachet. For when the tears come. 

An Invitation
What loss or event or feeling has caused you to cry recently? What do you do when the tears come? I would be honored to know.  

Fifty Shades of Blue, a post by Nancy L. Agneberg

An ah ha moment. As I was driving to Minnesota last week, I realized why I was not so eager to pack up and head west this time.  True, it was minus something degrees and was doomed to stay that way the whole time I was there, but that was not the reason, at least not entirely. One of my intentions for the new year is to spend more time with my father, more casual and normal time, more one on one time, and this would be the first of those times in the new year. I enjoy being with Dad, so why had I lingered at home that morning and why had I taken my time packing for the three days in the apartment? 
     Ah ha! When my mother was dying of colon cancer, I spent a week every month with her and then longer when she was closer to death. I would leave our country sanctuary in Ohio and fly to Minneapolis on a Sunday morning and then return home on Friday evening. The decision to be with her at those times was intentional, knowing that each month I would more than likely see changes in her, but I was never sure what they might be and what might be required of me. How much less of her would there be and how much closer would we be to saying goodbye? 
    Ah ha! My intention to spend time with Dad on my own every month feels like that time with Mom and reminds me of the inch by inch grieving I did all those months, leading to the power punch grieving when she died. The difference is that Dad is in good health and doing well. Obviously, at 89 his death could happen at any time--this is no time to be an ostrich daughter-- but there is no current diagnosis driving my decision. 
     Ah ha! There were two tasks Mom always wanted me to do during my stays with her: clean the refrigerator and straighten the linen closet. "Your father doesn't know how to fold the towels." And along with having lunch with him, what was I planning to do during this visit? Clean the refrigerator and straighten the linen closet! The heart remembers more than we can imagine and just the thought of those tasks brought me back to those days, doing things that Mom could no longer do for herself, but remained important symbols of her role as Mrs Clean. 
     Both of those tasks were ways of saying, "Mom, don't worry. Your house will be cared for. Dad will be cared for." Straightening the linen closet, especially was almost a ritual.  Refolding and smoothing and stacking. Piles of pink for the guest bathroom. Piles of pale blue for the master bathroom. I was stunned to see so many pink towels frayed and worn, but Mom was married to a certain shade of pink to match the wallpaper in that bathroom, and she couldn't find the right shade of pink in replacement towels. I made an executive decision and eliminated a towel or two every time I came. Not only were there stacks of those towels, enough for a girls' locker room, but Mom no longer opened that closet door.  
     And now for the blue towels. My sister bought Dad some fresh, thick white towels for his birthday this summer, thinking they would replace the worn, faded, and frayed light blue towels Mom favored in their bathroom. Mom has been dead for almost 10 years now, and he has used the same towels. Guess what we found on the floor of the linen closet? The white towels still in the box, just as Amy had given him. We chuckled and tsk-tsked and set about refolding and smoothing and stacking, but also eliminating the worst of the blue towels. 

     Later in the day my sister and I bought new blue towels. We didn't look at the price. We didn't even test for thickness or softness. Nope, we swarmed through the linen department like Goldilocks. This one's too grey. This one's too green. This one's too bright. This one's too dull. This one, this blue, is just right, close to what Dad expects to see when he opens the linen closet. 
     Ah ha! How much there is to learn about being in a different role in life--the daughter of an elderly parent. The daughter of an only parent. The daughter still missing her mother. The daughter seeing her father still missing his wife. Sometimes it is the simple things, the every day tasks, such as folding towels, that reminds us of how life changes and how life stays the same.