Gone Ten Years but Not Forgotten

In Memory of June Reed, Beloved Grandmother

In that space between wakefulness and dreams, I hear your soft voice calling my name.  I close my eyes and remember clearly as if it were just yesterday waking up on a summer morning to the sound of Uncle Jerry coming in from his woodworking shop as the kitchen door squeaks heartily.  You are puttering in the kitchen with a cup of hot coffee, and I smell waffles cooking.  The gentle sound of the furnace humming and the washing machine in the kitchen is hard at work.  I feel comforted and loved in your tiny abode as you place me on your lap for gentle back rubs while reading me my favorite storybooks.  We sit outside on the old porch swing on lazy summer nights, watching cars kick up dust on the rocky road and listening to distant cheers from the baseball diamond.  I delight in childish pursuits of pretending, tea parties, games at dusk, and outdoor tag chases.  I still feel the exciting terror of setting off fire crackers in the air and the thrill of running through the neighborhood to the park or the Soldier cemetery with my cousins.  You let us dress up in your clothes and wear your costume jewelry.  You give us pieces of material to make dresses for our dolls, and we convert your kitchen chairs into pretend doll houses.  You always have a special meal at noon with crispy fried chicken, salty corn on the cob, or a bowl of your savory spaghetti.  Your kitchen table is laden with frosty glasses of lemonade, ripe tomatoes from the garden, colorful jello molded in special shapes, and juicy canned goods.  The sweet tangy taste of your canned rhubarb gives me a sense of satisfaction.  Each night before bed, you  make us buttery pieces of toast, crunchy popcorn, or a heaping bowl of vanilla ice cream.   

 You showed us in a hundred small gestures that you loved us, and you made each one of us feel special.  You fretted and worried and prayed for us, and your gentle strength inspired us to be our best.  You were the rock of our family, and your presence was an anchor for us all.

Some nights I would lie awake on your bed, tears spilling from my youthful eyes with the thought of losing you.  How could I ever go on without my dear sweet grandmother?  You lived a long and full life.  You had the satisfaction of watching all of your grandchildren grow up to lead successful productive lives and marry well, raising families of their own.  As you entered your 90's and your body grew tired and weary, you held on a bit longer to see your grandchildren visit one last time.  I still remember the last time I traveled the many miles to visit you at the nursing home.  You just held my hand, kissed me, and repetitively told me, "I love you."  My spirit grieved because I knew that it would be the last time I would see you alive.  I knew that you were ready to enter a new life in your heavenly home.  Two months later, I received the call that you were gone, and there was an empty place in my heart that ached for one more moment in that little house with you.  Sometimes I would dream that I was back at the old house, my heart was happy to know you were alive and with us again.  I couldn't see your face, but I sensed your presence, and I knew that those memories would always be a cherished part of my life. 

It is hard to believe you have been gone 10 years.  How could I ever forget what you have meant to all of us?  I will always remember the gracious grandma that loved us unconditionally.  When you left us for eternity, visions of your little house ebbed away at my spirit and inspired me to write a poem to express my cherished memories...

Grandma’s House

Grandma’s House was built with strong hands,

With Faith, and with the tenderness of a mother’s love…

She welcomed me into her house, her heart opened

To pass on her love to this tiny baby cradled tenderly

In her gentle arms

And Love gave birth once again at Grandma’s house

Grandchildren filled her house with the song of laughter

Little feet running into her kitchen, delighting in simple

Childhood games and weaving memories together

And Grandma’s love stretched out to them like Lilies In June

That flourished in the garden outside Grandma’s house

Summers at Grandma’s house were flavored with the scents

Of Grandma’s garden, of canning rhubarb

The sweet juices of garden corn and red tomatoes dribbled

Down my chin, chicken frying, and endless cookies to bake

In the evenings, we rocked on the old porch swing

Grandma shared stories, and I shared dreams

She chased my nightmares away when I was afraid

She nursed me to health when I was sick

And Grandma’s love always persevered

When we stayed at Grandma’s house

A young woman, I returned again to Grandma’s house

Although the distance had grown between our dwellings,

Our love held us close through the many miles

She held my own precious baby girl, her tender eyes glowing

With love for her brand new great grandchild

And her heart once again expanded to draw in love

Because more younguns have filled Grandma’s house

Grandma’s house is a bridge to my dreams

I close my eyes and the memories come…

I am once again at Grandma’s house

I can still remember the sounds, the smells

The quiet strength of Faith she upheld

I can still hear her voice, calling my name

The soft noise of her rustling in her kitchen

I drink in my surroundings, my memory grasping

Every detail, trinket, picture and book

The kisses she stole and hugs she gave

Her “I love you’s” and her soft touch

And that is how memories have been built of Grandma’s house

Now a new house has been prepared for Grandma,

Where the streets are paved with gold and angels dance

The divine hand of Christ brings her home,

He whispers like rushing waters, “Well done Good and Faithful Servant”

Grandpa is there too, along with all her dear family and friends

They welcome her home

Grandma leaves us with her sweet memories to share

And with hope and faith, we will delight in that day when

Once again we are welcomed into Grandma’s house

And the Lord said:

“DO NOT LET YOUR HEARTS BE TROUBLED.  TRUST IN GOD,

TRUST ALSO IN ME.  IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE ARE MANY ROOMS:

IF IT WERE NOT SO, I WOULD HAVE TOLD YOU.  I AM GOING THERE

TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU.  AND IF I GO AND

PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU, I WILL COME BACK

AND TAKE YOU TO BE WITH ME

THAT YOU MAY ALSO KNOW WHERE I AM”

JOHN 14:1-4

--Darcee Zehm

January 16, 2009

read at June Reed's funeral 

Entertaining Angels (...a vision in the clouds)

"He has made everything beautiful in its time.  He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end."  Ecclesiastes 3:11

There once was a  child who looked towards the sky with a heart bent towards eternity.  Her soul's craving desired for the unseen.   Childhood fantasies floated in dreams of hot air balloons and snowman dances among the twilight stars.  Dreams of Peter Pan whisking her away to the unknown and ethereal beauty of childhood yearnings.  If only she could fly away and escape to her skyward dreams.  A child whose dear Noma came to her in a dream, a vision of mystery the night Noma passed on to eternity.  She yearned for angels and sacredness, seeking something epic and sacred when she said goodbye to the aged woman whose presence was a beacon to her infancy and childhood memories.

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There once was an Australian child named Helen who lived a world of heartache and childhood fantasies.  Fatherless at 7, desperate to escape the pain that pierced like a bottle of drunken stupor that tore her innocence and brought her reality of broken dreams.  Whisked away from the familiar, a sojourner in a foreign land, she looked towards the sky with a heart bent towards eternity.  Her soul's cravings desired for the unseen.  Those childhood fantasies an escape by dreams of glory, and out of her soul's hunger, she conceived the nanny who would bring order to her chaotic cistern of empty hopes.

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There once was a young woman who never gave up her childish fantasies for skyward dreams and flying away on a cloud, dreaming of something precious and sacred that she could not put her finger on.  She turned to God but never quite trusted the fullness of His gentle grace.  She longed to flee from her past and turn to something unseen.  At 22, she ran away from everything she knew, seeking wholeness and escape by reshaping her identity, yet she could not find that which was just beyond her grasp.  She dreamed of freedom and eternal delights, sketching angels on her bedroom wall and searching for relief from the pain that was just beyond the surface of her sorrow.

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There once was a young woman named Helen, longing to escape her past and reshape her identity.  She sought the stage and turned to spiritual vices to fill those empty places in her soul.  Turning to worldly truth to chase the shadows of her dark memories.  Out of her despair and her need to redeem the father she loved and lost, came a new name and the guardian angel she fabricated to bring hope and restoration to her troubled soul.  From the ashes emerged the writer and the story that would change everything.

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There once was a young woman who waited in the delivery room, feeling alone and scared.  She curled up on the slim hospital bed, her fears abated by the stillness of something sacred that quieted her troubled soul.  In a vision, she felt a holy presence, like angels standing before her.  A voice spoke quietly to her spirit, "Darcee, I am here.  I know your family couldn't be with you so I came to tell you you are not alone."  She wasn't ready to face her past or the Redeemer Who longed to heal her and fill her with ultimate peace.  Instead, she witnessed the loving comfort of a grandfather she had never known in this lifetime but felt kindred to his love.  The man in the picture who would have been about her age.  He was there at the hospital bed and she felt overwhelmed with a unspoken tranquility.  The next day, she delivered a beautiful baby girl, and she would never be the same.   Nine months later, she had another vision.  This time, she was called out by the One Who created her and called her to be His child.  He told her it was time for her to follow Him, a call she could have tried to ignore but it penetrated through the armor and the facade, and with it a true healing peace washed over her.  That moment, she came to realization of the full weight of redemption by the One Who was pierced to save her pierced soul, and she was finally free!

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"Winds in the east, theres a mist comin'in like somethin' is brewin' and 'bout to begin.  Can't put me finger on what lies in store, but I feel what's to happen all happened before.  A father, a mother, a daughter a son- the threads of their lives unraveling undone- somethin' is needed to twest'em as tight, like string you might use when you're flyin'a kite..."  Prologue:  Chim Cher-ee

The young woman, Helen, turned to the sky to find something true and sacred.  Out of the mystery of her troubled past and uncertain identity, she brought something that touched the hearts of children and adults alike, a story of timeless proportions.  Though she knew not the Redeemer that speaks to the heart and soul of her being, His purpose stood in glimpses of the sky for the heart that yearned for a Redeemer to descend from the heavens.  Instead, she created the guardian angel, the nanny, and the mysterious being that one could not quite place her true identity-- the one who came from the sky to right wrongs and heal troubled hearts.  The nanny came from the clouds, NOT to save the children, but the parents who were weighed down by the cares of life and the despair of emptiness.  Out of the sky flew in Hope, and those she touched somehow found joy in simple childhood pleasures--a soul craving for a Redeemer who could dry tears and calm the chaos.

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Two lives destined in the parallel between distance in generations and geography, merged in the desires for a hunger that cannot be satisfied by worldly pursuits.  Each taking different paths yet vessels for an eternal weight of glory that renewed the spirit and satisfied the soul.  The mystery of God's working in such vastly different lives-- the unchanging Creator Who shall not be moved setting in their souls a desire for something greater, something that the heavens declared.  A glimpse of angels, visions, and stories that all point to a Redeemer that would one day come from the sky with simple joy, childlike faith, and dried tears.  A Redeemer who can work through small miracles--a vision of both a Noma who came to say goodbye and a grandfather in his youth who came to welcome new life, and a story of a nanny who came in the clouds to restore broken hearts.  A Redeemer who worked out His eternal purpose in the heart of a young lady from Kansas that yearned for something greater and an Australian woman who never knew Him yet whose heart was set for eternity.  These were a foretaste of something whole, something to come, something better, something worth waiting for...

"Behold, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him..."   Revelation 1:7A

This is the story of how God works His redemptive plans in the hearts and souls of his creation through visions, stories, and yearnings for someone to make right the pain that the world inflicts on the human soul.  I always loved stories like Peter Pan, the Snowman, and Mary Poppins which evoked my desire to fly and find the freedom I so longed.  My fascination with angels happened sometime after my first babysitter, Noma, passed away and came to me in a dream to tell me goodbye and let me know how much she loved me.  A few years later, my parents gave me a picture of a guardian angel that I absolutely adored and found comfort having on the wall in my bedroom.  In my 20's, I tried to escape my past by moving to Wisconsin.  At that time, I turned to external pleasures for hope and relief from my pain; however, I could not find it in human relationships or other vices.  In my pursuit for relief, I thought back to the picture my parents gave me and ended up staying up all night sketching a mural of a guardian angel on bedroom wall in hopes of finding peace in my chaotic soul.  Nine months later,  I was pregnant and ready to deliver my first child.  I felt alone and scared, yet touched by a mysterious peace in a vision of my deceased grandfather, whose presence was with me the night before I delivered our daughter, Annika.  The next nine months were very turbulent, but came to full circle the night Christ Himself came to me in a vision and told me it was time to follow Him.   His words brought me the realization that all the other desires, dreams, vices, and visions were like vapor in comparison to the real peace, glory, and simple joy Christ would offer.

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My daughter and I recently went to see the movie Mary Poppins Returns, a story that once had evoked fascination in my youthful mind that desired for someone to come flying in from the clouds and set me free from my pain.  A few years ago, I had studied life of  author, P.L. Travers (formally Helen Goff), a woman with a troubled past who lived an unusual and isolated life, searching spiritual wisdom through New Age philosophy.  After watching Mary Poppins Returns, I suddenly perceived the parallels between Mary Poppins, a woman who came from the sky to restore the pain of the Banks family who just were a little too "adult" and missing out on the simple joy of childhood pleasures, and the Christ who will someday come in the clouds to restore all of humanity.  I believe that the true beauty of this fairy tale is something P.L. Travers could never have conceived by the worldly wisdom she sought after-- a foretaste of the hope we long for the wholeness that only Christ can offer.   I find myself amazed how God's redemptive story can work its way through us imperfect humans who are looking elsewhere for satisfaction and comfort, yet God's plan still stands firm. God will speak eternity into all hearts and He shall not be moved!

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."  Revelation 21:4

For more about my story of redemption, you can also read these previous blog posts:

https://dzehm.blogspot.com/2013/04/engaging-grace.html

https://dzehm.blogspot.com/2017/05/the-dare-part-1-dare-for-redemption.html

The Memory Seeker

"Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?  Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.  Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands."  Isaiah 49:15-16a

On a hot sultry August day, I walk onto a locked unit in the city to start my new job as the memory care social worker.   With my first day on the job, I find myself somewhat startled by the noise and chaos as I observe a horde of confused patients wandering aimlessly up and down the long halls oblivious of each other.  I nervously sit down at my office desk wondering if I am ready for the challenge.  As the nursing staff escort everyone to the next meal, I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the tasks ahead of me. Then, a lovely woman with silver hair and a wool jacket knocks on my door and takes a seat next to me.  She looks at me with a glowing smile that accents her high cheek bones and says, "Do you like my new coat?  My mama made it for me!"  

In the weeks and months that follow, my perception of the confusion and chaos begin to transform like a kaleidoscope focusing in on the beauty of prism and light to create something magnificent.  These fragments of memories beaming light in the stark halls of this institution bring to life a new dimension of beauty and grace eluding from the souls of these precious lives stuck in time by disease and frailty.  Like Alice through the looking glass, I enter a strangely fascinating world of reminiscent awakenings; and I find myself a sleuth for the past--the memory seeker, piecing together the fragments that design beautiful moments to delight my spirit with unexpected joy and wonder.

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us."  2 Corinthians 4:7

A Mexican man sits near the nursing station, no words forming his soft lips, and he whistles longing melodies like ancient lullabies.  They say he was a boxer, strong and fierce, that he could throw a 200 pound man across the room in the blink of an eye.  Surely not the unobtrusive man before me, whistling softly into the afternoon.  Sometimes, I think he is winking at me, passing the day by calm and peaceful.

Mr Jones opens the door, and his wife immediately perks up and beams from the couch.  She hasn't spoken for years, but she obviously recognizes her soulmate when he enters the room.  They snuggle up together, completely satisfied, and they relax into an afternoon nap.

The truck driver's wife comes in and decides to put on an impromptu dance party.  The man sits at the piano next to his wife holding a sucker stick like a Marlboro and suddenly we are all transported to a smokey bar somewhere in the city.  Everyone  gathers around the piano, clapping and dancing.  Nurses pass around drinks in clear medicine cups like shot glasses and we all enjoy a little soda for "spirits."  The Italian pulls me out to the dance floor for a  lively polka.  I laugh telling him I don't know how to dance.  He smiles and tells me, "Just swing your hips like this" as he dances and whirls me around until I'm breathless and tired.  He can out dance everyone in the room, and we all explode with happiness.

The mother sits quietly with a tender smile.  She never complains, just smiles and observes.  She shows me pictures of her children and cheerfully reminisces about days past.  We are content sitting together and remembering, and my love for her gentle spirit blossoms like an old friend.

A petite Irish woman smiles and asks me, "Are you related to the O'Malley's?"  You are tall just like my mother."

The daddy likes to recline in his room, his eyes glowing with silent mischief.  When his daughters come, the room is electric with love and passion.  They pull out his harmonica, and he comes to life.  Spirited tunes vibrate the little harmonica as he plays, and they all share fond memories that reflect their daddy's jovial nature.

The country western musician wanders the hall, a tall and lanky fellow with thick waves of chocolate hair.  I bring him to my office to relax and enjoy some Johnny Cash as we share a candy bar.  With a nod, he gets up and walks about his daily pursuits.

The lady in red comes into my office looking for her lipstick.  I keep extra tubes of her favorite color in my desk.  I help her with her lipstick and nails, and we have a few laughs after she thanks me once again for saving her from a makeup crisis.  One day, she sits down with a heavy sigh and says, "Will you do me a favor?  When I die, please make sure they bury me in red.  I just can't bear the idea of wearing yellow at my funeral." 

The homeless man looks around anxiously like a caged animal and tells me he needs to be outside where the air is fresh and tastes like freedom.  I distract him with a Grain Belt Beer that brings back memories of the "good ole days", and we put on a movie about the outdoors and the animals he loves.

A woman calls out from her room, her introverted ways disrupted by an illusion of children invading her space.  She yells at them to get out, and I find myself rebuking and chasing away a room full of invisible children to reassure her that she is safe and can get back to her solitude.

On a Saturday afternoon, I bring my preschooler to work with me, observing the strangeness of her surroundings with sweet innocence.  The war hero peeks around the corner, his massive form beaming for the little red head standing in the doorway.  He throws his arms out in delight as she runs up to him and hugs him like a dear friend. A man, who just moments ago fought off his caregivers with brute strength, melts at the sight of my beautiful daughter, and I know it is a good day.

The raven haired woman stares at her surroundings with a look of sheer terror, and I wonder if she is reliving the moment she watched her daddy murder her mama.  I ache inwardly for the little girl who was robbed of her security.

There is a plump man who sits nearby in his wheelchair, his flawless ivory skin and bald head glistening under the overhead lights.  His eyes piercing blue and brimming with sadness.  The piano player, once inspired by the talent of his beautiful mother who died when he was a boy.  Does he think about her?  Is he reliving his childhood tragedies?  Those beautiful oceans of blue eyes, vast and deep like windows to his soul.

The dying woman lying faintly in bed, her eyes glazed over to reflect eternity.  I sit with her and whisper prayers for the woman who sacrificed for her family and loved her daughters with all her heart.  Touching her gently, I end my prayer, and she momentarily looks up at me with a spark of recognition in her hazel eyes.  I lean over to kiss her gaunt cheek softly and can feel the salt of her transparent skin on my lips, and I step on a sacred moment of holy ground as though angels were among us.

"So we do not lose heart.  Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day."  2 Corinthians 4:16

I am the memory seeker, piecing together fragments fused into a mosaic of sadness, beauty, and joy for these momentary encounters.  My spirit uplifted by courageous souls who live in their memories and breathe life into their precious stories.  A lovely picture to cherish and draw strength upon, and I will never be the same again.



The information in this article was based on my own personal experiences working with individuals who have Alzheimer's and other dementia-related conditions. The stories I have shared took place several years ago; however, I changed the names in order to protect the privacy of each individual.

For more stories and experiences with memory care, you can read my blog:
http://dzehm.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-essence-of-soul-bringing-light-to.html

Glimpses of Eternity

 Beauty and grace crown heads of gray in remembrance of days long ago.  As a teenage nursing assistant walking the placid halls of a rural Midwest care center, I grasped life's lessons of physical ailments, fading minds, and glimpses of souls craving someone to touch and love.  In those days, I found a calling to embrace and seek presence in these momentary encounters.  There was a woman who would cry out words forgotten by her dementia, and I would sometimes sit with her for a moment searching the person behind the anguish.  I caressed her soul with kind words and brief stories, and one afternoon she paused in her repetition to smile at me.  When she smiled her face lit up like dawn's graceful entrance, and we became friends.  In the summer, I often worked the night shift, walking quietly among the halls of sleep and sorrow to comfort and tuck in.  I delighted in the serenity of those quiet nights, stirring my soul in the presence of angels and taking moments to write brief passages of poetry on my breaks.  Gentle moments of reflection.

In the halls of a rural care center more than twenty years ago, I tasted the first bittersweet fruits of giving my heart for love to be torn in the reality of death.  Comforting a man whose wife and roommate passed on to eternity, I was too young for wisdom and full comprehension of his grief, so I silently held his hand and it seemed enough.  I found pain and beauty in the thread of life that diminished in the shallow veins of life's edge.  I was touched by two patients in particular, both dying of cancer and seeking comforting gestures of love.  Both of them exuded something unique in their spirits by the grace in which they embraced life and death.  Both of them grasped something deep in my soul, and I wrote these poems in their honor.

Jacob

The breathing machine hummed like the breath of angels,
a gentle droning rhythm...

Often I explored this institution--
Reaching a pale comforting hand for the ill and bereft,
But nothing changed my life more than
The silent man who laid still in a quiet recession from life.
With heavy gray eyes, he gazed faintly upwards,
Pain seeping every pore of his being
And whispered in a breathless voice
Like rustling leaves on a lucid October morning.
"Please don't leave.  Please stay.  Just hold my hand."
A gaunt bony hand grasped my own-- the touch of aged silk.
I stayed by his side,
Feeling the cancer invade his skeleton form.

I never knew him in life before cancer crept into his flesh,
Yet his gentle hands and graceful spirit grabbed at my young heart.
When he passed on to eternity, the dam broke.
I wept with his family and tasted their sorrow, and I embraced their deep love.

Not long after his passing, I had a dream...
The man confined to his bed weary for cancer that consumed him.
I knelt by his side and hugged him, feeling the tide rise to eternity.
God's love shone upon him like the purest sunshine on a gentle June morning.
A wave of light bathed in the fullness of peace flowing over us.
The dying man was called home and heaven called to my soul...


Mildred

Her eyes were sapphire oceans of peace.
The flesh of her face glistened
Like transparent satin.
I could taste her tears
As though they were a flowing May drizzle
Soaking my swollen tongue.
Silently, I watched her drift
Into a painless sleep,
Lethargic from the care I had given.
A single tear journeyed its way down my cheek,
Falling into her thin white hair--
Falling for injustice.
Breathing deeply, I inhaled her beauty--
Lingering with the soft scent of musk
That powdered her frail arms.
And I felt a calm strength engulf me...

Glimpses of eternity grounded my faith and shaped my worldview.  In these fragile encounters, grace not lost but found in beauty for life and death, gifted by sacredness and holy ground.  These precious moments ordained for transcending our humanness to bear God's image of love.  Cherished moments to treasure up.

"They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads.  And night will be no more.  They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light."  Revelation 22:4-5

Faith's Legacy

There once was a baby named Grace whose brief life held an extraordinary purpose for grief and hope.  At her funeral, Grace's daddy spoke to the glory of her testimony that brought grown men to their knees and transformed hearts aligned to the power of prayer and shared heartache.  Pain punctured her mama's broken heart with sorrow and loss, yet she resolved to share its agonizing love and pass on Grace's legacy to heal the grief of other daddies and mamas.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God"  2 Corinthians 1:3-4

There once was a young woman waiting excitedly at the OB clinic with her family to hear the heartbeat of her precious baby for the first time.  Like early morning awakening dew nestled on the grass, the mama had treasured the life anticipated in its fragile mystery, yet she felt different with this pregnancy--strangely empty and unfamiliar.  The ultrasound tech, her sister-in-law, wanted to give the visiting grandparents an opportunity to share in this sacred moment of life discovery.  But laughter was silenced in the blink of an eye with the news that shattered hearts.  With anguish for the treasured life in the womb that wasn't to be, the sister-in-law gently touched the young woman, tears filling her blue eyes, "I'm sorry, I can't find a heartbeat."  Shuddering with shock and fear, the young woman cried out softly to Abba, her ache whispering "Lord give me strength" as she clung to her husband, tears overflowing.  Each breath felt forced and stiff.  The man gently stroked his wife with reassuring words spoken to their shared mourning,  The glorious hues of dawn's refrain was chased away by shadows of sorrow.  Unable to bear the pain, she prayed and told God to take all of her because she couldn't cope on her own.  She asked the Lord for a sign, and His gentle nurturing voice whispered to her spirit, "Read Roman's 5."

"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we now stand.  And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.  And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us."  Roman's 5:1-5

Grieving hands scribbled this passage of verse on a piece of paper and held its crumpled message, a lifeline to hold with all of her waning strength.  In the coming days of waiting and wondering, God spoke to her gentle words of comfort by His quiet nature refrain, and she wrote this poem.

Butterfly Song

Left in my sorrow, I'm drowned in grief

My tears water me and overflow my cup

I sit outside in the warm breeze reflecting my sorrows

The summer day glows around me

Sparrows dancing among the dense green branches

The song of chimes rock me gently

Tiny yellow butterflies, hundreds of them rest on my lawn

As I stroll through my backyard, each movement seems like forever

Yellow butterflies circle me in song and wind and chimes

The grace of the butterflies are like God's love embracing me

In this quiet moment, heaven and earth stand still

I find perfect comfort in strong invisible arms

No Words, just Silence

Just peace in the presence of my beloved Lord

...How sweet

Peaceful moments were rare when she cried out to God through her bereft heart, forced to face the reality of death in her womb with each effort to breathe and step through the numbness of her endless sorrows.  God's word was her anchor, the verse stuffed in a pocket to reach with her trembling touch.  The butterfly song lasted but just a brief moment, but God's faithfulness lasted through each stage of grief fading into the agonizing days of waiting.  God carried her when sorrow engulfed her in the emergency room, and they couldn't stop the flow of blood to dispel life faintness with loss and fear.  God held her tenderly when their empty arms wrote letters to their unheld child and lifted them to heaven.  God led her through the mourning loss of March 18, her baby's due date, and her husband delivered roses to her place of work with a comforting note.  God was present when she prayed for perspective and was given the name Faith Ann for closure.  God was with her the day in church when she encountered Grace's parents who held a sweet baby brother born on March 18, Faith's due date, and she cried and Grace's mama held her whispering, "I'm praying for you."  

"Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God."  Mark 10:14

There once was a beautiful red-head girl who longed for a baby sister.  She cried one fall day when they were on a walk to end Alzheimer's, and she let go of her balloon for a moment and it lifted up into the sky.  Her mama hugged her and whispered, "That one is for your sister in heaven."  Her heart was sad for the one she wouldn't meet on earth, and each time she released a balloon, she shared the secret delight with her mama for heavenly gifts.

There once was a grandma who loved all of her grand babies and treasured their sweetness.  She sent a letter of comfort to her granddaughter that grieved for her Faith Ann, and the grandma held Faith's baby brother when he arrived a year later.  Grandma missed out on the future birth of another brother one winter night when she released her soul to her heavenly home.  The granddaughter once again encountered grief, bereft of the gracious woman that she admired her steel spine strength and gentle kind hands holding her tenderly with love and patience.  The young woman once imagined Grandpa standing with the "great cloud of witnesses" to watch Jesus hold precious baby Faith and announce to heavenly hosts, "It's a girl!"  Now, Grandma's arms would be full in reunion and tender hugs with the one her mama would wait to embrace and love.  Faith's legacy treasured memories that held bittersweet dreams and promises for future glory, and the woman was at peace.

"He will swallow up death forever.  The sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces" Isaiah 25:8a



This story was based on excerpts I wrote thirteen years ago in a grieving journal given to us through a ministry that was called "The Gift of Grace", a precious gift basket of comforting resources for parents grieving infant and pregnancy loss.  Grace, Faith, and my dear grandmother each taught me that ALL life is precious and sacred no matter what age or stage.  For more about Faith's legacy and our healing process as a family: http://dzehm.blogspot.com/2013/03/letters-to-heaven.html

Take Courage

"Be strong and courageous...  Do not be afraid and do not be dismayed, for the Lord God, even my God is with you.  He will not leave you or forsake you."  1 Chronicles 28:20

Healing tide waves through past memories, looking back to my childhood in a rural Kansas town.  The blond girl growing up, knowing not myself, groping through my childhood and adolescent identity crisis, always chasing for something to fill my empty soul.  I felt shy and awkward, unsure exactly where I fit into life's mosaic of blended color, and I looked up to my beautiful, bold, and courageous sister.  I sometimes longed to be my sister-- outgoing, strong, and always knowing exactly what to say.  My sister had the courage to hold up her fifteen-year-old sister when I was falling apart. Though these events scarred our relationship with painful memories, we learned that love is hard and its bond is deeper than these scars.   In 1993, I wrote this poem for my sister for the courage I sought and the wounds we secretly shared.

My Temple of Courage

I.

I was like a tiny rosebud-- fragile and weak.

No one could get too close to me and touch my soul.

Bitter thorns cut into the flesh of those who held me close.

You were like a patient child, nourishing me every day, 

But never touched.

One day, I blossomed into a beautiful red rose.

I showed my soul!

And you hold my pale bitter hands forevermore.

II.

I was like a delicate china music box.

It seemed as though I would crush at a touch.

So my own mother held me safely

In a china cabinet with a limited view of the world,

So I would not break.

What she did not know was that I had  inner strength.

I would not play a single tune, fearing that

I would reveal my internal fissures.

You were like a beautiful bronze statue--

Strong and admired by all.

Mother placed you on the piano where 

You saw the world.

One evening, you were awakened by

A melancholy tune.

You gazed at me, whom couldn't keep

My song in any longer.

A slight crack appeared on my perfect ivory surface.

You held me together--the scars 

Would eventually disappear.

And you hold my fragile soul together, forevermore.

III.

I was like a child in a chaotic maze of broken dreams.

I did not believe in anyone or anything.

I could not find prayer; I had lost faith.

Late one night, a small white light of hope appeared.

And with it I prayed.

You were like a great temple of courage.

As an answer to my prayer, you came to me.

You held me up and restored my faith.

You helped me find a better path for my long journey.

I leaned on you for a while, until I could hold my own.

With a fresh start, I continued my journey;

And you hold my spiritual faith, forevermore.

IV.

As an adult, you have continued to be

A temple of courage that others have leaned on.

You have stood tall and strong through

Many rough times.

Your strength has touched many lives,

I admire you for that.

You are the best sister anyone could hope for.

And you hold hopes together, forevermore.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."  Psalm 139:13-14

After having My Temple of Courage published in the Topeka Capitol Journal, I framed the poem and gave it to my older sister for Christmas.  Twenty years later, my teenage daughter read the same poem for a middle school forensics performance.  Looking back, I now see how some of the terminology in this poem was more fitting to my relationship with God Who is my true "Temple of Courage", and I probably would not have chosen "Temple of Courage" as an analogy for my relationship with my sister.   As an adult, I identify myself as a child of God and see more clearly that courage comes in many different forms.  Courage to love unconditionally.  Courage to tell the truth.  Courage to face the past.  Courage to be who God called me to be.  God creates us in His image, making us each unique and lovely in His sight and calling us to fight the good fight and thrive through the tribulations that make us strong.   

 Although we've had our share of differences, I love my older sister very much.  I appreciate and admire her as a wonderful mother, teacher, and role model.  I will always be grateful her courage to hold my hand and stand by my side when I was sinking into an adolescent crisis.  Relationships are complicated, especially those that share painful memories, but God is the redeemer of all things and for that I find courage and hope.  

"Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage!" Psalm 27:14a

The Ghosts of a Winter Melody

"You keep track of all my sorrows.  You have collected all my tears in your bottle.  You have recorded each one in your book."  Psalm 56:8

Memories unfold, unlocking old wounds that fade but never fully heal in the recesses of the heart.  Like snowy landscapes covering secrets beneath the murky earth, visions shackled to the attic of consciousness.  Looking back to the winter day long ago holding captive a fifteen-year-old girl with flaxen hair and blue-gray eyes.  She was shadowed by memory monsters stuffed under her bed and shouldered by adolescent uncertainties.  The children's voices that mocked her, naming her "ugly" and "stupid"--cruel words calling her to fade into the cracks.  The sound of the voices that haunted her, pressing into her, and breaking her spirit down.  The pills she took to drown out their taunting cries.  The sister who brought her into the bathroom, begging her to vomit the pain that she swallowed to pierce the edge of her soul.  And she wrote this poem that screamed for redemption from the razor's edge of these regrets.

Sightings

It was January when the hoary beard of slumber 

concealed the earth.

Crystals danced like nymphs on the weathered

Limbs of maples,

And I locked myself in the attic to seek my creeds

Through shattered cracks.

It was January when the other children dusted

Snow angels in their rosy forms.

Their ruby lips savored the succulent icicles

Hanging from my windowsill,

And with blanched fingers, I counted dead roses;

Their needle edges piercing fissures into 

My porcelain palms.

It was January when delicate flurries melted at 

The feet of time.

The people shared their fireside fantasies

Over a cup of soothing cocoa,

And I left my solitude to drape my life 

Over the skeleton arms of the cemetery willow.

"The Lord is near the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."  Psalm 34:18

On a winter's night more than 25 years ago, her soul was crushed yet not abandoned by the Lord's hands that lifted her up by drawing her into His gentle embrace that kept her alive by His willful grace.  A year later, at age 16, she wrote these words in the winter passages of her weathered journal:

Passages

Snow will once again flutter at me feet,

It's difficult to believe that year has passed

Since I last cried for my soul,

My long golden cap protects me.

It hides my shivering ghosts of the past.

No one shall know the truth.

As the wind hisses and

Claws at my hair,

I rush through time.

It's clock thumps in my solemn heart.

I can hardly keep up...

“Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me?"  Psalm 42:5a

The shattered voices followed her into adulthood as she stuffed her sorrows and tucked them away, holding everyone else at bay.  She would not let them in to see the frozen winter gales that robbed her virtue.  Bitterness for the pieces of her life that died with each cutting word and each wrong choice she made.  Turning to the elusive by avoiding the light, she clung to the kaleidoscope hopes that cried out to her for redemption, but she was blinded by these fragments.

Fragments

Broken fragments have fallen before my mangled feet

Like shattered shards of ice scattered upon

The tattered earth on a lost January morning.

I gaze upon these fragments, desolate and alone.

All I can see is icicles;

Gray icicles that fuse into my own gray eyes

In these abstract reflections consuming my life.

My body twisted and contorted in Picasso formations.

I yearn wistfully to feel real and complete again.

Like a child does in the gentle flames of bronze security.

All I can do is lay upon my glacial bed in 

Agonizing meditation.

Could my own security have been this dilapidated quilt

Of faceless images, of uncertain convictions?

Fervently, I attempt to warm my severed form with its security,

But my legs stretch beyond these boundaries of cotton.

Their soft jagged edges will not conform to my size.

I could regress to fetal position,

But that is like a hermit's first breath of the sun--

She could never smother herself with darkness again.

I need to focus on what is real,

But all I can see are these obscure reflections

A circus of dancing images, kaleidoscope dreams.

"But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed."  Isaiah 53:5

Freedom sought her out more than two decades after that January day because the God Man held steadfast to her severed soul.  He loved fiercely when she turned her back from His redemption promises and chose the stubborn way. Eventually, He called His beloved prodigal daughter back into His arms of grace. Like the chasing the ghosts of a winter melody, she escaped her past and stepped through the refrain of pierced dreams.  The waves of sorrow sheltered beneath the surface of her facade.  But God in His measure of fresh mercies would draw her into His redemption plan and tear through her being with the molding of His sanctification stone turned to clay.  Burned and baked, she cried for sorrow seeking wholeness to expose the winter ghosts.   Healed by wounds of the Man Who was mocked, beaten, and torn apart.  He bled for her lost heart and wept for her crushed spirit.    Her freedom emerged in stages of grace and forgiveness, chasing the monsters and ghosts away, and releasing the voices taunting her childhood grief.  She offered them up to the bleeding hands and feet that were scarred, bruised, and torn for love and peace.   She could finally rest easy in His tender embrace. Downcast soul lifted out for joy and sweet love for  grace.  The miracle birth for promises whole and complete.  And winter was redeemed into spring...

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."  Revelation 21:4-5