Every morning I wake up and listen to music as I get ready for work. Lately, I listen to the Easter's "Going Away Party" on a CD that one of my close friends gave me a few months ago. Without fail, I think of my "little Gram", and how completely she loved the Lord.
Yesterday marked a year since Gram passed on to heaven. I still remember the morning I woke up, didn't hear her stirring in her room, so I puttered around in the kitchen making her breakfast with bran cereal, yogurt and bananas. I took out the notebook I wrote in everyday to mark her sleep/awake times, and also meals and anything else pertinent to the day. This notebook was a little tattered. I had been writing in it for a few months. After I finished making her breakfast, I opened the notebook, entered her breakfast menu, then jotted "awake at 8 am", after a quick glance at the clock. I hurried into her room to pull up the shades and help her welcome a new day. I realized that she was no longer with us as soon as I opened the door and called her name. I thought to phone her family across the street, but didn't tell her daughter-in-law what I already knew. It just didn't seem right over the phone. As soon as I heard the downstairs door open, I met Naida at the door and shook my head. The rest of the morning was a blur, as was the weekend. I was grieving, yet, so thankful that Gram was with her Savior. I missed her - I saw her everywhere, and that first night without her was so quiet and surreal (as many nights have been since, when memories of her sweetly occupy my mind). I had a 16th birthday "party" to throw for my son, between the day she left us and the day of her funeral. My son, Michael, needed to know that he was not forgotten through it all.
The morning of the funeral, I took care of getting the family ready and made the drive to the funeral. We arrived early for the wake. As I walked through the door, Naida, who had been the first person to stand with me in Gram's bedroom, walked toward me and said, "Elizabeth - look at her!" My feet somehow carried me to where Gram lay, and my heart sent a crashing wave through my body. Tears streaming down, I could only stare at the form in front of me. Lovely, peaceful, radiant and joyous can not even describe what I saw. Gram looked younger and brighter. Many of us marvelled that we had never seen anything like it. I thanked God for giving me one last look at "Gram", in such a state of beauty. It's true, she was lovely, yet she was no longer "there". Gram was transported to Glory, and had no more need of her earthly shell. Somehow, the amazing radiance we viewed then was for us, and us alone. Gram was "home".
The year since she passed has been a whirlwind, yet I still "see" her little form, stooped just a bit, guiding her walker around the corner to greet me in the living room. I stand at the stove, and remember being a young girl, watching Gram heat up leftovers in the old frying pan. I pull out her paring knife to peel an apple, smiling inside when my little one asks for the "peels", as I used to ask Gram.
I remember Gram often talking about all the girls at the Boylston Home whenever anyone asked if she stayed in touch with any of them as adults. She rarely, if ever, mentioned me. One day, licking my wounds, I asked her why she never introduced me as a girl from "The Home", when questioned. Gram's eyes opened wide as she looked at me and said, "I didn't think of it. You're not a girl from The Home - you're "my" girl!"
I hope you will listen to the song in the following post. Gram was a dear wife, sister, mother, grandmother, friend and foster mother. But when it came to Jesus, she was, and still is, "His" girl!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Gram's Writings
Some of you know that I get my love of writing from Gram. I have had the pleasure of reading some of her life-story writings. Please check in from time to time to read more about Gram, in her own words. I have added parentheses to provide definitions for some of the outdated words - I actually had to look some of them up :) Happy reading, and God bless!
While he went for wood, Mother read Dad's brief note saying that he couldn't get away, a coworker was ill, and the mail was piling up. When Mr. Parker returned, he asked if Dad would be arriving shortly. Mother replied, "Not for another week." Our good friend promised to come again on Monday.
Mother had to go back to bed. I served the gruel after we were reminded to be thankful for kind neighbors who had missed our smoke and lent a helping hand. Having just turned six and being in charge of the toddlers made me feel important, but it wouldn't have bothered me to exchange my 'authority' for some of the older ones' bossing on that long, lonesome Saturday.
Each day someone had been able to tend the fire. Now my turn came. Setting the two stovelids farther back on the stove, I shivered with nervousness, recalling that sometimes the crosspiece fell in an must be fished out of the hot coals. I decided to set that back, too. The ordeal I’d been dreading turned out successfully, happily removing my fear of being a ‘Stoker’, as Dad called it.
Sunday, Mother and I did the needful things. On Monday, Buddy was able to help her a bit as the rest of us were all down with what proved to be the grippe. This second week of Dad’s absence seemed worse than the first, especially when Mother and Buddy suffered relapses on Tuesday. Fortunately, all were content to lie and rest. None had their usual hearty appetites. Isabelle could tend the baby and put wood on the fire occasionally. Wednesday morning, Mother was up and dressed, able to carry on for the remainder of the week. These facts, plus the faithfulness of the Parkers really ‘saved the day’ for our family, Mother claimed later.
Mr. Parker had come on Monday with liquids and another large lard pail of hot gruel, enough for two days. Wednesday, he brought meal to cook in case anyone still needed it. (Having seen Mother on his previous visit, he figure she was well.) Isabelle had been instructed not to mention the relapses so as not to worry or overtax our friends. We’d manage until Dad’s return. As it happened, the Parkers were to be away for a week or so.
Complete bed rest helped immeasurably. By Friday evening all were feeling much better and eagerly awaiting Dad’s arrival. Most had fallen asleep by the time Mother heard his familiar signal outside. As she approached the door he warned, “Hazel, don’t open the door yet and listen carefully. I’m not feeling well and will go over to the other cabin. Don’t enter it for any reason or let the children near it. We can’t risk the family getting sick”.
Mother asked what was wrong. Dad said, “I hate to bring home bad news but the fellow who worked beside me is very ill – with smallpox.” Then he asked her to set out a jar of water, and to bring light nourishment to his doorstep each evening. She could tell he was shaking with the chills, and hurried to hand out a warm blanket with the water. Praying for help in this new emergency, she was thankful that the small cabin across the clearing had been well-supplied with wood and bedding, as well as some medical and first aid remedies. Dad, as foreman, had lived there the preceding winter and liked to have things on hand in case of sickness or injuries among his men.
Of course we were disappointed that Dad’s illness prevented our seeing him. While Mother could face up to the possibility of it being smallpox, she didn’t want to burden us so she explained his isolations by saying that Dad thought it better to be over there and didn’t want anyone coming near to get his germs. Assuming he had the flu, we were willing to stay away from any further experience with that.
Dad had told Mother not to do anything unless his food remained untouched for three successive days, at which point she might want to send Buddy over to the Parkers’ and have them get help – but he didn’t feel it would be necessary. (He knew there was a great deal of sickness and it was hard to find a doctor.) During the next week the food stayed out two evenings in a row, and many earnest petitions shot heavenward. But the dreaded ‘three’ never came. Mother always called Dad’s name when she went over and after some days she heard a faint ‘thanks’. Later on, he began sending brief messages to his ‘kidlets’. When bits of his natural humor crept in, it gave our spirits a big lift.
Once the crisis was past, Mother sent the older children back to school. The Parkers returned and were very sorry to learn that Dad was on the sicklist. During their absence the man who tended their cows had placed our milk in the well-house so we coud pick it up when getting water. Groceries were left there also.
Mother finally got a letter off to Grandmother Smith, lest she become unduly concerned about us. When the reply came it was obvious that Grandmother, a practical nurse, hadn’t much time to think of mail. She was working ‘round the clock in a church-turned-hospital, caring for twenty patients the over-crowded hospitals had to turn away. This was the prelude to the great flu epidemic, which would sweep over vast areas.
I’m not sure how long dad was shut away from us. To his children, it seemed a sizable part of ‘forever’.
Finally the afternoon came when, following stringent measures to prevent further infection, Mother walked Dad across the clearing to our cabin. The six of us watched from the doorway, dismayed that Dad looked so thin, yet pleased to find the same old twinkle in his eye.
What a memorable hour we spent around the table that evening! Not that we remember the meal itself except for the delicious rolls and jam Mrs. Parker sent over for the occasion, but excitement reigned at being together again. We always plied Dad with questions about his experiences on the mail run, for he was an accomplished raconteur (a person who is skilled in relating stories and anecdotes interestingly). He frankly admitted that when he ran out of factual material, he just ‘pulled yarns out of the air’.
Then Dad had a question for Mother: Why did his family look so pindling (sickly) after a healthful summer out-of-doors? Mother told him briefly our ordeal with the flu during his absence, and of the Parkers’ timely aid. She gave credit to the children (ages 9, 7 and 6) who carried on when her strength gave out, and she could rest and pray. With tear-filled eyes Dad thanked God for bringing us safely through two real crises which could have turned out quite differently. Then his habitual smile broke through as he produced the long-awaited key. That smile spread family-wide. We could move into our new home! According to a saying in our household, everything was ‘just all right’ again!
Yes, little Sis, God was looking.
God Was Looking
by Minerva G. Beal
The summer before my sixth birthday (1917) our family took to the woods. Dad had to ship out a large consignment of lumber which his woods crew had prepared the previous winter and left to dry. He wanted the whole family to enjoy a month at the sawmill site while he transported the boards to the freight depot a couple miles away.
We stayed in a typical loggers cabin with over-sized cookstove and woodbox, a table and assorted chairs, a dry sink and four double bunks; adequate summer quarters for the eight of us. A solitary electric bulb was suspended from the rafters above the table, while a woodshed and outhouse behind the cabin completed the arrangements. Mother soon had the place looking homey with curtains, tablecloth and bedcoverings. One corner was curtained off for a dressing room.
Outside there was much to interest us. The mill had been removed but a veritable mountain of sawdust remained. We found a brook for wading and for catching lively little minnows which Mother insisted we return shortly to their natural habitat. There were woodsy paths, birds and small creatures, fireflies, frog choirs and whippoorwills. There was even an old railroad spur with handcar intact, ready to furnish many hours of enjoyment as we’d pump it up the slight incline and coast back to the platform. With neither house nor road in sight, we considered this delightful world very much our own.
Chores were done promptly and cheerfully because of adventures awaiting us. Nine-year-old Isabelle helped Mother with the morning work. Buddy, the only boy, was seven; he and I carried milk and drinking water from a farmhouse two long pastures away. Water for laundry and baths, we fetched from the brook. All three of us were ‘on call’ as other needs arose.
The time sped by. We expected to move to a neighboring town the first of September, but word came that the house would not be ready until October. So we stayed on. Dad was now a mail clerk on the train, leaving late Sunday and returning Friday evening with groceries. The two older children walked over to the farmhouse five days a week to get a ride on the “school team” (a horse drawn “school bus”).
October came and went with no further word concerning our house. The first Sunday in November, as Dad left for his mail run, he promised to check the possibility of our moving the following weekend.
The weather had been clear and cool. By Tuesday, it was raw. Late in the afternoon, Mother suggested bringing in extra wood. The sky was gray and we might get snow. “Before Thanksgiving?” Isabelle asked.
“It could happen”, Mother replied. It did happen. Snow began falling in the night and continued most of Wednesday. Then the wind swirled it against the windows until on Thursday morning, we seemed enclosed in a silent dusky vacuum. The little ones called for a lamp (there being no electric power) but Mother said we’d better keep the kerosene for emergencies, and take our cheer from the fire’s glow. She had been up the night before with Buddy, who was feverish and restless. By that afternoon, Mother looked so weary we had to ask her to rest awhile.
Mother couldn’t get up for supper so Isabelle took over the care of the baby and preparation of meal. She set the alarm clock in order to put wood in the fire that night, as the cabin was drafty. I helped with the household chores and amused the little ones.
All went well until Saturday morning when we awakened in a chilly room. The fire was out. Isabelle was unable to rise when the alarm went off. Mother urged us to stay under the covers until she could get the place warmed up. As she prayed for strength to do what must be done, the three-year-old asked, “Mommy, are you still sick?”
“Yes, but I’ll be fine very soon”, Mother reassured her.
“We prayed – are God looking? Will he help us?” the little girl persisted.
“Yes,” Mother answered firmly, then made her way over to the stove. She laid the wood in order and was just lighting a fire when a knock came at the door. Elderly Mr. Parker from the farmhouse called in – “Are you folks sick?”
“Some are,” Mother said. “It’s probably the grippe.” (former name for influenza). He sympathized and said they hadn’t been surprised when no one came over during the bad weather, then added, “You know, we can’t see your place, in cool weather when you have a fire we can see the smoke rise. This morning there wasn’t any, and Marthy got worried. She made some hot gruel just in case. I’ll set that and the water and milk inside then get some wood. There’s a note from Bill, probably delayed because of the freak storm. I can’t come in,” he added as he shoved things inside the door, “You know how Marthy frets about me picking up cold germs.”
Mother had to go back to bed. I served the gruel after we were reminded to be thankful for kind neighbors who had missed our smoke and lent a helping hand. Having just turned six and being in charge of the toddlers made me feel important, but it wouldn't have bothered me to exchange my 'authority' for some of the older ones' bossing on that long, lonesome Saturday.
Each day someone had been able to tend the fire. Now my turn came. Setting the two stovelids farther back on the stove, I shivered with nervousness, recalling that sometimes the crosspiece fell in an must be fished out of the hot coals. I decided to set that back, too. The ordeal I’d been dreading turned out successfully, happily removing my fear of being a ‘Stoker’, as Dad called it.
Sunday, Mother and I did the needful things. On Monday, Buddy was able to help her a bit as the rest of us were all down with what proved to be the grippe. This second week of Dad’s absence seemed worse than the first, especially when Mother and Buddy suffered relapses on Tuesday. Fortunately, all were content to lie and rest. None had their usual hearty appetites. Isabelle could tend the baby and put wood on the fire occasionally. Wednesday morning, Mother was up and dressed, able to carry on for the remainder of the week. These facts, plus the faithfulness of the Parkers really ‘saved the day’ for our family, Mother claimed later.
Mr. Parker had come on Monday with liquids and another large lard pail of hot gruel, enough for two days. Wednesday, he brought meal to cook in case anyone still needed it. (Having seen Mother on his previous visit, he figure she was well.) Isabelle had been instructed not to mention the relapses so as not to worry or overtax our friends. We’d manage until Dad’s return. As it happened, the Parkers were to be away for a week or so.
Complete bed rest helped immeasurably. By Friday evening all were feeling much better and eagerly awaiting Dad’s arrival. Most had fallen asleep by the time Mother heard his familiar signal outside. As she approached the door he warned, “Hazel, don’t open the door yet and listen carefully. I’m not feeling well and will go over to the other cabin. Don’t enter it for any reason or let the children near it. We can’t risk the family getting sick”.
Mother asked what was wrong. Dad said, “I hate to bring home bad news but the fellow who worked beside me is very ill – with smallpox.” Then he asked her to set out a jar of water, and to bring light nourishment to his doorstep each evening. She could tell he was shaking with the chills, and hurried to hand out a warm blanket with the water. Praying for help in this new emergency, she was thankful that the small cabin across the clearing had been well-supplied with wood and bedding, as well as some medical and first aid remedies. Dad, as foreman, had lived there the preceding winter and liked to have things on hand in case of sickness or injuries among his men.
Of course we were disappointed that Dad’s illness prevented our seeing him. While Mother could face up to the possibility of it being smallpox, she didn’t want to burden us so she explained his isolations by saying that Dad thought it better to be over there and didn’t want anyone coming near to get his germs. Assuming he had the flu, we were willing to stay away from any further experience with that.
Dad had told Mother not to do anything unless his food remained untouched for three successive days, at which point she might want to send Buddy over to the Parkers’ and have them get help – but he didn’t feel it would be necessary. (He knew there was a great deal of sickness and it was hard to find a doctor.) During the next week the food stayed out two evenings in a row, and many earnest petitions shot heavenward. But the dreaded ‘three’ never came. Mother always called Dad’s name when she went over and after some days she heard a faint ‘thanks’. Later on, he began sending brief messages to his ‘kidlets’. When bits of his natural humor crept in, it gave our spirits a big lift.
Once the crisis was past, Mother sent the older children back to school. The Parkers returned and were very sorry to learn that Dad was on the sicklist. During their absence the man who tended their cows had placed our milk in the well-house so we coud pick it up when getting water. Groceries were left there also.
Mother finally got a letter off to Grandmother Smith, lest she become unduly concerned about us. When the reply came it was obvious that Grandmother, a practical nurse, hadn’t much time to think of mail. She was working ‘round the clock in a church-turned-hospital, caring for twenty patients the over-crowded hospitals had to turn away. This was the prelude to the great flu epidemic, which would sweep over vast areas.
I’m not sure how long dad was shut away from us. To his children, it seemed a sizable part of ‘forever’.
Finally the afternoon came when, following stringent measures to prevent further infection, Mother walked Dad across the clearing to our cabin. The six of us watched from the doorway, dismayed that Dad looked so thin, yet pleased to find the same old twinkle in his eye.
What a memorable hour we spent around the table that evening! Not that we remember the meal itself except for the delicious rolls and jam Mrs. Parker sent over for the occasion, but excitement reigned at being together again. We always plied Dad with questions about his experiences on the mail run, for he was an accomplished raconteur (a person who is skilled in relating stories and anecdotes interestingly). He frankly admitted that when he ran out of factual material, he just ‘pulled yarns out of the air’.
Then Dad had a question for Mother: Why did his family look so pindling (sickly) after a healthful summer out-of-doors? Mother told him briefly our ordeal with the flu during his absence, and of the Parkers’ timely aid. She gave credit to the children (ages 9, 7 and 6) who carried on when her strength gave out, and she could rest and pray. With tear-filled eyes Dad thanked God for bringing us safely through two real crises which could have turned out quite differently. Then his habitual smile broke through as he produced the long-awaited key. That smile spread family-wide. We could move into our new home! According to a saying in our household, everything was ‘just all right’ again!
Yes, little Sis, God was looking.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Few Words About Gram
I came across the notes I had written down about Gram as I prepared to say a few words at her funeral this past January. It was tough to know exactly what to say, because she had been my lifelong mother, and we had shared so much through the years...
"Gram often relayed that she had wanted to be a teacher when she grew up, but God had called her to be a pastor's wife instead. What impressed me most about Gram was that she truly was the teacher she had always wanted to be, though not in a classroom.
She took me in when I was only eight months old. She taught me how to read and write, and how to tie my shoes. She even taught us girls at Boylston Home that we could learn to like our vegetables. More than the things she sat down to teach us, were the ways that her life helped us to learn lessons. By her life, she taught us things like courage, loyalty, trust, joy, and contentment. The most important lesson she taught us by her way of life was what it meant to love the Lord with all of one's life, heart and soul. She also taught us verses. She knew that the verses she quoted to us would remain in our hearts, even when she could no longer be with us. She taught us to pray, just as she taught us who Jesus was.
Even as she turned 98, she taught me that our spirits are not confined to our earthly bodies. Gram's spirit would soar to lofty heights in prayer, looking forward to the day when she would see Jesus face to face, even as she was confined to sit in her chair day after day.
Finally, Gram taught me how to let go toward the end as she would often speak with her eyes closed and her heart open. She spoke often of heaven. She talked of reunions. She taught me to hope for the day when we would be together again.
Though Gram was a very dear pastor's wife, she was the best teacher I ever had, and I will miss her terribly. May her lessons stay with us all as we continue forward in our own journeys."
"Gram often relayed that she had wanted to be a teacher when she grew up, but God had called her to be a pastor's wife instead. What impressed me most about Gram was that she truly was the teacher she had always wanted to be, though not in a classroom.
She took me in when I was only eight months old. She taught me how to read and write, and how to tie my shoes. She even taught us girls at Boylston Home that we could learn to like our vegetables. More than the things she sat down to teach us, were the ways that her life helped us to learn lessons. By her life, she taught us things like courage, loyalty, trust, joy, and contentment. The most important lesson she taught us by her way of life was what it meant to love the Lord with all of one's life, heart and soul. She also taught us verses. She knew that the verses she quoted to us would remain in our hearts, even when she could no longer be with us. She taught us to pray, just as she taught us who Jesus was.
Even as she turned 98, she taught me that our spirits are not confined to our earthly bodies. Gram's spirit would soar to lofty heights in prayer, looking forward to the day when she would see Jesus face to face, even as she was confined to sit in her chair day after day.
Finally, Gram taught me how to let go toward the end as she would often speak with her eyes closed and her heart open. She spoke often of heaven. She talked of reunions. She taught me to hope for the day when we would be together again.
Though Gram was a very dear pastor's wife, she was the best teacher I ever had, and I will miss her terribly. May her lessons stay with us all as we continue forward in our own journeys."
Thursday, August 19, 2010
In Loving Memory of Gram
Nearly a year ago, the first seeds for this blog were planted in my heart by Gram. As I wrote in my first post, Gram told me, "We must get the word out about God's love and share Him with others. That's why we're here!"
So much has changed since I first sat down to type at this same computer, praying that God would somehow work through Gram and myself as vessels for His use. The house, room, computer, chair, and probably even my wardrobe is unchanged, but Gram has gone on to her Eternal Home as is now praising the Lord face to face. I have grown as the experiences of love and loss have molded me into a more thoughtful and appreciative person. There have been nights when I have awakened, not knowing whether the noise I heard was Gram needing my help and then realized in the next instant that she is in Glory. I still love her. I continue to miss her. And yet, I realize the baton has been passed. It is my turn to run the race that is set before me, keeping my eyes on Jesus, the Author and Finisher of my faith. I am humbled that God chose me, among others, to be the ones who would take the baton from her.
Though time marches forward and days turn to memories quicker than we may want them to, Gram's theme remains central to my heart. She knew, at ninety-seven years old, that she and I were here to generously share God's love with others. It was her purpose, and it set my soul on fire. As I go through the rest of my life, it is my prayer that God will work in me and through me to continue on the path He chose for me the day Gram shared the joy of her existence. "That's why we're here!"
As a result of Gram's blog, I am also writing others, which are listed in the "about me" section. We all know Who these blogs are really about, though, don't we? I will continue to share thoughts and memories here, as well as some of Gram's own writing.
My newest blog is:
www.healingthelocustyears.blogspot.com
Though so much has changed in just a year's time, one promise remains steadfast:
Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever!
Thank you so much for letting me share my "Little Gram" with you!
So much has changed since I first sat down to type at this same computer, praying that God would somehow work through Gram and myself as vessels for His use. The house, room, computer, chair, and probably even my wardrobe is unchanged, but Gram has gone on to her Eternal Home as is now praising the Lord face to face. I have grown as the experiences of love and loss have molded me into a more thoughtful and appreciative person. There have been nights when I have awakened, not knowing whether the noise I heard was Gram needing my help and then realized in the next instant that she is in Glory. I still love her. I continue to miss her. And yet, I realize the baton has been passed. It is my turn to run the race that is set before me, keeping my eyes on Jesus, the Author and Finisher of my faith. I am humbled that God chose me, among others, to be the ones who would take the baton from her.
Though time marches forward and days turn to memories quicker than we may want them to, Gram's theme remains central to my heart. She knew, at ninety-seven years old, that she and I were here to generously share God's love with others. It was her purpose, and it set my soul on fire. As I go through the rest of my life, it is my prayer that God will work in me and through me to continue on the path He chose for me the day Gram shared the joy of her existence. "That's why we're here!"
As a result of Gram's blog, I am also writing others, which are listed in the "about me" section. We all know Who these blogs are really about, though, don't we? I will continue to share thoughts and memories here, as well as some of Gram's own writing.
My newest blog is:
www.healingthelocustyears.blogspot.com
Though so much has changed in just a year's time, one promise remains steadfast:
Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever!
Thank you so much for letting me share my "Little Gram" with you!
God Can Use That!
I just love my friend, Kathie. She and I get together for a weekly "prayer and share". Panicking, I told her when Guideposts called to let me know a photographer was coming for the photo shoot for my story. It seemed like the worst possible time for this!
I was in the middle of a physical battle that I seemed to be losing. Last summer, I received radiation to destroy my thyroid in an effort to put an end to a 15-plus year battle with Graves Disease. The thyroid affects the metabolism, along with virtually everything else in a person's body. Half my hair fell out. I packed on 40 pounds, even though the doctors kept adjusting my synthetic thyroid medicine, trying to find just the right dose. I had lost my job because I had what was called a Thyroid Storm, had to be put on heart pills to fend off a heart attack, and was rushed to the hospital three times, with a resting heart rate of nearly 200 beats per minute.
Though I came home to care for Gram, I was literally broke. I came home with the clothes on my back, and found that the meager belongings I had left here in NH were ruined in a basement flood.
After my radiation treatment, I began losing strength in the right side of my body. There were some days I could barely walk. I blamed everything on the radiation until I received an MRI. Referred to a neurologist, I was told there were several "spots" on my brain. The eventual diagnosis is Multiple Sclerosis, though there is really no difinitive test. The root cause of the Graves Disease, the MS, and the miscarriages is Autoimmune Disease. A phenomenon in which the body attacks itself.
I confided all this in Kathie, whining, "Why now, when I am struggling with all of this, my hair is still falling out in clumps, and I feel so fat?"
"God can use that!" she exclaimed with excitement.
Then, Kathie did something amazing. She gave me some clothes to wear for the "big day". She remained positive, where I was discouraged. She told me, "Everyone needs a girlfriend in times like these", dropping a huge bag of clothes on the living room floor.
Late at night, I would lie in my bed praying, "Please, God. Please, please, please find a way to make it possible for me to get my hair done. I also need a manicure. And some jewelry. You know I don't even have the money to grab something at the Dollar Store down the street. I'm so embarrassed. Every woman wants to feel pretty in a picture, and this picture is HUGE for me."
I did pray every night as the photo shoot loomed in the horizon. There were no gift baskets dropped down from heaven, and no rich uncle came forward. I determined in my heart that God must have a reason for me to go forward without the things I had so desperately prayed for. It could be that someone, somewhere might be able to relate to the thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged lady that I was. And I clung to Kathie's certainty that, "God can use that!"
The day the photographer called to say he was coming an hour early, my daughter, Shelli, my son's girlfriend, Kay, and I giggled and tore around the house trying to neaten up and slap make-up on my face. Kay brought over a colorful sweater, Shelli artfully applied eye shadow, and I fumbled with Kay's hair straightener. About five hundred frames later, the photographer left.
Guideposts came in the mail the other day. I waited for it like a little kid at Christmas. I was still walking through the door after work as my son, Danny announced, "Mom, your magazine came, and they sooo "photo-shopped" you!"
Passing the magazine around, the kids and I poured over the photos. Did I look like that thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged woman I was afraid of? Yes, I did, but my attention was drawn to the image of another woman on the pages, standing next to her husband, smiling.
She had white hair, no jewelry, no make-up, and was wearing a dress I had seen her in a million times before. She was my Gram, and she was lovely.
Suddenly, everything crashed into perspective as I realized that Gram's life was a thing of beauty. Flashy jewelry and a perfect manicure would have looked out of place on her snowy white skin. She had always been "just" Gram, yet to me, she was one of the most attractive women I have ever known.
When all was said and done, it all worked out the way it should have. The way God, in His wisdom, had planned it. I learned to be thankful for the opportunity to share my Gram with others, and her beauty was evident on each page. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
I was in the middle of a physical battle that I seemed to be losing. Last summer, I received radiation to destroy my thyroid in an effort to put an end to a 15-plus year battle with Graves Disease. The thyroid affects the metabolism, along with virtually everything else in a person's body. Half my hair fell out. I packed on 40 pounds, even though the doctors kept adjusting my synthetic thyroid medicine, trying to find just the right dose. I had lost my job because I had what was called a Thyroid Storm, had to be put on heart pills to fend off a heart attack, and was rushed to the hospital three times, with a resting heart rate of nearly 200 beats per minute.
Though I came home to care for Gram, I was literally broke. I came home with the clothes on my back, and found that the meager belongings I had left here in NH were ruined in a basement flood.
After my radiation treatment, I began losing strength in the right side of my body. There were some days I could barely walk. I blamed everything on the radiation until I received an MRI. Referred to a neurologist, I was told there were several "spots" on my brain. The eventual diagnosis is Multiple Sclerosis, though there is really no difinitive test. The root cause of the Graves Disease, the MS, and the miscarriages is Autoimmune Disease. A phenomenon in which the body attacks itself.
I confided all this in Kathie, whining, "Why now, when I am struggling with all of this, my hair is still falling out in clumps, and I feel so fat?"
"God can use that!" she exclaimed with excitement.
Then, Kathie did something amazing. She gave me some clothes to wear for the "big day". She remained positive, where I was discouraged. She told me, "Everyone needs a girlfriend in times like these", dropping a huge bag of clothes on the living room floor.
Late at night, I would lie in my bed praying, "Please, God. Please, please, please find a way to make it possible for me to get my hair done. I also need a manicure. And some jewelry. You know I don't even have the money to grab something at the Dollar Store down the street. I'm so embarrassed. Every woman wants to feel pretty in a picture, and this picture is HUGE for me."
I did pray every night as the photo shoot loomed in the horizon. There were no gift baskets dropped down from heaven, and no rich uncle came forward. I determined in my heart that God must have a reason for me to go forward without the things I had so desperately prayed for. It could be that someone, somewhere might be able to relate to the thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged lady that I was. And I clung to Kathie's certainty that, "God can use that!"
The day the photographer called to say he was coming an hour early, my daughter, Shelli, my son's girlfriend, Kay, and I giggled and tore around the house trying to neaten up and slap make-up on my face. Kay brought over a colorful sweater, Shelli artfully applied eye shadow, and I fumbled with Kay's hair straightener. About five hundred frames later, the photographer left.
Guideposts came in the mail the other day. I waited for it like a little kid at Christmas. I was still walking through the door after work as my son, Danny announced, "Mom, your magazine came, and they sooo "photo-shopped" you!"
Passing the magazine around, the kids and I poured over the photos. Did I look like that thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged woman I was afraid of? Yes, I did, but my attention was drawn to the image of another woman on the pages, standing next to her husband, smiling.
She had white hair, no jewelry, no make-up, and was wearing a dress I had seen her in a million times before. She was my Gram, and she was lovely.
Suddenly, everything crashed into perspective as I realized that Gram's life was a thing of beauty. Flashy jewelry and a perfect manicure would have looked out of place on her snowy white skin. She had always been "just" Gram, yet to me, she was one of the most attractive women I have ever known.
When all was said and done, it all worked out the way it should have. The way God, in His wisdom, had planned it. I learned to be thankful for the opportunity to share my Gram with others, and her beauty was evident on each page. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Mother's Day poem
I was listening to a minister preaching about God's design for Christian mothers yesterday, and I found a poem he had quoted by John Stiles. Though the poem is obviously written by a man, I embraced it as a tribute by a child to a loving mother. I would like to share it here, in memory and appreciation for the life and sacrificial love of Gram, the mother of my heart.
I have worshiped in churches and chapels. I have prayed in the busy street.
I have sought my God and have found Him where the waves of His ocean beat.
I have knealt in the silent forest in the shade of some ancient tree,
But the dearest of all my altars was at my mother's knee.
I have listened to God in His temple. I have caught His voice in the crowd.
I have heard Him speak where the breakers were booming long and loud,
Where the winds play soft in the tree tops, my God has talked to me,
But I have never heard Him clearer than I did at my mother's knee.
The things in my life that are worthy were born in my mother's breast,
And breathed into mine by the wonder of the love her life expressed,
The years that have brought me to manhood have taken her far from me,
But memory keeps me from straying too far from my mother's knee.
God, make me the man of her vision and purge me of selfishness.
God, keep me true to her standards and help me to live to bless.
God, hallow the holy impress of the days that used to be,
And keep me a pilgrim forever to the shrine at my mother's knee.
Gram's prayers often included the request, "Bless us and make us a blessing". This Mother's Day, I pray that I will never forget the blessings I received by Gram's life and that I will, by the grace of God, go on to be a blessing to future generations.
I have worshiped in churches and chapels. I have prayed in the busy street.
I have sought my God and have found Him where the waves of His ocean beat.
I have knealt in the silent forest in the shade of some ancient tree,
But the dearest of all my altars was at my mother's knee.
I have listened to God in His temple. I have caught His voice in the crowd.
I have heard Him speak where the breakers were booming long and loud,
Where the winds play soft in the tree tops, my God has talked to me,
But I have never heard Him clearer than I did at my mother's knee.
The things in my life that are worthy were born in my mother's breast,
And breathed into mine by the wonder of the love her life expressed,
The years that have brought me to manhood have taken her far from me,
But memory keeps me from straying too far from my mother's knee.
God, make me the man of her vision and purge me of selfishness.
God, keep me true to her standards and help me to live to bless.
God, hallow the holy impress of the days that used to be,
And keep me a pilgrim forever to the shrine at my mother's knee.
Gram's prayers often included the request, "Bless us and make us a blessing". This Mother's Day, I pray that I will never forget the blessings I received by Gram's life and that I will, by the grace of God, go on to be a blessing to future generations.
Friday, January 15, 2010
A Tribute (from 2000)
I came across this poem I had written for my little Gram ten years ago. I was a foster parent, myself, at the time. I thought I would share it now:
A Tribute (by Elizabeth Biggar Kelly)
The stairs seemed a little steeper as she carried the babe
Up the flight and to the room where gently she laid
Her down in her crib, then kissed her and prayed
Thanking God that through her vessel, His love He conveyed
Her white hair she let down and put her feet up at last
She prayed for the future and remembered the past
"Thou promised strength for today and surely Thou hast
been faithful from the first moment unto the last"
She looked at her husband and thanked God for one
Who had a passion to love and care for the young
He was valiant, yet tender, both funny and strong
Yes, theirs was a team she was glad to be on
These children they loved, from the youngest to old
Each came with mistrust and wounds from the cold
Day that brought them there needing her hand to hold
And harboring pain that could never be told
Sleep for tonight would be fleeting, at best
Soon there'd be breakfast to make and girls to get dressed
Then the house would buzz like a busy bee's nest
Her heart would be full, her life was so blessed!
Then she and the baby would begin the day
The house would be quiet, the dishes away
They would sing and read and sit down to play
She couldn't have known how close they would stay
For through the years as the little girl grew
She watched the old woman, and in her heart knew
She was living a life that was giving and true
And her heart whispered softly, "I want to be like you"
The young girl grew older and life hardened her heart
It was tough and mistrusting except for the part
That was kept safe from the rage and hurt's fiery dart
The love from the woman would never depart
Soon the girl was grown with her own busy home
She gave to her children, her daughters and sons
Those things she had learned and the love she had known
From the woman who held her when she felt alone
The vision remains in the girl's heart to this day
As she kisses boo-boo's and wipes tears away
From sweet, strange little faces who suffer and pay
For mistakes made by big people, and those who don't stay
The stairs seem a little steeper as she carries the babe
up the flight and to the room where gently she lays
Him down in his crib, then kisses him and prays
Thanking God that through her vessel, His love He conveys
"Thank you, Gram, for touching so many lives. I love you."
A Tribute (by Elizabeth Biggar Kelly)
The stairs seemed a little steeper as she carried the babe
Up the flight and to the room where gently she laid
Her down in her crib, then kissed her and prayed
Thanking God that through her vessel, His love He conveyed
Her white hair she let down and put her feet up at last
She prayed for the future and remembered the past
"Thou promised strength for today and surely Thou hast
been faithful from the first moment unto the last"
She looked at her husband and thanked God for one
Who had a passion to love and care for the young
He was valiant, yet tender, both funny and strong
Yes, theirs was a team she was glad to be on
These children they loved, from the youngest to old
Each came with mistrust and wounds from the cold
Day that brought them there needing her hand to hold
And harboring pain that could never be told
Sleep for tonight would be fleeting, at best
Soon there'd be breakfast to make and girls to get dressed
Then the house would buzz like a busy bee's nest
Her heart would be full, her life was so blessed!
Then she and the baby would begin the day
The house would be quiet, the dishes away
They would sing and read and sit down to play
She couldn't have known how close they would stay
For through the years as the little girl grew
She watched the old woman, and in her heart knew
She was living a life that was giving and true
And her heart whispered softly, "I want to be like you"
The young girl grew older and life hardened her heart
It was tough and mistrusting except for the part
That was kept safe from the rage and hurt's fiery dart
The love from the woman would never depart
Soon the girl was grown with her own busy home
She gave to her children, her daughters and sons
Those things she had learned and the love she had known
From the woman who held her when she felt alone
The vision remains in the girl's heart to this day
As she kisses boo-boo's and wipes tears away
From sweet, strange little faces who suffer and pay
For mistakes made by big people, and those who don't stay
The stairs seem a little steeper as she carries the babe
up the flight and to the room where gently she lays
Him down in his crib, then kisses him and prays
Thanking God that through her vessel, His love He conveys
"Thank you, Gram, for touching so many lives. I love you."
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