As Birgitta and I entered the cottage under the weight of our traveling burdens tonight, I set mine down near the fireplace. My eyes fell on Nate’s wooden cane in the corner there, standing just where he left it nearly six months ago. Although Hospice had provided a wheeled walker and a wheelchair for his use and safety, he preferred the cane.
I remember the day Nate received that cane from the University of Illinois in the fall of 1969, when he was a second year law student. My memory is muddy as to the reason some of the students got canes and white straw hats to go with them, but the day he brought them home to our little apartment, his mood was upbeat and silly.
The two of us had fun with his cane and hat that night, laughing at each other as we attempted stunts and dressed up to snap photos. (Poverty stricken grad students have to find fun wherever they can.)
Tonight the cane represented something entirely different: cancer and weakness. As the days of last October went by, Nate’s ability to support his own weight waned, and he needed assistance to walk and stand. Even then, he pushed himself to take short trips outdoors, several each day. When he first started using the cane, he felt fresh confidence and refused other assistance. But gradually he needed a hand, then two helpers, one on each side, and finally couldn’t continue at all.
Despite the difficulties of these walks, they offered several things to Nate. The weather last fall was spectacular, and the entire neighborhood glowed gold with its backdrop of yellow maples. The exercise did Nate good, helping to keep him relaxed with so much lazy-boy time and no other outlet for his nervous energy. And it was a sweet time of conversation and companionship for whomever was assisting him.
Several of us went on his last walk, which occurred four days before he died. We slowly walked down our narrow lane to the corner, and I was the one holding his hand. He gripped the cane in his other hand and tapped acorns along the way, sometimes using it to bang them open with a sharp blow. We came to the turn in the road, and I suggested we go back, since he was getting wobbly. “We’re not quite at the end yet,” he said. “I’ll tell you when.”
We paced four more steps to a crack that ran across the asphalt. “There,” he said. “Now we turn around.” He wanted to do it “all the way,” just as he’d done before. I had to admire that spunk.
His cane, now resting in the corner gathering dust, was put to good use, both in 1969 and 2009. Once in a while we all need to lean on something when we’re feeling weak. When a hand isn’t enough, we need a cane. When that, too, is insufficient, we climb in a wheelchair, and after that, a bed. And in the end, when nothing at all but weakness remains, we lean, at long last, on God alone.
“Even to your old age I am He, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” (Isaiah 46:4)
It is my turn to be in Florida this time…visiting my 87-year old parents. These verses are such a comfort, thank you for sharing them. “My times are in your hands.” Psalm 31:15
Dear Margaret, I do read your entry every day and pray for you but don’t always write. I love that picture of you and Nate walking together. Someday you will do that again with great vigor and freedom but the street will be gold and there won’t be any cracks in it.
I have passed on your entrys and invited some of my friends who have lost mates to join me in being blessed by your sharing with us not only your journey thru this difficult time but God’s ministry to you as well.
May you have a blessed day today dear Margaret. God Bless
I remember that walk. I am glad i went…
I’m so thankful for the last two months we all had together. Great photo.
Beautiful thoughts, Margaret. Thank you.
Beautiful thoughts today, Margaret, that cane bridging the decades and adding a line to the life cycle in Ecclesiastes- there is a time to perform stunts with a cane, and a time to lean heavily upon it.
The picture down the lane is poignant, a glimpse of so many aspects of our humanity, the kind that would inspire framing with a meaningful verse to capture that moment.
Love,
Terry
I love you.
That last paragraph says it all. We might as well humble ourselves along the way of life because old age or illness is going to finish the job. Humility is the most beautiful thing on this earth. May we allow Him to humble us that He might truly see Christ in us….our only hope.
Reading these memories of love is like “to be very close to our Father” and to be in His Holy presence – because sharing your memories, pain and longings with us is very prescious and fragile. Thank you for being so extremely vulnerable
There’s a song we used to sing in church “Precious Memories – how they linger oh, the joy that floods my soul”….how precious are yours, Midge, and tho your soul rejoices in where he is now…I know it longs to have him near….beautiful thoughts, thanks for sharing them.
Please frame this meaningful photo, which can be interpreted in so many ways. I immediately thought of this Bible verse: Isaiah 61:3. Look at those trees in the background.
Lovely, beautiful, insightful, personal, memories of great worth.
While looking at the picture of Nate and Hans (I think?) I broke down in tears. I’m struck again at what a huge loss you’ve had. I am so thankful for the pictures you post of Nate. It is good to see him. I continue to pray for you daily. I love you.
Dear Margaret, What a beautiful post and what a poignant picture. I find myself using a cane right now — temporarily I trust. But it’s a wonderful thing to have when you need it. And the hand to hold reminds me of the song: “Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, help me stand.” I don’t open my home computer every day, so sometimes I read your posts 2 or more at a time, but appreciate every one.
Blessings & love, Ruth