Category Archives: Saying Goodbye

Trying out Traditions

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Some of my widow friends have advised me to keep family traditions just as they’ve always been in this first year after Nate’s death. Others have said it will be too difficult to stick with the old because Nate will be missing, so new traditions are the way to go. As we approach another “first”, actually a series of firsts, (Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day), none of us is sure what to do.

Marshall Fields Sign

Today we decided to continue a time-honored family tradition, eating dinner under the Marshall Fields/Macy’s Christmas tree. Downtown Chicago is always dressed to the nines for the holidays, and Fields in particular goes over the top. Just stepping in off the street causes people to start clicking cameras at the massive glittering displays overhead and in every aisle.

Each year since Nelson was 11 months, Nate and I have taken the kids to the Walnut Room for dinner, late in December. We used to dress them in their festive best and wait up to two hours to get a table. But we were together, and anticipation was half the fun. Nate would walk over from his office three blocks away to get in line as the rest of us  were making our way to the Loop from the suburbs on a train. When the kids were little, the train trip was a highlight, despite frigid wait-times on the “L” platform. Zooming into the subway section of the ride was as good as being at Disneyland.

Fields decorations

When we arrived at the store, we’d find Nate in line with hundreds of other traditionalists. He’d say, “I’ll hold the coats if you want to run around the store.” His arms filled with hefty winter wear, mounded nearly to his eyes, and he’d holler after us, “Check back every fifteen minutes!”  These days Fields/Macy’s hands out pagers, and we have the convenience of cell phones, so no one has to wait in line. The down side is everyone has to hold their own coat.

There were just six of us this year. Our Florida family is readying for the birth of their baby boy. Our British family is saving their dollars anticipating spring-time twins. But the other five kids and I decided we’d pursue the same plan as always, dinner in the Walnut Room.

Fields Tree

I didn’t anticipate it would be so difficult. As Nelson and I drove in from Michigan, we talked about how this was Nate’s kind of event, his family gathered around him and good food served in a fancy restaurant with excellent service. He always tipped the waitresses extra, knowing they had families to buy gifts for, wanting to brighten their lives. Sometimes he tipped them 40%. I used to glance at what he handed them and say, “Really? Is that much necessary?” Of course it wasn’t, but on this annual occasion, he always did it.

Tonight as we studied the familiar menus, I looked at the end of the table where Nate always sat and couldn’t hold back the tears. It seemed so wrong that he wasn’t there championing the dinner as he always had. I muttered through my tears, “Papa would have had the lobster bisque and chicken pot pie.” Heads nodded around the table.

“And a sugar cookie,” Lars said, “about an inch thick, mostly frosting.”

Fields Windows, Fam. Picture

We got through it, but it was a major effort. I cried most of the way back to Michigan, longing so badly to connect with Nate on this particular day. Grieving is a slow process, I guess, and falling tears are part of moving forward. It’s encouraging to know, from friends who’ve already done this, that grieving does eventually end. I can’t imagine what that will feel like, but as always, I choose to believe the ones who know what they’re talking about.

“Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think.” (Ephesians 3:20)

The Ties that Bind

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Nate was big on holidays. Our firstborn was 11 months old on his first Christmas, and we bought the little guy 17 presents. It was a classic case of overkill, and as any experienced parent could have predicted, he was crying with frustration by the end of the unwrapping session. All he wanted was the first gift, the one we ripped out of his hands so we could put the second gift into them, then the third, etc.

Last Christmas, our 36th with children, we each drew one name from a hat and bought one gift for that person. Whew… a much wiser, calmer Christmas morning. That’s not to say, however, we still didn’t lean toward extremes now and then. Take Nate’s approach to holiday neck ties. He loved receiving a new tie, and every year under the tree there was sure to be a long, flat box foretelling he was about to receive another one. Tie-buying children thought he would be disappointed with such a humble gift, but Nate lovingly wore his ties to the frayed stage, bragging about which child had purchased which one.

Christmas ties

Altogether he had over 100 neckties, and I accused him of tie-gluttony. More than 40 of them had holiday themes. He wore candy hearts on Valentine’s Day, shamrocks on St. Patrick’s Day, purple plaid on Easter, flags on the 4th of July, pilgrims on Thanksgiving, and balloons on New Year’s Day. But the category with the greatest abundance was Christmas.

Nate had enough Christmas ties not to have to repeat even once during the holiday season. Although he had snowmen, Santas, nativity scenes, Snoopy and Christmas trees, his favorite was a red tie with big candy canes on it. That was also the one with the most salad dressing stains, the price it paid for peak popularity.

Nate’s ties became legendary at the office, or should I say comical. His last day at work was September 23, and we returned once after that, ostensibly to say goodbye. That last visit was bittersweet for Nate and also for his office mates, some who had tears in their eyes. Hugs were plentiful, and although no one said it with words, we all knew each was the last. That kind of goodbye must rank among life’s most painful experiences.

Nate’s co-workers knew he was coming that day and prepared a loving gesture that touched us both deeply. They wore holiday neckties and jewelry, even though it was October. Nate got the joke right away and appreciated their effort. I wondered as the twenty or so of us sat in the conference room if he let his thoughts travel to the coming Christmas season and his own tie wardrobe, wondering if he might make it that far. Knowing he knew it was unlikely is a grievous thought.

A couple of weeks ago, I brought the holiday ties out of their storage basket where they’d been rolled neatly since last January. We spread them on the dining room table, and all of us enjoyed handling these remembrances of Nate. “Oh, I remember this one most of all,” Birgitta said. “This reminds me so much of Papa.”

“I want to keep this one,” Louisa said.

“And I want that one,” someone else chimed in.

We sent a few ties to friends we knew would take pleasure in having them and bundled the rest into a box to send to the office. Some could be worn. Others could be used as decorations. All would be appropriate reminders of a guy who dearly loved each of his co-workers.

Our church hymnal has a song entitled “Blest Be the Tie that Binds.” Written in the late 1700’s, it refers to the sweet bond of friendship, a “fellowship of kindred minds” and says, “Our fears, our hopes, our aims are one.” The last verse talks about Nate’s final visit to the office: “When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain; but we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.”

May Nate’s Christmas ties be the “tie that binds.”

“Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.” (Romans 12:15)




Death and winter both sting.

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I hadn’t been to the cemetery where Nate’s body is buried since November 17, nearly a month ago, and hadn’t planned on revisiting this week. But a friend made a beautiful decoration out of three kinds of evergreens, gathered together with a generous bow of green ribbon, and said, “For Nate’s grave, if you go to the cemetery any time soon.” I’d been in town visiting friends and attending Christmas functions for a few days and was within driving distance, so decided I’d go. I knew Mary Jo’s spray of greens would look nice on Nate’s grave.greens on snow

I arrived late in the afternoon when the sun was taking on a red hue close to the horizon. It cast a striking peachy glow on the cemetery headstones, reminding me of Mom’s playful word for a grave yard: marble orchard. The wind was whipping at my long, black coat, and the thermometer was on its way down to six degrees. Funeral flowers had been cleared away, but Nate’s grave was still marked by the shape of relatively new sod.

Once again I felt queasy as I thought of Nate’s body lying six feet under the frozen ground. His body was frozen, too, which was difficult to ponder. I had to think away from it, reminding myself of Nate’s warm, lively existence with God.

Mary arrived, coming from a different direction of the city, and together we laid Mary Jo’s creation on Nate’s grave. The wind blew at the bow and long ribbons, trying to assert itself but failing to blow away the arrangement. We huddled together for warmth and talked about Nate.cemetery, sunset

“I still can’t believe it really happened,” Mary said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t seem real.”

I felt the same way. My mind fast-forwarded to the coming Memorial Day when our extended family traditionally meets on the spot where Mary and I were standing. None of us had known on Memorial Day, 2009, that Nate would be buried there by Memorial Day, 2010.

Did Nate have pancreatic cancer silently present in his body last May, when we all gathered at the cemetery? No doubt he did. Would it have been easier to take his diagnosis, had we known? Probably not. We would have had knowledge sooner, and the doctor would have given him a slightly better answer to the question of how much time he had left. But with death coming as a certainty, is it positive or negative to know for a longer period of time?

I thought of the Scripture verse, “O death, where is your sting?”, a rhetorical question implying that death’s sting has disappeared.  (1 Corinthians 15:55) Standing in that cemetery shivering, my dominating thought was, “Nate’s death did sting!”

But that was only my selfish point of view. What about Nate’s perspective? From where he stands (or sits or dances or flies), he’s not feeling the sting. Christ Jesus took the “stinger” out of death.

Mary and I prayed together, thanking the Lord for Nate’s life and influence before we climbed into our cars and headed for the cemetery gate. The sun had gone down ten minutes before, and darkness was settling in around us. When we arrived at the exit, Rose Hill’s giant iron gates were locked tight. The sign next to them read, “Cemetery closes at 4:00 PM. Don’t get locked in.”

As we sat locked in, wondering what to do, a grounds keeper suddenly appeared with a key and a lecture. “Look at that big sign,” he said, disgust in his voice. “What does it say?” Muttering, he unlocked the gates and let us pass through, preventing a miserable night for us. The sting would have been in our freezing fingers and toes as car engines ran out of gas and heaters stopped. We were exceedingly grateful.

“He will swallow up death for all time, and the Lord God will wipe tears away from all faces. And it will be said in that day, ‘Behold, this is our God for whom we have waited that he might save us. This is the Lord for whom we have waited. Let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.’ “ (Isaiah 25:8a,9)