Category Archives: Thankfulness

Forgetting and remembering

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Yesterday at breakfast Linnea asked me, “Are you thinking about Papa?”

I answered, “Every minute.”

His face and influence fill my mind. Reminders of him are everywhere, and even though they are bittersweet, I’m thankful for them.

This afternoon when I was in the bathroom, I thought I heard Nate’s voice in the living room. For that split second, he was back. When I realized the voice belonged to Hans, I was yanked again to the nauseating reality of his permanent absence, and it hurt. I was glad for that instant when life was as it had been.

Nate was a man who enjoyed a regular routine. He would leave the office at the same moment every afternoon, climb on the same train and drive from the station to our house within a minute or two of the same time every evening.

He also delighted in the same bedtime routine each night, and part of his routine for himself was doing something for me. Knowing I liked to have water at my bedside, he’d fill a big glass and set it on my night stand. When I saw him walking toward the bedroom with that glass, I’d always say, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can get it.”

But he’d always respond, “I want to do it.”small glass of water

After we learned of his cancer, he continued the water glass ritual. Our bedroom at the cottage was upstairs, and that 14 step climb became more and more difficult for him. Even after he should have been holding tightly to the railing, he used that hand to carry up my water instead.

Nate began his bedtime routine earlier and earlier as the cancer wore him out. I would climb on the bed with him each evening to read emails, blog comments and greeting cards until he fell asleep. Then I’d go back downstairs to continue working. When I’d finally be ready for bed, I’d step quietly into our dark bedroom and head for my night stand, carefully feeling for the water glass. Without fail, it was always there.

I remember so well the night I came into the room well after midnight, hearing Nate’s deep breathing. I felt for my water glass, but it wasn’t there for the first time in literally years. That jolted me.

The next morning I made a point of thanking him for being so kind in always bringing the water to my bedside, explaining how I felt for it in the dark each night. When it was always there, I told him, my thought was, “He’s faithful.” I didn’t mention  the glass hadn’t been there the night before. It was the beginning of the end for that part of Nate’s routine. Increased pain and intense fatigue were responsible.

When he could no longer do it, I tried to remember to do it myself but never could. Just as I was climbing into bed I’d think, “Oh. The water,” and head back to the kitchen for a glass. Last night was the first time I remembered to get the water before actually going to the bedroom. When I’d been forgetting the water, it was a sweet reminder of Nate’s faithful care, because as I headed back to the kitchen to get it, I thought fondly of him. But remembering the water was a mini-forgetting of Nate, and sadness ran through me when I realized it.

And I guess this is how it will go. Remembering, forgetting, remembering, forgetting.

“[I] give thanks to God always for you, making mention of you in [my] prayers, constantly bearing in mind your work of faith and labor of love.” (1 Thessalonians 1:2-3)

”I will remember… in the night. I will meditate with my heart, and my spirit ponders.” (Psalm 77:6)

Comic Relief During Dark Days

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We’re doing a great deal of reminiscing about Nate these days, especially in reference to the last couple of weeks of his life. The kids and I are still eating dinner in the living room in front of the fire, just like we used to do with Nate. Tonight we got to laughing about some of the silly moments God sprinkled among the sad ones.

Nelson remembered a phone call Nate made to him from our car as we were driving from Chicago back to Michigan. Nate was under the influence of several drugs at the time and spoke slowly, deliberately. He mixed up the names of the children as he made reference to them in his voice mail and chatted at length about miscellaneous details. Then he began thanking Nelson for all he’d done to help us.

“Thank you… sooo much… for… everything,” he said, repeating it three times. After a pause, he concluded the long message with, “In Jesus name, Amen. Goodbye.”

Linnea had been in the car at the time, and we caught each other’s gaze in the rear view mirror, giggling through our eyes. Nate never caught his mistake, and tonight we enjoyed remembering how he was in a near-prayer mindset that day, even when conversing on the phone.

A second silly situation happened the night before the day of Nate’s death. God saw the heaviness we all felt because of what was coming and knew we needed to laugh. Mary and I were keeping watch overnight for the third night in a row, Mary on a straight backed chair at Nate’s feet and me in a wing chair at his head. Those were the only spots to squeeze chairs into the room except for one little corner where our overnight nurse, Dee, sat on a short stool.

During that long night, all of us battled to stay awake, not wanting Nate to slip away without our attention and love. Mary gradually slumped to her side as sleep overtook her, and at one point she opened her eyes and saw Dee’s knee and leg right in front of her. She asked herself, “Is my head in Dee’s lap?” Mortified by the thought but too exhausted to do anything about it, she closed her eyes and told herself, “If I’m on top of Dee, it’s really comfortable.”

In reality she’d been on a pillow, but had she been in Dee’s lap, Dee would have been fine with that. Such was the nature of the tender-hearted Hospice nurses.

The last humorous episode occurred at a time when no one ought to be thinking funny thoughts. It was at Nate’s grave site at Rose Hill Cemetery. I was seated in the center chair immediately in front of the casket, sitting next to Linnea and holding a red rose.

After the pastor had finished his scriptural remarks and a prayer, the funeral director asked me if I wanted to put my rose on top of the casket before it went down. Of course I did, but I’d just realized one of my thigh-high nylons had lost its grip and was sliding down my leg. It was perched just beneath my knee, directly under my hem line, and when I stood up I knew it would go sliding to my ankle.

I turned to Linnea and said, “My nylon is at my knee and going down. What should I do?”

“Pull it up,” she whispered. But a row of people standing to the right would have seen that move. I would have had to reach under my skirt, grab the edge and reveal a full leg to the audience, right at that very sad time. Linnea and I did something absolutely incongruous for that moment. We giggled.

Feeling pressure to stand and put my rose on the casket, I pressed my knees together, hoping to pin the wayward nylon, and took a mini-step in that direction, laying my rose down and stepping back into my chair immediately.

As soon as the casket had been lowered into the grave, Linnea said, “You’d better get up, Mom. No one will leave until you do.”

I stood with my knees together and hobbled quickly to our mini-van, which was close by, catching the nylon’s plunge just as I stepped into the car. I’m sure the pastor, whom I didn’t stop to thank, figured my hasty exit was a response to overwhelming grief.

”A glad heart makes a cheerful face, but by sorrow of heart the spirit is crushed.” (Proverbs 15:13)

Widow for One Week

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It’s been seven days since Nate died. All day I’ve been mentally replaying the hours of that significant day, dwelling on them, savoring them (although that sounds strange) and sharing them somehow with Nate. Those sharing times are all but over, though, and the distance between us will feel greater and greater as the days pass.

My heart craves quietness. As is true of anyone who’s lost someone precious, I want to spend time thinking about Nate. Talking about him is satisfying, too, but that isn’t always possible. It seems important to go over the last weeks in mental detail. I don’t know if I’m looking for negatives or positives, but I want to look back for a while. People tell me I should have a future focus, and I’m sure I will eventually, but right now I’m all about remembering.

Today I went on my first outing alone in weeks. It was strange to be running errands by myself, and it occurred to me I didn’t have to watch the clock, since Nate wouldn’t be waiting for me at home, a bittersweet discovery. As I mingled with busy crowds of strangers, it made me lonely to realize not one of them knew about my husband’s death. I wondered if anyone would look at my worn out face with the smudged mascara and care that I was sad.

On the drive home at 5:30, which I decided to take at a speed below the limit, the overcast sky had one thin band of blue just above the horizon. Although we hadn’t seen the sun all day, as I headed south, suddenly it broke through with brilliance, turning the clouds to gold. During those fifteen miles the sky became iridescent with color, and I absolutely had to find a place to get a better view.

Pulling off at an exit with a “State Park” sign, I ended up in a deserted beachfront parking lot facing the lake and the sunset. “Great is Thy Faithfulness” came on the radio, and it seemed natural to talk out loud to God.

“What do you want me to be thinking about right now?” I asked him.

“The heavens declare the glory of God,” he answered with a quote from Scripture, “and the firmament shows his handiwork.” (Psalm 19:1)

“Yes,” I responded. “You do spectacular work. The sky is magnificent. You are magnificent. I love you.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk to the Lord right there in my minivan. Yet it was a conversation with someone I couldn’t see, touch or hear audibly. Was I crazy?

I’ve been sure of God’s closeness as we’ve walked through the last seven weeks of disease and death. He’s shown himself in the details all along the way, not literally like a hiding person might peek around the corner but like the wind might move something, proving its reality. And if he is really near, why not talk to him?

I am a widow. Even though my week-long status is settling over me with a mixture of sorrow and heartache, that’s what I am. But it’s not all bad. The Bible is full of passages making mention of women in this category. God promises special protection for us and deals harshly with anyone who harms us. We’re to be relieved of burdens too heavy to carry, and we’re to look to others to plead our case as needed.

Looking at these verses stunned me. I knew widows were close to God’s heart, but I never “owned” the Scriptures like I do now. My favorite passage (below) makes me realize it was perfectly fine to talk out loud to the Lord in my car this afternoon. He says he is stepping into Nate’s position in my life, and I completely believe him.

“Your Maker is your husband, the Lord of hosts is his name, and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer, the God of the whole earth he is called.” (Isaiah 54:5)