A new , old resolution

I will survive this. That is my new year's resolution. It's not really a new one for me, but it's needed again. Because of the circumstances facing me many years ago, I made the resolution that I will survive this. "This" meant loneliness, depression, uncertainty, doubt, anger, grief, fear, exhaustion, lack of money, whatever the situation was at the time.

The key to survival was gritting my teeth, speaking my mind to God, and determining to get through it. Then whether or not I felt like it, whether or not it was done in sincerity or hypocrisy, I chose to praise God. Thank God. Worship God. My heart wasn't full of gratitude, it was full of hurt and bitterness, but I walked around in my bedroom and praised God anyway, even as I told him that I didn't really mean it.

Gradually the depression and self-pity lifted. Gradually the praise became sincere and I could feel something other than sorry for myself. Like repentance. I could ask God to forgive me for holding a grudge, forgive me for not trusting him more, and ask for his help in starting my life over. And of course my life did start over. I did survive.

As 2009 is about to begin, I need to make that resolution again. I still miss Tim so much and it's been two years now. I think about him all during the day, imagining who he's talking to, what he's working on, the kind of day he's having. Some days I feel completely in limbo, just treading water really. I know he wouldn't be pleased with that and I know the Lord isn't pleased with that.

It's time for survival mode again, and that's my new year's resolution.

Anniversaries

Tomorrow is the second anniversary of Tim's death. Christmas Day would have been our 24th wedding anniversary. And Christmas Eve-Eve (23rd) would have been the 20th anniversary of Tim's double transplant surgery in Minnesota.

Today was harder than most people will ever know for me. It took an extra effort for me to go to Sunday School and church, come home and prepare lunch for myself, chat with a friend who needed something notarized, and talk on the phone with my son for a while.

I wanted to just curl up in bed and maybe watch an old movie, but instead I checked my email and Facebook account and wrote early happy birthday notes to several Facebook pals - tomorrow is their actual birthday.

Never once did I or anyone else mention the date, although I have certainly thought about it a lot in the last few days.

I got a phone call yesterday morning from a woman asking to speak to Timothy. I asked, "May I ask why you're calling?" She said she was calling from the University of Minnesota Transplant registry office. So I told her that Tim died December 15, 2006 and that the Transplant team had been notified about it at that time.

She apologized several times, saying that the "call list" had never been updated. She seemed truly sorry, but we didn't speak any further than that. I have no idea the purpose of the call, but it could have been a fund-raising call since they occasionally do that.

Also yesterday I did donate the clothing to the Hispanic ministry, as well as the Suzuki keyboard that I never use. Annette said that they'd had a break-in at their church building and everything they owned had been stolen, including musical instruments, so they were very glad to get the keyboard. And I was very glad they could use it.

Sally had taken me out to lunch for Christmas, then came back to the condo with me and we chatted for a while. She was still here when Annette came, and she helped carry the items out for Annette. We didn't talk about the date then, either, although we did talk casually about Tim in passing.

Later on Sally emailed me the little story below. It's made the rounds before but it was timely and it certainly reflects the way I feel about dying. Whenever my thoughts go back two years, I can feel Tim and the Lord re-directing my thoughts to the present, to the way things are for him now in heaven, and I make the conscious effort not to look back.

Here's the story...
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There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in order," she contacted her pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes. She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.

Everything was in order and the pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her. "There's one more thing," she said excitedly.

"What's that?" came the pastor's reply. "This is very important," the young woman continued. "I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand." The pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.

"That surprises you, doesn't it?" the young woman asked. "Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the pastor. The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story, and from there on out, I have always done so. I have also always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement.

"In all my years of attending church socials and potluck dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming ... like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie, something wonderful, with substance!

"So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder, 'What's with the fork?' Then I want you to tell them: "Keep your fork ... the best is yet to come."

The pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.

At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw the pretty dress she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the pastor heard the question "What's with the fork?" And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her.

The pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either. He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it remind you ever so gently, that the best is yet to come.

Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when it may be their time to "Keep your fork."

Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share. Being friends with someone is not an opportunity, but a sweet responsibility. Send this to everyone you consider a FRIEND even if it means sending back to the person who sent it to you. And keep your fork!

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Those are my sentiments, too, so I'm sharing this little story with whoever reads this.

Another step forward

Christmas time, still reflecting...

I realized one day, looking at the box of Tim's clothes in the bedroom and at his clothes still hanging in the closet, that if I wait much longer to donate them to someone, they won't be usable. Wrinkles will get to be too permanent, material dried out and a bit brittle, that sort of thing. Plus, if I keep looking at them every time I get something of my own out of the closet, I'll just keep hurting myself, afresh and anew. It's time to have them picked up by one of the local ministries.

One time years ago we called the boys' home over in Darlington, after Tim's transplant surgery when he had put on a lot of weight and we had essentially bought him a whole new wardrobe. They were very grateful to get all the shirts and pants, plus sports coats that he couldn't fit into any more. I may call them again.

I haven't seen any of Tim's family now in quite a while. I called and left a message on Angie's voice mail but didn't get a return call. I mailed Liam a birthday present, a book from Toys R Us, no card in it or anything, thinking Angie would probably call before the 11th - Liam will turn 4 years old that day.

While I was at Toys R Us I went ahead and bought both kids Christmas gifts, but I'll wait another week to mail those, this time with a card. I won't be giving any adult Christmas presents this year due to the state of everybody's finances. Hopefully 2009 will be a better year, eventually, and next Christmas we can go back to our normal gift-exchanging routine.

I remember the first Christmas Tim and I were dating, when between the both of us we went to about 20 different parties, some of which were gift-exchanging events. Tim was a member of the American Diabetic Association, the Heart Association, Federation for the Blind, Full Gospel Businessmen, Civitans, plus some other groups in Williamsburg and Florence Counties. Then there were employers (mine), churches, Sunday School classes, political get-togethers, you name it, if it had a party, we went to it.

A lot of the gifts we exchanged were "white elephant" types - give something you already have or something cheap. Some were serious, some were gags, and none cost much if anything. I still have at least one of those - a small casserole dish, hand-painted. I like it and use it once in a while.

At almost all of those parties, we sang traditional Christmas carols and funny children's songs (Up on the Housetop and All I Want for Christmas, for instance, and Jingle Bells). We ate the traditional holiday goodies (sugar-free ones for Tim since he was still diabetic in those days) and enjoyed catching up on news with everybody.

Over the years the numbers of parties dwindled and the groups changed somewhat, but after Tim's transplant he could eat sweets so we still consumed quite a few Christmas calories every year! It will be a much quieter holiday this year, all in all. But with or without presents, with or without high-calorie snacks, the reason for the season is still there.

Thinking, just thinking...

Today is December 1st, 2008. Nearly two years since Tim died. The past couple of weeks I've had a hard time getting into the "holiday spirit," having to try hard to be cheerful for other people's sake. This Thanksgiving was the first one in my entire life that I did not spend with family, either my own or in-laws, and it wasn't much fun. I went over to Trinity church to eat dinner. The church prepares a full meal for the House of Hope residents (men and women's homes) and the Hispanic ministry, plus singles and elderly couples who don't want to cook for themselves.

I sat with the "other" Betty Cox and her husband S.L., both in their 80's now, and Edna Fludd, age 96, plus Perry Mobley, now 80 years old. He is our interim pastor again - he was our founding pastor, actually, many years ago. His wife Jean was helping out in the kitchen so she came and sat with us only for a few minutes. There was one other "youngster" at our table, a woman who is probably half my age.

It was a strange meal. The food was good, lots of traditional dishes and desserts. There was actually way more food than we needed, since the crowd seemed considerably smaller than had been expected.

Sitting next to Edna, I said little, just listened to comparisons of aches and pains, surgeries past and upcoming. I was remembering years past when Tim and I were surrounded by either his family or mine, enjoying laughter, catching up with news, watching the little kids having a ball. I was wishing I had stayed home and eaten a TV dinner and then feeling a little guilty about that, and tried to be interested in the comments of my table companions.

I gladly gave Edna a ride home, chatting about her health, her neighbors, discovering that she had known Frances Baily for many years - they were neighbors. I explained that Tim and I had known Frances from the Full Gospel Businessmen's Fellowship way back in the 1980's. She told me that Frances had died a couple of years ago, which I hadn't known. That made me even sadder.

I have so much to be thankful for, it's really selfish of me to feel sorry for myself right now. I could have driven down to the farm last Saturday to be with Betty Gosnell, Tim's aunt, her family and whoever else from Tim's family gathered for their usual after-Thanksgiving meal. Bryan, Sam and Olivia were there I know, I haven't heard whether Angie went or not, or Dale and Jon.

But I had promised to practice with Bernie Shick - another 80 or so year old - for him to sing at church Sunday, and I hadn't thought that Betty would have the dinner this year since Ora Lee died. Then it turned out that Ed Clement needed me to play for him to sing at a funeral Saturday afternoon, the grandmother of one of Ed's co-workers. We listened to the Carolina / Clemson football disaster (Clemson won) on the way to the church and back. It was cold and rainy, which didn't help.

But the sun came out today and although it was chilly and windy, the sunshine always makes things seem better, and for that I'm grateful. It was a much better way to start December, and my day needed some brightening.

Painfully poignant

Happy, sad; public, private. Two photographs of my mother kept popping up in my mind, as I considered whether to enter the upcoming miniatures competition at the Florence Museum. I'm sure daddy took both of them, and they look sort of contemporary to each other.

One shows mama sitting on a street curb in front of a Coca Cola sign, which itself is in front of an old truck. In this one mama is smiling. From the little bit you can see of the building to the left, it was probably a gas station. What she was doing there, whose truck it was, why the truck door was standing open - who knows.

The other photo shows her sitting at her bedroom dresser, her reflection showing in the mirror. In this one she is not smiling. It may have been a Saturday morning, since she isn't wearing more dressy type clothes for her work in an office, and she doesn't have her makeup or earrings on.

I sort of remember the apartment we were living in where that one was taken. I may be completely wrong about the location, but I think it's the apartment house on Warley Street, upstairs. The house is still there but the staircase has been moved - it used to run sideways, angled from top left to bottom right across the front of the house, now it runs straight down from the center of the second floor landing.

So what does this have to do with Tim? In order to find those photos, I had to go through a large pasteboard box full of other boxes, and pictures of Tim and his family were on top. I nearly stopped then and there, the emotions attached to those images were still so raw. But I didn't, I gritted my teeth, lifted all the "wrong" boxes out, finally found the "right" box - on the bottom, of course - and tried to re-focus.

Tim would approve of my wanting to do something special with mama's pictures, I think. Daddy would probably approve, too. I'm not too sure mama would, at least not the sad one. She probably didn't want daddy to take that one considering she doesn't have her "face on." (That is, she hasn't put her makeup on for the day yet.)

I'm going to work a little with these photos this weekend. I need to check if they would be admissible to the Museum show since I myself didn't shoot them, but whether they are or not I think I'll print and frame these two. I can certainly sympathize / empathize with the way mama was feeling in each.

Sparse reunion

I went to the Tanner reunion, stopping at Bo Jangles for a box of chicken on the way. When I got there, I realized that the building doesn't actually say American Legion anywhere (on the outside), just the name of a person and "Post" - but it was in the right place, and it turned out to be the right building.

Only 23 people showed up, and three of those were small children belonging to Tod Gardner. So many were absent that most of the tables weren't really necessary at all. And there was way too much food - of the 20-piece chicken box I took, only 4 or 5 pieces were eaten. I put what was left in the freezer when I got home.

Neither Dale or Bryan were there. Angie wasn't there. All four of Ruth E's sons were there, but only one brought his wife, and that was Ed - his wife Gertrude hasn't been to a reunion in a long time, but she made a special effort to attend, although she uses a wheelchair these days. Frances Tisdale didn't attend and I missed her. None of the Lane family were there.

Morgan Ruppe and his son John decided at the last minute to come, after a friend (Louise) offered to drive them. Morgan is thin and much grayer than the last time I saw him, and he seems a bit frail. His memory isn't as sharp either, and Louise said it's because of his heart attacks. That happened to Theron and to Tim after they had heart attacks, too - some short-term memory seemed to be affected. It was good to see Morgan, though, and I'm glad he made the effort.

Estelle, Denise and David, and Carolyn were there. Johnny Tanner was there and he had brought his fiddle - no piano for me to play.

Johnny did pretty good, even though he's still learning to play - He played for us to sing Faith of Our Fathers. Mae brought a devotion about her father's faith, which was very interesting. He was known to be able to stop bleeding, and to heal thrush. People would come from all around the area for him to pray for them. Remarkable.

The same officers were elected and the place will be the same next year. There's no playground for kids which is a drawback, but the place was clean and neat and big enough, considering. No piano, no microwave, but the air conditioner worked fine.

Maybe next year more people will be there. I didn't take pictures this year, which I might regret later on, but I enjoyed sitting with Ruth E's family and talking to them a bit. All in all, I'm glad I went.

Tanner reunion time

Last year I just wasn't up to attending the Tanner family reunion - that's Ora Lee's family - but this year I look forward to it.

The old historic Indiantown School, the place it had been held for some years, has been severely vandalized recently. Thieves had already stolen the air conditioners, and now they've also stolen the wiring! Whoever owns the building probably won't ever repair those things, so the place for the reunion has to be different. The American Legion hall close to Hemingway has been selected, and it's convenient (on the same highway) and new, with all the modern conveniences you need for a lunch-time reunion. I sent out the notices last week, and I sure hope people will come.

Tim loved the Tanner reunion. He called everybody he could each year, caught up on all the news and encouraged folks to come. He enjoyed the hugs, the laughter, and of course the food. But mostly it was the people, his mom, his brothers, niece and nephews, daughter, grand-kids, cousins and aunts and uncles, in-laws and all. Tim was the linchpin, really, the hub of the wheel for the family. People came because Tim asked them to. They came to see him in person, to joke with him, gossip with him, love and be loved by him. Will they come now that he's gone? I don't know.

The picture above is from the 2006 reunion, and I have a framed copy of it on the wall in front of my desk. He's talking and laughing with his cousin Frances Tisdale, and it's one of my very favorite photographs of him. Frances would come only to see and talk to Tim, not to eat lunch or really visit with many other people, and then she would leave. I hope she'll come this year so I can tell her again how much he enjoyed those meetings, those hugs and that laughter.

As I think about all the Tanner family members who have died the last few years, I realize that the reunion they can have in heaven will soon be as large as the one we'll have here on earth! And I bet they have more fun at theirs. But we need to connect with family. We really NEED to connect with family, and I sure hope many will make the effort and come this year.

Grief creeps up

Once in a while I will be doing something ordinary, not new or unusual, and grief creeps up on me. Painful - though not debilitating like it used to be.

I may be walking around in the grocery store, like last week when I passed a shelf of bagels and realized that I never buy those any more. Tim and I ate bagels with cream cheese for breakfast many mornings, but I don't do that now. I stick to cereal or waffles. Why did it hurt? We also ate cereals and waffles for breakfast quite often, but they don't bother me to buy, like bagels do. That's just another one of those odd things that affect me sometimes.

Driving down the street, any street, where Tim and I used to drive together, can trigger a spasm of grief. I want him in the car with me again, talking about anything, just the two of us again.

I pass Bicycle World and remember Tim and me stopping there to get a new inner tube for a wheelchair tire. He would usually wait for me in the car, although once in a long while he might want to go inside and speak to Phil, catch up on news and make small talk.

Now that I have given away Tim's desk and desk chair, I have a little more floor space in the sun room that used to be his office. I can sit in the living room, in my arm chair with my feet up, and look into that room, and it doesn't always cause a twinge of sadness nowadays. Sometimes, but not always.

I still have Tim's file cabinet in there topped with photos of Angie and the kids, plus his large custom-made sound system cabinet full of tapes, tape player, reel-to-reel, drawers full of wires and cords in that room, and it's topped with elephants and assorted other stuff. There's even an 8-track player and a case full of Elvis 8-tracks up there with the elephants.

On the wall there's still Tim's framed poster that says "Don't pray for an easy life, pray to be a strong person." Someone gave the poster to me long before Tim and I met, but it was so appropriate for him that I hung it over his desk, no matter whether we were in the office building downtown or here at the condo. It's still right where it was, there on the wall. No, he didn't have an easy life. Yes, he was a strong person!

The little oak desk that had belonged to my mother, the antique secretary with the pull-out leaf and drawer, that's what I put in the spot where Tim's big oak desk used to be. One of the dining room chairs is pulled up to that little desk, in case I ever want to sit there. I probably won't, but it makes it possible, anyway. More Angie, Bella and Liam pictures top the little desk, just like they did on Tim's big desk. Every time I see one of those photos I say a prayer for them and wish I could see them more often.

So that room still looks okay, still like an office, and that's where I put several pot plants. They seem to thrive with all the sunlight, as long as I remember to water them. But even watering those plants can bring on a momentary sadness, missing Tim so very much, wishing his desk was back in its place and he was back in his chair, talking on the phone or listening to one of his books on tape.

The feeling goes away as I hear those inner reminders of how wonderful a life Tim has now, how beautiful, busy and fulfilling. I visualize him with his mom and dad, T.C., Ninie, Mike and Allyn, and so many others, and I mentally shake myself off. Until next time.

And while the memories come often, and I'm really grateful for them, the grief and pain and sadness don't accompany them nearly as much these days. I'm grateful for that too.

The beach - it's there...

I didn't see the ocean during my trip to the beach several Saturdays ago, although thinking back, I wish I had taken the time to park at the pier and walk out on it. Although it was a hot day and there were still a lot of people everywhere, I would have enjoyed it. But I didn't arrive early enough to do it before lunch and afterwards I just wanted to head home. I didn't have my camera with me, having decided at the last minute to leave it at home.

The beach house looks unkempt - no-one was home, unfortunately, and without a key I couldn't look into the bottom apartment. The grounds were okay except for two dilapidated charcoal grills and other assorted junk that needs to be hauled away. I could see only in one window but it was a bathroom and didn't give me any view into other rooms. With some screens missing and several broken places on the vinyl siding, all in all the house looks its age (built in the 1950's).

On either side and across the street the old houses have been replaced with new two or three-story houses up on stilts, some painted peculiar colors. One, maybe more, have a swimming pool in the back yard. Our house is probably the last of the old ones and it sticks out like a sore thumb on that block.

As I was driving up Vista Drive, I saw few cars and fewer people and the houses didn't look occupied. That jived with what I found online when I was checking on vacation rentals and also with what Bryan told me on the phone. With the economy down right now few vacation homes are being rented on a regular basis. It wouldn't be feasible to try to turn our beach house into a vacation rental, better to keep it on a long-term lease basis. But since the bottom apartment still lacks a few repairs and painting, it's empty right now. Bryan had said he hoped to get it ready to rent again in a few weeks. I hope so too.

After leaving the beach house I drove over to Custom Outdoor Furniture and talked to Sam's mom Jane, brother Greg and sister-in-law Teresa while they were eating lunch. Sam called from home while I was there and I talked to her a few minutes, checking on her back (it's getting better) and Olivia (okay, back from her trip with the grandparents to Greece). Bryan was at McClellanville working on the family project, a house that will be shared by his family, Jane and Carroll, Greg and Teresa. It will be a get-away for all of them, fifty miles or so down the beach toward Charleston. McClellanville is a fishing village, not a resort.

Then off to lunch I went with Angie and the kids. I had thought Bella would be with Brenda, but they had all gone back-to-school shopping earlier and Brenda had already headed back to Camden. Vernie was at home sleeping so Angie had Bella and Liam with her, both tired and a little grumpy. She was also on call for Surfside Realty and got several calls while we were trying to talk and eat.

After lunch I gave each kid a dollar in quarters, sort of a consolation prize for us grown-ups talking so long when they obviously would have rather been home napping or playing. None of them, not even Angie, ate more than a couple of bites of their food and she boxed up their left-overs for supper. It wasn't what I'd call a successful lunch, really. Maybe we can get together some time when Angie and I can talk without interruptions.

Traffic coming and going was really bad but thankfully for me it was bad "the other way." When I was going to the beach, the traffic was all coming back and vice versa. The traffic going my way cooperated and I got back home at a reasonably early hour.

I'm glad I went but if I go again this year I probably won't pre-arrange to see anyone. I'll just go by myself, find a motel room, walk on the beach or pier, and remember the times Tim and I went down there together. Maybe I'll take the camera and get a few shots of the surf, sand, trees, whatever.

Driving to the beach tomorrow

I haven't been to the beach since the Saturday before Mother's Day, when I attended a show at Dixie Stampede with Angie, Vernie, Bella and Liam. Here it is the first of August, and summer is getting away from me pretty fast. I want to go by the beach house, walk around the yard and perhaps meet the lady who lives in the upstairs apartment, go by Custom Outdoor Furniture and see if Sam is working, call the house if she's not. I plan to eat lunch with Angie if that's still feasible, and just whatever else comes to mind as the day goes by.

I have no real itinerary, no place else in particular I want to see right now, since I still can't walk very far at a time. I plan to take the camera with me, maybe get a few pictures of interesting trees or scenery, or people. If I don't feel up to driving back home tomorrow night, I'll look around for a motel room in Garden City or Murrells Inlet, have a leisurely breakfast and read the local newspaper before heading home.

It's going to feel very different, since Tim won't be with me.

Feeling "out of it"

I'm over it now, for the most part. As I thought about what I'd written below, I remembered some conversations I've had with people in the past. People who were sure I was "perfect," "perfectly adjusted," "doing really great," and who had no idea that wasn't the case 100% of the time. So I'm adding this little paragraph, although not deleting the rest of the post below, to mitigate some of the negative emotions emanating from the following...

It probably seemed like a good idea to the young people and the POW's at my church. That stands for people of wisdom, although I have my doubts... when you keep doing the same thing hoping to get different results, what does that make you? Not wise.

Their idea was to have a combined dinner for the two groups so they could get to know each other better and hopefully so the older folks' wisdom would rub off on the younger folks. I hadn't planned to attend but reluctantly agreed after getting a phone call specifically asking me to be there. I shouldn't have done it.

As I sat there eating and listening with no-one paying much attention to me, I realized how out of it I actually am. Any conversation I participated in, I had to initiate. Any questions asked, I had to ask. That gets old.

The evening was probably okay for most of those present but it was not okay for me. It was just same old-same old, more of the same kind of event that Tim and I used to tolerate at church and elsewhere. It was the reason why we stopped participating in many social events; they were so one-sided that it was hurtful to Tim, and to me.

It would be so nice to have someone ask "How are you" and then wait to hear the answer. Usually the asker is only waiting to tell me how they are, sometimes in great detail, and doesn't care at all how I am. I am interested in other people, that's not the point. It would just be nice to have that interest reciprocated once in a while.

I made myself a promise. I obviously need new acquaintances from somewhere. People who will ask "How are you" and really want to know. The next time I meet someone like that, I will find out where they go to church and then go visit that church.

Old friends get in touch

I received two phone calls in the last couple of weeks from friends of Tim's. One was Frank Chestnut, a fellow from Kingstree, also blind, who played popular and gospel music at a local fish restaurant in Kingstree for a long time. He also worked in a regular job, I've forgotten just where. He and Tim used to stay in touch and we visited in his home shortly after he got married several years back. He is retired completely now and keeps up with the news on his talking computer.

But somehow he'd never known that Tim died until he read Ora Lee's obituary in the Kingstree News and learned that she was predeceased byTheron, Tim and T.C. He was so sad that he hadn't known it earlier and called to offer his sympathy. I was in no shape to talk to him very long, though, and he asked if he could call again one day. I said yes, certainly, and maybe I'll actually call him first. I would like to keep in touch and forgot to ask if he had an email address.

Another call was from Paulette Evans, an old girlfriend of Tim's. She and Tim kept in touch over the years - as I've said before, Tim still had every friend he'd ever made, even his old girlfriends!

She knew Tim had died but for whatever reason hadn't sent a card or called at that time. She lives in Walterboro, teaches school, reads several newspapers and had seen Ora Lee's obituary in one of them, I guess. She told me she knew how good I was for Tim, and how much I meant to him. I know she and Tim had talked over the years very occasionally, and once in a very long while she would send him a card or a note, marking a birthday or Christmas or something.

I thanked her for the call, and made a note of her phone number. It was good to speak to her, since I had tried to locate her address after Tim died and couldn't find it.

Losing another Mom

Tim's mom Ora Lee died Sunday morning about 9:00 AM. I wrote several entries about it on my Wordpress blog so I won't repeat all of that here.

What I didn't say there is, Ora Lee was like my second mother. My own mother died in 1970 (daddy in 1960), and when Tim and I got married Ora Lee became another mama to me. She was always there for Tim all his life, and for me from the moment I became Tim's wife. Loving, giving, praying, sharing, whatever she could do, she did, and never wanted anything in return except to spend time with her kids.

She was also my link to Tim's extended family, his aunts, uncles, and cousins. Really, she was the link between all of us - the glue that kept the Cox family together in love and friendship, as well as kinship. Without Ora Lee, the family anchor for her generation, the various scattered members of her family may not get together very often. I hope they will, if only to share fond memories and reminisce. The younger generation needs such an anchor, such a link, such a faithful pray-er for their own sake.

I think sometimes Ora Lee was a tiny bit fearful, a tiny bit doubtful, about whether heaven was a real place. My last prayer for her, early Sunday morning as I was getting dressed to go visit her, was that the Lord would give her a vision of heaven and a true assurance in her soul and spirit, and I believe that prayer was answered. I got the call from Hospice House less than an hour later that Ora Lee had died. My first impression of her in heaven was simple - a deep relief, that heaven is real, Jesus is really there, and all her loved ones were waiting to give her a joyous, hug-filled welcome.

I am going to miss you so very much, Ora Lee.

Choreographed heavenly worship in three dimensions

Several nights ago, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning worshiping God in my spirit - singing to Him about how wonderful He is, how magnificent, how merciful, how loving, exalting and praising him in poetry set to music. And I could see myself doing this, like watching a television set, as part of a group of worshipers in heaven. But it did not resemble any sort of worship service I've ever been a part of or seen in my life!

We were singing and dancing as we flew around in perfect synchronized three-dimensional twirls and swirls and bows and leaps. In my mind's eye I continued to watch all of this, yet also continued to worship and praise and magnify God. It was the most amazing experience.

I enjoyed and participated in this exquisite worship for some time, then fell sound asleep again. The next morning I remembered it all very clearly. I thought about it and prayed, wondering about what I had experienced.

Remember Esther Williams and her troupe's synchronized swimming routines in the movies? the Lord reminded me. They were so graceful and lovely, those three-dimensional movements in the water that are not possible on land. That's what it was like in that heavenly scene, except without water. Indeed, those graceful 3-D movements were in the atmosphere of heaven, where the worshipers are not limited by earth's gravity.

What an awesome experience this is to look forward to, and what an incredible gift this was, this glimpse of heavenly worship from our awesome God who is so very worthy of our worship!

Musicians, orchestras, etc.

Most nights I watch a program on TV, usually a Law and Order or CSI, while also reading, usually a murder mystery. When it's getting close to bedtime I just move to the bedroom and continue the same until 11:00 or so, then maybe watch five minutes of the news before turning off the television. Then I start thinking about what kind of day Tim had in heaven, talking to the Lord, praying and listening to his reply.

One night this week the reply to my prayer was about musical instruments in the orchestra Tim is part of. Although he could choose to learn and play a different instrument in heaven than the french horn he played here on earth, that's how I visualize him.

There are many orchestras, bands and musical groups in heaven, too many to count. Combinations of eras, types of instruments, types of music, numbers of people. No-one is perfect just because they're there - they have to learn the music, rehearse, then "perform" it. Although it's worship, not just performance, and the audience consists of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit.

Who are all the other people in the orchestra? Where did they live on earth? What was their time frame? What else do they do in heaven, in addition to music? And then, who made their instruments?

These are questions Tim has been investigating this week, the Lord seemed to be telling me. Getting to know other musicians, learning about their lives and their musical instruments, and sharing about his own. What a fascinating, fun thing to do.

Cleaning out the closets and chest of drawers

My closets are still full of Tim's clothes, his shirts, slacks, blazers and neckties. And his windbreakers, jackets, rain ponchos and all-weather coat. His chest of drawers is still full of his tee shirts, underwear, golf shirts and sweaters. I actually sat an empty box in front of the chest of drawers, thinking if I left it there long enough I'd be able to start moving Tim's clothing out of that chest. But I just can't do it. I'm not ready.

Some of my own clothes are stacked atop a bookshelf in the bedroom, others folded neatly atop the clothes dryer. I've gained some weight this past year, not adjusting my eating quite enough while unable to exercise due to hip and foot problems. Not good. After losing a battle with bluejean zippers, I finally purchased some new ones that fit. But of course I have hopes for the future, that returning to peddling my exercise bike and eating smaller, healthier meals will result in a reversal of this trend. Therefore, I haven't thrown any of my smaller clothing away. (That is, donated somewhere, which is what I always do.)

It made sense that after a year plus three months I'd be able to donate Tim's things to the boy's home in Darlington, or to the Hispanic ministry. He and I did that in the past whenever his own clothing size changed. Then I'd have more space to get my own shirts and pants off the tops of furniture, right?

But I can't do it. I bought most of Tim's things, especially the neckties. I love neckties. Tim only wore one a week, but he had enough to wear a different one every day for several weeks - back when we worked from an office downtown, that's what he did. How can I part with those?

I've taken a photo of my favorites, some new, some old. I especially like the Norman Rockwell Christmas one, the horn player rehearsing. That's the one Tim was wearing the Sunday before he died, the one in the photos I took of him that day. In those photos you don't see the horn player, but you do see a french horn - Tim's instrument - showing above the vee of the blue sweater vest he had on. See the photo below.

And the shirts! I can't part with them, not just yet. Tim looked so good in those colors, the burgundy sweaters, navy blue golf shirts, solid or striped pullovers, baby blue or red and white striped dress shirts. Now and then I pull something out and just smell it. Most things smell a little like dryer sheets, but some of the heavy sweaters haven't been washed. They still have a lingering fragrance of Tim's Pierre Cardin cologne.

He kept one cologne bottle in the pocket of the car, another on top of his chest of drawers with his hairbrush. He always put a little on when we went to church or out to lunch, to visit somebody or attend a meeting. He'd always lean over and ask "Can you smell me?" knowing how much I liked it. I'd sniff real big and tell him how good it smelled. And it did. I had bought him a new bottle of the same cologne recently so it's mostly full. Now whenever I want to wear fragrance, that's what I choose. Who cares if it's not a "woman's scent." It's Tim's and that's what matters to me.

I remember too many occasions, too many times I saw Tim smiling, heard him laughing while wearing a particular shirt or sweater. And that hat! His "Indiana Jones" hat, he called it. It's a waterproof khaki hat I'd bought years ago to go with his long all-weather coat. He wore that hat all the time when the weather was cold, rainy, or windy. I wish I had a picture of him wearing that hat - but I still have the hat, and I probably always will.

Because the hat was a little wrinkled from having been sat on by accident, and a little dirty from having been rained on, I had bought him a new almost identical one for Christmas. He never got to wear it or even "see" it - that is, feel it and examine it with his hands. It fit Tim's brother Dale, so I gave it to him. After all, I had the one that counted, the one Tim had always worn.

Angie wanted Tim's button-up sweater of many colors that he wore the most. She put it on after he died and wore it that whole weekend. She asked to keep it and I didn't have the heart or selfishness to say no. She wore it home.

I did give several articles of clothing away, especially to Dale, things I knew he could wear and would probably like to have. But that's all. Everything else I kept. There's still too much of Tim in all those shirts and ties, slacks, pullovers, tee shirts and sweaters. And hat.

As I was writing this, I could hear the Lord (and Tim) point out that he doesn't wear that style of clothing any more and he won't need those items ever again - he has a whole new wardrobe now which I would love, if I could see it. I'm sure that's true, but they understand. I'm not ready to part with Tim's old wardrobe. Not yet.

So, for the time being I'll still stack some of my own stuff on top of the bookcase in the bedroom and clothes dryer in the hall. And I'll still pull out a shirt now and then for a good smell, and wear his cologne when I go out.

March 25, 2008

Reading old prayer lists and remembering

I rummaged through a stack of stuff in the china cabinet I use for a bookcase this afternoon, and pulled out an old composition book. Curious, I started reading. The first pages were Bible study notes for a class I was teaching back in 1986. As I flipped through the pages, I came to notes on the first meeting of the Board for Tim's Transplant Fund in October, 1988. I had taken pretty good notes on the discussion, which covered a lot of financial and legal questions.

Then I came to prayer meeting notes. Back in the days after Tim's transplant surgery, we had a Friday night prayer group at the house on Hobart Drive. Most of the people went to the same church we did, but not everyone. Every week we prayed for each other, the church, friends and family, and the moral / political / legislative issues in the country.

I stood at the kitchen counter, determined to read through those notes, despite the fact that it was hurting me to do it.

I had forgotten so many things, so many of the people and situations. The names mentioned - some of them are dead now, like Tim. Others divorced from each other, moved away from Florence or even out of state. As I read, I hurt. Anger, sadness, disappointment, frustration, regret, loss, all washed over me. Occasionally there was gladness and joy but all too rarely.

The last prayer group notes stopped the end of 1989 when the group stopped meeting at our home but I had continued writing my own prayer requests in that book for some time. The last item is dated 1997 but it's just one page and just a few lines on that page.

I have other prayer and Bible study notebooks stored in the bottom of that china cabinet, but I don't want to pull them out to read right now. Maybe later. I still do some prayer lists and some Bible study, but not much writing in a composition book. Most of my writing these days is on computer. I don't usually even print those pages out.

But those composition books contain a treasure, a tangible record of the years of our lives, Tim and mine. Reading those notes takes me back and I remember, and then I begin once again to miss him so very much.

And once again I hear the Lord gently, patiently, repeatedly remind me that Tim's life is so wonderful and fascinating and full, that it would be a dreadful thing for me to pull him back here with me. I just ask him to patiently forgive me again.

I know it's selfish of me to miss Tim that way, and I get over it pretty quickly once my attention is refocused off the past and onto the present - the heavenly present, especially. "Look forward, not back," the Lord reminds me. Maybe I should write that in big letters on index cards and tape them up around the house.

"Grieving Alone" (re Dear Abby 3/2/08)

I'm an avid newspaper reader. First thing every morning while a cup of instant coffer heats up in the microwave, I go to the front door and collect my two daily newspapers, The (Florence) Morning News and The State. As I sip my coffee, I flip through the pages of The State paper first, skipping the sports sections and advertisements, but never missing the news, editorials, comics, or Dear Abby.

This morning's Dear Abby column hit me hard, making me a little sad and a little angry, and it opened my eyes a little. So I'm not the only one, huh. Here's a quote:

"Dear Abby, could you please share suggestions on how to offer support to someone who is grieving? Well-meaning friends have used my loss as an opportunity to relive their past losses with grisly and sad details. Perhaps these people are trying to relate, but it's torture. I have a feeling I'm not the only person who has suffered through this ignorance."

No, you're not the only one. In the months after Tim died, several people called me to "express their sympathy," but after one or two sentences they spent the next thirty minutes or more dumping on me all of their own troubles and grief, grisly details included. They weren't interested in me. They were using me to vent.

Two of these people were women Tim and I barely knew. But one had been a good friend of Tim's in their youth and over the years since, and she was genuinely grieving the loss of his friendship. Yet she too spent only a couple of minutes talking about Tim, and nearly an hour talking about herself, her many ailments and her multiple other problems.

And it's not just women. A couple of men who were friends of Tim's have called me this past year to see how I'm doing, or so they claimed. After I said, I'm okay, how are you? they spent many minutes telling me how bad off they are, how broke, or sick, or troubled in some other way.

Maybe they wanted me to know they understand my pain. If so, they could have said so in one of two minutes, surely, and then added something positive, uplifting, helpful. There was no comfort in what they said, no real concern or caring for me.

Maybe they thought I was such a "rock," so strong, so close to the Lord, that I didn't have any real need for their comfort, concern or caring. If that's how they felt, they were wrong.

As I think back, I realize that if they had called Tim, he would have helped them get through their current crisis situation, with his humor, his genuine friendship, his listening ear and "shoulder to cry on." In his absence, I was a Tim-substitute to them. I listened, and where appropriate shared scripture verses, or my own personal experiences of the Lord's comfort, strength and grace. I promised to pray, and in some cases I prayed right then, over the phone.

After all, I did ask How are you, and I did want to know. I did care. But at the same time, I hope I remember what it felt like to get those non-comforting sympathy calls and never treat someone else who is grieving that way.

Thanks, Dear Abby, for running that column today.

Fly north to Nova Scotia and turn right...

Since my last entry, I've flown to Germany and back. Via Delta I flew from Florence to Atlanta, via Lufthansa from Atlanta to Frankfurt, then via bus from Frankfurt to Mosbach where the January GO (Global Orientation) Conference of Operation Mobilisation was taking place. It took over 24 hours start to finish, with only a few short naps on the plane. That was a looooong day!

Ten days and several adventures later, especially about my sprained ankle and torn ligament caused from falling down several steps my first day in Mosbach (I'll write about that separately), I traveled one full day via bus from Mosbach to Kiel with the new OM Ships mission recruits, an enthusiastic, lively group, where I spent six days aboard the Logos Hope.

Arriving after dark and leaving before daylight, I really didn't get to see this gorgeous view of the ship from the outside. But I can tell you one thing,it is BIG. B-I-G!! The gangplank looked a mile high to me, and it did enter deck five so it was pretty tall. Helpful hands in front and in back got me up (and down on departure day), thank goodness.

I had more adventures there! After touring four decks my first day and having more aches and pains in my foot, the ship doctor said the sprained ankle was now infected and wanted to put me on antibiotics, five days of bed rest, no walking much, no more touring the ship, no ship stairs, and at first she said no flying! (I'm thankful for the tiny ship elevator, stuck door and all - I had an escort up and down because of that.) After explaining I was only there for a week, she relented to half-day bed rest, keeping my foot elevated the rest of the time, and flying home at the end of the week.

The Lord provided me excellent care by way of one of the ship project workers, Geri Weirich, who took it upon herself to assist me every day until I left. I would have been "up the creek without a paddle" without her help. Truly.

Then via car to Hamburg, via Lufthansa airlines to Frankfurt. Bad weather resulted in a missed connection to Atlanta, so Lufthansa paid for me to stay overnight in the posh Sheraton Hotel adjacent to the airport, complete with wheelchair and attendant. It would have been a mite more enjoyable without the achy foot and with clean clothes, but the room and the food were super first-class.

The next day, Lufthansa left on-time to Atlanta without any further delays or problems. I can't tell you what a relief it was to have Lufthansa personnel look after me, making all the necessary arrangements to take care of me. Wonderful wheelchair and attendants everywhere got me where I needed to go every time and I am so grateful to the ship personnel for making those arrangements.

Lufthansa couldn't control the weather and they didn't cause the delay, but they tried every way possible to make up for the inconvenience. Vouchers for meals (which I ordered by room service, feeling too grungy to appear in the nice restaurant), big screen television complete with old English murder mysteries, etc., etc. made my stay a lot more pleasant than the last overnight delay caused by Delta and paid for by me, myself and I. Here's a photo I took through the airplane window as we ascended over Frankfurt on sunny Sunday morning.

Finally, after three gate changes, Delta took me home from Atlanta to Florence, minus one important piece of luggage containing my prescription medicines, which was delivered to me only 24 hours later. I was fortunate. Some folks' luggage didn't arrive at all in Florence, none of it. All those gate changes... par for the (Delta) course.

Prayer is a must when traveling as I know very well, confirmed and emphasized and stressed quite a few times on this trip. I'm tired of airlines, airports, delays, lost luggage, just plain tired physically and mentally and emotionally. But the Lord encouraged me and enabled me to do most things, I saw a lot of beautiful German countryside, met a lot of great people, did a lot of good interviews, took lots of photographs, and now I'm ready to start writing stories.

As I traveled, I kept thinking how much better it would have been with Tim along. But the Lord kept reminding me that Tim can see everything I see now, he enjoys witnessing my travels and adventures right along with me, and we are still partners though in different stages of our lives. What a wonderful thought.

Learning contentment...

In his thank-you letter to the Philippians, the apostle Paul states that he has learned to be content no matter what state he is in. He goes on to say that he can do everything through him who gives him strength – that is, the Lord. He thanks the Philippians for sending him some support, saying that he is now amply supplied, and then he adds “And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.” (NIV)

This section of Philippians 4 has to do with our attitude, whether we have everything we need or whether we don’t. And what is our attitude supposed to be, when we don’t have food or clothing or rent money?

I know what the attitude of many of us would be. Panic. Fear. Anger. Anger at God, who we feel has let us down. Didn’t God know we needed money? Job security? Good health? Stable marriage? Well if he knew it, why didn’t he do something about it? And so we’re angry at God. We're definitely not content!

Paul didn’t say how long it took him to learn to be content, but it did take some learning for him and I’m certain it takes some learning for every believer.

I remember the days when with clenched teeth I spiritually "yelled" at God, I WILL learn to be content, I WILL. And eventually I did, but it wasn't easy.

Over the years, especially this last year, I've found this is a lesson that has to be repeated occasionally.