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.