Tag Archives: grief

She’s Not Here, A Short Story

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phone

The young girl sat up in her bed, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, threw her hair off her face in one easy motion, and scrambled out of bed.  It was early Saturday morning. The house was hushed and still.  With the stealth of a burglar she tiptoed down the hallway and carefully descended the creaky stairs.

After some major disruptions in the household, the ten-year old clung to the solid comfort of this familiar routine.  She turned on the stereo, adjusted the tuner, and turned the volume at the lowest possible setting. Grabbing some pillows off the sofa, she plopped on the floor inches from the speaker, flat on her stomach, her elbows in the pillows and her hands cupped under her chin.

The next two hours brought radio programs for children.  Thirsty for story, she drank in the drama while the rest of the house slept. Midway through the last program the jangle of the telephone ringing pierced the quiet.  Like quicksilver she jumped up and grabbed the receiver before the phone rang again.

“Hello,” her high childish voice could barely be heard.

“Hi! Is your mommy there?”  the other voice trilled.

“Mmm…no,” she whispered tentatively.

“Would you leave her a message, please?”

“’kay…,” her voice wavered.

“The chair she had reupholstered is finished and is ready to be picked up at the shop.”

 “Thanks. Good-bye.”

She replaced the receiver and returned to her position on the floor.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~     ~

The liturgy of the next Saturday was the same as the first.  The family slept while the young girl listened to Aunt Bee, Ranger Bill, and Sailor Sam.  She took every precaution  to listen to her radio without waking them.  Once again, the loud ring of the telephone shattered the solitude. Once again, she darted to the dining room side table and grabbed the phone before the second ring.

“Hello.”

 “Hello!  I’d like to speak to Nellie Harper!”

 The girl paused; she finally said, “She’s not here.”

 “Well, listen hon, this is the upholstery shop calling, and I called last week and left a message.  I told her when she brought it in that it would be ready in two weeks, and this chair has been in the shop for a month now, and I really need your mom to pick up this chair.  Would you puh-lease let her know?”   Her voice was a mixture of cloying sweetness and ill-concealed irritation.

 “Hmmm.”  came out in hushed tones.

 “Thanks, hon, I really appreciate it. You have a good day, now.”

~     ~     ~     ~      ~     ~

A week went by.  The light was lasting longer, birds were chirping in the trees, and  school was winding down.  Summer had almost arrived, though the markers of seasonal change were little noted in that house.  Once again, the young girl woke up early Saturday morning, worked her way around the squeaky steps and kept her rendezvous with the radio.

She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang; she answered it as she had done before.

“Hello,” spoken softly, so softly.

 “Hi!”  spoken in the tone of one eager to check off items on her list.

 They both recognized the other’s voice; they both had the script memorized.

 “Honey, look, is your mommy home this morning?” came the coaxing plea.

 “No.”   The single syllable dangled in space with nothing to support it.

 Exasperated, the woman on the other end of the line raised her voice.

“Well, where is she?  I’ve called, I’ve left messages, and still Nellie has not picked up her chair.”

She clipped each word shorter than a buzz cut.

The moment of truth could be delayed no longer.  The words that were stuck in the child’s throat, words that could not be spoken the previous Saturdays, words that were impossible to say, even today, were forcefully dislodged.

 “Ummm………she………well……..ummmm.   She died.”

 “Ohmygosh, she died? She died?  Your mommy died? What happened?  Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.  Was she in an accident?  She died?  I had no idea.  Oh, honey, I’m so very, very sorry.  Oh dear.  I–am–so–sorry.”

 “No…..she…….just……died.”

The silence was more uncomfortable for the girl than for the woman.  She sensed the shock, the awkward drop, the conversational vertigo of the voice on the other end.  The ten-year old knew she would have to bridge the gap and end this call.  The girl found her voice.

“It’s all right.  You didn’t know.  It’s okay. No one told you.  I’ll tell my daddy about the chair when he wakes up, okay?  He’ll come to your shop and get the chair.  It’s okay.  You didn’t know… Good-bye.”

She walked back to the stereo, turned the radio off, sat down on the floor and sobbed.

Secret Sin

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It is a sober week in my small town.  The sin of a local youth pastor has been exposed and he has been arrested.  Some of the very people he was supposed to shepherd and nurture have become victims.  The church where he worked is shocked and distraught.  The consequences are far-reaching; the fall-out will be coming down for a long, long time.  Our hearts ache for our friends who are facing such a heavy, heavy thing.

Sin is so ugly. 

Secret sin is insidious.

In a letter of apology to the church this pastor said something like this: I thought I could control this.  But it controlled me.

It’s a mercy, really, that he was caught.  It’s always a mercy when a dark corner is exposed to light.  The opportunity to privately and publicly confess the sin can begin the healing that needs to take place.  James says that God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.  Justice also needs to be served, and that is now in the hands of the judicial system.

We are humbled by the knowledge that none of us are immune to the temptations that brought this man down.  We are talking in our family about the need to seek help when you are struggling with wrong desires, no matter how shameful they may seem.  We’ve discussed  the trajectory  that  sin takes.  One does not wake up  out of the blue one morning and say, “Let’s see, I think I’ll go do _____ today.”  Jeremiah Burroughs put it this way:

Take heed of secret sins.  They will undo thee if loved and maintained: one moth may spoil the garment; one leak drown the ship; a penknife stab can kill a man as well as a sword; so one sin my damn the soul; nay, there is more danger of a secret sin causing the miscarrying of the soul than open profaneness, because not so obvious to the reproofs of the world; therefore take heed that secret sinning eat not out good beginnings.

Another warning about secret sins from Thomas Goodwin:

Go down into your hearts and take the keys to them and ransack your private cupboards, and narrowly observe what junkets your souls have hitherto lived upon, and gone behind the door and there secretly and stoutly made a meal of them.  As dogs have bones they hide and secretly steal forth to gnaw upon, so men have sins they hide under their tongues as sweet bits.

Lord, have mercy.

Flying with Madeleine

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My carry on luggage was heavy because I couldn’t determine the reading mood I’d be in as I traveled across the country, and came prepared for every eventuality.  I settled into the second Crosswicks Journal book by Madeleine L’Engle, The Summer of the Great-Grandmother.  (It’s on my summer reading challenge list, btw)

This sensitive book about her mother’s stay with the family the last summer of her life both captured and held me.  I gladly let people stand in the hot aisles and clammer towards the airplane exit. Time to read a few more pages. Both flights I sat in close proximity to families with young children.  I was so glad, because their chatter and occasional yelps don’t bother me and I could give them space to work through stuff with the kids without dealing with nasty glares and looks. I’ve learned to tune out sounds and distractions when I read. 

I silently hurrahed when I read L’Engle’s words: “death is the enemy and I hate it.”  I underlined with my pencil, shaky lines to match the air pockets we flew through. I commiserated when she agonized about her ability to keep the promise to her mother that she would never put her in a “home”. I chuckled when she ranted about funeral “homes”.  I paused and looked out the window, not really seeing the checkerboard ground below, but needing time to process the words. 

Oh …. Madeleine!! You have such an ability to think and to bring those thoughts to ink and paper.  I’ll gladly fly with you as my companion.

Both life and death are present for me in the house this summer.  I look at Mother, and think that if I am to reflect on the eventual death of her body, of all bodies, in a way that is not destructive, I must never lose sight of those other deaths which precede the final, physical death, the deaths over which we have some freedom; the death of self-will, self-indulgence, self-deception, all those self-devices which instead of making us more fully alive, make us less. 

Please Pray

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Dear friends of our close friends experienced a tragic loss yesterday.  I’m not sure of all the details – their son was driving and the vehicle ran over/hit (?) his little sister, who died from the injuries.  “Btolly”, a regular commenter on this blog, and her husband are with the family now.  Please pray.  Pray for the young man.  Pray for his mom.  Pray for his dad.  Pray for the other siblings.  Pray for those ministering to this broken family.

O Lord, our hearts are heavy with sorrow.  Thy ways are certainly not our ways.  Yet we want to believe that Thou art not forsaking us.  O Lord, Thou art trying us as in the refiner’s fires, yet we believe that Thou dost love us with an everlasting love.  Thou alone canst pour healing into our sorrowing and wounded hearts.  Lord, we do not murmur.  But Thou knowest how empty and lonely life has become for us…  O Lord, abide with us, for Jesus’ sake.  Amen.   from the Lutheran Book of Prayer

Things My Father Taught Me

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Recently Donna  asked what our moms taught us.  It was easy for me to answer, but I could appreciate the awkwardness of those whose relationship with their mom was strained.   My own  relationship with my father was…….complicated.  I used to think I understood it, that I had made sense of the confusion.  But it inevitably comes down to a co-mingling of love and stubbornness, open and closed hearts, effort and apathy on both ends, mine and his.  When he was diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer it was time to clear the chess pieces off the board, to begin again, to affirm our love, to cry and say good-bye. 

Privately, secretly, I used to resist the notion that I was like my dad; there remains no doubt that I am my father’s daughter.  I acknowledge both the strengths and weaknesses I’ve received and am grateful for these lessons:

1.  To love the Word of God.  My father had an incredible mind and knew Scripture backwards and forwards.  We used to give him a verse and he would supply the reference (something BTW that I do horribly).  We would find obscure, really buried verses and he would tilt his head back, fix his gaze on some spot on the ceiling and work his way verbally to the verse: “Leviticus 10…no, 9, and, um, verse 22—somewhere between verses 20 and 25.”    He was right so often that when he missed we marked it on the calendar.  12 years after his death, I received his Bible.  It was falling apart, bits of papers tucked here and there.  Reading through it, reading the notes in his writing, gave me a view of his heart that healed my own heart more than I can tell.

2.  To play the piano by ear.   I can close my eyes and hear my father’s rendition of Jesus Loves Me full of diminished and augmented chords.  He influenced my playing more than anyone except Audrey St. Marie.  My favorite story: he was the speaker at a church conference.  For some reason the pianist was missing and he offered to play.  As he played the hymns by heart, he had his Greek New Testament open and was reviewing some verses before he spoke!

3.  To be frugal.   My father did the grocery shopping on his way home from work.  We called it the Suburban Safari: each day he took a different route home and stopped at grocery stores to pick up their loss-leader bargains.  When I was a young girl he taught me how to cut a whole chicken in pieces, feeling the leg joint before cutting.  For some odd reason, I also learned to save every grocery receipt.  My dear MIL finally convinced me that it was OK to discard the receipt.

4.  To rise to the need.   My dad taught at a very small Christian college.  His classes were notoriously difficult (i.e., Hebrew and Greek).  At times a subject needed to be taught and no teacher was available to do it.  More than once, he took on challenging assignments as a way of helping out.

5.  Books make the best gifts.   Every birthday and Christmas brought a special book.  I regret that I only have two of all the original Little House books that I received this way.  He enjoyed the best children’s books and passed that love to all his kids.  The finances were necessarily tight, but there was always money for music and books.

6.  To always be prepared.   When you hear that phrase you may think of a Boy Scout with a Leatherman tool on his belt.  To me it means never, NEVER, go anywhere without a book to read.  One never knows what delays may come up and one must be prepared!

7.  Meet grief with few words.   It’s always hard to know what to say when a tragedy strikes.  Sometimes the best thing is nothing at all. One time a colleague at the college lost a young child.  This colleague told me how comforting my father’s visit was.  My dad came and sat with him for the evening.  He never said one word. 

For years I struggled with the whys and wherefores of our difficulties.  I can say with honesty that it doesn’t matter anymore.  Maybe I’ve learned to trust God with the details and to let it go. 

Memories

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I had two trips down memory lane this weekend.  I was cleaning my desk and came across this picture in the most unexpected place.  Here is my mom holding me with my six siblings, taken around 1959 (?).  Doesn’t everyone look happy?  Except me!  My brother the tenor, BTW, has his tongue out!  When I see this picture, I have so much admiration for my mom.  My dad was hired to teach at a college in Illinois but there was no money to move the family from Michigan.  So he stayed at the school during the week and came home on weekends.  He worked all day Saturday repairing broken items, preached a sermon on Sunday and then returned to Oak Park. What they had hoped would be a short-term solution turned into a couple of years.  Can you imagine raising seven kids by yourself?  Mom was resourceful, capable, and, above all, cheerful.  And in the midst of these cares she had a vibrant ministry to many other women.

The second memory trip was related.  My sister just returned from vacation in Florida with my aunt and uncle.  She called Saturday to tell me about it.  After the news and updates she mentioned that my aunt had told her a new story about….me!  I had not heard this story and I have no recollection of it.  My mom died suddenly when I was 10.  When I saw her body in the casket I am reported to have said, “That’s not my mom.  My mom is in heaven.”  My aunt stored that comment away and just recently shared that.

I don’t remember this, but it triggered many thoughts.  When someone close to you dies, the clear memories you had become fuzzy and most of them dissipate into thin air.   That’s why photos and stories from others are so precious.  They are a way to sharpen some of the fuzzy edges, one moment of clarity. Decades after she passed, I am still so thirsty to hear stories about Mom, to know her better than I do.  What remains are vague but solid impressions.  The smell of coffee on her breath.  The smiles we exchanged, looking up from reading.  The sound of her humming while she worked.  The exasperation in her words, surveying another mess. And knowledge that resides deep in my bones.  I know without a doubt that she loved me.  I know that she wholeheartedly trusted God.  I know that she is in heaven with Christ.  These are good memories.

Processing….

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Wow.  I read The Kite Runner practically in one sitting.  I came home from church not feeling well.  We cancelled a family dinner.  At least 6 people have urged me, passionately urged me to read this book.  So I started reading about 1:30 p.m.  After the first hundred pages I insisted Curt and Collin sit and listen and went back and read the first four chapters aloud.  I did a little editing on the fly for the sake of my teenaged son. 

I finished at 12:09 a.m. this morning.  I’m processing, processing.  So many thoughts.  I heartily concur with the reviews:  beautiful and brutal, full of tenderness and terror.  When I thought it could not get any worse, it did.  But I absolutely could. not. put. the. book. down.  I’m so thankful to have some understanding of Afghan culture where previously I had none.  Hosseini shows the terror of living under Taliban rule.   

I could relate so well to the part where he was talking to an old beggar in Kabul.  It turned out that the beggar had taught at the university with Amir’s mother, who had died giving birth to Amir.  The beggar shares his memories of Amir’s mother with Amir.

“Baba had always described my mother to me in broad strokes, like, “She was a great woman.” But what I had always thirsted for were the details: the way her hair glinted in the sunlight, her favorite ice cream flavor, the songs she liked to hum, did she bite her nails?”

“What else? What else did she say?”

The old man’s features softened.  “I wish I remembered for you.  But I don’t.  Your mother passed away a long time ago and my memory is shattered as these buildings.  I am sorry.”

The prose is so beautiful it makes you ache.  I loved reading my friend Katie’s book and seeing what she underlined.  I think I must get my own copy and mark it up myself.  My heart is bruised right now.  Lord, have mercy.