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"Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning." Psalm 30:5
Perhaps joy will linger in the afternoon as well.
This afternoon calls for a quilt, a cup of dirty chai, and this lovely stack:
By The Light of the Harvest Moon
Brother Bartholomew and the Apple Grove
I find myself:
::noticing God's glory
There are two new trees on my front porch, awaiting some nice big holes. Mike’s studio sent us a crape myrtle and a dogwood to be planted. I’ve always wanted those two trees! I’m looking forward to getting them in the ground.
::listening to
soccer sounds. I’m at the fields again while Nick plays. Familiar sounds of happy boys. Music, really.
::clothing myself in
For the funeral, my boys all wore their wedding suits. A couple of them had to be let out several inches each. There was something incredibly powerful about looking down the pew at five boys dressed alike, five profiles so very much the same. Like arrows in a quiver…
::talking with my children about these books
The Mysterious Benedict Society! Oh my gracious, what a great book! Nick, Stephen, and I listened to it all the way to New Jersey and all the way back last week. Highly, highly recommended.
::thinking and thinking
About death and grief and legacy and blessing. I will never look at grief and mourning the same way again. I will never assume that my presence at a wake or a funeral is insignificant. I noticed every single person who came to grieve with us and I sincerely appreciated each one. This came as a surprise to me, no big lover of crowds. With each person, we were given a little piece of memory and not one was insignificant. I cannot overstate how much their presence meant to me. From a young age, Catholics are taught that burying the dead is a corporal work of mercy. Now, I fully understand why.
::pondering prayerfully
I’d love to tell you that it’s Scripture that has run through my head this week, but it’s not. At least not consistently. Instead, it’s Bette Midler.
Did you ever know that you’re my hero,
And everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than eagle,
For you are the wind beneath my wings.
It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
But I’ve got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.
Thank you, thank you
Thank God for you, the wind beneath my wings.
Everything I would like to be. Amen.
::carefully cultivating rhythm
We’ve certainly lost our rhythm. Even the very basic stuff of life like sleep. Until last night, every night was interrupted by a child calling out in the night. Some of them were not so very small. If we can just restore sleep, I’m hopeful that the rest of rhythm will find us, too.
::creating by hand
I had a long talk with Ginny this morning about a Honey Cowl. Yarn is ordered. I still have sleeves to knit on my baby sweater and a sleeve for Karoline’s Tiny Tea Leaves, but that cowl will happen sooner than later, mark my words. Besides, sleeves scare me.
::learning lessons in
What’s really important. Careful readers will recognize that I was struggling a bit before my father-in-law died, just trying to resolve some things that have long troubled me. The loss of someone very close, together with a studied reflection of his life—very well lived—have made some of those puzzles of last month seem easy to solve. These days have been wracked with grief, but I sense certain peace in our not-too-distant future.
::encouraging learning
Math. In an effort to regain our routine, I have insisted on math. Today, we will pull the books for “E” Week, though I don’t think we finished D. I just can’t go back that way. Better to move forward.
::begging prayers
for the repose of the soul of Eldo Merlin Foss, beloved husband, father, and grandfather.
::keeping house
My sweet sister is sending a cleaning lady at the end of the week. Incredibly thoughtful gift.
::crafting in the kitchen
Hilary brought us lasagna on Monday. My sister sent an abundance of Chinese food on Tuesday. Kristin brought a million bagels the morning of the funeral. My mom sent sushi the night of the funeral. That’s all we ate all week. Everyone survived.
For Monday Night Football this week, Nick made Manhattan-style clam chowder. Back in the saddle. We’re getting there.
::loving the moments
when I catch his eye and know he’s remembering the same thing I am.
::giving thanks
for friends:
::the one who received my urgent text on Sunday and prayed me home from the tournament. Neither of us knew what I was driving into and neither of us knew what Mike was already facing, but God did and His grace was sufficient.
::the one who prayed while I wrote
::the one who is too pregnant to move, but willingly sits and listens to me ramble on and on, while I try to make sense of the jumble in my brain.
::the old friends who picked up right where we left off and came to be with my family, to remember, and to comfort us with their presence.
::far-flung friends who have prayed for us and sent words of solace.
::my sister-in-law’s friends, who provided food for strangers and loved our tribe well.
::Mary Beth’s friend Molly, who sat with me for hours and sifted through years of photo memories. Sometimes friends are more than friends and when they are, they are Molly.
::Patrick’s friend, Zach, who was there with Granddad the last time my children saw him, was there on Sunday afternoon when Mike shared the news that he was gone, drove Patrick back to school, and then came home with Patrick for the funeral. Together with my boys, Zach carried my father-in-law on Saturday. We are grateful for Zach’s strength.
::my sister, the oldest friend I have. She has an uncanny knack for knowing when I’m at my absolute lowest and calling just then. Her support this past week has meant the world to me.
::living the liturgy
There is a beauty to living liturgy, a beauty that reveals itself in moments of sorrow. Planning the funeral Mass was a source of great comfort. Celebrating that Mass in community with people dear to us is a gift that defies words. God is very good.
::planning for the week ahead
We are going to put one foot in front of the other this week, trying to restore rhythm, stopping to soothe sad hearts, tending to the business at hand.
Tomorrow is Mary Beth’s 17th birthday.
On Saturday, Stephen will play in the State Cup Final Four in Richmond. Mary Beth will go to a homecoming dance.
Life will go on.
Then he told them a parable.
“There was a rich man whose land produced a bountiful harvest.
He asked himself, ‘What shall I do,
for I do not have space to store my harvest?’
And he said, ‘This is what I shall do:
I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones.
There I shall store all my grain and other goods
and I shall say to myself, “Now as for you,
you have so many good things stored up for many years,
rest, eat, drink, be merry!”’
But God said to him,
‘You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you;
and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?’
Thus will it be for the one who stores up treasure for himself
but is not rich in what matters to God.”
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I welcome you to needle and thREAD. What have you been sewing lately? Or are you embroidering? Pulling a needle with thread through lovely fabric to make life more beautiful somehow? Would you share with us just a single photo and a brief description of what you're up to? Would you talk sewing and books with us? I'd love that so much. Tell me about it in the contents or leave a link to your blog. I'll be happy to come by and visit!
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Very little needlework is happening here this week. I actually wish I had an excuse to do more. I really want to be in my sewing room. Really.
I pulled this jumper from my giveaway pile on Monday. It was too short for Sarah. Upon further reflection, I decided to trim it with some butterflies and let her wear it to the funeral. She chose a bright pink cardigan to wear with it. Granddad would totally approve. Did you know that when your fingers are tired and your brain is mush, "butterflies" gets keyboarded "butterlifes"? I think that's what they will be henceforth.
My father-in-law was over 40 when my husband was born. It's extraordinary that we had him with us to see Sarah born when Mike was 43. Truly extraordinary. I'm trying really hard to hold tight to the gratitude I feel for that time. He was so integral to our lives, so tightly woven into the fabric of who we are.
But I'm sad for my little girls. I'm sad that they get far fewer years, far fewer memories. He was very frail in the past few years--to frail to play with Sarah on the floor the way he did with all the others. I'm trying to see the upside, the silver lining, in being the littlest. But today, I'm not having much success.
Thank you again for your kind words and your prayers. My family is very grateful.
Please tell me what you're sewing?
Pasted below is a piece I wrote for Sally Clarkson about this time last year. It is, right now, the best I have to offer in this space. My precious father-in-love died peacefully in his sleep Sunday morning. I honestly don't know what that means here for the next few days and weeks. Usually, this is my place to think aloud. Yet, I am not at all sure that this is where I will be drawn as my family and I live these moments. Right now, I'm just trying to hold everybody close. He was a giant of a man in every sense of the word and he leaves a giant legacy, a giant memory, and a giant hole.
Your prayers are much appreciated.
~*~*~*~*~
I stood next to my new sister-in-law and whispered, “Where’s your dad? I’m going to ask him to dance.”
“Oh,” came the reply, sure and swift, “he won’t dance. He never dances.”
“I think, perhaps, he will.”
And I floated off in his direction, feeling every bit the princess in a fairytale. I was The Bride that day, eager to share with everyone around me the supernatural joy bubbling up from my very core. Whatever natural shyness and reserve that would have stopped me from asking on any other day was entirely absent that day. I took the hand of my father-in-law and led him to the dance floor. Happily, and without a moment’s hesitation, he danced.
Thus began a love story I never imagined, even in my fondest dreams for happily ever after. My husband’s father, who was 42 when Mike was born, waited a long time to be a father-in-law and then a grandfather. He lives those roles to their very fullest potential. A year from that wedding dance, we did a different dance. I handed him a tiny blue bundle and sat, eyes brimming, while he poured a lifetime of love into his first glance of his first grandson, our Michael.
Shortly after that, I quit my job to stay home with my baby. Granddad retired. We both had a sense that we didn’t want to miss this, not a single moment of this, and we were going to live it intentionally, squeeze every little bit out of the gift we’d been given. We were going to dance this dance with every beat of the music.
A little over a year from then, I was diagnosed with cancer. My father-in-love and I developed a new cadence. During the months of chemotherapy, he came over to just “hang out.” Truth be told, it sort of annoyed me sometimes. I’m a very independent sort and his presence seemed to shout, “You can’t do this by yourself. I’m here to catch you should you fall.” In hindsight, I couldn’t do it by myself and the hours he spent on the floor playing Legos, or puttering about the house fixing things or taking Michael for grand adventures to feed the ducks were probably as necessary to our survival as a young family as the surgery and the medicine. We had one car in those days and Mike took it to work. His father appeared promptly every morning , buckled Michael into his carseat and drove me to radiation treatments. While I got zapped, he and Michael sat in the car and sung classic children’s songs. Michael was absolutely convinced the outings were just another one of Granddad’s grand adventures.
With the next few babies, he still appeared, all the time. He’d push a vacuum or trim a hedge, little jobs that were a big help. And so much more. We were a young family who knew that this great bear of a man would move mountains to see us thrive.
On Father’s Day, when Michael was six, we gave him two blue folding chairs, a tribute to his pledge to never miss a soccer game. He had no idea. We had no idea. In all, there would be five boys and four girls in our family. That blue chair would travel far and wide. Granddad would set up camp whenever, wherever, whatever the weather. From tiny fields in our backyard to university stadiums to watch Michael play--the sidelines where Patrick scored the winning goal in the State Cup, the bleachers where Christian was MVP of the state basketball championships, and the fine manicured fields of Patrick’s National Team play.
He was there. Always there—dance recitals, doctor’s appointments, play rehearsals. For every baptism, First Communion, and Confirmation. He was with me the first time I discovered the bluebells. He showed us by his presence that we were his first priority.
Someone asked me not long ago what the hardest aspect of
middle age is. I quickly answered that for mothers of many, it must be the
challenge of meeting the farflung needs of the older ones, while ensuring the
little ones have the cozy, careful childhood their siblings did.
Today, I have to change that answer. In the past few weeks,
Granddad’s health has declined.
He’s been in and out of the hospital. The strong man who
stood behind my huge van and directed traffic every single time I backed out of
a playing field parking lot cannot move from one room to another without a
walker. He travels with an oxygen tank. His movements are slow and unsteady. But
he stills travels.
Last Sunday, a few days out of the hospital, he stepped from
our car onto the sidelines where Patrick was playing. Mike helped him to his
seat. Oxygen tank beside the blue chair, he watched the game as he always did,
7 or 8 grandchildren on a blanket at his feet. He watched the game. And I
watched him, unable to will my eyes away from that beloved face.
Today is my 25th wedding anniversary. As I observe
the slow, careful steps of the frail ashen man I have grown to love so dearly,
I cannot help but think of the scripture we heard together, all those many
years ago.
And Naomi said to Ruth, "Look, your sister-in-law has returned to her people and to her gods; return after your sister-in-law. But Ruth said, "Do not ask me to leave you, or turn back from following you; for wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people and your God, my God."
Ruth 1:15-16.
I could not have imagined then, in that church, how tightly knit
into my heart would be the father of my husband, how much he is my own. He is
almost 89 years old now and though we hardly dare to breathe it, I know that
this dance, begun on such a sparkling September day a quarter century ago, is soon to be over. As the
music fades, I thank God for the great, good gift of knowing and loving the
finest father a girl could ever hope to have. I thank Him for the gift of
having danced this altogether beautiful dance.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
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