A Look Back

I know what it's like. I know what it's like to grieve; to face the approaching holidays with trepidation. I know what it's like to have health issues, or to watch a loved one going through some of the toughest times of their lives. I, too, have been where you are; wondering if the next day would bring more of the same sadness or another hardship into my life. I've prayed over situations and not felt the answer at all. I've cried out to God in the deepest darkness of the night, and wondered where He's gone.

BUT: I also have known great joy. I've learned lessons along the way, and become a better person for it. Have things happened instantly? No. But in God's timing, His favor have become beautiful gifts for my soul.

Looking back over the last three years, losing my dad in 2016, and then Mom in 2017, watching my husband struggle in giving up his alcohol addiction, I realized that some of the moments of this year were like presents to savor and unwrap. God did reward faithfulness, He did send beautiful reminders of His love and presence.

I have family that are close, loving, and real. Not Hallmark movie cookie-cutter types, but flesh and blood, each of us with our own issues and good hearts. I know I can count on them.

I've had some amazing things happen this past year. I got to see Eagles flying above me with good friends:

I still have a beautiful cardinal that waits for me and comes right to my porch after two years:

I received an email about a small blurb I'd written about my mom's love of the actor Gregory Peck from his daughter and then got to meet her!

Dear Karen,

I’m Cecilia Peck, Gregory’s daughter, and I run the website http://www.gregorypeck.com. I got very behind on posting memories of my dad but I put aside time today to go through submissions and post. When I came across yours I had to stop and read it a few times. I just want to say how much it touched me that you would share this story, and that your mom’s relationship to my dad and his films brought her comfort in the last years of her life. I lost my mom six years ago and it’s been 15 years now since I had my dad, and every memory and every moment with them means so much to me. Thank you so much for sharing your touching, humorous, deeply moving story. It’s up on the site now in case you want to see it there, and I’m so sorry for the delay.

With kind regards to you and yours,

Cecilia

Several of my articles were picked up by different Guidepost magazines and published:

You see, to steal a line from a movie: "I really do have a wonderful life." And so do you, though it may not feel like it right at this moment. Take those little reminders of God's love and blessings and let them nourish your soul. Savor tiny moments, and the grander ones that come along and almost bowl you over in their awesomeness.

I found an old blurb I'd written last year and thought it would be appropriate here:

I walked up my stairs with the overnight bag clutched to my side. Not the type to leave it on the bed and wait to put things away, I started the task of filtering through dirty clothing, and travel-sized miscellaneous items. Each had their own little "home" and I quickly placed them where they belonged. As I picked up the bag and began placing it underneath the bed in the guestroom, a wonderful thought came to me: This is a happy moment. I've come back from a trip, of doing something fun. How many times last year was the old overnight bag hastily stuffed as I received yet another phone call about one of my parents? Another hospital visit, another emergency... The bag and I had been through many such trips. Some of those trips had been made with such panic and anxiety, with the unknown of so many health issues of elderly parents.

But today, when I came home from an enjoyable evening with my husband, the sun sparkled off the fresh, white snow. The vibrant red cardinal I've affectionately named Freddy flew to my porch railing making tsking sounds as if scolding me for missing his morning breakfast. Where were you earlier? he seemed to ask. I apologized, but brought him crusty bread. I thanked him for being with me during those harried visits last year, and the good one recently. For he is my welcome home most every time.

May you see your own moments often my friends.

Merry Christmas and a truly Happy New Year to you!

My Father's Special Language

        My father was shy, a man of few words, yet he fabricated a make-believe language, one he invented himself. Nonsensical, silly and fun, it was a constant in our lives—a way that he expressed himself and the emotions that seemed difficult for him to show.

       Dad wasn’t completely comfortable in crowds; he didn’t have any friends that he met on a regular basis. He chose mostly to immerse himself in a special world of his outdoor flowerbeds, working with his hands, and being with family. He began to restore antique furniture and build miniature dollhouses when he retired. When I visited my parent’s home, Dad would walk me around his little gardens. We would admire the glory of nature together—roses, pansies, petunias, butterflies and birds. He would share his latest projects in a truly humble fashion, lovingly showing me the smallest details, reserving this special time we had together using the silly words of his made up vocabulary to name everything.

       None of us were called by our real names, even the family pets, for Dad even had his special code words for each family member, friends, and cousins. My son Matt was known as Ray, my brother, as Boy, Mom was always Barnett, my husband Jim was Peppy, and I was little Tenya. It was as if a secret society—one that Dad was the founder--permitted entrance as his way of letting you know you were welcome in his world. Friends knew that Dad liked them if they were given an unusual name.

       Dad had a particular saying, however, when faced with a barrage of unexpected health bills, or when a particular project he worked on, wasn’t turning out as expected: “What a nightmare!” he’d say, though he said it with a chuckle, as if trying to diffuse the situation. ‘Nightmare’ became the code word in our family for anything we weren’t happy about.

       A robust, healthy man, Dad learned that he had congestive heart failure in his late sixties. Several blockages were found, and Dad had to undergo serious surgery to correct them. A sac of fluid encased his heart due to his heavy smoking. The outlook was a bit grim—not the usual type of bypass surgery.  Yet Dad came through that particular nightmare and subsequent rehabilitation better than expected.

       Years later, another nightmare crept up in the form of my mother’s dementia. Our family began to notice the small changes at first. She began to repeat stories, she forgot simple tasks. Then as time went on, Mom’s whole world changed. She experienced health issues and lost a part of who she was. My father’s words became more powerful than ever to me. He began an early morning ritual of calling before Mom would awaken. It was during those precious moments that we could commiserate about my mother’s failing mind. We made lighthearted conversation and solved some of the serious issues if only for a short time.

        For me, the dementia brought back frightening moments from my childhood—my mother’s mental illness. Her hospital visits had been long, and there were days when I wasn’t sure she would return to us. It was in those moments that my father’s soft-spoken words had soothed and given me hope as a little girl. And it was in our new journey with my mother that Dad would once again step into the role of protector and hero with quiet words of faith and goodness.

       He patiently watched the same movies over and over with my mother. He bought her favorite foods and took her for long drives to nearby places she enjoyed. I never saw him lose his temper with her, and much like the time in my youth, this quiet, good man handled our situation with grace and courage.

       Two years ago I noticed that Dad’s morning phone calls were becoming infrequent. When we did talk, he seemed agitated and spoke of more ‘nightmarish’ incidents as if truly complaining about them for the first time. He seemed to lose his smile, his sense of humor. Even the silly vocabulary that had been such a big part of our world fell by the wayside. None of us knew it at the time, but my father had gallbladder issues that would eventually land him in the hospital.

       In August of 2016, my father was told that he needed emergency surgery. We weren’t sure if he had ignored the symptoms in his care for Mom, or if it happened quickly. His body became septic. The outlook was grim. Dad was now eighty-five years old and his heart had become weakened.

I sat with him alone the morning while the doctor had a serious conversation with us. They weren’t sure he would be able to survive the surgery. Dad looked at me when the doctor left the room and said, “What a nightmare, huh?”

        My brave father chose to give the surgery a try. That night as he was being wheeled away he had something to say to each family member in turn. His last words to me were, “Thanks for everything.” But later I would find out that these weren’t truly the last words I would ever hear from my father.

Though he made it through surgery, Dad couldn’t breathe on his own. He was placed on a ventilator and given medication to keep him comfortable. Weeks passed with no change until I arrived at the hospital early one morning.

       Something had been nagging at me. We had all noticed that Dad’s health was failing, that there hadn’t been any improvement. I knew that I should say something important to my father on that day. Dad had always been there for all of us and he had spent his life dedicated to others. I knew he deserved to be at peace. Though he hadn’t been conscious, I felt that he would be able to hear me as I talked with him that morning. I wanted to be able to let him go. To tell him it was okay to leave us.     With tears streaming down my face, I arrived at the hospital. He actually was much worse. The nurses told me that it would be a day of decisions. Nothing else could be done. His kidneys and organs were failing. I called for my brother and Mom to be there. Friends came to support us on a most difficult day.

       Each of us took our time to say goodbye to him. I had been prepared, but now I wasn’t quite ready to let go. This was truly it. The end of Dad’s life. I glanced around the room at the faces of friends and family, so glad for their comforting presence when I sensed a presence of another kind.      Surrounding my father’s bed, almost like an out-of-focus camera lens, were four tall stately beings: One at the head, one at the foot, and one on either side. I realized they weren’t clearly visible, it was as if I could feel, more than see them. A sense of awe overcame me. They were beautiful, majestic. I wanted to cry out and share the moment with everyone else in the room. Were they angels sent to guide my father home?  Visitors sent from Heaven to greet Dad on the journey he would soon take? This incredible glimpse I was given had to be a true gift that only could have come from my Heavenly Father. I kept the moment to myself. Peace enveloped me then; a sense of well-being, knowledge that Dad would be in good hands—the best hands. I was able to leave the room, able to let go.

        Though others stayed behind as they took Dad off life support, I could not. I went downstairs to a small chapel in the hospital but it was too dark, too quiet for me there. The sun had been shining brightly outside and I decided that I would spend Dad’s last moments walking outdoors.

       A friend who stayed in the room told me she would call me when my father passed. I found a bench and sat upon it, lifting my face to the warming rays of the sun. Birds chirped happily in the surrounding trees. All was quiet, until . . .

I heard my father’s voice, clear as a bell. No mistaking the slight chuckle, the tone of what was said. “The nightmare’s over.”

       Exactly at that moment my friend texted me. Where are you? She asked. Why, I asked, is he gone? Yes, she said, very peacefully. I knew that God had allowed another miracle! For me to hear my father’s words as he went off to glory. To let me know with our special phrase that he was leaving, but for me to be happy for him.

       A few months later I had a very powerful dream. In it, my father came to me. He looked young and handsome. He said to me, “Kar, here in Heaven, everything glows, even the people.” I remember feeling as if my heart would burst from happiness at seeing him. During the dream, I confessed how worried I was about Mom. He simply said, “Don’t worry.” When he wanted to tell me a secret about Heaven, I awoke, for I felt it wasn’t time for me to know.

       Throughout my life I’d always dreaded saying goodbye to my parents. Our family was so close. I was sure I would never be able to handle it. Though he left us, Dad’s words remained with me and got me through; the ones that were silly and made me laugh, the comforting ones which had always given me hope, and the parting words spoken secretly to me.

       We lost Mom only nine months later. Though it wasn’t easy saying goodbye so soon after losing Dad, it helped to know he was waiting for her on the other side. 

The Earrings

Last summer, after my mother passed away, I had been in a deep sadness, unable to find a reason to smile or laugh. Nothing made me happy, and the weight of loss lay deeply on my soul.

I saw in my email a note from Guidepost magazine. I'd sent them several of my writings before, but had totally forgotten about it from all that had gone on with my mother's failing health. When I opened the email, I saw that they accepted one of my stories! Joy flooded back in. A reason to smile, and even to sing once again! Someone had recognized something good in my writing. And of course, it was an article I'd written about my mom. The timing couldn't have been better.

I want to share that article on my blog today since everyone may not be subscribed to "Mysterious Ways," Guidepost's sister magazine. It is not as I originally wrote it, as their editors had an idea to focus on the earrings. I had to make a few changes to my first draft. Looking back now, I see exactly what they intended. May you be blessed by the little story you are about to read:

The Earrings

     Mom’s earrings. I had to find them.

     I dug through the top drawer of my bureau, rummaging through my jewelry box and the knickknacks accumulated over the years. Printed scarves, strands of beads, dried flowers. Where were those earrings? I could see them clearly in my mind. Pink teardrop diamonds framed by rhinestones. Costume jewelry from the nineteen fifties, certainly not worth much. Yet Mom had to have them.

I’d been at my parent’s house earlier filling their pill containers and washing a few dishes left from the night before.

     Mom had been sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling the corner of a jelly donut and licking her fingers like a little kid. Her wiry gray hair stood on end around her face. Food from the previous day stained her sweatshirt.

     “Kar,” she asked, using the nickname she always called me. “Do you have those earrings I gave you? The ones with the rhinestones?” She stared at me expectantly as if she needed me to understand.

Dad and I glanced at each other. I knew what he was thinking. How in the world could she remember something like a pair of earrings when she could barely remember the names of her grandkids? Dementia had turned my mother into someone I barely knew. And here she was trying to tell me something with those earrings—giving me a clue of some sort. But every time she mentioned them, I felt like we were speaking two different languages. Like I was losing my mother all over again.

We hadn’t always been close, Mom and I. When I was little, she suffered from deep bouts of depression. She’d been in and out of hospitals for most of my childhood. She got better around the time I entered high school. A time when we became like best friends. We remained that way until three years ago when Mom was diagnosed with dementia. Now every day only seemed to bring more darkness as Mom became like a stranger. I was worried for her. I was worried for Dad and me too. What did the future have in store for us? What little did it hold for Mom?

     “My earrings,” Mom said again.

     “I’ll look for them when I get home,” I told her, giving her a kiss. “I promise.”

     Now I picked though the clutter in my bureau, searching for a pair of earrings she’d given me some twenty years ago. She’d gotten them from her mother and then passed them on to me. I’d never seen her wearing them. Why were they so important now?

     I turned to a small wooden jewelry box, one I’d kept since I was a kid. I nudged aside my grandmother’s gold locket and an old cameo pin. Underneath a tarnished seahorse necklace, I saw them. Two brilliant pink gemstones. Mom’s earrings!

     The rhinestones twinkled, casting prisms of light against something else in the box. A piece of paper so worn I could barely read the writing. What was it doing in there? I picked it up and stared at it, recognizing it at once. A page ripped from my girlhood diary.

     I plopped down onto my bed as tears welled up in my eyes and then made their way down my cheeks.

     February 14, 1970, it read. Mom went to the hospital in an ambulance today. . .

     The memories flooded back. Valentine’s Day, 1970. Mom was thirty-three and I was eleven. Too young to know the full extent of her battle with depression, but old enough to know it was bad. Mom would arrive home from one of her hospital visits with dark circles under her eyes and a haunted look on her face. When relatives and friends came to visit, I’d hear whispered words like “crazy” and “suicidal.” Dad did the best he could to take care of both Mom and me, but I felt so alone. I’d escape to my room, soaking up fantasy books and writing in my diary, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a normal mother and a normal life.

     That Valentine’s Day, her admission was different. Mom had been rushed to the hospital. She’d suffered a cardiac arrest in our upstairs bathroom. I’d watched terrified as she was taken out of the house on a stretcher. I thought I’d never see her again, that she was gone. That her depression had finally caused her heart to stop. But a week later, Mom was back at home. And she was completely different.

     The dark circles were gone and her face glowed. When she spoke, I noticed that the confusion, anxiety and sadness had vanished. There was a lightness to her step I’d never seen before. My parents became affectionate once again. Laughter replaced hushed voices and secrecy. Mom finally fulfilled a dream of becoming an antique dealer. And several years later, at the age of thirty-nine, she gave birth to my brother. Life settled into the kind of routine I’d always envied in my friends’ lives.

     I didn’t question Mom about the change, too afraid the spell would be broken. It wasn’t until four years later, when I was in high school that my mother shared what had happened that Valentine’s Day.

     “You remember my cardiac arrest, Kar?” Mom asked one night while we made dinner together. “I didn’t tell you the whole story. I didn’t tell anyone except your father. I was afraid people would talk.”

     “What do you mean?” I asked.

     Mom paused. “Kar, that day in the hospital, I died.”

     I stared at Mom, confused. Died?

     “I remember falling in the bathtub,” she said. “But the next thing I knew, I was at the hospital, staring from above my body on a hospital gurney.”

     She felt herself floating away and found herself at the entrance of a dark tunnel. The further she traveled through the tunnel, the brighter it became. She became wrapped in a brilliant light, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The feeling of complete love washed over her, surrounding her. Yet after a few minutes, Mom felt herself being pulled back. All at once, she was on the gurney again. She heard the doctor’s exclaim, “She’s back!”

     “The light was so pure,” Mom said, a starry look in her eyes. “Like an all-encompassing love. That’s the only way I can describe it. I got a glimpse that day, sweetheart. Of the joy waiting for us all.”

     I stared at the page in my hand now, and the earrings—their light so brilliant, so like the light that returned to Mom’s eyes that long-ago Valentine’s Day and the light Mom encountered when she died and came back.

     She knew. Somehow, even in the midst of her dementia, Mom knew that I needed a reminder. Of the joy that awaits her, and the light that overcomes darkness.

This is my actual diary entry that I'd found. 

 

Birthday Letter to My Father

Dear Dad:

I wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you  today. It's your birthday. I remember how much you enjoyed this day. You loved the little fuss that was made over you. The fact that Mom would bake a homemade cake, and we would place that one big candle in the middle for you to wish on. I wonder what your wishes were through the years.

 It hasn't been the same since you left us, but we are managing. I know you wouldn't want us to grieve too much, but some days are more difficult than others.

I listened to your favorite piece of music tonight after work, Dad. "The Emperor Waltz." Sometimes I can picture you dancing to it. Sometimes, I dance with you.

 I dream about you, Dad. It is so good to see you and I always wake up content, knowing that we spent a little more time together. Please visit me again soon.

Dad, my brother and son are so much like you. I can see you in them every time I talk to them. They have the qualities you passed along--a quiet strength and a good heart. I know I am a lot like you too. I find myself saying your silly phrases and it warms my heart.

I don't know how you celebrate a  birthday in Heaven, Dad. I guess it's all very different. But I can imagine who is at the party!

You were my knight in shining armor when I was little. You were the one constant in a turbulent sea. You showed strength with your simple ways and humor.

The time you spent with me when I was a child will be something I carry in my heart forever. I can remember the Crystal Radio kit we built together, the wood burning craft that made Mom worry that I might get burned. I picture us painting little miniature football players in my first electronic football game. I see you making plaster statues for me. I remember asking you questions during football games, and how you patiently answered them.

You were the best role model to my son, Dad. All the quality time you gave him when he was little, building blocks and towers for him to knock over and the crafts made out of clay. And the little plastic bowling set as you patiently set up pins and played over and over, just one more time. He was so proud of showcasing you in his YouTube videos, and his fans really loved seeing "Lamp" play. He really misses you too. And I know there are days he has a hard time. Won't you visit him in his dreams from time to time?

In closing, I want to wish you a Happy Birthday. I want to thank you from my heart for being the best man I ever knew. I want to ask you to keep us all in your heart and prayers. And give everyone a big hug from all of us.

I miss you so much, Dad. And I love you.

Your little Tenya

A Bittersweet Christmas Visit

Tomorrow my brother and I will visit the residents at the care facility which housed our mom for several months this year bringing them a little Christmas cheer. It will be the first time I've been back there since she passed away, and a very bittersweet visit for me. For I'll picture Mom around every corner, in all her usual places. The dining room where she sat with other ladies, enjoying small parties that were held there. The hallways we wheeled through, and even walked when she was still able. The outdoor seating area where I would take her for little rides round and round with her wheelchair, as I talked about the chirping birds, blue skies, butterflies--anything to share with her.

I'll see her petting the resident dogs, becoming so animated when they were near. And then I'll envision her sneaking morsels of food to them while another lady yelled for her to stop. There should be familiar faces: the nurses and aides who gave tirelessly of themselves to her. Some of the residents we had gotten to know well and spoken with, each with their own life story.

But when it comes time to walk past the last place I spent time with my mother, her room, I know my heart and soul will grow quiet, for it will almost be holy ground for me. I will picture myself touching her hair and face lightly while singing songs that she sang to me as a child. I will watch her chest rise and fall, every breath precious as she began the process of leaving this world. I'll remember how her eyes were focused above her--on things I could not imagine.

I'd pictured what Christmas might be like this year before we knew we were losing Mom. How the holiday would be so different without her at home, and how we would cope with celebrating in a nursing home. I thought we would have her much longer. I couldn't imagine what life would be like without her. Yet here we are now, facing the first Christmas without both of our parents.

I feel her near many times. I've dreamed beautiful dreams of her, some that feel like she is right there with me. And I hold fast to items she once held dear: a wedding band, a cat necklace, simple clothing and many pictures.

I think about tomorrow and realize that the care home is only a building, nothing fancy or special. But it's the place where beautiful souls sometimes have to wander before their final journey home. My mother journeyed there, but didn't stay very long. God called to her, and Dad waited for her. And when she said the words, "I want to go home," God answered.

'Tis Almost The Season: A journey of grief and healing

Today at the dental office where I work, I saw an elderly dementia patient clutching her little bag of freebies as if they were the greatest thing she ever received. Even when her daughter tried to take the bag from her, she held it closely because to her, they were her possessions. She may not have much left in her memories, but at that moment, those little dental "gifts" became the most important thing to her. A lump formed in my throat, and a few tears sprang to my eyes. How that reminded me of my mother.

I think back to this time last year when Mom was still living in her own home. When all of us tried to do our very best with making sure she ate, keeping up with doctor visits and being sure she wasn't alone very long. She may have lost many of her memories, but she had small routines that meant something to her. Cats to feed and care for, and a dog that she adored. She would pull her driver's license out of her purse and her health insurance card and read them over and over. She read the small love notes from my father time and again. Oh how we rolled our eyes when she would begin these routines, never realizing how important they were to her, and how in small ways, they were keeping her memory going.

It may have been one of the most difficult times in our family, but we had the strength to go through it. I often wonder now how we did, because thinking about it now makes me feel exhausted. But when we needed it, God supplied exactly enough of His mercy and grace to us all.

Now Mom is gone four months. How I miss those little nuances of hers.What I wouldn't give to hear the same stories once again. And now the season is upon us that bring memories of family and traditions.

Halloween was tough for me without Mom because it was a holiday she had enjoyed so much. And now with Thanksgiving a week away, I can't help but think that even though it wasn't my favorite holiday, it was one of hers. How Mom loved her kitchen! The fact that she'd begin baking days in advance, planning her usual feast, and having it all turn out perfectly. A few years ago, even with Alzheimer's, she managed somehow. But last year was different, and she allowed us to take her to a restaurant for the day. I like to think she still enjoyed herself with her family surrounding her because she smiled and beamed through the entire meal.

Today I was thinking about where I am at this moment. With colorful decorations soon to be everywhere, joyous songs and yearly traditions, I feel a bit blue. No, I won't ruin it for others, and I certainly can dig inside myself and find a little Christmas cheer, but I can tell I am not the same. I don't feel the need to make dozens of lists: of cookies, shopping, cleaning and planning. This year, time means more to me than ever. The time I will spend with my our children, my brother and family, and dear friends. This year, I want Christmas to be different. I will not over do my spending, for I will be more thoughtful now. There is no quota to meet, no amount more precious than a kind word to a loved one, giving of myself, and feeling thankful for all the blessings in our families.

And I must remember to be kind to myself. I lost two parents in the span of nine months. No, I may not feel like celebrating this holiday season. I may be quieter than usual, a little less festive. I may not put up every single decoration that I have from years past. And that is okay. I'm giving myself the gift of time too. Time to grieve and remember. Time to reflect. But mostly, I'm giving the gift of time to heal.

I hope that family understands where I am this year. That it is nothing against them. It's a process that will bring happiness and sadness; memories good and bad. But I hope they all realize how much I love them, and though I am changed, my heart can still hold all the love it's always had for them and even more.

I'm Not the Same

My goodness. Is it really one year almost to the day that Dad went into the hospital for a three week stay never to return home again? Has time passed that quickly as it has that sneaky way of doing?

When I think about all that has gone on in one year's time, I realize an important truth: I am not the same person I was then. I think I view every day occurrences in a much different light. Stuff that bothered me so badly either at work or during a normal home day, has lost its steely grip on me. I don't think it's important enough to harbor grudges long, or at all. I don't waste time obsessing over triviality. When you've lost loved ones, life is put into a new perspective and it's up to us to learn the important lesson.

Lesson one: I'm beginning to de-clutter my closets and find that is making me a calmer person. If I've not used it, looked at it, worn it, or cared about it in several years, I'm not about to begin to either. So another person may benefit from it, or if it's ratty enough, into the trash it goes. Oh, the feeling of purging junk, and I'm not just talking about closet stuff now. We all carry garbage inside of us. Voices from the past that accuse and belittle. What if like the closet, we choose to rid ourselves of things we no longer need, and probably never did. That hateful comment from a relative, or a snide remark from a co-worker. Or what if what we heard wasn't really intended for us all along, yet we wore the remark like a heavy, old coat that needed retired years ago.

Lesson two: People are more important than things or chores. We all have daily schedules that we need to keep. But sometimes we push ourselves on one of our off days because heaven forbid, the grass wasn't cut, or there is a layer of dust on our end table. If given the opportunity to tidy up, or play with my nieces, I'm choosing the girls every time. There is always another day for labor, but sometimes a priceless moment can be lost forever. I've found the inner child when I'm at a playground with my nieces. I've been Belle from Beauty and the Beast, and countless other make-believe people as I enter their world. I wouldn't trade that for anything.

And what is it with technology? Put the phone down. Take a moment to look at the person sitting in front of you, or beside you. Talk in the car when going on trips. Giggle in restaurants together and make conversation. That phone, I-pad, Tablet or game will always be there. Don't miss the time with a real person having real talk. Learn from them, and listen.

Lesson three: Love really is the answer. Why oh why did I hold onto anger? When I've given grace to another, and let go of longstanding drama, I find that I understand the heart of God. For isn't this what He does for us each and every day? If God chooses to love us unconditionally, then why do I place conditions on every relationship I have? I don't need to think about what my husband said two years ago during a ridiculous battle. I can let go of bitterness toward situations I have no control of, and really love with all my heart. I can forgive, forget, move on and love.

Lesson four: Faith is important. Though I've spent years in church, have read my Bible, consider myself a Christian, did I really understand what true faith was? Have I been able to let go and let God handle my life and the lives of loved ones? When dealing with illness and death, I had to relinquish total control to the Lord. In the quiet of my soul when I cried out to Him, the answer that came back was to have faith. But what if what we pray for, and have faith that moves mountains doesn't come to pass? What if we lose the loved one(s) and we are devastated beyond belief? Does that make God any less real? No. For I've felt more than ever, His Holy Spirit deep within me. I've touched the peace that passes understanding and came away calm and whole. Though I had no control when losing my parents over this last year, God's plan is not my plan. But He deepened my faith, showed me that He never left me, and gave me an outlook on life that couldn't be learned any other way.

It's true. Grief and difficult situations can build character. They don't have to sweep over us and leave us crippled with doubt and fear. They help us to see what is really important. When we look for the small moments of goodness through the pain, when we see those who touched our lives and showed us that we didn't have to walk the journey alone, we then can know we are not the same people we once were. We have been refined like precious gold, no longer tarnished by the chains that bound us.

My mother's brush with death......

     It was February, 1971.  Snow had fallen the night before.  Dad was outside shoveling as I watched cartoons on a Sunday morning.  A huge noise from the room  above me, startled me.  My dog, Buffy, ran to the stairs, as I almost walked up to see what had happened.  I heard the strangest sound, a snoring, or gurgling from above.  My mother was upstairs, and it sounded scary.  I ran outside to tell my father.
     He came into the house to check on my mother, and called down to me from upstairs to phone my grandmother for an ambulance.  My eleven year old mind couldn't process what he was telling me, but I knew it was very serious.  I called my Nonna, who must have quickly dialed the ambulance service.
      A few moments later,  the ambulance crew arrived, quickly going up the stairs to see what had happened.  My mother had fallen, having a cardiac arrest, something we didn't know at the time.
     As they carried her out on a stretcher, she was conscious and spoke to me.  She told me not to worry, and to have fun.  My little mind couldn't process any of this.
     Years later, I heard details of her strange  hospital experience .  It seemed as they stabilized her for the night, my father was leaving the hospital to come home to me.  As he was walking down the hallway, he heard the code blue called over the loudspeakers.  He just knew it was for my mother.
     My mother had another cardiac arrest, this time much more serious.  She had to be revived, something I never knew at the time.
     The doctors and nurses were able to revive her after a few minutes.  When my father was able to see her again, she said something odd to him.  "Rich, I'm not afraid to die."  Then she told him her story.
     She felt herself being drawn down a long, dark tunnel.  The further and faster she went, she began to feel a profound peace settling about her.  She felt as if she was the only thing, only person that mattered in the world, and love was wrapping Itself about her.   She went no further, but was quickly drawn back to consciousness  and heard a loud "popping" sound as she came to.
      As I became an adult myself, I read many encounters of near death experiences.  They sounded very similar to what my mother had described.  She wasn't "out" as long as some of them, but long enough to have the experience she told us about.
      Mom has often shared this tale with people she meets, especially when they are grieving, or forlorn about a loved one who has passed.  Many times, she moves people to tears, and has often inspired others with her story.  I believe in what she says. 
     So, as St. Augustine said:  "God loves every one of us, as if there's only one of us."   I believe my mom had a glimpse of this.