Tag Archives: love

In the Garden

10 Wednesday May 2023

Posted by in hymns

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I come to the garden alone . . .

In the Garden was Daddy’s favorite hymn. It was played at his funeral thirty years ago, and I still can’t sing it through without weeping. It brings tears because of what I believe it meant to Daddy personally.

My father was a very private man, not one to share his thoughts and feelings. He dealt with his concerns alone with the Lord. That’s where he sought and found strength and direction.

Daddy’s parents died of tuberculosis when he was four. His sister, the oldest of six children, died trying to keep the family together. Minnie Lee was twenty-six when she died of the same disease. Daddy was twelve. It fell to the oldest brother and his wife to keep the family intact.

When just eighteen, Daddy married my mother, who was fifteen. In those early years, Daddy worked as a sharecropper, a church custodian, and a garage mechanic. Whatever was available.

My mother’s parents took Daddy in the year before my parents married. My grandmother said people just did that then. When someone needed a home and you could provide, you took them in, you didn’t go through a formal adoption process. Mother’s parents became the only parents that Daddy remembered and he never failed to respect and honor what they did for him.

I was just six months old when Daddy enlisted in the Army. He came back an injured World War II veteran. He spent two hospitalizations in a VA hospital due to his injuries, yet would never accept the compensation due him. There were times we could have used the aid, but Daddy held his ground about not accepting money for serving his country when he was able to work. Only the Lord knows why.

As far as I know, there were only two things Daddy ever spoke about regarding the war and that was to Mother. He told her the scars around his waist were from rat bites while in a foxhole. It took her a year to get that information. The other thing was his promise to God that if He would let him come home to his family, he would spend the rest of his life taking care of others. He fulfilled that promise and it was only after his death that we knew much of what he had quietly done to help others.

Daddy was mayor of our small town for twelve years, and also a sheriff’s deputy. He had a total of thirty-five years in law enforcement. From time to time, his dedication to service brought its challenges. Someone burned a cross in our front yard once. Another person tacked up posters right before an election attacking Daddy’s integrity. When he walked me down the aisle to marry, his arm was in a cast, broken while arresting someone for domestic violence.

In my growing up years, our needs were certainly provided for, but there were no extravagances. I remember at least two store robberies. Then, due to his second VA hospitalization, he had to forfeit his small business and re-mortgage our house. Eventually, all was recovered and things improved for my parents financially. For that, I am very grateful.

When I hear In the Garden, I reflect on all the walks and talks with God Daddy must surely have had. About the pain he endured: physical, mental, emotional. The times he struggled to provide for a family of five while proudly, and I believe foolishly, refusing any help from the nation he fought for. All the times he sought guidance when he didn’t know what to do next. All the times he asked for strength to do what he believed was right. I suspect those garden walks started early when he was a little orphaned boy, frightened and confused.

Daddy, along with Mother, is buried in the cemetery at the church, where he was saved and baptized as a young man. You step out the back door of the still active country church, and there you are – in a beautifully tended garden. I can’t think of a more fitting resting place. Someday that garden will be my resting place, too.

And He walks with me and He talks with me. And He tells me I am his own . . .

The hymn, In the Garden, was written in 1912 by C. Austin Miles. Daddy was born in 1916. Perhaps he had known this song all his life, maybe the first hymn he remembered. I wish I had thought to ask.

Perspective on Life from Hospital Days

24 Thursday Mar 2022

Posted by in healthcare stories

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

Hospitals know a lot of heartaches. An illness brings someone in, but that person comes with all their problems and they should never be under-estimated in their journey of healing. During my years as a patient advocate, I came to know a lot of wonderful people and a lot of their heartaches.

The very first patient I ever dealt with was a teenager battling a rare disease. It wasn’t thought he would recover, but he did. After being home a while and getting back on his feet, he fell in with a wrong group and was killed as a result of association. When his dad came to tell me, I found it hard to take in. This young man who had won the battle of disease, only to have his life end in senseless tragedy – how could it be? How did his parents manage their grief so soon after being on a mountaintop of joy?

There was an elderly woman who was with us one December and it was uncertain as to whether she would be staying through Christmas Day. Most patients wanted badly to be out and home for Christmas, but this dear lady preferred staying. She said she would rather be in a hospital with people around her than go home and be alone.

I think about another elderly and gentle woman. She confided in a nurse that she knew her children were taking things from her house while she was hospitalized. They were using her absence and access to her house keys to take what they wanted. How can children do that? Social Service was called, but intervention didn’t take away the sadness of such abuse nor the pain that mother’s heart knew.

There was a delightful man who did his best to make every day positive in some way, all the while knowing he was dying and would probably not leave the hospital. He called for his grandchildren to come so that he could talk to them about how needless his early death was, that he was dying because he had abused his body, and wanted to impress upon them their opportunity to live life better. He gave his speech and then went back to bringing laughter into the room. What a brave individual!

I recall the many families who were torn apart by end-of-life decisions. Spouses and children couldn’t agree on when it was time to let their loved one go, even when the patient had made personal wishes clear to the family. Sometimes it was a spouse who held on, other times it was the children. Before the day of the Patient Self-Determination Act that gave us the Living Will and Durable Power of Attorney, it could be an especially tough issue to resolve. Just when families needed to pull together, impending death often brought family discord and added anguish.

There was a very loving wife who delayed bringing in her husband’s Living Will because she wasn’t ready to give him up. They had been married more than 50 years and she thought she would rather take him home and care for him like an infant rather than lose him forever. After taking some time to work it through – weighing what she knew he wanted against her heartache in giving him up – she did eventually bring in his Living Will. Decisions in the midst of grief are always the hardest to make.

I think about the nurses who cried when babies would not live outside their mothers’ wombs and how they consoled those empty-armed mothers. And I remember the doctors who gave the extra measure of hope to their patients while battling extremely tough medical cases. There were pharmacists who spent time explaining a medicine or apologizing for delays and confusion when the fault wasn’t theirs, kitchen staff that made special surprises for those who needed an emotional boost, chaplains who counseled with family members in despair and prayed with patients over their fear and confusion.

One caregiver that really touched my heart was a physical therapist who was an expert at building bridges with patients with her sense of humor. I remember a family support meeting in our rehab area where we all sat around a table with the patient and caregivers explained to his family the patient’s progress. The stroke victim was expressionless until it came the physical therapist’s turn to speak. Ellen jumped right in, applying her good-humored teasing directly to the patient, and speaking much more frankly than any of the others. She told this patient he wasn’t doing all she knew he could do and she didn’t soft pedal it. Was he offended? Oh, no. His face just lit up with joy. For the first time in the meeting, he participated to the degree he was able. His therapist had made a heart contact when she worked with him; he knew she saw him as a unique individual and not just another patient recovering from a stroke. It was a beautiful moment.

A hospital is a microcosm of society. My point in reflecting on what I learned there is this: what I saw in a smaller setting is what we have all around us. Wherever we work or live, there are hurting people. Life is filled with opportunities to help someone along the way. By realizing that we walk amidst suffering, we can be more kindly observant and less judgmental, more giving and less self-centered. We can choose to not have as one of our biggest regrets someday, the things we had a chance to do for someone else and didn’t.

There is not one single person anywhere who doesn’t appreciate a little extra kindness, some measure of caring. Often the tiniest efforts mean the most. The degree of appreciation usually lies in the size of the hole in the heart – and that, only the hurting one knows.

Pat Rowland is retired from Methodist Healthcare in Memphis, Tennessee, where she was Corporate Director of Patient Affairs.

Commercial Appeal, December 2012

Gift-Giving

26 Wednesday Jan 2022

Posted by in gifts

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

One Christmas season, my mother said to me “don’t give me anything else if I can’t wear it or eat it.”  Mother spoke out of her practical nature. She was cut from the cloth of her father, always sensible and direct. Mother had reached an age where she didn’t need nor want anything else. It wasn’t a gray mood, just how she wanted things. That was pretty much how I gifted her anyway, so we were good.

Then the day came when she shortened her directive to “If I can’t eat it, don’t give it to me. I have all the clothes I can ever wear.” Now that kind of made me sad as I remembered how her eyes would light up over gifts of new clothes. This time I thought it was a gray mood and I didn’t like it. But as is often the case with my assumptions, I assumed wrong.

Here I am nearing my 80th year and now perfectly understand Mother’s thinking. I have too much stuff and I don’t want any more stuff. All that I once loved having around me now seems too much. If I were to do things over, I’m pretty sure I would be a minimalist. I have a closet full of clothes that I still enjoy. It’s either wear them or give them away. The shopping gene was left out of my female development so I prefer wearing my closet favorites. Not to say I won’t enjoy a new thing here or there or replace something worn too long.

It has been said by various philosophers in a variety of ways that the best gift you can give someone is a gift of yourself. One of my dearest friends, who is also my housekeeper, did that for me this past birthday. When she finished cleaning, she surprised me by saying it was a gift for my birthday. It was wonderful! I felt so loved.

Another friend surprised me by dropping off a little birthday cake. That was special because a birthday doesn’t feel complete without a cake. It’s like the cherry on top of a sundae or the period at the end of a sentence.

Another friend called and sang Happy Birthday to me. What a smile maker! We talked about why we were never asked to join the choir.

Via social media and US mail, I was sent birthday greetings. Some had comments that touched me deeply. I read them several times.

My daughter and son by marriage understand that I am at this special place in my life and for Christmas and birthday made a significant donation to the local Humane Society. This was a perfect gift. It gave help to animals in my name. Animals without homes or special needs have my heart. It was a gift that made me teary.

When Mother gave me her new rule for gift-giving years ago, I didn’t much like the rule. Yet now, I understand. It was not a decision made out of depression, rather what felt good and right for a particular time in her life. I am now at that place. No more storing up things here on earth, but enjoying the things I already have and love.

It amazes me how much more like my mother I get with every passing day. And I like it. Hebrews 13:5 says to be content with what you have. I am content.

 The greatest gift is a portion of thyself. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

The greatest gift in life is to be remembered. –Ken Venturi

The Labor and Love of Quilting

08 Saturday Jan 2022

Posted by in quilting

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Do everything in love. –1 Corinthians 16:14 (NIV)

In the 1970s, I became interested in old things, mostly due to a neighbor’s living room being beautifully furnished with old things. Some were valuable antiques and some were simply aged pieces Betty found interesting.  I was fascinated with her finds and found them more appealing than new-from-the-store decor.

I caught the love for vintage and Daddy, taking note of my excitement, began looking for things to gift me. There was an old oak rocker purchased originally from a Sears catalog, a faux Chippendale coffee table from L&M Tea Company, and the quilt you see pictured.

Dresden Plate design

Actually, Daddy found, or was given, the quilt top and then paid someone to quilt it. Mother shook her head in bewilderment that Daddy spent money to have it completed. She didn’t think it was a very pretty piece and it was not in good shape. It was certainly not a fine quilt top like she and her mother, my grandmother, had done in their early years.  I saw all she said but I loved that my dad wanted to do this for me and accepted it with much appreciation. 1 Peter 4:8, simply put in the NLT, says the most important thing of all is to love each other deeply. This was a demonstration of Daddy’s love and I would receive it as a demonstration of mine.

For years, the quilt remained folded and stored, never used. It was too small for my bed but I could never part with it because it was a gift Daddy had taken such pleasure in giving me.

One cold night recently, I pulled the quilt out of storage, ran it through the washer and dryer, and put it on my bed. It didn’t quite meet the sides of my bed but layered between a sheet and comforter, it held in place. It felt so good to lie beneath its warmth and remember how I came to have it.

I wondered who the women were who put the quilt together — the one who pieced the top and the one who later did the quilting. I especially thought about the one who put the pieces together, thinking she would have used whatever fabric scraps available, maybe even some passed on by friends and family. I have had the quilt for almost 50 years and the top showed a lot of age when Daddy came upon it. I can’t imagine how old it is from its beginning.

When I married in 1962, my grandmother gave me a beautiful Double Wedding Ring quilt. Oh, how I wish I still had it, but it was lost along the way. The stitching in that quilt was so fine and delicate. I don’t know how many hands were involved in the quilting, but I’m sure Mama pieced it all by herself.

My favorite of the old quilt designs was Little Dutch Girl. I was fascinated by the girls in profile with their calico bonnets and dresses. I slept under one of those growing up that my mother made. Some quilters called the pattern Sunbonnet Sue.

Every stitch of my baby quilt was done by my mother’s hands.

I have my baby quilt that my Mother embroidered and quilted. Twelve little animals play across its top, each one different. It first snuggled me, then each of my brothers, and finally my own daughter. It’s close to 80 years old and though the edges are frayed from many washings, I don’t find a single missing or broken stitch. I find that amazing. For Mother’s handwork to hold up for 80 years reminds me of Colossians 3:23 that says Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord (NIV).

A close-up of a lamb on my baby quilt that Mother embroidered about 1943. Every stitch is tightly intact.

In the days of quilting by my grandmother and mother, quilting frames were quite large and usually dropped from the ceiling. Then all who could come and help would sit around the frame and delicately lay stitches, piercing through the top piece, batting, and under piece, then returning from the bottom. They shared their labor and turned out creative works of art. The work of their hands provided warm beds for their families. 1 Thessalonians 4:13 says Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands (NLT). That verse well describes the women of an earlier era who labored long and hard over what was before them to do. It was the life my mother and grandmother lived.

Quilting still happens, but the stitching today is done by sewing machines. Quilters often have machines just dedicated to quilting. The artistry is through the colors and designs and precision. To hear my friend Bonny talk about all that goes into her quilts is a delightful experience. You hear the love of the design, the challenge of selecting the fabrics that fit the person, and her anticipation of the recipient’s response. Bonny made me a lap quilt years ago. She said she chose colors that reflected my personality.

My quilt from Bon. It is a variation of Uneven Nine Patch. In the past 25 years, she has made at least 120 quilts.

Quilting was and still is an artistic labor of love. And I’ve been a grateful recipient for a lifetime.

As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace. –1 Peter 4:10 (NASB)

The Best Christmases of All

15 Wednesday Dec 2021

Posted by in Celebrate Christmas

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Mama and Papa 001There was only one thing my grandparents wanted each year for Christmas—for all their children to be home at once. That was the gift that brought tears to Papa’s eyes and radiance to Mama’s face. All seven children home with spouses and children. I think it was what gave all of us the best of Christmases.

DAY_DADDY_CAME_HOME_FROM_SE - Copy

Their house was humble in appearance. A white frame house Papa had built onto as need required. My mother and I were the reason for one addition. When Daddy went to war and I was just months old, Papa brought us there to live with them. It was a house made for practicality and not show.

At Christmastime, the multi-colored lights on the tree shone through the living room window, beckoning us home. Cars parked on the narrow street up and down both sides for a block. Neighbors never minded; they were invited to join us and some always did. 

Each time the front door opened laughter and greetings of welcome rang out. It was good to be together again. Mama and Papa would stand just inside the door waiting to embrace every family member and friend. Papa would chuckle with delight because his “chillun” had come home. Christmas with Papa 1979 001

Packages were stowed under the tree and dishes of food taken on to the kitchen to help Mama feed the multitude. She had cooked for days and if no one had brought a single thing, there would still have been plenty. After the tree and kitchen visits there was one more stop before joining the men for talking or the women for getting the food ready. That stop was to find Mama’s large blue granite roasting pan. For in that pan would be the one dish we had looked forward to all year—Mama’s cornbread dressing. I guess we just needed a little reassurance that it was there waiting for us.

Christmas at the Spencer’s was for love and sharing and the larger the crowd the better. Boyfriends, girlfriends, in-laws, great aunts and uncles, our pastor and his family, our small town’s highly revered doctor and his wife. Everyone was welcome. We sat everywhere, even in the bedrooms. And the food was like the loaves and fish that Jesus blessed, it seemed to keep replenishing itself.  JIM_AND_DULCIE_SPENCER_001 - Copy

One thing always happened in that house before any meal was had and that was a prayer of thanksgiving. At Christmastime, everyone migrated to the spot where Papa and Mama stood and a hush fell over the house. If Papa said the prayer he thanked God for every person there—and he cried. Papa couldn’t pray without crying because his heart was ever grateful to God for His blessings, and when Papa spoke to the Lord, his love for Him spilled out emotionally.

Money couldn’t buy the blessing of having been born into the family of Jim and Dulcie Spencer. I am indeed rich in heritage. I thank God for giving me two of His finest creations as grandparents and for the many memories of Christmases past on Campbell Street in Medina, Tennessee.

Mama and Papa 1977

Jim and Dulcie Spencer (Papa and Mama) at their house on Campbell Street in 1977. The place we all called home and would rather be than anywhere else.

The seven Spencer children, mid-1980s, probably.
L-R (standing): Tera, Betty Jo (Replogle), Bluford
Front: JB, Louise, (Luffman), Evelyn (Barnes),
Cornelia (Cagle)
Spencer children standing in birth order. The picture was probably made about 1938 or ’39. Louise (my mother), JB, Bluford, Cornelia, Tera, Evelyn, Betty Jo. All deceased except for Cornelia (94) and Tera (92).

This was first published in 2014. I have added a few pictures and am posting it again today in honor of the 30th anniversary of my grandmother’s going home to Jesus. There was never a better woman than Dulcie Cotton Spencer. She witnessed her faith and love for Christ every minute of her life.

Thanksgiving 1982 at my house. She was 82.

Saying Goodbye

02 Thursday Dec 2021

Posted by in Goodbyes

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Goodbyes are especially hard for me. I just don’t handle them well — never have. It’s a part of me I don’t quite understand.

When I took early retirement from a job that I loved, I refused the customary appreciation reception; I simply couldn’t bear to think how emotionally hard it would be. I had poured heart and soul into my job. I knew it was a place that God had brought me to serve Him and letting go was necessary but not easy. Additionally, I asked my staff to treat it as if it were any other day and not say goodbye. I felt it was the only way I could get through it. I slipped out the side door of my office and quietly drove away.

When my 14-year-old kitty had to be put to sleep, I declined the private time at the Veterinary ER with her prior to the moment. I knew when I left home with Chloe that she would not be returning with me, so I had said the things that I wanted to say to her before we left and while we traveled to the point of goodbye. After she had entered heaven’s gates, the veterinarian told me I could have as long as I needed to stay and hold her, but I couldn’t stay. While I was still in control of my emotions, I had to get back home.

I was at my husband’s bedside when he died, when they unhooked him from life support, at the time of his last breath. Again, I was told to stay as long as I needed, but I could not extend that goodbye either. Richard wasn’t there anyway. I saw him go home to be with the Lord. I saw him healthy and happy. So did our friend who was with us. She said the presence of the Lord was so strong in the room that she would never again be afraid of dying.

My manner of goodbye seems to be through hurried escape. It’s my way of surviving the pain, I think. I need to distance myself and be alone. I need to move through the sea of grief and get back to shore where I feel safer. I really don’t think it’s the best way to handle goodbyes, but it’s my way and God understands. He understands because He created me just as I am. I have been told that when we love deeply, with total abandon, we hurt just as deeply. In all three of the events disclosed, I loved in total abandon.

When something ends that has been important to our life as we’ve known it, we lose a part of who we are. A layer of our being is permanently gone and can never be recaptured. What it was will forever be, but we can’t enhance or change any part of it.

A friend invited me to a ceremony of closure regarding the ending of her marriage. Just months after they were married, she learned her husband was still married to not one but two other women. Yet knowing this, she continued to love and mourn him. Her counselor suggested the shredding of their marriage certificate with her pastor, the counselor, and a close friend. We sat in our church sanctuary where she was given time to say anything she wanted to say. She did it without anger, just brief statements of her love, disappointment, and deep sadness. Then she tore into small pieces the paper that had officially bound them. She told me that the ceremony provided the closure she needed and afterward she was able to move on without looking back. That was powerful. I wish I could be like her: get help with grief, embrace it, take action, never look back. But we just aren’t all built the same way. I’ve tried to imagine handling differently the ending of things in my life and maybe I wouldn’t even if I could. So there’s so reason to look back with regret, is there?

There was a wise old sage that I used to quote in customer service training. He was filled with such good advice in the most uncomplicated of terms. His name was Winnie the Pooh. He said this about goodbyes: “How lucky I am to have had some things that make saying goodbye so hard.” So am I. Blessed, in fact. Thanks, Pooh, for making something that I’ve thought complex sound so very simple and clear.

______________

I am so sorry I have confused many with this blog. I am not giving up my blog, not moving, not going anywhere. This was simply meant as a reflection on how I have handled permanent losses in my past.

~~The new masthead is a photograph by my son-in-law, Mark Hearn.~~

Looking Back at a Memorable Patient

15 Monday Jul 2019

Posted by in healthcare stories

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s so much bad news today, I thought a little sharing of personal heroes might be in order. During the years I worked for Methodist Healthcare (1983-1998), my primary responsibilities were to patient concerns, patient rights, and medical ethics. I got to know some terrific individuals and wrote about many of them. I believed the sharing of patient perspectives helped us react more like a small community rather than a large hospital. Everyone does better when they understand another’s perspective. The stories were first shared internally and then with the medical community at large through my column, “Patient Perspective,” in the Memphis Healthcare News. I’ve pulled a few stories, in no particular order, to share with you. This one is very dated, but our need to understand and respect one another never changes. This couple taught us a lot about that. It was written in December of 1988. 

There are those particular patients whose stories we file away in our memory book. Then, from time to time, we draw on the lessons they taught through their demonstration of great courage, kindness, or even wit. There is one patient I remember who met all those qualifications.

I first became involved with him due to his extreme fear of contracting AIDS. He and his wife came to our hospital armed with their own can of disinfectant, and his wife cleaned the bathroom and telephone again – just to be sure.

The patient and his wife, both in their late 60’s, enjoyed one of those marriages that was a sheer delight to observe. As we got to know each other, his wife told me they had both had previous marriages that came apart in the early 1940’s. She said her first husband left to get a haircut one day and just never came back. So, for six years, the second husband made her go with him every time he got a haircut! Then she laughed that happy, throaty laugh of hers, and you could imagine the whole scene taking place.

There were a number of hospitalizations and other visits to our hospital. One day, the patient had been in to get blood and I met him and his wife as they were leaving the hospital. They stopped to speak and give me a quick hug, but then said they had to hurry along. “I’ve just been given the blood of an 18 year old, and I want to get my wife right home” said the patient.

During the time of one hospitalization, the patient decided he would leave a little test for the housekeepers: he put one tiny piece of paper in each of the four corners of his bathroom. The housekeeper passed the test, but one of the patient’s daughters said the housekeeper should have left them where they were with one word written on each paper scrap: (1) I’ve (2) cleaned (3) this (4) bathroom.

The most memorable happening of all, though, came in his first hospitalization. This beautiful human being, full of love and wit, called in all of his grandchildren to talk to them. (As I recall, their ages ranged from about 12 to mid-20’s.) He told them he wanted to be serious just for a minute and then he explained his condition and that he knew his long years of smoking were to blame. He said “Granddaddy should be up playing with you now, and not lying in this bed. If I had taken care of my body, that’s what I would be doing. So I want you to promise me, while each one of you still has a healthy body, to respect it and take care of it. Don’t ever be foolish enough to put yourself where I am now.” With that, he dismissed the time for serious conversation, and became, once again, the life of the party.

Yes, there were times when the patient and his wife might have been seen as ‘difficult’ for staff as they struggled to hold on to the months of life he had left. But surely, there’s not a one of us that felt we could ever put a mark against such a courageous couple.

This was a man and woman who helped us laugh when their hearts were breaking; who held close to each other and taught us lessons about love and left us with memories that bless our days of reflection. The patient was one of those individuals who lives on in each and every person he ever touched, and if there were a hall of fame for patients, we would place his picture there.

 

My Samantha

09 Monday Jan 2017

Posted by in pets needs

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

It hurt to watch her confusion. She was in a corner of the room trying to find her way out, turning first to the left and then the right. Not able to bear it any longer, I went to her and helped her find her way. Samantha is my 15-year-old Siamese and she is going blind.

samanthababyunderrichardslegs

Samantha was always with Richard from the first. 

We got Samantha when she was just four weeks old and weighed one pound and she was, from the beginning, my husband’s cat. She bonded so with Richard that she took every step he did and when his truck pulled out of the driveway, she would stand at the kitchen window and cry. Needless to say, Samantha grieved hard when Richard died.

samantha-christmas-2016

Samantha, kindly posing for a good shot in December 2016

In August of 2016, I noticed a significant change in Samantha’s vision. One day she had some minor near vision problems, and the next day (it seemed) she was walking into furniture and walls. Samantha’s vet saw cataracts but couldn’t explain why the change was so sudden. I was frightened for Samantha, concerned she might injure herself. I was told to keep everything just as she remembered it; no rearranging of furniture or putting anything new in her pathway.

I was encouraged when my daughter told me of a friend’s cat who was blind and had lived a number of years with the quality of life. I began speaking to Samantha when I neared so I wouldn’t frighten her. If I find her unsure about a direction, I talk her to the place. If she is unsure about her aim for my lap, I lift her to me. It seems there are times she can see a little more than others and I haven’t figured that out yet.  It doesn’t seem to be connected with lighting.

At first, Chloe was puzzled by it all. Samantha would jump from my lap into Chloe’s space unintentionally and Chloe would think it was a call to play. When she responded in play and Samantha would run from her, Chloe was perplexed. It didn’t take long, though, for Chloe to understand there was something new going on with the cat she had shared space with for nine years, and she began to make adjustments for her, just as I did. One temptation I have to constantly fight is to do too much for Samantha. I know she needs to do as much as she can for herself.

I am trying hard to keep the balance of affection between Samantha and Chloe.I croon my love for both of them and tell Chloe how much I appreciate her helping me care for Samantha. I’m one who believes animals understand a lot of what you say and intuitively know the rest.

samanthachloepatio

Sharing some sunshine on the patio this past summer.

I hold to quality of life for animals, as does our vet. At 15 years of age, I won’t put Samantha through surgery. Neither will I shut her off in a room for safety’s sake. Right now she still finds her litter box and makes sure to cover it well like the lady she has always been. She can find her food and water and reminds me when it’s time for a mid-afternoon treat.

Samantha, Chloe, and I will walk this journey together and when there is no longer quality of life for Samantha, I will let her go with the dignity and respect she deserves. There will be no way to avoid the heartache of giving her up. For now, we will make our time together as good as it can possibly be for the three of us. We will build memories. And give lots of love.

samantha-aug-1-2016

My Samantha, winter of 2016

Sundays of My Childhood

29 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in Memories

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

In the sweltering heat of southern summers, there was somewhat of a Sunday afternoon tradition at my grandparents’ house of putting small children down to nap on a pallet. A pallet was a homemade quilt folded over once or twice, depending on the number of grandchildren needing rest. Nearby, would be an oscillating fan, giving off a cool breeze as it turned your way. And while children napped, grownups would spend the afternoon in conversation until time for supper.

The Sunday noontime meal usually included both fried chicken and country ham. Mama and Papa had chickens and a smoke house where Papa cured hams. The table was heavy with bowls of vegetables from their garden. Desserts came in threes and you didn’t have to choose. Mama brought you a plate with some of each one; maybe two kinds of pie and a slice of cake. Once when Mama proudly brought a plate of desserts to a guest eating with us, he shook his head and said he couldn’t possibly eat all that and to please just give him one of the desserts. I can still see Mama’s face as she looked from him to the dessert plate in puzzlement. Foolish man to turn away the wares of a champion baker!

Before nap time and conversation, the table was cleared and the food carried from the dining room back to the stove. There it would be covered and put in the oven or left on top of the stove with the pot’s lids covering the “vittles,” as my grandfather called them.That wonderful repast would wait there for us to enjoy again for supper. And we didn’t always warm it up; rather, it might be spooned onto plates and eaten at room temperature. There was Sunday night church to attend, you see, so tasks were kept to a minimum. Mama’s cooking had gone on the day before or very early Sunday morning.

The memory of my grandparents’ table groaning with food and a fan cooling children on pallets are treasured memories. If I close my eyes and listen intently, I can almost hear the hum of that fan as it traveled from left to right and feel the cool breezes it provided on a hot Sunday afternoon.

As children of the 40s and 50s, we enjoyed simple pleasures and much security. We felt with our parents and grandparents in charge, no harm could come to us. We were protected from things we did and did not know. We played uncomplicated games of jack rocks and marbles, hop scotch and jump rope. We might search for four-leaf clovers or make necklaces and bracelets by typing clovetogether the long stems of the white clovers. My grandparents had an elephant ear plant that was profuse with huge leaves and long stems. Mama would break one off for each of us and we would pretend the leaves were umbrellas to fend off the sun or rain. Imagination in that day was a part of every game we played.

I think we need these memories as we age and that accounts for why we reminisce so much in our senior years. Rituals like Sunday family dinners and naps on pallets gave us uncomplicated days. Their recall brings smiles and appreciation for what we then took for granted.

Whoever thought things would change like they have? Ours was a world that made sense and gave hope for our futures. Maybe it is sheer foolishness, but somehow I believe that if we could take our children and grandchildren back to the way things were when we grew up, they would actually enjoy and want it. What do you think?

Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring, and integrity, they think of you.

                                                       — H. Jackson Brown, Jr. 

 

Mama’s Bible

23 Saturday Apr 2016

Posted by in faith

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

. . . take root downward and bear fruit upward. (Isaiah 37:31 ESV)

My grandmother’s Bible was a treasure beyond any price. I had hoped as her oldest grandchild that I might inherit it, however I never discussed that with my grandmother or my mother and so in the end it didn’t come to be.

What made Mama’s Bible so revered? She poured and prayed over its words daily. Her gentle, but sure hands caressed the pages. She wept and rejoiced, she trusted and she practiced. She did what Isaiah said: took root downward and bore fruit upward.

I’ve never known anyone that Jesus was as real to as He was to Dulcie Spencer. She sang songs to Him throughout the day and talked to Him as if He were right at her elbow. I’ve walked into her home and overheard her talking and thought she had company, only to find out it was no visitor but her best friend and permanent resident: Jesus. Mama relied on Him completely for every matter and that reliance gave her a radiance that cannot be duplicated by anything of this world. Mama had a heavenly glow. THE_SPENCER_FAMILY_001 - Copy

My grandmother had no earthly riches. She lived a simple life, but a life marked with beauty because of how she lived it. Mama’s standard was to do exactly as God’s Word said for her to do: she loved God with all her heart, soul, strength and mind; she loved her neighbors as herself; and she believed God’s word that when we trust Him completely, He will never forsake us. Mama’s family saw and respected that trust. I believe we were all, in fact, hugely affected by her rock-solid trust in God. My earliest memory of Mama is of her kneeling by her bed for prayer at end-of-day, long dark braids falling down her back and over her homemade gown. Mama always prayed aloud and just as I have visual remembrances of Mama, I have auditory ones, too.

wedding pic - CopyWhen I married in 1989, Mama wasn’t physically able to be with us so she sent her Bible to me for the ceremony. I can’t think of better representation of this woman that I loved more than ever I could express.

Though I didn’t get to keep the book she loved above all others, she did give me her faith and for that I am eternally grateful. Mine isn’t as beautiful as hers, but it is as confident. And what she passed on to me, I passed on to my daughter Kristi. I know because I have witnessed it.

I truly cannot imagine my life without this great woman’s influence. I have often said if I could choose to be like anyone in the world, it would be my grandmother. I wish I could say I had lived a life like hers, but I can’t. My journey has been one of much stumbling, failing, and starting over, however no one’s persuasion of faith has had a greater hold on me than that of Dulcie Spencer. I thank her for showing me a Jesus she never doubted and pointing the way to heaven’s door. You are my crown jewel, Mama.Copy of spencer family about 1951

Here are a few lines from a letter Mama wrote to her children not long before she died in 1991 at 91 years of age: The dear Lord has been so good to our family. I can’t thank him enough and that he lives in me all the time.  I’ve prayed to him all my life and He answers my prayers day and night. Please don’t grieve after me when I’m gone for I’ll be safe with our dear Lord and all my loved ones in heaven.