Saturday, November 9, 2013

Change the Light


Part of my coping strategy has been to fill my days with work. I came to a point recently when I wanted to have some fun. I needed a project – something fresh, something creative. I decided to tackle the basement. Two weeks later I’m almost finished and I think I’ve had enough fun.

I felt excited last night as I stood back to survey the newly painted walls, but that feeling evaporated as I realized the room didn’t look right. Way too yellow. This paint color has looked fine in other areas of our home, but not in the basement.

I spent hours trying to figure out a new color scheme and trying to convince myself to repaint. Then I had an idea: change the light bulbs. And just like that the walls turned a soft cream. The natural spectrum bulbs produced a truer light. Whew.

It is amazing how much the right light can improve our view. That got me thinking about another experience this week.

Sunday was my birthday and it was a joyous day. I enjoyed my time at Church and the association with friends there. The Primary children sang to me, then high-fived as I walked back to my seat. Some innocently asked how old I was. I chose not to respond, but one little boy guessed I was ninety two.

Later that afternoon my family hosted a birthday dinner. It wasn’t until I was home Sunday night that I realized my cell phone had been off all day. When I turned it on three new voice messages popped up. I smiled in anticipation of the greetings, but before I could hear them I had deal with one of the quirks of my phone.

My cell phone is rather vintage but it does most things I need so I haven't replaced it.There is one minor challenge. It’s is not easily backed up. I have some sentimental voice messages that I’ve kept for years but only listen to when I get a periodic reminder to re-save. When that reminder comes you have to go through all your old messages and save them before hearing the new ones.That was the case Sunday night. I quickly moved through the process, then stopped when I heard Harold’s voice:

“Hi Sharon, this is Harold. Just calling to let you know I got the lab reports back and everything is fine. . .” This message went on to tell the good news that there was no evidence cancer had spread from the small brown spot removed from his forehead. That spot was melanoma and the precursor to the battle that would take his life, but of course we didn’t know it then. I’d kept the message because it was such good news. In the four years since, we’ve had many moments of good news and hard news but this is the only moment captured in Harold’s voice.

A few messages later I heard this greeting: 


“Happy Birthday, a day late. . .” That happy, loving, teasing voice was my Dad. It was last year’s birthday message.

These two unexpected greetings were wonderful . . . and then painful. Grief hits unaware, like a sudden storm. In a moment I was awash in tears. I cried, and cried, and cried. After a time a hymn came to my mind and I let it play over and over as I cried. It describes a scene from the New Testament where Jesus and his disciples are in a boat crossing the sea. Jesus is asleep in the back of the boat when a huge storm comes up that frightens his disciples. They wake him.

Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o'ershadowed with blackness.
No shelter or help is nigh.

Carest thou not that we perish?
How canst thou lie asleep
When each moment so madly is threat'ning
A grave in the angry deep?


(Chorus)

The winds and the waves shall obey thy will:
Peace, be still.
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
Or demons or men or whatever it be,
No waters can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies.
They all shall sweetly obey thy will:
Peace, be still; peace, be still.
They all shall sweetly obey thy will:
Peace, peace, be still.


I’m not sure why I had this song come to mind. I wasn’t in a storm at sea, but I was in a storm of grief. Can you drown in grief? That fear, however fleeting, was real. As the words of this hymn rekindled my faith, the waves receded and I felt calm.

Though most of this was subconscious, I think the hymn reminded me to “change the light” and that made all the difference. Grief is natural. It’s needful. It’s healthy. Go ahead and cry. Ride the waves. But also know there is a constant source of peace – our Savior Jesus Christ
– and when He's in the boat, we don't need to worry.


Thursday, September 26, 2013

What Do We Keep?


Update:
Life continues at a frantic pace as I take on new roles in managing our business affairs. At times it's exhilarating and then overwhelming; but I’m always learning and that feels good. I’m grateful Harold encouraged me to be self reliant, allowing me to develop the skills I now need to survive. I’m grateful he also understood I would still need help. Sometimes when I am searching for information only he could know, I check his computer and find a spreadsheet prepared in anticipation of my search. There's no way around missing Harold, but I feel his care. Life is still good.
 

What Do We Keep  - September 8th.

I'm in Idaho. It’s my first time back since my dad died. I flew out to help settle his estate. I’m alone in the house today so I’ve had the chance to walk through the rooms, savoring the evidence of the life we shared and the loved ones who made that life so good.

An inventory has been taken and everything is prepared for dividing. But how do you break up the memories of a lifetime? Inwardly I rebel. Nothing should leave. I need these symbols of my heritage to stay intact to preserve my roots . . . or at least I think I do.

A curved topped cedar chest holds evidence of our family's beginnings. Preserved inside is my mother’s wedding dress and my father's military uniform. A rocking chair crafted from roughly hewn logs carries my grandfather’s signature while my grandmother’s is in the hand stitched quilt.

An open kitchen drawer reveals brightly knit hot pads made to protect my mother’s hands as she transferred savory roasts, homemade breads, and fruit pies from the oven to our waiting table. A cookie jar stands sentinel, still offering the tantalizing hope of a treat. 

Mom's upright piano represents years of beautiful music, and hard work. It was the vehicle of her virtuosity and the setting of endless hours of practice. My dad loved to listen to her play, and later when we were learning, he encouraged us too. The piano became the center of family gatherings with our children joining in the singing or playing or happily dancing to grandma's improvised jigs. 


The cases of books testify to my parents love of literature. Personal histories, journals, photo albums and framed portraits witness a commitment to family history and an interest in future generations.

Beyond material things there is a sense of order: The immaculately cared for lawns, the white barn, and the fields. My father continued to maintain his large yard even when age weakened his frame, relying on his riding lawnmower instead of his legs. Later family members stepped in, continuing his example of careful stewardship.

As I walk through the house and grounds I fight within myself. I can't bear to see the change. But change must come.
I want to walk away. But maybe I should stay. 

If I stay, what would I choose to keep?
 

My thoughts from September 8th ended with that question. Here's the rest of the story:

There are probably many elaborate strategies for safely dividing estates. Ours wasn’t too complicated. We drew straws, flipped coins, and for really hotly contested items, sat around the kitchen table and played Rock Paper Scissors. It was a blast. It worked because we had all figured out what to keep Relationships.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Time to Grieve


Delayed response? Perhaps. I don’t have the experience to know, but grief feels real now and I’m letting the tears flow.

There was a rush of necessary paperwork keeping me focused immediately after Harold’s death. Once I had that settled I left for Idaho to spend a few days with my father whose health was failing. I returned to Denver only to fly back to Idaho a few days later when it became apparent Dad’s time was short. It was a comfort to be with my siblings as we united to serve our father who has loved and served us so well. He died August 3rd, just twenty days short of his 95th birthday.

I’m home now and learning part of what I was not ready to know before. Here are a few thoughts:

Crying is a good thing. I use to limit my tears to the shower. No tell–tale signs, no messy tissues. It was efficient. Now they come at random moments and I don’t stop them. It hasn’t made anything worse . . . actually, I think it feels better.

Grieving doesn’t have to mean you are overcome with grief. I don’t feel overcome. I do feel periodic waves of emotion. Sometimes I just have to catch my breath and hold my heart. Then I breathe, cry a bit, and move on. Coming home this week was like that. The quiet house was a stark contrast to my busy life before. Still, I feel an overriding sense of peace. That peace comes from my understanding of Heavenly Father’s plan and the assurance that our family can be together again.

Peace also comes from understanding that loved ones who die are simply leaving their mortal bodies behind. They still exist, are busily engaged in work on the other side of the veil, and are just as aware and interested in us as they were before death. Having the opportunity to be with Harold and then my father as they made that passage has only confirmed this gospel truth.

Finally, there is great healing power in the scriptures. Words I’ve read many times before now open with greater meaning. Guess I’m not the first mortal to search for answers after losing a loved one, and I guess I’m not the first to receive comfort there; but it’s still marvelous that a loving Heavenly Father would inspire ancient prophets to write the words I need to hear now.

Yes, it’s time to grieve, to figure things out, and to grow. I am grateful for the comfort offered through knowledge of the gospel, through the scriptures, and through the love and support of family and friends.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Perspective


I took a flight yesterday. It was the return portion of a trip to Idaho. The plane was small and my window seat allowed a great view of the farmland below. I marveled how quickly my perspective changed as we gained altitude. The individual rows of crops and islands of trees transformed into a massive quilt made of blocks and circles outlined by roads, section boundaries and irrigation patterns. It was impossible to view this patchwork from the ground, yet it was clearly there and probably had been for generations.

The purpose of my trip was to spend time with my father. He is approaching his 95th birthday and perhaps his departure from this life. Don’t know which event will come first. My dad’s been in home hospice care for over a year, so when Harold also needed that service he was able to let us know what to expect and offer advice. Harold quickly overtook Dad on that journey. I was able to let him know our experience with the next stages. 

Dad and I regularly share our thoughts during nightly phone calls. In a conversation about a month ago, I told Dad he had to stick around because I wasn’t ready to lose both the men who've taken such good care of me my whole life. Dad laughed then said he would gladly trade Harold places. He then concluded with a phrase that often ends our conversations: What will be, will be.

When I made that request a month ago, I imagined I’d be feeling utter panic at this point. But I don’t. I still feel peace. My perspective has changed in a couple of ways. First, I don’t feel like I’ve lost Harold. He's just not here right now. Maybe that will alter with time but for today that’s how it is. I’m busy taking care of the business of life; trying to remember all the instructions he gave me and trying to figure some things out on my own.

There are poignant moments, like when I got to Dad’s and announced I needed to call Harold and let him know I’d arrived safe. There was a pause, I recovered and then added, “Guess he already knows.” Those are the times you just let the tears fall, not out of anguish but out of an overflow of tender feelings.

The second change is that
I’ve learned about death. It's not frightening. It is a reverent, sacred experience. Because of this knowledge I feel better prepared to let my father go when his time comes. And just as I feel Harold’s continued love and watch care, I believe I’ll feel my father’s too.

Three weeks have passed since Harold’s death. Life continues to be good. As I ascended out of Idaho yesterday and watched my view of the land change, I wondered about Harold. How has his perspective changed? What does he see? What would he counsel me? 


I think I know.

He’d tell me families are forever. He’d tell me to continue in faith. I may be called to work in the rows and the trees of life now, but above that there is a grand design laid out by a loving Heavenly Father and made possible by our Savior, Jesus Christ. Harold would tell me to keep following that plan . . . and be happy.

Friday, July 5, 2013

The Days to Come


My sister Evelyn left this morning. She and her daughter have been by my side since last Saturday, quietly taking over all the details of running our home. She was the last of the extended family to leave; the last of the army from both sides who have so magnificently supported us this week. It’s an inevitable closure met with both dread and anticipation.

I need to take the next steps. What will that look like? What will I do? What is normal? How much will it hurt? I’m not ready to know. For now, I just need to stand up and move.

As Evelyn and her daughter packed their car I busied myself watering flowers, pinching off spent blooms . . . delaying the goodbye. While I worked I kept remembering lines from a Rudyard Kipling poem
1:

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart.


All of Harold’s eight siblings came to honor Harold. So did his mother, an uncle, an aunt, and many cousins. All of my siblings came. There were nieces and nephews from both sides and many friends and associates. What an outpouring of love and support. I wonder if it is possible to store up all those warm feelings, kind of like a solar cell, to ration out later when life moves on and we have to cope with the changes.

Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.


We have been humbled by the many friends and associates who served us so generously this week; anticipating what we would need and simply providing it without fanfare or awkwardness. Your Christlike service allowed us to enjoy this sacred time with family without worry over food and other details. It's hard to appreciate the power of that kind of service, until you've needed it. We are grateful for your example and sacrifice. I don’t even know who all of you are, but thank you, thank you, thank you.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget.


Last Thursday at 3:40 pm Harold’s spirit left his body. That one week mark just past. How did we get to today? It’s simple. We were carried. I think each of my children would say they have been blessed with power beyond their own to do what they were required to do. I know I have. I pray I never forget.

As I anticipate the days to come I ask myself this question: Will my Heavenly Father, who has sustained me through each day of this battle, drop me now? Again the answer is simple: No. He won't. He carried me through yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that; and if I continue to look to him, he will sustain me and my family through the days to come. We Choose Faith. 


Harold Jones Family at Gravesite
July 2, 2013





1"Recessional" by Rudyard Kipling.The poem is a prayer which he composed on the occasion of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897. A musical adaptation of the poem was included in the 1985 hymnal of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter–day Saints entitled "God of Our Fathers, Known of Old,"
Hymn #80.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Memorial Services Details


Memorial Services for Harold Jones 

Viewing for family and friends will be Monday, July 1st from 6 pm – 8 pm at Horan & McConaty Mortuary.

The Funeral Services will be on Tuesday, July 2nd at 10 am. Services will be held at the Flanders Building of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Interment will immediately follow the funeral at Fairmount Cemetery.

Horan & McConaty Mortuary
11150E Dartmouth Ave,
Aurora, CO 80014

Flander Building
3101 South Flanders Street
Aurora, CO 80013 


Fairmount Cemetery
430 S Quebec Street
Denver, CO 80247

Just Breathe


There’s been a steady rhythm accompanying my life script these last thirty six years. It’s been the sound of Harold breathing. I imagine that all married couples come to recognize this rhythm, but we talked about it before we were married. Shortly after our engagement, his college roommates warned that Harold snored with such force that the wind draft caused his bedroom door to swing open and shut. Thankfully it wasn’t true.

Later I remember listening to him breathe, oh so peacefully, as he slept through our first argument. How could he not know or somehow sense what was warring in my mind? Finally in desperation, I woke him. “Harold, we’re having an argument and you’re losing. Defend yourself.”

The years have brought many nights of waking and listening as our family has grown and we’ve faced the normal challenges of life. Through it all Harold’s breathing has been the pulse, the rhythm, the comforting constant.

The rapid decline in Harold’s condition magnified our awareness of his breathing. When he was moved to a hospital bed out of our room, I could still hear that steady rhythm through a monitor we’d set up. It was a comfort. Yesterday the sound changed. It was loud and labored as he worked to draw in each breath. I knew his time was short.


Harold has been too weak to talk since Sunday and would rarely open his eyes, yet we knew he could hear everything we said. He would respond with a hand squeeze or a gesture until yesterday when he was too weak even for that. Our daughter Rebecca had a flight home on a ticket she had purchased the week before, little knowing how rapidly her father would decline. I desperately hoped she would make it in time.

“Keep breathing, Harold. Becca will be here in two hours.”

There was no response but I kept talking, kept holding his hand, kept listening.

“Harold, she’ll be here in 30 minutes. Kaylene is picking her up at the airport right now. Keep breathing.”

Several of our children were at work during this time, also making arrangements to get home. I was comforted that they had been able to spend time with their dad, helping to care for him day and night.

“Hi, Daddy, this is Becca. I’m home.”

By then most of the family had arrived and we had word the last were about an hour away. I now realized it was possible we would all be together.

“Harold, hold on a little longer.”

Harold did. We had two hours after the family had gathered. It was a sacred time. We shared stories and were able to express gratitude to Harold for his life’s example and work on our behalf. We expressed gratitude for the tender mercy of the Lord who had made this time possible.

Eventually we started to sing, tentatively at first but then growing in strength and harmony. Sometime during the singing, Harold's breathing relaxed, growing shallower and fainter. I placed my hand on his chest so I could feel his breaths. During the last verse of “Abide With Me,” he left.

It was a fitting benediction. This hymn invites the Savior to stay the night with us, to carry us through dark times. Our Savior’s spirit was there and he has indeed stayed and lifted us.

I woke this morning to the rhythm of breathing. Not mine and not Harold’s but a daughter’s gentle breaths, mindful that her mother might need a reminder . . . to still breathe.