Loss

‘Tis so sweet

/ Patsy Kuipers / Leave a comment

Probably not the heading you’d expect for a reflection on two decades of widowhood . . . at least not until you complete the title of the cherished hymn, ’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus and recall its first verse: “’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus, Just to take Him at His word, Just to rest upon His promise, Just to know ‘Thus saith the Lord.’” [1] As I’ve contemplated writing this memorial post, the refrain of that anthem has come to my mind repeatedly: “Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him! How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er! Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus! O for grace to trust Him more!”[2]

This time 20 years ago I was in a daze, a protective state of shock. On some level I recognized the need to make decisions regarding my 39-year old husband’s services – visitation, funeral, burial. So many decisions brought about by his sudden death the night before. But more than anything I just felt numb. My thoughts churned. “How could he have gone to work and not come home? Surely he’ll drive up any minute now, won’t he?” My mind and emotions grappled with the surreal situation I found myself in.

It was a Sunday and my house was full as friends came and went all day. Many heard the news at church, where we would normally have spent our morning had the unthinkable not occurred. Visitors came bearing food and encouraged me to eat, but I had no appetite. All I wanted was to be with Ray, to somehow help him, to know he was ok. When I finally got to see him on Tuesday afternoon, the knot in my stomach began to relax. I know that sounds contradictory, but in viewing his lifeless body I knew he was beyond any help I could offer. Furthermore, I was comforted to know his spirit was with the Lord. He was much more than ok. He was Home.[3]

Decisions were made, relatives and out-of-town friends made arrangements to attend the services – visitation Wednesday evening, funeral Thursday morning, burial in North Carolina on Friday afternoon. I can recall the events of that week in vivid detail. The people who gathered around us; prayers so abundant and fervent I could feel them; numerous gestures of support. I remember and am thankful.055

The flurry of activity and visitors eventually subsided and my daughters, ages 10 and 7, and I were left to contend with reality. I don’t recollect how many nights passed before one or more of us didn’t cry ourselves to sleep, how long it was before my subconscious stopped expecting Ray to come home from work, or when a “new normal” finally took hold. The raw pain of loss eventually diminished, but the longing to talk to Ray, to have my wise and loving partner by my side remains to this day.

So much has happened since that warm week in April, the daily ins and outs of life plus birthdays, graduations, weddings and the arrival of grandchildren. These momentous occasions were bittersweet without Ray to share them, but there has been much joy nonetheless.

Because God has never forsaken us![4]

From the second we heard the devastating news in a tiny room at Kennestone hospital to this very moment, God has been a faithful defender of this widow and a Father to her fatherless girls.[5] As I’ve thought about what to write on this 20th anniversary, each hardship that came to mind was met with a “but God”. A few examples: He made it possible for my parents to move to Georgia to help me raise Mary and Jessie, provided friends who’ve faithfully prayed for us and offered other assistance as needed, and he allowed me to be gainfully employed all the years my daughters were dependent upon me and my income. In addition there are the over-and-above gifts, like getting to go back to school to study horticulture.

I’ve often said if there’d been a signup sheet entitled “Get to know God better by losing your Husband”, I wouldn’t have put my name on it. Yet God sovereignly saw fit to add the roles of widow and single parent to my resumé. I have no doubt I’ve come to know him far better than if I’d had my earthly husband and provider to depend on. And so I can say as Louisa M.R. Stead did in the last stanza of her hymn, “I’m so glad I learned to trust Him, Precious Jesus, Savior, Friend, And I know that He is with me, Will be with me to the end.”

God owes me nothing, including explanations. Although I don’t remember ever being angry with God, I have wondered on more than one occasion why he took Ray so young. I’d reason it made no sense because he was a kind, caring spouse, parent, friend. But God sending his perfect Son to die in my place doesn’t make sense either.[6] Moreover, it is ample proof of his infinite and unconditional love. Yet He constantly pours out reminders, blessings both big and small.

Although my girls and I bear the scars of losing a beloved father and husband all-too-soon (at least from a human perspective), the Lord has comforted us that we might comfort others.[7] He has bestowed upon us the oil of joy instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.[8] Some who’ve witnessed our journey comment on our strength. May they recognize that apart from the Lord we would have none.[9] We are a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor[10]. Truly all praise, glory and honor belong to him alone.

 

[1] Louisa M.R. Stead, lyrics; William J. Kirkpatrick, music, 1882

[2] Ibid

[3] 2 Corinthians 5:1-9

[4] Deuteronomy 31:6

[5] Psalm 68:5

[6] 1 Corinthians 1:18-25

[7] 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

[8] Isaiah 61:3a

[9] See, for example Psalm 46:1-3, Psalm 73:25-26 and Isaiah 40:28-31

[10] Isaiah 61:3b

For better or worse

/ Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

Thirty-three years ago on August 5, 1983, Ray and I became man and wife. The ceremony, held in an un-air-conditioned sanctuary in conditions that make the word sweltering come to mind, was the culmination of months of planning and anticipation.Wedding photo for blog Family and friends, many of whom still refer to our wedding as the hottest they’ve ever attended, looked on as we said our vows and pledged ourselves to each other no matter what came our way. We were young and optimistic. Although we had a number of pre-marital counseling sessions with two different pastors, like most newlyweds we went into our marriage expecting more better than worse, more health than sickness. And the idea of death parting us? Well, that possibility seemed decades in the future.

I’m somewhat chagrined to admit reality hit soon after we returned from our honeymoon. I’m an only child and an introvert by nature. I was used to having time and space to myself. Suddenly I had another person to cope with ALL THE TIME. Granted, I loved Ray very much, but part of me kept waiting for him to go home. That thought of course was quickly followed by, “Wait! He is home!” And so it went. The early months were difficult as we learned to live together and accommodate each other’s needs and idiosyncrasies.

Before our 1-year anniversary we managed to buy our first home, a townhouse. Several months after our third anniversary we welcomed a baby girl, Mary. IMG_1652A second daughter, Jessie, joined our family a few days after our sixth anniversary. In 1991 the company I worked for decided to transfer their carpet group to Georgia. Ray was fully supportive of the move. We put down roots and settled into our “raise the kids” house the following year.

Bit by bit we became partners, working together on our shared goals, trusting God to guide us . . . and then the unthinkable happened. On April 19, 1997, a mere thirteen years after our marriage began, death parted us. 055Some weeks after Ray’s passing, I contacted Focus on the Family to request materials on grieving and widowhood. The woman who answered my call was so kind. I explained what had happened and told her I felt like a part of me was missing. I’ll never forget her reply: “Over the years you were married you and your husband became one and part of you is missing.” God had undeniably knit Ray and I together as we sought to honor Him by loving and serving each other and raising the children He blessed us with.

Indeed, those early notions of, “Isn’t it time for him to go home?”, were replaced by fervent prayers that God would watch over Ray. Journal entries documented my concerns. In one such entry I wrote, “Please keep Ray in good health . . . Sometimes I worry about him because of his dad’s early death. I don’t know what I would do without him, Lord.”

Almost 20 years have come and gone since Ray went Home and I’ve come to realize my implied question (“What will I do?”) would have been better stated, “What will you do, Lord?” After losing my husband, I clung to the One who promised to be with us always, through times of great joy and heart-wrenching sorrow, for better or worse. I’ve found Him to be faithful and his grace to be sufficient. Furthermore, death will not part us. Instead, it will be my passage Home.

A different kind of grief

/ Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

“19 years on the 19th”. That phrase has been echoing in my mind for the past several weeks as yet another anniversary of my husband’s sudden death approached. Shortly after lunch 19 years ago today I told Ray goodbye for the last time . . .

In 1997 the 19th fell on a Saturday. It was a beautiful, warm day, much like today. Life was proceeding normally – Ray left for his job at The Home Depot, I and my young daughters (ages 10 and 7 at the time) went shopping for summer attire. Mary, Jessie and I returned home around 7pm. We weren’t in the house 10 minutes when the phone rang. Chris, a patient care specialist from Kennestone Hospital was calling to tell me Ray had been brought to the emergency room from work and I needed to get there as soon as possible. No other details. It wasn’t until we were in a private room at the hospital that I got the devastating, life-changing news.

After a few questions about Ray’s health, Chris said a doctor would be in to talk to me. I pleaded, “Can’t you at least tell me if he’s alive?” For a moment she just looked at me. I asked more urgently, “Is he alive?” And then came the awful reply, “No, honey, he isn’t.” That scene, her words and the gasp of disbelief that simultaneously escaped me and my little girls will be forever etched in my mind.

But oh how God has comforted, upheld and sustained us across all the years since that fateful night. Over and over again He’s proved himself as a protector of this widow and a Father to my fatherless girls. [1]

Our pastor recently began a sermon series on Philippians. The past two weeks he’s reminded us that Biblically-based joy is not dependent on circumstances. It’s grounded in the assurances of God regarding the past, present and future found in His Word. Our faith won’t exempt us from hardship. Believers will face trials and troubles of various kinds. Jesus told us as much, but He didn’t stop there. He encouraged us to take heart because He’s overcome the world. [2]

We know the end of the story. Even now He’s preparing a place for us.[3] So we grieve, but not as those who have no hope. [4] There will be times when we’re hurt and disappointed, times when we may cry out, “Why, Lord?”, but we won’t be alone for He’s promised to never leave us.[5] In our humanity we’ll experience a full range of emotions associated with the events of our lives – Jesus, fully man, wept over Lazarus’ death even though being fully God, He knew He’d raise him – yet the Truth will allow us to not be controlled by our feelings.

Soon after hearing Chris’s answer, it was as if a giant door slammed shut in my mind. Looking back, I realize I couldn’t have taken in the enormity of it all at one time without crumbling. Instead, the Lord provided a protective, albeit primarily subconscious, bubble of denial and disbelief. It allowed the reality of Ray’s death to drip into my soul bit by bit over weeks and months as I was ready to accept it. In the days immediately after, I was in a state of shock, yet the Lord enabled me to make difficult decisions regarding the visitation, service and Ray’s final resting place. Most amazing, He gave me the strength to speak for a few minutes at the end of his funeral. I’ll close this post with the sentiments I expressed when concluding my remarks that day.

None of us knows when the last goodbye will be said. Keep current in your relationships. Tell your family you love them. Thank your friends. Hug people who are dear to you. Let them know you care. And let us leave today rejoicing because we know Ray is in the presence of God. I believe he’s planting flowers right now and I look forward to joining him in God’s garden one day.

055

 

[1] Psalm 68:5

[2] John 16:33

[3] John 14:2-3

[4] 1 Thessalonians 4:13

[5] Deuteronomy 31:6, 8

Fixing our eyes

/ Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

A while back, a friend asked if I’d ever heard the adage, “Heaven may be my home, but I’m not homesick yet.” No, somehow I made it through over half a century of living without hearing that one, in spite of being a believer for the vast majority of those years. Since becoming acquainted with it, however, I’ve had a number of occasions which have brought it to mind, but with a twist: “Heaven is my Home and I’m so very Homesick” . . . like the news I received a few days ago.

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, stuck inside on such a lovely day when I would rather have been outside playing in the dirt. But, not wanting to risk injury or infection to my recently-operated-on hand, I opened a bunch of windows and enjoyed the breeze. A phone call from one of my sisters-in-law broke the afternoon silence. Even before I answered, I knew it was unlikely she’d call me in the middle of a weekday just to say hello. Sure enough, the tidings weren’t good. My youngest brother-in-law had died the day before, felled by a heart attack at a much-too-early age as were his father and brother (my husband) before him.

I’m all too familiar with phone calls that bring such life-changing news. The report that another loved one has suddenly been called Home puts everything else into perspective. The disappointment I was feeling about not being able to go outside was quickly eclipsed by the more pressing reality I’d been made aware of. I’m convinced no matter how many such life-altering phone calls I receive, they’ll never get easier. My tears are quickly followed by numbness and denial – Not again, Lord! How can this be happening? – Yet death is one of life’s certainties. And those of us left behind grieve, but not as those who have no hope.

God has great compassion on us, remembering we’re dust. He reminds us through the Apostle Paul that our present troubles, which are described as light and momentary, are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. He encourages us to fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, while what is unseen is eternal. Similarly, Jesus tells us to store up our treasure in heaven, not on earth. Commenting on Jesus’ directive in light of loss, Elisabeth Elliot states,

“The loss of someone we love, whether by death or otherwise, brings us to the brink of the abyss of mystery. If we wrestle, as most of us are forced to do, with the question of God in the matter, we are bound to ask why He found it necessary to withdraw such a good gift. Cover "The Path of Loneliness"We will not get the whole answer, but certainly one answer is the necessity of being reminded that wherever our treasure is there will our hearts be also. If we have put all our eggs in the basket of earthly life and earthly affections we haven’t much left when the basket falls. Christians, being citizens of Another Country, subjects of a Heavenly King, are supposed to set their affections there rather than here – a lesson few learn without mortal anguish.”[i]

Later this week we’ll gather in a tiny South Dakota town to remember Phil, a quiet, gentle man. He never married but cherished his family and endeavored to attend most all of the weddings of his numerous nieces and nephews. As we stand in the windswept cemetery just outside of town, I’ll strive to fix my eyes on the unseen. For then I’ll see two brothers, eternally reunited and I’ll rejoice in the assurance that our treasured family circle will one day be completely restored in a Home where there will be no more tears or death or pain.

Phil Kuipers. a kind and gentle man 1-9-1961 to 8-26-2015

Phil Kuipers, 1-9-1961 to 8-26-2015

[i] Elisabeth Elliot, “The Path of Loneliness”, (Grand Rapids, Revell, 2001) pg. 59

In Remembrance

/ Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal. Love leaves a memory no one can steal.” (Unknown)

Eighteen years ago today my beloved husband was laid to rest in a tiny cemetery in North Carolina. The part of my heart that belonged to Ray went into the grave with him that sunny, late-April afternoon. Several weeks later I placed a call to “Focus on the Family” to request materials on dealing with grief. In the midst of my conversation with the kind person who answered I said, “I feel like part of me is missing.” I’ll never forget her reply, both compassionate and oh-so-insightful: “During the time you were married you and your husband became one. Part of you is missing.”

Months passed and I was having yet another day where I was struggling with the pain of losing someone so dear. Sensing my sadness, the woman I was meeting with inquired about how I was coping. When I confessed how difficult some days were she introduced me to a concept I’ve held onto ever since. She suggested I envision a beautiful piece of furniture, a chest with many drawers, each containing memories and their associated emotions. She went on with the analogy saying, “When memories of your husband’s death arise at a time when you feel you aren’t able to deal with them, imagine tucking them into one of the drawers, closing it gently and re-opening it when you’re ready to do so.” I’ll admit there have been times when a drawer has sprung open and caught me off guard. Times when a memory has overwhelmed me and I’ve struggled to shut the drawer. But more often the mental image has served me well.

The week before and the week after the anniversary of Ray’s death I’m quite intentional about opening the drawer. I think about how we spent our last few days, oblivious to the fact our time together was winding down. I remember the day of his passing with such clarity it could have happened recently, not so long ago. And I recollect the days following, when I had to make decisions I never expected, much less wanted to make at such an early age. My reminiscences are deliberate and purposeful, a way to honor Ray as well as remind myself of lessons learned and affirmed by losing him, such as:

  • The importance of numbering our days aright and keeping current in our relationships with those we hold dear.
  • The need to keep things in perspective, saving emotional distress for things that can’t be “fixed,” no matter how much money or time you invest. (And its corollary: things can be replaced, people can’t be.)
  • The ability of prayer to strengthen and support when raised up by myriad family members and friends on one’s behalf.

I’ve kept a journal for ages. On the night I returned home from the hospital, dazed and in a mild state of shock, I penned these words: “This is the worst day of my life up to this point – Ray, my dear, dear husband and friend died tonight. Even as I write it I don’t believe it. It will probably take time for the numbness to wear off, but when it does, Lord, please enfold Mary, Jessie and me in your love. I don’t understand this and I can’t even begin to imagine what my life will be like without him.” I was right. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like and to this day I don’t understand. But God heard my cry that night and many nights since. He’s been so faithful to me and my family, loving and sustaining us all the years we’ve been without Ray.

Which brings me to another point regarding the imaginary chest: it contains numerous drawers. Although some hold remembrances that evoke sadness, there are many more containing memories associated with great joy. I open those on a regular basis, reliving and savoring the moments, praising God for His goodness and grace. And each year when April 19th comes around, I remind myself I’m another year closer to once again seeing the man I was blessed to call my husband. The reunion is guaranteed because of the broken body and spilled blood of the One who instructed His followers to remember Him, His sacrifice, His promises. And so we wait in hope and assurance.

The gift of remembrance

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“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’” Revelation 21:3-4

Each year when October comes around, Mom and I reflect on the fact that three of my four grandparents died during the last week of the month, in different years – 1965, 1966 and 1974 to be exact. Many years have passed, but I know my mom, now in her early 80’s, still misses her parents. Likewise, there are days when I long to talk to Ray, though it’s been 17 years since I last held his hand and shared the details of my day with him. And then I have several friends who are in the early stages of grief, having lost their much-loved spouses within the past few months. I assure them it will get better, that the pain won’t always be so raw, but I also tell them they won’t ever “get over” the loss. There will always be a tender spot, a place only the beloved can fill. Yet, would we want it any other way?

And so, to all those who are missing someone dear, no matter how long the separation has been, I offer up this quote from Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It eloquently describes how precious the memories are that link us to our departed loved ones until the day when we’re finally reunited:

“Nothing can make up for the absence of someone we love . . . it is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God doesn’t fill it, but on the contrary, God keeps it empty and so helps us keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain . . . the dearer and richer the memories, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude changes the pangs of memory into tranquil joy. The beauties of the past are borne, not as a thorn in the flesh, but as a precious gift in themselves.”

055

In a moment

/ Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

“In a moment things can change. One look behind and it’s never the same.” These words from the song “All Kinds of People” by Susan Ashton are simple yet profound. I’ve had moments in my life that were truly life-changing; moments that caused me to quote the lyrics from this song; moments like the one seventeen years ago when I was told my husband was no longer alive . . .

It was April 19, 1997. We were having an early spring and the warmer-than-usual weather had my young daughters, Mary, 10, and Jessie, 7, clamoring for new swim suits. Even though I knew we’d  likely  have another cold snap or two before the warm weather settled in for good, I agreed to take them shopping. My husband, Ray, department head of inside gardening at a local Home Depot store, was scheduled to work from 1pm to 10pm so, after we finished lunch, we headed off to the mall. Several hours later, having acquired the swim suits (and most likely some other new clothes), stopping for dinner and picking up bread and milk, we were on our way back home. Picking up bread and milk may seem like a terribly trivial thing to remember after so many years, but Ray would often stop on his way home from work to pick up any essentials we were lacking. He took good care of his girls – all three of us – so I was looking forward to surprising him with the news he could come straight home that night.

Strong thunderstorms moved into the area as we made our way home.  When we arrived we went directly upstairs to watch the “Local on the 8’s” on the Weather Channel to make sure no tornados were headed our way. Our focus on the weather resulted in us bypassing the answering machine which held multiple messages from someone named Chris from Kennestone Hospital. We hadn’t been home five minutes when the phone rang. It was Chris, calling again from the emergency room to tell me Ray had been taken there from work and asking if I had anyone who could bring me to the hospital. I assured her I could drive myself and asked what was wrong. She wouldn’t give me any details, just asked me to get there as soon as possible.  It wasn’t until I was half-way there that I realized her asking if someone could bring me probably wasn’t a good sign. I prayed all the way to the hospital, fervently hoping Ray wasn’t dead and attempting to console Mary and Jessie who were trying to be brave, but were terribly concerned about their much-loved father.

When we reached the hospital, Chris, the patient care specialist, met us in the emergency area and led us to a private room. As we walked down the corridor, she calmly asked me questions: Did Ray have a history of heart problems?; Was he on any medications?; Was he under a doctor’s care? Her composure and questions renewed my hope that Ray was, indeed, alive. When we got to the room, she told me the doctor would be in to talk to me. I asked tentatively, “Can’t you at least tell me if he’s alive?” She paused, oh so briefly, before saying, “I’m sorry, honey, he isn’t.” A massive heart attack had felled my life partner a little over two months after his 39th birthday. And with that, my life changed forever. I cried out, “God, no!” and sank to the sofa as Mary and Jessie dissolved into tears of their own, all of us incredulous. Hadn’t we seen our beloved husband and father a few short hours before, alive and well? He just went to work. How could it be he’d never return to us?

Then, just as suddenly, it was as if a giant door slammed shut. I couldn’t take the news in all at once or it would have crushed me. Instead the truth gradually penetrated my soul, drop by drop, over a period of weeks and months as I was able to accept it.

Yet somehow I had to deal with the unwanted reality that had been thrust upon me. There were immediate needs to be tended to: phone calls to family members and our pastor, decisions regarding the visitation and funeral services, picking a final resting place. Details of that week are burned into my memory: being surrounded by family and friends; being upheld by prayers so ardent they were tangible; speaking at Ray’s funeral; saying a final goodbye to him in a little cemetery in North Carolina.

It was a time of great sorrow, yet I felt the love and concern of so many who comforted and helped out in very practical ways. Some provided lodging for out-of-town relatives; others prepared and served lunch after the funeral. Our children’s minister took Mary and Jessie to Wednesday night activities at church so they could have a bit of normalcy amidst the upheaval. Then there was the friend who arrived the day after Ray’s death and quietly asked if I’d contacted a funeral home yet. When I, still in a mild state of shock, replied “No”, he spent the next couple of hours calling funeral homes for me and gathering necessary information.

Through the turmoil, grief, and tears, God was my refuge and strength.  He was my ever present help that week and has remained so to this day. I’ve said many times since Ray’s all-too-soon-for-me death,  had there been a sign-up sheet at church with the heading “Get to Know God Better by Losing Your Husband”, I never would have put my name on the list, but God, in His providence, saw fit to do so. I can testify to the fact He’s been a defender of this widow and a Father to my fatherless girls, faithfully providing and protecting, all the years we’ve been without our earthly husband and father.

There have been other life-changing moments since, one fairly recent, though none has been as devastating as the one when I learned of Ray’s death.  Each time I’ve gone back to the garden for solace. I know I’ll find my loving Father there, for He’s promised to never leave me or forsake me.

Working all things together for good

/ Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28

This is one of my go-to verses, one I turn to repeatedly for reassurance. Having made my profession of faith almost 40 years ago, I have plenty of life experiences that confirm the veracity of this verse. Even when things are bleak, even when I don’t understand, even when I can’t see how good could possibly come from a given situation or series of events, God is at work to accomplish what will be most glorifying to him and most beneficial to me. Following is one such example.

I was blessed to be continually employed by a large corporation for just over 30 years. I had an interesting and challenging job and a good salary and benefits package, critically important when I became the sole source of support for my daughters after my husband, Ray, died. As with anything in life, my job had its ups and downs over the years, but things took a downward turn the last year I worked and didn’t recover. I was assigned to a new manager. In a time when layoffs were happening on a regular basis and with two children of her own to support, I began to feel like she wanted to make sure she was the last woman standing. Bit by bit, my role was diminished. I was left out of meetings, told I could no longer travel to visit customers (some of whom I’d called on for almost 20 years), and wasn’t given meaningful work to do. I became increasingly frustrated. And I was ANGRY!

By the time the July 4th holiday approached, I’d been working for the new manager for almost seven months. As was often the case, I took the week of the 4th off. Attempting to regain some perspective, I spent most of my vacation reading my Bible, praying, journaling and working in my yard. Gradually, as the week passed, God reminded me He, not my manager, was in control. When I returned to work, the situation remained unchanged, but I tried to stay focused on the truth that God was indeed in control. I continued to pray for wisdom. Was God allowing things to become so miserable I’d leave or did He want me to remain and be a “life-giver” in a difficult environment, learning patience and humility along the way?

The answer came on January 26, 2011. My annual review was scheduled for that afternoon and things had gotten so bad I told my family I fully expected to be terminated or put on probation. I sat across the table from my manager and her boss as she said, “I know you’re expecting to have your review, but you won’t be having it because your job has been eliminated.” My first thought was, “This is really happening”, my second was, “Thank you, Lord, for giving me a black and white answer.” I turned in my badge, my computer, my keys. And just like that, a 30-year career was over. No retirement lunch. No goodbyes. No celebrations.

God had other plans. Over the years since Ray died,  as I cared for the beautiful garden he started, God was quietly, tenderly nurturing a new dream in me. A few months before my job was eliminated, I checked out the website of a local technical school while I sat in my cube eating lunch. When I read through the class descriptions for the horticulture program, my desire to take those courses was so strong I wrote on a sticky note: “My dream: Environmental Horticulture Diploma, Horticulturist Specialty”. I stuck it in the back of my planner, thinking it was unlikely, but treasuring my dream nonetheless. A mere two days after my job was eliminated I contacted the admissions office at Chattahoochee Tech and started the process of enrolling. I received my diploma eighteen months later.

Not only did God take the pain of losing my job and work it for good, He did far more than I could ask or imagine. Going back to school was an amazing, unexpected gift and having a more flexible schedule allowed me to spend time on a regular basis with my first grandchild, Joshua, who was born in July 2011. He became my study buddy from his earliest days. I delight in telling him about plants and, as he grows up, I look forward to telling him about his very special grandfather and God’s faithfulness to me and to our family.

My diploma with original sticky note attached.

My diploma with original sticky note attached.

Consider it pure joy

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“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.” James 1:2-3

It was February 1998 and I was feeling anything but joyful. Ten months before, my beloved husband, Ray, had died of a massive heart attack a few weeks after his 39th birthday. Even though I was a rational person and knew all-too-well the details of what happened, on some level I maintained a protective mantle of denial. I couldn’t accept or fathom how he could go to work one sunny spring Saturday and never return home to me and our two young daughters. But bit by bit the reality dripped into my soul, creating an underlying sadness that colored many of my days.

In preparing for Ray’s funeral, I wrote a letter to him which one of our pastors read during the service. Amongst other comments I stated he’d not only left a lasting legacy in the lives of our daughters, but also in the beauty of our garden. You see, Ray had a horticulture degree and he planted many interesting things in our yard. He would tell me about the special plants he selected and teach me their names. Although he didn’t eschew better-known plants like pansies and daffodils, he was interested in having unique items as well. When several of his horticulture colleagues paid a visit and walked the garden with me after Ray died, oohing and ahhing over a number of specimens, I took note all over again how special that part of his legacy was. I also recognized how important it was for me to try to learn how to take care of it, otherwise it would only be a matter of time before it was gone.

And so that February day found me outside preparing to remove the blanket of leaves that still enshrouded the planting beds, with an aching in my heart as I longed for Ray and wished he was there to remove those leaves. As I started clearing the beds, I noticed a number of the perennials Ray planted were beginning to emerge from the soil. Seeing those plants and knowing they had persevered through the cold, dark winter gave me a glimmer of hope. If they could make it through that stark season, maybe I could survive my season of darkness.

Little did I know, gardening would become my passion and would provide many moments of hope and healing as well as a very real connection to Ray. Not only has God faithfully provided for me and my family since Ray’s death, He has ministered to me over and over again through the beauty of his creation. While “playing in the dirt”, I’ve been reminded of his promises, seen tangible examples of Scriptural principles and found solace for my soul.

This blog is born of a desire to share some of what I’ve learned spiritually and horticulturally. I hope you’ll come back to the garden with me.

 

One of several varieties of daffodils Ray planted and the earliest to bloom. They come back year after year, a cheerful reminder of him!

One of several varieties of daffodils Ray planted and the earliest to bloom. They come back year after year, a cheerful reminder of him!