Just life . . . snippets from the crazy fray

Some lovely things my kids have said recently . . .

Josiah, the other day, after riding lessons. He was sitting in the truck, drinking water, legs dangling out of the open door. He took a swig, wiped his mouth and said (out of the blue). . .
"Now, when I get my own horse, that will be a whole other story.
I have two cats and a dog.
Now I need some chicks and some chickens so we can get some eggs.
And maybe more dogs.
And some cows? Or Goats?
We need to get these animals for our farm, mom.
And maybe a lizard."

Today, upon seeing that the kittens food dish was empty, Josiah said,
"They will get foodrated, like they get dehydrated if they have no water!!"

Tonight, as Isaac was praying before bed, he prayed,
". . .And be with Daniel as he roams this wide world, discovering things. . ."
I cried when he said that.

Speaking of crying . . . my grandfather's sister, Josie, died today. She was 89 years. old.
We heard about it at dinner when his niece called with the news.
My mom cried, and grandpa was quiet and sad.
Isaac cried too. "I miss grandma and pop so much!" he wailed.
Every new death opens up the old ones for Isaac, for all of us.
Death is hard for him, and he expresses that well, which I think is good for him.
I remember my Aunt Josie in snatches. Her laugh, her deep voice. A faint recollection of a scent. Seeing her at funerals, weddings, family gatherings at Aunt Mill's when I was a little, little girl.
She walks the very edge of my memory, but she is there.
Grandpa had a big family.
Seventeen brothers and sisters.
I am sad to say that I do not know very many of them well.
My heart breaks for my grandfather, at that age where brothers and sisters and friends and wife are passing from this life, watching them go, staying behind . . . for now.
It makes me appreciate today. Makes me appreciate the breath in my lungs and the people who are here with me, breathing.
Today, I woke up early, went grocery shopping, dropped Daniel off with my mom, went to the new house and painted and picked berries, went and had dinner with Gramp and mom (the boys went fishing in the pond and Isaac caught two bass!), went to Starbucks with mom and the boys for shaken iced teas (mom and I) a frappuccino (Isaac) an organic chocolate milk (Josiah) and apple juices (Daniel and Ben, who is staying with us for a few days).
The day was so busy and full of hard work and small frustrations.
But there were moments too. Good moments.
Like when Josiah shot an arrow 50 feet with no help, a big feat for a little guy like him.
Or when Isaac caught two bass while fishing with his brother and his friend in the late afternoon sun.
Or sitting in the truck, the warm prairie wind blowing through the open windows as we all drank our cool drinks and talked about the excitements of the day.
When we got home, the boys showered and played so nicely at the table, building forts with their log cabin sets piecemeal with other toys, or whatever they could find to hook their forts up.
Isaac's fort.

Ben's fort.
Josiah's fort.
Playing so nicely.Handsome brace face.

Running with the big dogs.Daniel, God love him, will eat anything from anywhere at anytime (Did I write about the eating of the pond mud? I think not. Hmm. Probably just as well. It's too gross to recount!).
Sometimes I would swear he is the grossest baby on the planet.
Today, instead of pond mud, or his own poop, or crackers that had been swept up into a pile of dirt on the floor, or the bottom of his shoe (all things he has, in fact, eaten), he actually picked a better grade of garbage, and licked a discarded foil lid of a chocolate Jell-o pudding cup until it shone and reflected his grimy little face.
Wondering where mom was?
All the while I was obliviously putting groceries away.
I thought he was just toddling around the kitchen, happy as a clam for no reason.
Yeah, right!
He's a stealthy little fellow, when he wants to be.
So, today had it's ups and downs, like most days do, I suppose.
Now, all the boys are asleep.
Daniel is laying here beside me, clean as a whistle and cute as a button.
And for a moment, I wish it were always like this. Everyone safe and sound . . . and clean.
But that's just not how life is.
I will enjoy it this little while though.
And I will be ready to face the fray . . . tomorrow.

Gone from my sight. . .

(Just a warning, this one may require tissues.)

I miss the dead people in my life.
I say it like this because though they are no longer here, they are still very much a part of my life, of me.
I miss them in ways I never knew it was possible to miss someone until now.
Morrie, of Tuesdays With Morrie fame, said, "Death ends a life, not a relationship." He was right.
I can see them sometimes, so clearly in my minds eye -- every contour of their faces, their expressions, their smiles.
I can hear them too. There are times when I hear their voices in my ear, my head, my heart -- how they would say a thing, the tone, inflection, quality of it.

So, when I read something I know grandma would have loved, I can hear her talking about it, what she would have liked about the characters and why.
We talked about books a lot. And the boys. And God. And all the bad things going on in the news . . . all the missing and abused children, all the persecuted Christians in other countries, all the oppressed people in the world.
Grandma cared about these people. She prayed for them like she prayed for her own family. She was a prayer.
On her refrigerator, even now, is a scripture she wrote out for herself in large black letters: "God forbid that I should sin against the Lord in ceasing to pray for you." I Sam. 12:23.
Many times, the boys and I would walk into her house and find her on her knees, praying and crying out to God.
I miss her.
I miss her listening to a good book on tape and telling me all about it.
I miss her singing through the house, everything from hymns to big band.
I miss her smooth, knuckley hands, her silly sense of humor, her life.

I miss my dad, too.
I miss the laughing mischief in his eyes.
I miss his quiet advice, his gentle guidance.
And I hear his voice in my ear so many times; I know what he would say, and how, when certain situations arise.
I hear his hilarious stories playing over in my mind . . ." I knew a man named . . ."
I miss him calling me from the road, "Hey, guess where I am? Roman Nose. That's right."
He called me everyday and sometimes we would talk for hours and some days a few minutes and some days he would just leave a message. Everyday. Let me tell you, it leaves a pretty big hole.
Not a day goes by that my sons don't talk about Pop and grandma at some point.
Not a day goes by that I do not see them, hear them, talk to them, miss them.
If I can be half the prayer gram was, if I can remember half of the wisdom my dad imparted to me in his short time here, I will be better for it.
Death ends a life, not a relationship, and in remembering them, those relationships continue until that day when we will see them again.
When gram was dying, Hospice gave us a book with this poem in it. The first time I read it, I never wanted to read it again. But I did. Because of everything I have been through this past year and a half, it has become one of my favorite poems, because it is about the bigger picture.

Gone from My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side
spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and
starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty
and strength. I stand and watch her until at length
she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where
the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in
mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and
she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her
destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the
moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

Death is not really "death".
It is a shedding of our mortality for life eternal.
It is a change of form, if you will. As a lowly caterpillar morphs into a beautiful butterfly after a short sleep, a small death, and flies away -- something that was only a dream when an earth-bound worm.
It is a changing into our true selves . . ."Beloved, we are God's children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. . ." (I John 3)
It is a voyage.
It is a journey to our true home.
A homecoming.
A reunion.
Death ends a life, not a relationship.

Because I believe in ending on a high note, Joe will begin his journey home in a few short hours. On Thursday, we shall see his travel weary face, and it will be wonderful! Pray for his safe trip home.