Wednesday, February 26, 2014

A Season of Transition

Childhood scenes rushed back at me out of the night, strangely close and urgent. Today I know that such memories are the key not to the past, but to the future. I know that the experiences of our lives, when we let God use them, become the mysterious and perfect preparation for the work He will give us to do.
~Corrie Ten Boom, The Hiding Place p. 31

My dad was my beekeeping partner. Our beekeeping days are over. His body let go of his life on earth on Valentine’s Day.

Make no mistake, caregiving for a loved one is a heavy load to bear for both the giver and the receiver, and because of our group effort my sisters and I managed to keep dad in his own home to the end. I’ll not be the one to write the how-to book on making the journey a happy success, but I can say it’s a season of learning and growing in ways that will either make you or break you. It’s a time of running open-armed toward your beloved parent to help with all your heart and yet also a time (more often than I care to admit) when you look up at God with tears streaming down your face, stamping your foot, fists clenched by your side and yelling “No, no, no! It’s too hard God, I can’t do this anymore! Whatever made you think I could?” Then, just like after all moments like that I hear His quiet, soft voice “Be still and know that I am with you.” It’s a total immersion system of learning, overwhelming to say the least, yet a blessing to say the most.

I am coming to the conclusion that there is no higher calling than that of service to another. And that there may be no calling more difficult. I am coming off 10 years of answering such a calling. I have battle scars. I have amazingly joyful memories of laughter and shared jokes. I have sad memories of impatience and frustration bubbling up from deep within both dad and me.  I have stretch marks on my soul as I’ve been taken beyond my comfort zone time and again. I have grayer hair, longer laugh lines and deeper worry creases than I would have had I not stumbled down this path with both of my parents. I am blessed to have had the dad I had and the opportunities to be a blessing to him. I think that while my mental and physical commitment to be there for my dad in his old age is over, the lessons I will learn are still on the horizon waiting to dawn with new understanding when the time is right to reflect.

I was having some tearful moments as my sisters and I were arranging the funeral services for dad and I was feeling so very…oh I don’t know, just really missing his presence. We were in his house and I had my mini laptop with me. We were using it to write out his obituary. As we paused to discuss other things, it sat unused for a few minutes so the screen had gone black. When I picked it up again the screen came alive with a picture of dad on his riding lawnmower. A FULL screen photo. It was the same shot of him I used in his last Christmas letter to friends and family. In it he is riding away with his back toward me. I was so stunned. Then it flashed off after about 3 seconds. It wouldn’t came back up. I never downloaded that photo or any other photos to that computer, I just use it for written documents. I wrote the Christmas letter on my larger laptop where we have a photo program.

Later that night as I was transferring documents from my mini computer to a larger one so I could email the obituary information we’d written that day, after a period of idle the mini went to sleep. Then it happened again.  When I went to shut it down, a different photo of my dad flashed on the screen for a split second. It was a photo of him smiling directly at me, which I took at Christmas a year ago. Again the image filled the entire screen. No edges, no borders.

This business with photos flashing on the screen has NEVER happened before. I decided to do a little investigating on this computer, wanting and yet not wanting, to make some sense of it. It didn’t come with a photo program, and I never downloaded photos onto it but after looking I found some in a folder. I periodically send documents from this computer to a flash drive so I can put them on my larger computer and visa-versa. I can only surmise that it is during some of those transferring of docs via the flash-drive that maybe a dozen or so photos loaded inadvertently onto the mini computer, but then I’m not a tech-wiz.

There are other photos, not all of dad, in this rogue folder. A few of other family members, a dog, and clock parts from when we were working on his clock repair projects and we didn’t want to forget how to put the thing back together again. But only the photos of dad are flashing on the screen for a second or two, never any of the others. In my heart I know I need surmise no more. Whatever the technical explanation I know the true reason behind it. The photos appearing were simply gifts of God, given through the opportunity of that moment, my computer screen. The photos brought dad’s very real presence and comfort to me when I needed it the most on that difficult day. If you are a regular reader of my blog you may remember the post Garden of Memories, in which I also tell of holy gifts of comfort for me from God and mom surrounding her sudden death.

Days later we once again made the 3 hour drive across the mountains to the cemetery my parents chose as their place of burial. The last time I was there was to put roses on my mother’s grave. It was a tense drive over the mountain pass as a lot of snow had fallen just in the days before. Thankfully, as we wound our way down from the summit, the weather gave way to a sunny February day. Just as my parents wanted, we planned another simple, quiet, family, graveside service. I was surprised how calm and almost warm the weather was for us in those moments. It was February in Eastern Washington after all. The pastor spoke, then a few of us spoke as to dad’s life, memories, accomplishments and kindnesses to others and the service concluded. I stood by his casket, touching the smooth wood, pulling out a rose from the casket spray to take home with me then touching the other flowers. I wasn’t even conscious of people around me, it was just me and dad in that moment. As I was talking to him, one last good bye, just thinking and remembering, a stiff, cold, persistent wind rose up and blew from behind my back, pushing me. It was as if dad was saying, “Ok, it’s done, get on with your life. Go on, go home.” The wind didn’t let up and cleared those away quickly who had gathered to honor dad. He wasn’t really one to dither or linger unnecessarily. We did have to get on with a small family meal then get back over the mountain before darkness made it more difficult. The next day, two feet of snow fell up there and they closed the pass intermittently for avalanche control. God indeed did give us a window of sunshine and safety for such a sad day.

Today I look out at my February garden. It’s raining. Cold. A few crocus and snowdrops are blooming; hellebores too are lifting their blooms in defiance, not willing to be deterred by gray, wet days. One wee viola peeks up from within its leafy blanket and the tender bright green leaves of Clematis unfold, vulnerable yet undeterred. Heath offers its nectar to bees who won’t find it because it’s too cold for them to fly. Winter ebbs and flows in these weeks of transition toward spring, yielding to a mild day here then a cold day there, yet not willing to let go. Garden renewal has begun its process forward and won’t be stopped, but merely slowed if an Arctic Blast follows on the heels of a few balmy days. I contemplate what’s next for me. I’ll look for employment, one of the many things I let go of in my own life to be better able to help him in his. Will I do bees again this year? I’m kinda weary. Maybe I’ll wait till next year with bees, if ever. I wonder if dad’s colony is still alive and if so will I bring them here to my garden or give them to one of his beekeeping friends? I wonder if beekeeping will ever be the same for me as it was when we had it together. This too is a time of ebbing and flowing for me as I regroup and plan my next steps. I feel dad urging me to get on with my life, don’t linger or dither, move forward.

It occurs to me my grieving process is much like spring in the garden. A time of transition, in which there is much ebbing and flowing. Cold and dark giving way to warmth and light then back again. Progress toward joy on the horizon, yet returning to tears and melancholy when I least expect it. A confusion of emotions, what if’s and needs giving way at times to bright moments of clarity and strongly rooted determination. Renewal. And all the while God is there, holding me up, giving encouragement, letting me find my way without ever leaving my side. Growing me past my comfort zone, giving me the strength to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again with His ever-present whisper “Be Still”.

And I smile. As I resume to edit this post, the sleeping mini computer awakens and there again dad on his mower flashed for less than a brief second across the screen.
This time not a full screen shot but smaller, and a briefer span of time. It’s almost as if he’s fading from me. I’m not really ready for that yet. It’s only been a week. Perhaps I really am healing and letting go.
I love you Dad.


In Bloom In My Garden Today: Crocus, Viola, Hellebore, Heath (Erica carnea ‘springwood white’), Cyclamen coum

Authors photo


Shari said...

Joan, I am blown away by the beauty of your words - I have read it a number of times already, with tears and smiles. Absolutely lovely.

Joan said...

Thank you Shari. Thank you. oxox

Anonymous said...

Dear Joanie,

Oh my do have a way with words written so eloquently and stating things so beautifully! What sweet words written about your experiences these last years. You are incredible my friend and i look forward to seeing how the next chapter of your life unfolds. Blessings to you my dear friend.

Much Love

Joan said...

Thank you sweet friend! I am so grateful for your support and prayers. Thanking God for your uplifted hands on my behalf.

HELENE said...

I am sorry for your loss and feeling your pain. I lost my father on the 8 march, one month ago, with no warning at all. My mother found him dead one morning at their home. I am so sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. It was 3 weeks before his 74th birthday – way too soon for a fit and healthy man.

I hope you have support from your family, it helps, but in the end, grieving is a process that needs to take its course.

Joan said...

Hello Helene,
I too am so sorry for your loss and sad we have this in common. While there is never a time when we are ready for them to leave us and we want to have our goodbyes, I think it is truly a blessing for them when it is a quick passing. No lingering or suffering. I would like that for my passing I think.

I do have much support. I hope you do too. You are right,time is a healer. Much love to you. Thanks for commenting.

Debra Daniels-Zeller said...

What a beautiful post, a lovely tribute to your dad. I'm sorry for your loss, it's hard to lose a parent. It's so good that you and your sister could care for him in his home up to the end. His memories and pictures are such treasures.

Joan said...

Thank you Debra,
Indeed they are treasures...I keep going back to the photos and am grateful for them. Thanks for your comment.

Anonymous said...

oh Joan! BIG HUGS
I have read this beautiful tribute a few times already. It's so so lovely.

I know how you enjoyed the time with your Dad!!! I hope you resume your bees.

time for breathing now!
much love my friend

Joan said...

Hi Annie,
Thanks for the big hugs...I'll always take those! Yes there were many, many wonderful times with dad and my memories will have to fill the void now. Indeed I will breathe, thanks friend.

Desi said...

Such a beautiful post Joan. I have been putting it off because I knew it would make me cry..and it did but your words and ability to convey every emotion, amazing. Thank you for sharing this with us.

Joan said...

Thank you Desi,
When you wear your heart on your sleeve as I do, you put your true feelings on the line (out there for all the world to judge) you don't always know what to expect when it comes back to you. In your comment Des, you have made it all worth the risk...your support and love are priceless. Thank you for sharing my tears.

Joan said...

Following these months of healing now I can say more...thank you, ALL of you who commented as to my heartache...In the earliest of days, your love was felt, but my words back may have seemed so few. Please, understand I simply couldn't say more...the feelings were too raw. Thank you all, you are my treasures on earth. I treasure each and every one of you.