1.19.2015

ENDINGS

On Thursday, January 15, 2015, my "Seven Habits" Franklin Planner suggested that I write my own eulogy.  (That would be Habit Two:  "Begin With the End in Mind.")  The "Seven Habits" don't fool around.  I was directed to be specific, but I was also to "involve as many emotions and senses as possible."  I'm not exactly sure how the senses fit in here, but the emotions are running pretty high right now.

Practically speaking, I would have to agree that having a eulogy on hand would be a good thing. I mean, really, why leave something as important as your record here on earth to chance?  In all honesty, your kids are busy and may only have time to fly in shortly before the funeral service, then drive directly back to the airport. If your eulogy hasn't already been written and edited, it could get very short shrift.

Finally, my Franklin Planner also notes that "This [writing of my eulogy] can be a very enlightening exercise." Well, I'm sure that may be true, but do I really want to be enlightened in that way?  I don't know.  I'm just a little ambivalent.

What should be included in this document?  Some might desire a lengthy list of accomplishments, while others would prefer a simple, quiet retelling.    Then again, a pack of outright lies could be entertaining. Would anyone really know the difference?  In my neighborhood, probably not.  We've all moved here from somewhere else at an advanced age and, if we're imaginative enough, can be anybody we damned well please.

My mother wrote her own eulogy when she was well into her 80s, or early 90s.  It wasn't long, but it covered activities and experiences important to her.  It was part of her funeral service which she had also detailed.  In all honesty, my Mom always intimidated me to one degree or another and, being the dutiful daughter, her eulogy--word for word as she had written it--was read by the priest at her service.

But, he never saw how gorgeous she was in college when she was nominated for Queen of this or that.  He had no idea of the professional men she dated in her 20s, finally throwing them all over for my quiet and unassuming dad.   This well-intentioned priest could never imagine how intelligent she was, reading, understanding and leading Great Book seminars.  He only knew a weak and wizened woman in a nursing home obsessively repeating a garbled Hail Mary.

I wouldn't suggest that "Seven Habits" is wrong, but eulogies may be best when they're written in love and remembrance.  In the small thoughts that made an afternoon brighter and a fever more bearable.  In the lopsided birthday cakes and the handmade doll clothes.  In the love and pride of a daughter who still believes her Mom was the prettiest in all the world.

I'm throwing caution to the winds, "Seven Habits," and I'm going to let friends and family express what they remember about me and what was important to them.  For better or for worse, that's the end I choose to have in mind.

Amen.
         

1.12.2015

"STILLE NACHT"

On Christmas Eve evening, we were seated in the third row of a lovely Methodist Church located in a small farming community near the Kansas-Colorado border.  The church was decorated for Christmas--greenery and ribbons on each window sill, a crèche in front of the altar, and glowing stars sprinkled above.  Lights were low, altar candles were lit, and the spirit that is Christmas surrounded each family as they waited expectantly for the service to begin.

We'd had a busy day.  The Pastor of this church is BC's daughter, and the family had spent the afternoon baking and frosting sugar cookies.  Each year, Pastor Cyd gifts her congregation with a Christmas Eve gathering immediately following the service.  The cider was bubbling in its pot, and the cookies and candies were laid out as carefully as we could manage.  With a quick nod, Cyd signaled the organist and the congregation began a rousing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing..."

After Luke's beautiful gospel, a short sermon and Communion, the lights slowly sank from dim to none and, one by one, we began lighting our small individual candles.  A young man rose from his pew somewhere behind us and walked toward the front of the sanctuary.  According to our program, he would  sing "Silent Night."

As the organist began, the young man looked calmly over the congregation, then began:  "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.  Alles schlaft..."  I hadn't expected his beautiful voice, nor his choice of language.  In a heartbeat I was seven years old again in the living room of our little house on Oak Street.  The lights were dim there also, and my father stood near the record player.  He carefully placed the needle on the spinning, over-sized 78 record and crossed the room to sit in his favorite chair.  Slowly, he closed his eyes.  The rich, if slightly scratchy, contralto voice encircled us:  "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht..."

My father's first language had been German, although he had no trace of an accent.  His parents immigrated to the United States early in life and, some years later, settled in Victoria, KS, where he grew up as part of a Volga German community.  His school lessons were taught in German in the morning and English in the afternoon.  He always prayed in German and I have his childhood prayerbook given to him in the years when he was known as Wilhelm rather than William.

I have no idea when or where he acquired that recording of "Stille Nacht...", but he loved it.  I don't think I'd thought about it for a long time...until that moment.  Tears came, love and peace and warmth and comfort filled my heart, and I hugged daddy one more time in my imagination.  And, yes, that night I did "sleep in heavenly peace", and God blessed us, everyone.               

1.09.2015

CHECKING IN

We drove onto our driveway late Tuesday afternoon, smiling as we watched the outdoor air temperature gauge on our car register 78 beautiful, blessed degrees.  We were overwhelmingly grateful for each of those 78 indicators of pure bliss and comfort.  We were HOME.

Not for a minute would I want to suggest that we didn't enjoy our 19 day drive through the middle of the country during one of its coldest early-winter seasons in decades...well, years at least.  Nor, for a minute would I want to suggest that I wasn't grateful for the opportunity to bond even more closely with BC as we spent hours and hours together in our smallish luxury car.  That would be luxury as defined by the English, which does include beautiful leather and highly polished wood-trim.  It does not, however, extend to cushy seats or a gentle ride.  Because I am the one who chose this car a year ago, I stepped up and bought the Ibuprofen we so badly needed on our long-drive days.

Being something of a statistics person and, during a particularly dull stretch of the road, I figured that since we were spending 19 days on the road, during which we would drive 4,161 miles,  we would average 219 miles per day. But, because we were only driving long stretches for eight of those days, the figure was closer to 520 miles per driving day.  Either figure now sounds crazy for old people!

As I got more into the statistics thing, I noted that we spent our nights in four different homes in four different states.  All of the states were cold.  All of the states lay under the proverbial blanket of snow.

We spent the remaining nights in four different hotels in two additional states.  Those states were also cold and snowy.  Everyplace, beginning south of Flagstaff on Day #1, until back in Flagstaff on Day #19 was cold and snowy.  Some were also windy.

Obviously, we packed and unpacked daily.  We packed and unpacked in eight different states, misplaced one credit card and lost one bra.  How do you lose a bra?  And, for me, what's worse is that it was a very old bra that had seen its better days...you know, the kind your mother told you not to wear in case you were in an accident.  Well, I did, and now it's missing and I'm afraid someone may be able to trace it to me.  And, yes, even at my advanced age I can hear my mother lecturing: "I told you so."

But, then again, this trip was a totally worthwhile, so glad we did it adventure.  Why?  We had a few days to hug our five grown children and the five children-in-law. We had hours to laugh and learn with ten adult grandchildren, two grandsons-in-law, and one prospective grandson-in-law. We could snuggle and cuddle with three young grandchildren and two greats--the smallest of whom enjoyed it so much, she and her blankie took up residence in our bed at 2:30 one dark and quiet morning.  We spent precious time with one aging brother and sister-in-law, plus their numerous grands and greats.

And now, we're safe, and we're home, filled with memories for the months ahead.  I'd do it again--only with heavier long-undies.

Happy New Year!