Home and Family

My Deck of a Day

They came early in the morning. Daniel and Heather first with their family in tow. They unloaded tools and got right to work. Shortly after, Kelly and Dan came with their three kids. Before I could blink, my back yard was in the process of a major transformation.

We can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do, we build stuff. It’s in my children’s blood. They
grew up in the sawdust of their father’s latest project. They have no memory of a time when he wasn’t building something. They learned it all in his shadow. He loved having them by his side.

We all have a fondness for the smell of lumber. The whine of power tools connects the dots of fond memories. To us, a new project is more exciting than Christmas.

It’s the one thing Tim and I did best – we taught our children to work together. That a family is a team. And by combining our strength, we could do big things.

So that day, I stood by in awe at the talent of my children. I watched new father’s introduce my grandchildren to the same things. I saw mother’s encouraging their sons and daughters to work hard. I saw my family once again, accomplish a big thing. I call it my “deck of a day.”

For in less than eight hours, they had transformed a space of nothing…
into my little bit of paradise…

They made an unusable area a place where I can garden.

But most of all, they did this mama’s heart good. By working together and using the skills learned as children, they trained the next generation to to be good craftsmen of the gifts God gave them.

So in the early mornings hours, when I sit on my deck and read, I’ll soak in the memories of my “deck of a day.” I’ll work hard at counting my Godly blessings, while pushing aside those that add no value to my life. One of those will be the knowledge that no matter where my children are, they carry with them this legacy. It was born from their earliest childhoods, and I’m sure they’ll pass it on.

 

The Simplest Things
My friend posted a picture of her husband on facebook. An insignificant picture. He’s standing, looking off in the distance, in what looks like a driveway. She wrote underneath “Oh to be in that moment again.” He died a few months ago. I share in her grief. I understand what she means. You long for the return of the simplest things.
It’s a message passed down through the ages. “Life is short, cherish it.” Few of us fully grasp it’s meaning until many of our moments are gone.
Time is a thief. It steals from us when we’re not looking. It takes work to not let it happen. We must be intentional in how we live our lives.

I cherish this memory. On many a vacation, Tim was up first. On this one he gathered the grandkids. Rigged up their fishing poles. And shared his passion and wisdom for gathering food. I got to glimpse it. I ran back in the tent for my camera. The fullness of the memory, the moist air, the cool breeze, the quiet chatter, all are embedded deep in my heart.

I long for eternity. The promised restoration of the life God intended us to live. The life that Jesus bought for us on the cross. The chance to reunite with those we love.
Oh for the opportunity to never again miss a moment. For time will no longer be able to rob us of anything.

Til Death Parted Us

It’s been a year since that rainy day when I opened the sliding glass door to let in some fresh air. After weeks of a full house of visitors, I was at home with Tim and just one hospice nurse.

The day seemed surreal. Quiet in an other worldly sense. The nurse was a temp, not one we knew from the agency. Part of me was glad to be alone, part wished someone was there with me.

For days I’d been looking for the signs I’d been told would tell me death was near. By early afternoon I began to suspect he was slipping away. Before I had time to call the kids, he was gone.

I wept as I helped the nurse bathe him one last time. Sponging down his lifeless legs, I thought of the rich man who claimed Jesus’ body. I wondered if he washed off the blood  from the wounds in his hands and feet. Something in that exercise was so reverent. As if respect for the empty shell of a man honored the life he lived.

In the hours it took for the coroner to arrive, I couldn’t leave his side. I kept thinking “We did it honey, we stayed together until death did us part.” For us, a huge accomplishment. A sheer act of our wills. A byproduct of the tenacity imbedded in both of us.
 Til Death Parted Us

Tim’s  three year battle with cancer changed my perception of love. I discovered there’s a depth of romance found in the midst of a struggle. That a powerful bond forms in the simplest moments. Like waking in the night because he reached for my hand. How silently laying in the dark, we were more connected than during any act of sex we’d ever had.

I remember the many times I wanted to give up on us. How foolish was I to think life could be better without him.

I want to tell young couples my story. Tell them not to be so eager to trade in what they have for what might be. That there’s nothing like a relationship that spans a lifetime. That staying together, until death does them part, beats anything else out there.

Come and Dine
Twenty years ago, our family celebrated the first Thanksgiving in a brand new house. To show it off I invited my brothers and sisters and their families to come join our feast.
All day I imagined the Norman Rockwell painting, Thanksgiving Dinner. Only I was the radiant Mom bringing the turkey to the table with the glowing faces of my family staring in awe. I just knew I’d be the star.
As my guests arrived I scurried around putting the finishing touches on my masterpieces.  With the table set, the food cooked to perfection, and everyone seated, my moment to shine had arrived. Well, when you grow up in a large family, you learn one thing – nobody is ever a star.
My brothers in their truest form found something funny in everything I did. The jokes ran rampant with even my husband and kids joining in.  Instead of a Norman Rockwell celebration, I had a Married with Children fiasco.
Days later, wanting someone to share my pain, I phoned my Aunt Jeanne Marie in California. Patiently she listened as I went on and on. Barely coming up for air, I spared no one, “Jim did…and then Brian…Tim even thought it was funny…the kids said…” I felt better getting it all out.
After an uncomfortable silence, her quiet voice gently asked, “Ellen honey, can I tell you how I see it?” I knew by her tone she did not share my indignation.
“Sure,” I said reluctantly.
“For my entire married life, my sisters and their husbands, nor my mother and daddy, never sat at my dinner table. My father only came to my house one time. And then he stood in the foyer for about fifteen minuets. The fact that you and your brothers and sisters could all sit down at the table, means our family has come miles.”
She was right, I had heard the stories of broken relationships. And when I did visit relatives, you could feel the tension brewing below the surface. But Aunt Jeanne Marie was different, she defied the family history by choosing to model unconditional love and grace. Sadly, I was looking at the here and now while she had the perspective of multiple generations.
Maybe that dreadful Thanksgiving, while I pouted, God celebrated a victory that had taken years to win. Perhaps all the time I spent feeling sorry for myself, heaven was rejoicing over the tearing down of strongholds.
This year, I pray our dinner tables will be a place where walls come tumbling down.  Where laughter reins, and the enduring peace of God is abundant.  You never know, heaven just might be celebrating as we feast.

It Doesn’t Get Any Better than This

I’m curled up in my chair in our bedroom, doing something that used to drive me nuts – listening to Tim snore. For years, as I struggled to fall asleep, his constant throat vibration kept me awake. I tried everything, I pushed him over, I put his arms over his head, I held his nose. Nothing I did worked.

But, since Tim was diagnosed with lung cancer, his snoring is a welcome relief. A sign to me that he’s in a deep sleep. That the pain of the tumor tearing into his hip bone has subsided and he’s resting. I never thought I’d like that growling late night intrusion. But now no matter what time of day or night, it brings me peace.

I find it odd how time has changed our relationship. How the things Tim did that bothered me years ago, seem so insignificant today. Over the years, when problems with our marriage sent me to the edge, I thought a divorce would heal all our problems, make my life easier, if nothing else, end the snoring.

But after thirty-six years, I’m watching Tim fade away. The damage to his hip has left him practically motionless. The calluses on his hands from years of woodworking have disappeared. His body is bald from months of chemotherapy. His soul is quiet as he mentally struggles to control his pain. The playful twinkle in his eye has dimmed along with those playful gleams from across the room.

Life is more fragile than I ever imagined. Among the millions of things that can halt a person, cancer has stopped Tim in his tracks. As I sit here, listening to that familiar sound, there’s no place I’d rather be. Yet, I’m surprised at how thankful I am. Thankful that we didn’t call it quits, that we still love each other, that we beat all the odds.

None of us get married thinking of our latter years. But if we live a long life, this is pretty much of what we get. Our bodies give out, they succumb to disease, and we end up caring for each other.

Marriage wasn’t designed just for romance. It wasn’t designed for me to get my needs met. When I chose to build my life with Tim, I never imagined the depth of love I’d experience. I never imagined it would take cancer for me to feel it. I never imagined that it would top all the romance we’d experienced over the past forty years.

I believe the best parts of life are as difficult to achieve for everyone. Being wealthy, well bred, or living in a prosperous nation doesn’t make building a meaningful life with another person any easier. But the good news is, the rewards of sticking it out are available to all who dare to persevere.

I’ve heard it said that forty is the new thirty, and fifty the new forty. We can look at aging any way we want, but we can’t slow it down. We’re all given a measure of time to fill up as we choose and unfortunately, too often, I’ve chosen poorly.

Unlike many in my generation, I welcome old age and peacefully say good-bye to my irresponsible youth. I count my wrinkles as trophies to a long life, and my widening girth as the blessings of having lived in a land filled with milk and honey. But most of all, I’m proud of my marriage. Proud that when given the choice, Tim and I stepped back into the ring and fought once again for our family. Because, as our lives are winding down, there’s no one better to be with than the spouse of your youth, the father of your children and the Papa of your grandchildren. Trust me, it doesn’t get any better than this!