Daddy passed away first and Mama followed him just one month later. I’ve written about it before, and I’m sure I’ll write about it again. But today, I write about something they left behind
A House Where She Belongs
Whispers of Comfort ~ Seeking Peace Within This Pain
Death was not in God’s original plan, nor was it a part of the life He had planned for us in that beautiful garden. But Adam and Eve chose sin, and death followed. Consequently we all know the grief suffered by every human being since. He didn’t want it for us, but
#28 Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
You know how it is when you’ve gone someplace you were really looking forward to – then you head home. Oftentimes that drive home is simply a boring drive. There’s nothing more to see. Your trip is over and you just want to get home. I did not want to end this awesome month-long journey in that manner!
By her right hand . . .
I joined Mama in those last steps of her dying. As much as I could. From the outside looking in. This was Mama’s dying, not mine. I was very much alive and it made it all the more difficult to accept this separation that death was about to force upon us.
Letters from War
Marion L. Nutt
May 18, 1920 – April 28, 1943
I never knew my Uncle Marion, yet my throat tightens, and tears roll down my face whenever I look at pictures of him, read his letters from war, or place a flower on his grave.
Perhaps it is because he reminds me of my father. They shared such a resemblance. Or perhaps it is because sometimes I try to place myself in my Grandma’s shoes – having five sons in the war at the same time
Treasures from the woodshed.
Daddy and Mama bought the big yellow house when I was 13 months old. Surrounded by red barns, white board fences, chicken coops, and corn cribs, the house sat on 80 acres of fields, pastures, and woods, bordering a creek. They paid $10,000 for it. Grandpa Nutt said they’d never live to see it paid! But he was wrong.
Papa, can I lie in your bed?
He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart:
I put her to bed, as usual. Well, really, with a bit more tenderness, a bit more time–reading, laying, singing, snuggling. But she is still quite unsettled when I leave her bedside, and shortly after, I hear her behind me in the living room.
Quietly.
“Nana, can I lie in your bed?”
“Sure, honey.”
I follow her down the hall. She steps up onto the little white stepping stool and up up up on to the big, soft mattress. And then I see the tears.
“I miss my mommy.”
I wipe her tears.
I lie beside her, cherishing her soft hair rubbing my cheek, breathing in its sweet, innocent scent.
Later, after she is sound asleep, Papa carries Kaylee back to her own bed.
I awaken in the night. My heart aches. I miss her mommy too. And I know a bit of the pain my precious daughter is going through. She shared it with me months ago, shortly after the arrest. Now I know that tonight, she lies on her cot, in her cell, cold and lonely. My throat makes a foreign noise. I try to hold back the sob, knowing that when it starts, it doesn’t stop for a long time. I pray for her in a whisper – a whisper I know my Papa hears.
Months ago, after the arrest, on the 9th day, we brought her home–from that cell, from that cot–for one night before recovery began. She wanted her own bed– her old bed. The comfort of home.
Now I want the comfort of my Papa’s bed. I want that comfort for my daughter, and for her daughter, Kaylee. I want that comfort for all of us and for all others who are hurting.
I find it. I find it in the Word that is near me!
He gently tends me like a shepherd tends his flock. He gathers me in his arms and carries me close to his heart.
I might be unsettled for awhile, but I know that as I rest in his arms, close to His heart, I’ll find that comfort.
Further Reading: Isaiah 40:11; Psalm 91:1; Matthew 11:28; Romans 10:8
As you read the above post, you might connect. Some of you have or are presently raising your grandchildren. Some of you have or have had a son or daughter incarcerated. Some of you agonize, watching your own little ones unsettled and distressed, often unable to sleep. Take a verse or two and personalize it for yourself. Speak it over and over and over . . . His Word is powerful. And it’s near you.
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I Remember Mama
Thursday
Yesterday was a tough day.
Last night was agonizing.
I can’t imagine facing a day of my life without her . . .or a day without sobbing.
This evening is sad – seeing her, my Mama – lifeless and still upon pink satin lining the silver box . I don’t want to see her like this.
I close my eyes and remember her in the kitchen, making her yellow rolls; I remember her tucking me into bed at night; and I remember her dancing down “Main Street” on our first trip to Disney World!
Then I open my eyes and look around the large room of this funeral home, a place I don’t want to be, facing what I don’t want to face, where earlier, alone, I couldn’t stop crying.
Now the room has taken on a different countenance. Instead of the parlor of death, it has become a playroom, filled with my young grandchildren. Their voices, full of animation, and their healthy little bodies, full of life, make me realize that Mama lives on in me, in my children, and in my grandchildren. As I reflect upon it, I realize that life is truly amazing. My friend, Connie, told me that today. “Life is amazing,” she said, “and we are a part of it.”
And I am a part of it because of my precious Mama. And now I will pass on the tradition of baking the yellow rolls and I will tuck my little ones into bed, and I will dance down Main Street.”
Tomorrow I must say goodbye – I know it’s just her body – that her soul is in heaven and that she will receive a new, vibrant, healthy body, but it’s her old body and her touch and her voice that I will miss. It’s the smell of Ponds Cold Cream and of yellow rolls baking in her oven.
I have been fearful during some of these days of the COVID19
pandemic and isolation. But today I am not frightened.
I have had a significant amount of anxiety during this
COVID19 pandemic. But today, I am not anxious.
Today, I am angry.
I am angry with the thief who is killing and stealing and destroying.
I am angry with the demons who serve him and do his dirty work.
And today, I am sad.
- I am sad that we can’t meet with our church family and celebrate the life of our friend who has passed – to hug his family and tell them how we loved him – to sing “The Days of Elijah” while we dance the aisles, as he did – to feel the tears drop down my cheeks as we all sing one final “I’ll Fly Away.”
- I am sad that my cousins cannot sit with their dying mother at her hospital bed – sad that she cannot feel the comfort only those children can bring – feel the warmth of their cheeks on hers, their wet lashes returning the comfort hers once gave.
- I am sad that I cannot gather with my extended family at the graveside – to honor and say farewell to a blessed cousin – to hear sweet stories about her – to tell her children and grandchildren how much she meant to me.
- I am sad that our friends cannot comfort their dying father in the nursing home – cannot wrap his hands in theirs and pray him to glory.
None of these things can happen because of the thief. So today
I am angry, and today, I am sad.
But like any other day – those of fearfulness, anxiety,
anger, happiness, or – like today – sadness, I look to Jesus. And I listen.
He whispers,
“Kathi, don’t let your heart be saddened. Don’t be troubled. I’m preparing everything. I hear you, and I will deliver you all. Now is your time to comfort from afar. I am close to your friends and family in their suffering and loss. I am their comfort. “
So I trust Him: The God of Comfort.
(From Psalm 34, John 14, 2 Corinthians 1)
The Cross Still Stands
Our eyes are attentive to our screens, taking in every word, every image. Our hearts are breaking as we watch: Notre Dame Cathedral is burning.
French Catholic Newspaper, La Croix, shows the spire’s collapse on its front page, with the headline: La Coeur en cendres (The Heart in Ashes):
And those words, probably inferring the heart of the church, nonetheless describe our feelings: our hearts are in ashes. We are a suffering people, anyway, our hearts shattered by evil in the world: deliberate killings, deliberate abortions, deliberate hate. Cancer, suffering, disease. We wonder how much more our already-broken hearts can take.
But we keep watching the reports of the fire; we keep listening; we keep hoping.
And we find it. Hope in the final photos – the photos taken after the fire is out – the photos showing what remains. The altar remains, and . . .
. . .the cross still stands! Not only does it stand, but it shines. It radiates. It glows. It reminds us that in this world filled with evil, we have hope – the confident expectation of God’s promises.
Let the cross bring you hope today. Hope in the very purpose of this Holy Week. Hope in Jesus Christ alone, the Savior of the World.
When your world feels fallen, hopeless, remember – the Cross still stands! Jesus suffered for you and for me. The altar remains open; His arms are open, waiting for you to turn to Him.