A Colorful Mish-Mash called Legacy

"Oh, it's my coloring book!  My Oma gave that to me," said Monique.

She wore a nostalgic smile on her face if ever there were a nostalgic smile.  I looked at the colored pictures and touched the color as if it was asking.

"I love it," I said.  "It's hard to explain, but all those lines and shapes were done by such a different you, and still the same you."

"Feeling introspective today love?" she asked.

"I suppose, but you're standing here right now and I'm looking at something a you I never knew did.  I have fun with the paradox."

"You're definitely feeling introspective," she said.  "But it is fun to remember."

Such a long time ago, but her five year old artistry was still there.  A mish-mash of blue and red, yellow and green mushrooms, fairies, princesses, puppies and flowers.

Dust the book for finger prints.  Maybe I'd hope to see five year old mirror image prints of a 30-something year-old woman.  I wouldn't hope for it, but maybe Oma's ("Grandma" in Dutch) prints are there too.

My mom found some old letters that she'd written to a friend when she was twelve.  Her children gathered one weekend and we found the letters on the table.  We enjoyed this hilarious form of history.  Mom is forever branded the gossip queen!  But her children touched the ink, her ink, and read words of their mother.

I've read letters from my Grandmother, written many years ago.  She's long gone, nary a ripple of her breath left, except the letters.  I've touched them, grazed over her finger prints.  We all know the scratches of pen to paper and I can hear that too...the scratches are left in the wind and the ink maintains it's dark sky blue, the blue you see a moment after dusk when the sun's almost ready to turn her lamp off.

I remember the smell of Grandma's house.  The letters used to smell like her house.  I guess maybe it's like wine though...there really is no apricots in Chardonnay, but you can smell them anyway.  I suppose they smell like my mom's house now.

I enjoy the life God's chosen for me, I do.  I can't say that's always been, but...it is now.  I'm writing today, it's me, it is.  I wonder though, are some of my letters out there?  You'll not find any fingerprints here.  I guarantee your computer doesn't smell like my house.

Who delights over an uncle?  I mean I love my Nephews and Nieces and I know they love me.  I have so much fun with them, and anyone who knows me knows that I'd do anything for them; I'd hang upside down on the ceiling if it would make them happy.  I'm elated by them, charmed by them.  I'm gratified by their happiness.  But let's be real; post funeral they won't find my letters and graze their fingers over the ink.  They won't read my favorite kid book "A Day At The Zoo" and listen for my six-year old voice memorizing every word.   They won't.  I believe I'll simply go away.

I don't feel sorry for myself, I'm lamenting and there's a difference.  I enjoy God's path for me.

Siblings remember and remember well, but no one has keepsakes of a brother or sister...not many anyway.  They'll keep something if they die young, but when they die at 40 or 50...they simply don't.  They sinply remember.  My children won't keep my things, I don't have any.  My letters won't find gleeful groups pining for another line.

Don't tell me it's not a big deal, we all think about it...we want legacies, we want a family line.  Many, if not most, if not all of you will live many years after your death by the hands of your children.

I am lamenting, not feeling sorry for myself.  I needed to say that again.  The sky is blue today and I and my bride are headed out doors and I love that!  Maybe we'll hop on the bike and head out toward a late season ride to everywhere, I don't know yet.

Sixty years from now no one will care about my Triumph Adventurer, except for the guy I sold it to that hopefully will keep the classic bike pristine.

Your children will look after you when your gone.  I suppose Angels will tend to me.

Who remembers an Uncle anyway?  Regretfully, I couldn't make it to all my uncle's funerals.  I loved them too.  I wanted so bad to be there, but I couldn't.  I have some photos, nothing else.  My Uncle's children and his bride have the rest. I don't have rights to my Uncle y'know?  I don't have anything and I'm not entitled to it because their children carry the articles of legacy.  I suppose someone will go through my home and hold a big garage sale.  Some of you are in the will y'know.  You won't keep the rest most likely, and I know the Angels won't care one way or another.  But will my nephews and nieces feel like they have the right?  The entitlements?

It's ok actually.  The life God's chosen for me comprises of catalytic adventures and I for one tremble gratefully by the hand of my Abba.

Oh but I love my family.  We gather together like tidal waves and oragami, sometimes we're a force to be reckoned with, sometimes we're delicate.  Actually sometimes we're delusional and sometimes we're amazing and sometimes we're emotional.  Sometimes we're reminiscent and sometimes we're aggressive and sometimes we're happy and sometimes we're soulful and sometimes we're joyful.  We always delight over each other in good and bad, and...we're always amazing.

Maybe I'll go before my parents do.  They'll keep some of my stuff.

I imagine though, that when I'm old, and my nephews and nieces have grown, and my three siblings have grown old with me, that there'll be chatter when I'm gone.  They'll remember for awhile.

Chatter doesn't smell like anything.  Does it need to?  Naw...we'll talk again in Heaven.

But I have some laments, I'm not feeling sorry...my children don't look like me and won't carry my things for me.  I don't have any.

And who delights over an uncle?  Maybe my nephews and nieces will be gladdened by memory of me.  Maybe they'll dust off my old treasure box.  I hope so, and don't call that arrogant.  We all hope so.  It's not self-righteous to desire gladness and not disappointment from friends and family.

I think it's more important though that I won't die alone.  I know my family and I will not die alone.  I am so grateful to God for allowing me that piece of the path.

I realized recently that all of life mirrors God.  Some of you don't believe that.  I can't help that you don't believe, but it's true anyway.  My mom and dad searched me and they knew me.  They followed me day and night.  They knew when I sat and when I rose.  They hemmed me in from either side and nary a hair could fall from my head without their knowledge.  They protected me and guided me.  Even when I strayed they were there.  They and many others banded me by prayer.  Even when I fell their hands raised me up.  Therefore even my darkness was not too dark for them.  Their hands held me fast...

I lament sometimes, I'm not feeling sorry for myself.  You've discovered I'm so very fortunate.

They're just things really; foolish to worry.  Foolish.

Of course I'll wait for you in heaven, of course.  Everything points toward God.

Talk about a legacy.  You and I will not live and will not die alone, on either side of eternal life.  The rest is dust.  But I encourage you to write...actually write something on a piece of paper.  Someone will graze their hands over your ink.  Write something and leave the shiny new computer closed.

Delight in each other...please.

Family--by rje

I do not feign my soul to keep

To hide in wiles of the deep.

I do not take my life so vein

Resplendent in the prospect wane.

In urushiol green the tine have passed,

A peaceful breath and natures last.

My eyes have seen the earthen mast

And driven forth in dreams and asp.

I yearn to reach the thinning skies

Where oft the eyes of effort lies.

To be more blessed by sanguine breeze

Atop the billows and swarthy trees.

And yet supine and undisturbed

The skies unbroken, not a word.

Acknowledge me this very night!

And break in veins to know my plight.

Each day I wake my hand is filled,

Each day alive and love is willed.

To till the earth and reach the skies

To greet the young, consult the wise.

If I should die before I wake

I pray your grace before them make.

I pray my soul be laid with thee.

I pray my heart be saved for these.

I believe in blossomed joy,

Of Heaven’s poignant mirth.

And I believe, bereft of she

A blackened hole of frightening girth.

But God dost know my spirit’s whim

Designed by time, willed by Him.

And I believe before I die

He walks beside the fire and I.

On the wall a portrait be

Pride of heaven joined by thee.

The bride and groom and sunlight’s glee

A sign you’re never leaving me.

Before I wake, Christ holds our soul

Our fallow breath, our whisper low.

The morning dew the cock does crow

And life again within us sown.

And so each morn I wake and write

Lest we forget love’s even sight

A story binds my nest to home

I shall not die alone.

One Faith, One Hope, One Baptism: A Marriage story

"Hi Grandpa!" said granddaughter Morgan and her husband Roger.

Grandpa's head turned lightly toward them.

A cloudy, dull day, but the small hospital room was painted yellow and stenciled with four leaf clovers. Happy enough.

Morgan and Roger had Sam with them. Their child was three weeks old; the child of two horny 19-year-olds...a sequence of events which birthed a shot-gun wedding six weeks ago, and then Samuel John three weeks later.

They were a Christian family. Nine-months ago grandpa couldn't understand where they had gone wrong. The old man had once been an executive, strong, stalwart and righteous. Nine months ago he couldn't understand weakness.

Sam was wrapped in a borrowed blankey.

A friend had loaned them all the baby stuff she and her husband had. There was no baby shower. It seemed for a time the family was even embarrassed to even admit the two had gotten "together."

Grandpa turned to them feebly. Seven months ago he'd almost disowned his granddaughter... turned his back on her. Six months and two weeks ago he'd discovered he was cancer-ridden. Six months ago his own son had reminded him why his own wife, their mother, had almost divorced him twenty-five years prior.

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He'd had a lovely library and one of the most complete libraries amongst his friends and acquaintances. He'd spent hours and hours in the lovely place, studying, reading, practicing one of a thousand speeches. He'd garnered the love of the shareholders, but neglected to gather the hearts of his family.

"Ask your mother, I'm busy!," he'd say.  "And don't come in here while I'm working!"

Accept he was always working.  The church had him pegged as an excellent family man.  The kids hated that.  Everyone suffers from closet skeletons.

Today, yesterday and for six months Grandpa understood weakness, finally. The kind of 'weak' that needs help. He never needed help. The help wasn't all he'd learned.

He turned toward Morgan, Roger and Sam. There they were. They had been there every single day for the last ten days he'd been stuck in the hospital. So had his three children, but Morgan... Morgan lived "outside the box" so to speak. She'd neglected the idea of college to her work at a local floral shop. He'd called her when Morgan's parents mentioned that she was going to wait awhile before deciding about college.

"You're throwing your life away, I fear," he'd told her.

"Grandpa, stop it," was all she said. "You worry too much."

"You come from better stock than flower shop retail, Morgan."

"You delivered milk, Grandpa. You always tell us you began as the milkman."

 The "Milk man" story really took shape when his wife had their first child. Friends really thought it was funny to say, "He looks just like the milk man!"

Anyway, it happens, ya get stuck. Twenty-five years ago he'd realized how stuck he'd been.

He never did sign the divorce papers. He went to counseling instead. None of his friends ever knew he'd seen a shrink.

And his family did not leave him. None of them did.

He once told his pastor, "I never understood why kids who barely knew their father, and only ever heard their mother whine about him, would do so much to help me see the light!"

"Unconditional love doesn't look for reasons not to love," the pastor replied.

They all coaxed him into vast life changes. They endured. They prayed. Margie, his wife, died last year. She'd had a heart attack. They thought she might make it, actually. Four long days in the hospital and she seemed to perk up. But her heart failed her in the end...too damaged.

Before she died though, she took his hand and gave him a benediction. All those years and she was still blessing him. Every day she'd say, "I believe in you, Jack." Kinda pissed him off for years. He felt it put too much pressure on him.

"Yea, yea, great," he'd say, never giving her a thought. He now wished he'd blessed her more. But that was water under the bridge, bygones, history. He tried much harder the last couple years of her life. They talked a long time one night, a few years back. Talked till 4 a.m.

"I never understood where that came from," Jack said.

"I just believed in you so I told you so," Margie replied. "I could see the real you underneath the layers. I knew you were great, even in the beginning when your job title was "milkman.""

"I didn't see you that way though," said Jack. "I regret that every day."

"Can't cry over spilt milk, my dear Jack."

"Ha ha, very funny."

And then he'd almost disowned his granddaughter; couldn't believe his good name had been disparaged.

"Good name, yea right," he thought.

But here they were. Still smiling. He supposed they meant to encourage him; maybe encourage themselves. His hospital room was full of their flowers, their teddy bears.

"Maybe my name wasn't so bad after all?" he thought. "There you go again," again to himself, "It's not always about me for cryin-out-loud!"

These kids were his family.

"The body of Christ doesn't leave itself!" his granddaughter had told him amongst alligator tears on the fateful Tuesday evening seven months ago.

"Where'd you learn such wisdom?" he'd asked her a few weeks after that.

A few months ago had been rough. He'd been angry. But her words cut him through. Then he remembered his wife's benediction.

Most of them were with him today. They'd stayed with him and ten days slogged by. He felt odd. The kids simply watched, smiling...blue and sad and smiling all at once. Ironic. He was going to die. Sad. But they smiled.

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"Hi, Grandpa," she said, "Lookin' good as usual." She always said that.

The body of Christ doesn't leave itself.

"Wanna hold him, Grandpa?"

He hadn't the strength to "hold" him. He understood weakness better today than ever before. He nodded. Morgan took four steps to his bedside, leaned over and laid Samuel in the crest of his arm. He didn't move. She kissed his forehead and then Sam lifted his hand in the air...a reaction to the movement or a dream, he didn't know. Didn't matter much.

A solitary tear left Jack's eyelid and crawled down his face. He was beautiful. He couldn't exactly turn completely to look at him, but felt Sam's quick even breaths.

Jack brought one hand over and touched Sam. Then he whispered. Morgan and Roger stepped closer to him to listen, and both of them began to cry. "My first great-grandson," he said.

"May the Lord bless you and keep you," he prayed. "May the Lord shine his face upon you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you his peace."

The body of Christ does not leave itself.

He closed his eyes. And while Sam breathed on, he breathed his last.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

Count Your Blessings Name them One by One.

It's not often that my wife and I forget to pray for all you. At the same time we attempt to also count our blessings.

I do that differently than I used to...count blessings that is. I don't see prayer as a way to twist God's giant wrench as the Fix-it-man's right hand helper. I simply pray because it gives my faith Endurance. I see God work when I don't pray and I see Him work when I do. It just seems that when I'm in His Word and when I'm talking to Him, that I'm paying more attention to His inevitably great work, for better or for worse...for better I suppose.

And so be thankful in all things...not necessarily for them. Count your blessings. Watch God work.

We've all experienced a loss of one sort or the other. We have, I have. My friend Heidi wrote about the losses she's experienced and I'll share that with you in a moment. But one of them was her Husband Layton, also a friend I knew. After his death were a couple of others including our baby, Opa, and Uncle Eddy last year. But Before him it was Tina and before her, Diane. In there was Grandma Josie and John...there were others. Now we pray for Mom and Jeff and Uncle Bill and...count your blessings. Not because it was one of Grandma's favorite songs. Not because it's the Christmas season, although it is. Not because the lights are up...and they're bright. Not because the music plays--you play good music. Count because they're there. Entrust them to Him so that at the end of time and at the cusp of eternity, He'll show them to you there (II Timothy 1:12).

The poem below is Heidi's. She's counting.
May God be with you and bless you.

Layton and Samara

The love of my heart.
The fruit of my womb.

On the same long advent day strung apart by years,
You both lay in the same building.

Whirring machines breathing your breath and beating your heart -
A whirring machine looking inside you

as you slept an unnatural sleep.

"He's going."
"She has cancer."

I'll never forget what you felt like in my arms that day.

How warm you were.
How heavy you were.
How still you were.
How light you were.

I lost you that day.
I thought I was losing you that day.

I let you go... into the Father's keeping.

And now you dance and have your being in a place or time or dimension
so far away, or perhaps so close?
Perhaps as close as you - who dance in winter boots
and holiday dress by the Christmas tree.

A saint above.

A saint below.

You are healed.

O Child of God, I miss you. And I will see you someday...
O Child of God, I miss you.
And I will see you this afternoon, after work.

Your mothers' arms long to hold you

On this long advent day.

I'll never forget what you felt like in my arms that day.

How warm you were.
How heavy you were.
How still you were.
How light you were.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

Layton Reid De Vries, my first husband, died seven years ago today on December 11, 2000 as a result of injuries sustained in a car accident. In the same hospital, Samara Grace was diagnosed with neuroblastoma one year ago today on December 11, 2006.