Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Grandma Lois's Notebook
This morning I leafed through the entire notebook. With a lump in my throat through much of my reading and perusing, I discovered that the poems and writings followed a pattern of sorts. At the beginning were many things pertaining to children. (Her children, my Mom and Uncle, were very young at that time.) As time progressed there were writings of romance, then death, then loving others. At one point there were writings pertaining to loving and caring for others regardless of skin color and status. Many of the writings pertained to being a good example and meeting the needs of those around you. One could almost imagine what was going on in her life at the time. Liberally sprinkled throughout were writings of faith in God and trust in His care for all of life's needs. The one I share with you today is written by her mother, copied by my Grandma' beautiful penmanship, sometime during the year before she passed away.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Since I was very young, I have collected poems and sayings that have touched me in some way. Recently, while cleaning out my desk to make way for some crafting that I want to do, I discovered a booklet of sayings that I have had since I was in high school and in between the pages I found most of them.
While going through my mother's files the other day, I discovered a
notebook of my Grandmother's that was filled with page after page of poetry and sayings and her own writings that moved her in a similar fashion. ( I guess it's in the genes.) Anyway, I am going to begin to share some of these.
My maternal grandmother, Lois, was 12 years of age when she was adopted by a childless couple in an adoption arranged by her mother who would soon die from the complications of tuberculosis. Her father had already died a year earlier.
When I discovered the notebook of hers that is full of poems cut out and pasted onto lined paper, I found, in a blank space on one page, a line, handwritten by Grandma that simply states:
An adopted child who has found a good home has been smiled upon by God.
And then, for the fun of it, and for my children, nieces and nephews who either have a two year old or will have a two year old, I offer this poem from the next page in her book.
TWO YEAR OLD
He finds a pencil and marks on the walls,
He climbs on the piano, and then he falls.
He eats the garbage and plays in the ink,
He spills the milk he declines to drink.
He crawls in the coalbin and plays it's bed.
He refuses to bathe and cries instead.
In short, he wishes to do what he wishes,
He breaks your heart as well as your dishes.
But all is forgiven, all is bliss,
When he comes and gives you a large wet kiss.
by Nancy Moor Kelsey
While going through my mother's files the other day, I discovered a
notebook of my Grandmother's that was filled with page after page of poetry and sayings and her own writings that moved her in a similar fashion. ( I guess it's in the genes.) Anyway, I am going to begin to share some of these.
My maternal grandmother, Lois, was 12 years of age when she was adopted by a childless couple in an adoption arranged by her mother who would soon die from the complications of tuberculosis. Her father had already died a year earlier.
When I discovered the notebook of hers that is full of poems cut out and pasted onto lined paper, I found, in a blank space on one page, a line, handwritten by Grandma that simply states:
An adopted child who has found a good home has been smiled upon by God.
And then, for the fun of it, and for my children, nieces and nephews who either have a two year old or will have a two year old, I offer this poem from the next page in her book.
TWO YEAR OLD
He finds a pencil and marks on the walls,
He climbs on the piano, and then he falls.
He eats the garbage and plays in the ink,
He spills the milk he declines to drink.
He crawls in the coalbin and plays it's bed.
He refuses to bathe and cries instead.
In short, he wishes to do what he wishes,
He breaks your heart as well as your dishes.
But all is forgiven, all is bliss,
When he comes and gives you a large wet kiss.
by Nancy Moor Kelsey
Friday, February 5, 2010
Hospice Revisited
In November, four months after my Dad passed away, I had to go to the Social Security office to take care of some business for Mom. The office is in Jacksonville and I had to pass the turn for the hospice facility where Dad spent his final days.
Several weeks after Dad’s death Sam and I had gone to eat at a restaurant in Jacksonville and on our way home had taken the route that put us very close to the hospice facility. As we passed the turn-off, I had a fleeting thought that we should stop and visit Dad. There was something inside of me that felt like Dad was still there. Of course, I knew this was irrational, but it was there just the same.
So here I was, a couple of months later, sitting and waiting at the red light of the street that one would turn on to go to the Hadlow Center, and sobbing! I had been thinking that maybe I should plan a visit to the facility to prove to myself that Dad was no longer there. Realizing the depth of emotion that I was dealing with at that moment, I KNEW that I needed to go. But first, I would finish my business at the Social Security office.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I prayed that God would send me to someone who would be kind, compassionate and knowledgeable. It’s “funny” how God seems to do His own thing and not follow my directions. I got called up to a desk where some folks had just left muttering and complaining and acting as if “the system” had just failed them. When I explained to the employee about my need and what was necessary to accomplish at this visit, she responded as if I were the enemy. I asked her to please not yell at me and she replied forcefully, “I’m NOT yelling at you”. At this point I began to choke back sobs and wish for a hole to crawl into. I was in no good emotional shape for this encounter! To top things off, she was confused about what was going on and needed another employee to come and help her figure things out. Slowly, she began to thaw out and I’m sure that the choked sobs were getting to her a bit. Finally, accomplishing what I needed to accomplish, I left the building.
Sitting in my car for the next several minutes, I allowed the choked sobs to become full-fledged. I was a mess! When I could finally control myself enough to drive, I headed home and back past the turn for the hospice center. This time I turned. I had to. It was time and it was important for me to be able to move on.
I walked in and stopped at the welcome desk where anyone entering must sign in. Trying very hard to keep control, I explained that my father had passed away here about 4 months ago and that I really needed to go into the chapel. They were very kind, had me get my name tag and allowed me to walk on in.
It wasn’t clear to me what I was going to do, but it was clear that I had to do it. (That’s about a clear as mud, isn’t it?)
When I turned the corner to walk down the first hall, if felt as if I was going to pass out. There was a weight on my head that seemed to push me into the floor and as I walked I felt as if I were on a ship that was tossing and turning in the sea. It was a very overwhelming sensation. Of course, I am back to sobbing.
Down the halls I continued until I arrived at the chapel. No one else was in the room and I was able to cry in peace. Peace. Did I say peace? No peace yet. Just agony! I prayed and cried and prayed some more. The interesting thing is, after stopping at the front desk, no one spoke to me or even seemed to notice me.
When I was able to leave the chapel, I proceeded to the family room area where we had spent many hours making phone calls, eating and just taking a break for a little while. The nurse’s station is right outside of this room and the doctor who had admitted Dad was at the desk. He was talking to a couple of nurses and none of them seemed to notice me for which I was thankful. I walked around the family room, soaking in the memories, got a tissue to wipe up the tears and runny nose and then left.
As I walked down the hall to leave a realization hit me. This time, as I left, I was grieving my father as a little girl who lost her Daddy. The last time I left the building, I was grieving as the daughter/caretaker who had responsibilities to complete. The overwhelming feeling that I had experienced upon my arrival was as if I were grieving the loss of a beloved person for the first time. I cried more that day than I had in months but it was very cathartic! Emotionally, I was drained, exhausted and wrung out. But it was all part of the healing that was needed to help me move on to the next phase.
I was blessed beyond measure to be the daughter of H. John Blann. His legacy to his family lives on. He was a great example of consistency in his walk with God and his love for others. I want to follow in his footsteps.
Several weeks after Dad’s death Sam and I had gone to eat at a restaurant in Jacksonville and on our way home had taken the route that put us very close to the hospice facility. As we passed the turn-off, I had a fleeting thought that we should stop and visit Dad. There was something inside of me that felt like Dad was still there. Of course, I knew this was irrational, but it was there just the same.
So here I was, a couple of months later, sitting and waiting at the red light of the street that one would turn on to go to the Hadlow Center, and sobbing! I had been thinking that maybe I should plan a visit to the facility to prove to myself that Dad was no longer there. Realizing the depth of emotion that I was dealing with at that moment, I KNEW that I needed to go. But first, I would finish my business at the Social Security office.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I prayed that God would send me to someone who would be kind, compassionate and knowledgeable. It’s “funny” how God seems to do His own thing and not follow my directions. I got called up to a desk where some folks had just left muttering and complaining and acting as if “the system” had just failed them. When I explained to the employee about my need and what was necessary to accomplish at this visit, she responded as if I were the enemy. I asked her to please not yell at me and she replied forcefully, “I’m NOT yelling at you”. At this point I began to choke back sobs and wish for a hole to crawl into. I was in no good emotional shape for this encounter! To top things off, she was confused about what was going on and needed another employee to come and help her figure things out. Slowly, she began to thaw out and I’m sure that the choked sobs were getting to her a bit. Finally, accomplishing what I needed to accomplish, I left the building.
Sitting in my car for the next several minutes, I allowed the choked sobs to become full-fledged. I was a mess! When I could finally control myself enough to drive, I headed home and back past the turn for the hospice center. This time I turned. I had to. It was time and it was important for me to be able to move on.
I walked in and stopped at the welcome desk where anyone entering must sign in. Trying very hard to keep control, I explained that my father had passed away here about 4 months ago and that I really needed to go into the chapel. They were very kind, had me get my name tag and allowed me to walk on in.
It wasn’t clear to me what I was going to do, but it was clear that I had to do it. (That’s about a clear as mud, isn’t it?)
When I turned the corner to walk down the first hall, if felt as if I was going to pass out. There was a weight on my head that seemed to push me into the floor and as I walked I felt as if I were on a ship that was tossing and turning in the sea. It was a very overwhelming sensation. Of course, I am back to sobbing.
Down the halls I continued until I arrived at the chapel. No one else was in the room and I was able to cry in peace. Peace. Did I say peace? No peace yet. Just agony! I prayed and cried and prayed some more. The interesting thing is, after stopping at the front desk, no one spoke to me or even seemed to notice me.
When I was able to leave the chapel, I proceeded to the family room area where we had spent many hours making phone calls, eating and just taking a break for a little while. The nurse’s station is right outside of this room and the doctor who had admitted Dad was at the desk. He was talking to a couple of nurses and none of them seemed to notice me for which I was thankful. I walked around the family room, soaking in the memories, got a tissue to wipe up the tears and runny nose and then left.
As I walked down the hall to leave a realization hit me. This time, as I left, I was grieving my father as a little girl who lost her Daddy. The last time I left the building, I was grieving as the daughter/caretaker who had responsibilities to complete. The overwhelming feeling that I had experienced upon my arrival was as if I were grieving the loss of a beloved person for the first time. I cried more that day than I had in months but it was very cathartic! Emotionally, I was drained, exhausted and wrung out. But it was all part of the healing that was needed to help me move on to the next phase.
I was blessed beyond measure to be the daughter of H. John Blann. His legacy to his family lives on. He was a great example of consistency in his walk with God and his love for others. I want to follow in his footsteps.
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