Image: Charles M. Schultz

 This pandemic: the isolation, the masks that cover up your facial expression…and your life. I’ve mostly missed your story. Oh, I’ve enjoyed your happy posts, but I’ve missed your real life stories. 

I wish I could construct a Lucy Booth, not for cheap advice, but to simply listen to your present reality, past hurts, and dreams: broken and still unrealized. A story-keeper booth that only costs time. 

I wonder how the church, the workplace, our neighborhoods would morph if we enlisted story-keepers. When I was a young nurse’s aide, working in a long-term care facility, I’d frequently visit the residents when my shift ended. Oh, the stories of Grumpy Mr. Held’s sorties, life in the Great Depression for many, the Dust Bowl days for mamas trying to keep house. Those tales of courage and sacrifice, hardship and joy matured me, reminding me of my many blessings. I still treasure those storytellers and their accounts; time well spent. Time for them to feel appreciated and be heard. 

Yes, Lucy Van Pelt, move on over; my booth is always open.

 

Dear Grands, 

Oh, this storm called COVID. I am struggling this morning as a young family friend has lost his fight with this ugly monster.  

“If only he’d been vaccinated…” runs through my sad mind. I don’t believe for one moment this was God’s intended will, although I believe not one detail escaped God. All along God knew Dave would join Him, but He gave him free choice to decide about earthly protection. He is the giver of good gifts, but choice as well. 

I’ve learned the hard way that consequences often follow my decisions. 

But I’ve also learned that He covers us with his perfect Grace. 

God rescued our friend by arresting his suffering and welcoming Dave into his Presence yesterday. 

Our Father bids us to offer our imperfect grace to those who make unwise choices. A friend is always ready to pick up the broken. And just as importantly, Jesus asks us to grace ourselves. We can’t waste what He did for us on the Cross: perfect forgiveness!

Oh, Grands, offer and receive grace…always, dear ones. 

Be held, Gigi

 

 

20th Anniversary of 9/11

 

Dearest Grands,

9.11.2021

Today we remember. 

Twenty years ago, four planes tried to destroy our country. They did not! They caused a lot of damage and killed a lot of innocent people, but they could not destroy the American spirit. People were brave and they stood together in resolve and unity. I’ll spare you the details of that horrible morning, not because you can’t handle the tragedy, but because I challenge you to read the stories for yourselves. You must own your nation’s history-all of it: the good and bad…the blessings and the hard. Remember, we don’t forget  lest we visit such again. 

We all had to be brave that day and we had to wait. Granddad was grounded in Portland, Oregon. We didn’t know his location for hours or when we would see him again. Others waited for word of whether or not their loved ones made it out of the fiery buildings. 

Today, I encourage you not to use the excuse, ‘Well, that’s way before I was born’ to not remember 9/11. I was not alive during the surprise military attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, but every December 7th, I reflect on the events and loss of life in Hawaii. My grandfather left his wife and two daughters to serve in the Navy shortly after we officially entered WWII. He sacrificed a lot to defend our nation,  so I remember his and many others’ courage and pursuit of freedom. 

I visited Ground Zero the summer after the Twin Towers collapsed. It was my physical way to grasp the magnitude of the enemy’s destruction; history is seared into my memory. 

            

I captured this photo  of a steel beam from one of the skyscrapers that rescue workers hoisted up weeks after the attack. It helps me never forget the ripple effect of evil, but more importantly, who holds our future. A cross in the rubble…hope in Jesus who hung on a wooden crossbeam to give us Himself, the Hope of Glory. 

My dearest Grands, never forget Christ triumphs all evil. When tragedy strikes, don’t lose sight of his Hope for He wins in the end!

And remember, as He knows every one of the names recorded on this flag, He also knows yours!

Blessings, Gigi 

 Vaccinations are recorded and tomorrow marks the last day of my personal nightmare with SARS-CoV-2. Has it come too late? The personal toll of isolation is great and I’m barely limping to the finish line. Am I ready to navigate ‘normal’ again? Have I retained enough social skills to resume life outside of these gray walls? Will freedom really look any different than lockdown?

My biggest fear whispers: will my loneliness only change shape? I still remain alone in a world that belongs  to couples and families. Re-entry may sting with the continued feeling of being forgotten, but now I’ll have no excuse of COVID-19 to claim. I’m terrified that thick scab may very likely rip open raw.

I truly want to shape re-entry as a fresh beginning, but I’m afraid I have nothing left to fight the giants. Perhaps, that’s the very place God plants me.  

2021 Winter Storm

 Just as I think there is nothing else to write on grief, a historic winter storm hits my entire state, resulting in an emergency situation of no electrical power or water. No heat for 65 hours forced me, like others, to drain pipes in a desperate attempt to prevent breakage. (The jury is still out on this, as I have not yet turned on the water.) When our neighborhood finally received restored power, we set about boiling possibly contaminated water. 

Fortunately, I have a lot of camping experience in primitive environments. I spent a summer sleeping in a tree hammock while providing health care to young children. I’ve enjoyed the wilderness with little amenities, but goodness, not in my own suburban home and rarely alone. 

Fortunate to have a small tent, I crawled in it several times a day to warm my chilled body. However, that  was also the very place where I struggled with intense loneliness.  Where are you, Rob? I need your body heat; I need you to tell me all is going to be well! Somehow, those two seemed to always go hand in hand in the past. Once again, I found myself fighting the demons of grief and loss.

As I begin to thaw, I’m struck with how tired I am. Not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually. My conversations with God have been  brutally honest. How long, oh Lord? I’m still waiting for the year when the land is supposed to rest! I’m tired of tragedy, Lord. I’m tired of coronavirus- induced isolation and all of it’s hideous loss. I’m just tired and this is the only thing in which I’m not alone. Please, tell me You’re listening!

 But once again, I lay down my questions and trust with a limp along with the rest of the fatigued. What else can we do?  I am grateful, Lord, that in You I find greater refuge than an earthly tent.  You’ve sheltered me in the shadow of your wing so many times; You’ll do it again and again with each trial ahead. You are good and trustworthy and kind enough to understand my need for my husband’s shelter as well.

Perhaps, I’ll never really be at a loss for grief words. 

“Give sorrow words; the great that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”  William Shakespeare

I’ve been on the cusp of putting my blog to rest. My little writing corner has evolved with the seasons of my adult life; it’s been a sweet resting place for God and me.  I’ve found it therapeutic and a good place to practice my writing. But for the past months, I’ve rarely had anything to say here... perhaps, the isolation of the pandemic? I don’t know, but I’ve run dry.

 I’ve terribly missed my family during this virus. A few necessary weeks of caution turned into months with only a handful of protected visits. Because young children wrestle with screen visits, those have not met any of our expectations. I’ve missed seizing an ordinary moment to tell a simple life lesson or funny story of Gigi’s childhood, so I’ve been tossing around the idea of crafting some posts to leave for my grandchildren.  I’m hoping a simple link will one day lead them to my little world.  Of course, I could scratch my stories in journals, but I just think better in this format. So let’s see where these 

Letters to my Grands lead.

Ruth and Oliver Capper

My maternal grandparents 

       What I would give to hear my grandmother Ruth’s stories of the past. She went home to her Jesus before I arrived. My dad, swallowed up by grief of his mother’s sudden, untimely death, never spoke of her. We were robbed of her story which spurs me to tell mine before it’s too late. 

Dearest grands,

I just bought two new CDs from the Sisters of the Benedictines of Mary Queen of Apostles. These Sisters live in a simple convent outside my hometown of Kansas City where they ‘sing their lives and live their song.’  Yes, I still buy CDs and DVDs. (Gigi, what in the world are those?) Answer: little shiny silver circles you put in a machine to play music and watch movies. Gigi has a couple of those antiquated players and she enjoys playing her large collection, all alphabetized for easy selection. 

Some things are worth holding on to, my sweet grands. Pictures housed in pretty frames, rocks and shells found along a new path, painted treasures made by you! Do you know that I still have my daddy’s records from the 1940s? As you read this letter 20 years from now, they will be a century old! Old things can be just as good as new ones, especially people. Treasure them as they can teach you many wonderful lessons. Learn from their lives filled with adventure and accomplishments as well as bumps and bruises. You’ll find many others are quick to dismiss their wisdom and earned wrinkles, but you can choose the smarter way. Don’t forget to touch the worn: run your hands over nicks and crevices, hug the ones crying out for human affection, cradle a well-read book, not always a shiny screen.  

One day, my grands, you too shall look back. Make many memories to treasure and share. You are writing a legacy for others. 

Lovingly, Gigi

These posts will need some editing I’m sure, but they are meant to be spontaneous and free-form. Too much perusal makes for something artificial. Excuse the errors until I revisit  

 Even after seven years, I occasionally find myself center in one or more of these paragraphs, especially during  the aloneness of a pandemic. I know that some of you who visit here are new to this journey, it was tragically thrusted upon you, so I share Alisha’s thoughts. A word of encouragement, though: as life weaves in and out, you’ll reread this, thinking, “I don’t identify with this painful definition quite as much anymore and when I land back here, it’s not for long.  “ Robin

“Widowhood is more than missing your spouse’s presence. It is adjusting to an alternate life. It is growing around a permanent amputation.

Widowhood is going to bed for the thousandth time, and still, the loneliness doesn’t feel normal. The empty bed a constant reminder. The night no longer brings intimacy and comfort, but the loudness of silence and the void of connection.

Widowhood is walking around the same house you have lived in for years and it no longer feeling like home. Because “home” incorporated a person. And they’re not there. Homesickness fills your heart and the knowledge that it will never return haunts you.

Widowhood is seeing all your dreams and plans you shared as a couple crumble around you. The painful process of searching for new dreams that include only you amount to climbing Mount Everest. And every small victory of creating new dreams for yourself includes a new shade of grief that their death propelled you to this path.

Widowhood is second guessing everything you thought you knew about yourself. Your life had molded together with another’s and without them you have to relearn all your likes, hobbies, fears, goals. The renaissance of a new person makes you proud and heartbroken simultaneously.

Widowhood is being a stranger in your own life. The unnerving feeling of watching yourself from outside your body, going through the motions of what was your life, but being detached from all of it. You don’t recognize yourself. Your previous life feels but a vapor long gone, like a mist of a dream you begin to wonder if it happened at all.

Widowhood is the irony of knowing if that one person was here to be your support, you would have the strength to grieve that one person. The thought twists and confuses you. If only they were here to hold you and talk to you, you’d have the tenacity to tackle this unwanted life. To tackle the arduous task of moving on without them.

Widowhood is missing the one person who could truly understand what is in your heart to share. The funny joke, the embarrassing incident, the fear compelling you or the frustration tempting you. To anyone else, you would have to explain, and that is too much effort, so you keep it to yourself. And the loneliness grows inside you.

Widowhood is struggling with identity. Who are you if not their spouse? What do you want to do if not the things you planned together? What brand do you want to buy if not the one you two shared for all those years? What is your purpose if the job of investing into your marriage is taken away? Who is my closest companion when my other half isn’t here?

Widowhood is feeling restless because you lost your home, identity, partner, lover, friend, playmate, travel companion, co-parent, security, and life. And you are drifting with an unknown destination.

Widowhood is living in a constant state of missing the most intimate relationship. No hand to hold. No body next to you. No partner to share your burden.

Widowhood is being alone in a crowd of people. Feeling sad even while you’re happy. Feeling guilty while you live. It is looking back while moving forward. It is being hungry but nothing sounding good. It is every special event turning bittersweet.

Yes. It is much more than simply missing their presence. It is becoming a new person, whether you want to or not. It is fighting every emotion mankind can feel at the very same moment and trying to function in life at the same time.

Widowhood is frailty. Widowhood is strength. Widowhood is darkness. Widowhood is rebirth.

Widowhood…..

is life changing."

Alisha Bozarth

Goodness, I have wiped away tears all day long. 50 years...a half of a century. Where did the time go?

I remember our first date on January 25, 1971 as if it was yesterday. I had flirted and schemed for an entire fall semester, trying to get that senior boy to notice me. Unfortunately, he already had a girlfriend from our same yearbook staff. We shared a crowded pie-shape room, full of manual typewriters and wishful glances. Shame on me!

He was so unlike the other two guys I dated for a short while; Rob was focused and intelligent. It took a while, but we became friends and that never changed. Chats turned from sports and school activities to deep conversations about following Christ. My relationship with Jesus was young, but earnest; his, solid and mature. 

There were many bumps to navigate through the decades to follow, like most relationships. Honestly, it had to be by the sheer Grace of God that we made it through those first years and then again, through the teenage years of our kids. 

The path smoothed though; we had grown up. I am so grateful for those years traveling back-and-forth from Houston to DC,  the Florida vacations, suppers at Collina’s and lazy weekends watching our favorite teams. I loved watching Rob play with his three grandchildren probably more than anything.

 I just wish there had been more time.  

Most of my life I walked side by side with my earthly best friend. Not all these tears are sad, some are the sweetest.

2021 Word

It’s that time of year when I retreat to the beach for a couple of days of prayer and reflection. I began this many years ago on the advice of Rick Warren. Divert Daily, Withdraw Weekly, Abandon Annually. During this time of complete disconnect, I most always decide on a guiding word for the months ahead. That word helps frame my Bible study for the year and hopefully, my personal growth. Last year’s word was Grace and boy, have I learned a lot about giving and receiving it. 

There is no beach retreat or word this year. Oh, I will probably capture a few hours there, but definitely not a stay, considering the rising Covid numbers and no vaccine appointment. 

There is a focus, though. Not a word, but a Person: Jesus.  The loneliness, anxiety, and chaos are closing in and I desperately need Jesus. He is all I need. During December, I read the Gospel of Luke, one chapter per day and now, I’ll return, studying a chapter weekly. I want to walk with Him via his own life-giving words. I’m hoping for a fresh understanding of his humanity, character and authority.  

Anna, the prophetess, is introduced in the second chapter of Luke. She, too, lost her husband at a young age and devoted the rest of her life to worshiping God. She waited decades in anticipation of the arrival of Israel’s Yeshua Hamashiach...and eventually, she laid eyes on her infant Rescuer! She did not miss her Messiah.

Waiting and worshiping...I want an ‘Anna perspective’ this year...eternity-minded...never leaving his Presence.

I’m looking forward to writing his beloved Name in the sand in 2021, but more so, to letting Jesus etch his Name on my heart.   JESUS, the only name under Heaven by which we must be saved.