I experienced a captivating moment today. I stood in my backyard while Riley was sleuthing for chipmunks. As I lifted my face to the sun, the wind chose that moment to gust slightly. Leaves from seemingly every tree were released. They swirled around and around as they floated gently to the ground.

It reminded me of being ten and playing alone outside just as the initial snowflakes of the season fell from the sky. I recall feeling it was a privilege to be there in that moment as the dance of winter took its first tentative steps.

A single mom friend of mine has been going through a rough patch for a while. Most recently a job didn’t work out as planned. She and her child had relocated for that job so it was a double hit. Now they’re moving for a new opportunity and it’s still a time of change for them.

She’s a terrific mom and the kid is a vivid portrait of her good parenting. Like most of the rest of us, she can be hard on herself when things don’t work out as originally planned.

Her post on Facebook about feeling like a failure brought a flood of responses. They were so varied it caught my attention.

Some were supportive, as in, “You’ve GOT this!” Others were logical, pointing out the myriad of ways her child has benefitted from having her as Mom. One sounded like sage advice from a psychologist as the person encouraged her to trust her inner knowing.

But the one I most appreciated was an honest-to-the-core reply from a single father who is having his own life challenges. He didn’t write from the viewpoint of, “Child, you think YOU’VE got problems—well, just listen to mine!”  This type of “helping” is not helpful. At all. So please don’t do it.

No, he just bared his soul by telling us about his life with his son. He said that he had cried more in the past year than any other. The empathy he felt for our mutual friend was evident and soothing. And then he talked about sacrifice, opportunity, and moving forward.

That, dear readers, is helpful.

The variety of feedback reminded me of the fallen leaves. Some are still fresh while others have turned brown. Large and small, symmetrical or torn and ragged, they meld into a beautiful tableau of shapes and colors.

Likewise, we offer up in friendship what gifts we possess. Our answers may be as varied as the leaves, but together they create an amazing gathering of love and hope.

And who wouldn’t want to jump into a big pile of that?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When my husband and I were newlyweds, we both worked in Washington, DC. My office was on the way to my husband’s, so we took the subway together, he’d walk me to my building, then go on his way. The process was reversed at close of day.

My husband has always possessed spectacular taste in clothing. He passed a Talbot’s store between his office and mine, and every so often he’d show up at my work with a Talbot’s gift bag. The other women were so jealous as I pulled out something lovely.

My all-time favorite dress from him was light beige with pale pink roses. A pink satin ribbon hung down from the collar. I called the dress my “ashes of roses” dress. That color name came from a television mini-series that ran in 1983 based on Colleen McCullough’s book The Thorn Birds. Maggie, one of the lead characters, made an entrance at a party wearing her own “ashes of roses” dress.

Even after my dress aged and the material pilled a bit, I couldn’t bear to throw it out. The dress hung in my closet for years after I stopped wearing it.

When Tim died at the age of 22, we had him cremated. His ashes sat in his room next to baby photos and boyhood memorabilia.

A couple of years later, out of the blue, my beloved and nearly 100 year old mother-in-law Rosalie called me and announced she had an important request of me: Would I be willing to place Tim’s ashes in her arms when she died so they could be buried together?

Even after all these years, I can’t write that sentence without crying.

My own mom was frail with Parkinson’s disease from the time my children were young. She died when they were just 10 and 13, so Rosalie was the grandmother my children knew. And I loved Rosalie as though she were my own mother.

So her request to hold my boy’s last earthly remains in her arms for eternity was received in love, the same way in which it had been asked.

I wanted something special to hold Tim’s cremains when the time came to place them beside Rosalie. My memory bear-maker Nancy Caldwell (see post from Oct 17) made a pillow from my ashes of roses dress and attached the satin ribbon. She embroidered Tim’s name and lifespan on top.

On November 7, 2012, Rosalie took her last breath as our family encircled her. The evening before her funeral home viewing, I set about lovingly moving Tim’s ashes into the ashes of roses pillow.

It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever done.

Those ashes were not my son. The beautifully spiritual boy with his light-up-the-room smile was not in that dust. I positively knew he was safe from his demons and in our Heavenly Father’s arms, so it was not a lack of faith that overtook me.

Even though Tim had been dead for four years by that moment, this task of love brought everything rushing back and it seemed like not a single moment had passed since he had been found dead. No parent should ever have to bury a child. And yet life, real life that can be incredibly short, happens.

Some days there will be vibrantly colored roses. And some days there will be ashes of roses.

Take no moment for granted. Cherish life.

 

 

The first bear was created not to mark a memory but rather in joyous anticipation of a baby.

 Always the thoughtful one, seamstress extraordinaire Nancy Caldwell made custom crib sheets and a teddy bear in matching print as a gift for a friend who was adopting a baby.

 Later, someone asked Nancy if she could make a teddy bear using clothing from a loved one who had recently died. Since Nancy already had the bear pattern from making the baby gift, it was easy to say yes.

 And that is how Nancy’s Memory Bear project, still going strong, was launched.

 Although Nancy occasionally takes orders from paying clients, the majority of her bears are done free of charge for surviving family members of a local hospice patient.

 The most unusual bear order request produced her most colorful creation. A person wanted each part of the bear made from a separate piece of clothing. So while some might have questioned a bear with such a hodge-podge of prints and colors, the end result was deeply meaningful.

 Since January 2013, Nancy has created over 1100 bears for a Pennsylvania hospice. But that’s not a true total since she simply hadn’t kept count before then.

 For the hospice work, Nancy usually has no connection to the person who has passed away or to the family. She receives the material and request from a Hospice contact.

 Nancy says as she begins a new bear, she lays out the material, smoothing it with her hands, and considers what the person may have been like and what memories this clothing may represent to those left behind. It’s a spiritual moment as Nancy makes a connection to the life that’s no longer on earth. 

 When Nancy made a bear for a widow, the only information provided was that the widow’s husband had been a “spiffy” dresser. Nancy made that bear wearing a tie with a matching pocket square. The widow was delighted.

 I didn’t stumble across Nancy by accident; she’s the best friend of my sister Beverly. When my son Tim died, Bev asked me for some of his clothing so she could have a Tim-bear made for herself. She suggested maybe I wanted one too.

 Nancy ended up making ten Tim-bears for our family. I chose the clothing from among  his favorite tie-dye shirt from his boyhood,   a skateboarding shirt,  his comfy stay-at-home pants that had been falling apart and been held together (literally) with staples, safety pins, and duct tape, and a Superman cape that once was attached to a set of toddler pajamas

 The offset for some of the Tim-bear ears or paws were swatches from a favorite but worn-out dress of mine. When you read Saturday’s post called Ashes of Roses, you’ll understand why.

 Nancy is grateful to know her bears hold such deep meaning to those in the midst of grief. She enjoys reading the thank you notes that the families send, but she is oh-so-humble about her work. She couldn’t fathom why I wanted to write about her.

 I assured her my readers would love knowing about the on-going dedication to her gift of presenting one last tangible memory to those left behind.

 Two adult sisters had been estranged for years. When their mother died, one sister had two matching bears made and presented one to her sister. It was a healing moment and brought them back together.

 Who says a teddy bear can’t work miracles? 

My Aunt Winona says that my parents chose her as my baptismal sponsor and my mother let her choose my name. Lynne Elizabeth is the name she came up with, Elizabeth being my paternal grandmother’s first name.

At my baptism when the minister asked, “What name is given to this child?” my mother piped up, “Norma Lynn.”  Aunt Winona, in her own words, was speechless.

I disliked my name for the first third of my life until I learned its significance.

My grandmother Elizabeth was just a young teen in the early 1900s when a male relative came and stayed with the family for a period of time. When Elizabeth’s parents were away at a funeral, the man raped Elizabeth. She told no one, likely not even understanding what had happened.

The relative had already returned to Virginia by the time the pregnancy was obvious. Her family made the best of the ordeal.

Norman W. Fox was born in 1907. His grandmother Emma raised him as her own son. This is why my father and his siblings grew up believing he was “Uncle Norman.”

The summer he was 24, Norman was dating a girl who had recently broken up with someone I’ll call Bob.

On the night of August 8, 1931, Norman had walked the girl home and was making his way back to his own house. Bob, in his car with a buddy, caught up to Norman. He beat Norman to death, and then he and the friend drove the body to a bridge. They threw him onto the railroad tracks below.

A newspaper article states, “Fox’s mangled body was found on the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks. The theory on which the officers are working is that he was murdered, with the motive not yet established, and the body put on the tracks to give the impression he had been crushed by a train.”

Grandmother Elizabeth had a nervous breakdown over Norman’s death. My grandfather had to hire a housekeeper for several years as, at the time, my grandparents had seven children between the ages of 4 and 18.

No one was ever charged with the murder. But the story does not end here.

In 1958 Elizabeth was summoned to hear a bedside confession from the woman who had run a local boarding house in the 1930s. Bob had been one of her boarders, and the night of Norman’s death, he had come home late covered in blood. He made her burn his clothes and threatened to kill her and her family if she ever told anyone about the incident. We believe he may have told her what he’d done, as she also knew the name of the buddy who had been with Bob.

After hearing the confession, my grandmother sent for my father so he could hear the story. Then they called the State Police to handle the case.

Bob was already deceased by this time, but the friend was now a model citizen. In very different times, the police left it up to my grandmother as to whether or not to press charges against the friend.

After careful consideration, my grandmother decided to let it go. No one was certain how large a part the man had played in Norman’s actual death. Certainly he was complicit to some extent. Elizabeth’s capacity for forgiveness shows the kind of woman she was.

My sisters and I aren’t sure of when our dad learned that Norman was not his uncle, but a half-brother. Norman had been dead nearly twenty years when I was born.

I like to think that naming me after Norman was my mom’s gift to her mother-in-law. Mom married into the family at the tender age of 17 and the two women didn’t always get along.

Aunt Winona says she and her sisters feared it would “kill our mother” to have a grandchild named after him. But it did not.

As one of many much-loved grandchildren, I was likely a daily reminder that life goes on, that it’s possible to reclaim a life of joy after the death of a child, and indeed, that the greatest experience in life is love.