Tag Archives: memories

The In-Between of August

31 Sunday Aug 2025

Posted by in Life, Through my window

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How can it be the end of August? I couldn’t chase July away no matter how much I wanted to see the end of it. One day it was “Ah, August at last!” And the next seemingly, it was “wait — you can’t be leaving?” It’s impossible to put a label on it, but there is something about August I love. While some of the pleasures of summer remain, there is a welcome hint of fall in the air. Neither a fresh new start like spring, nor the golden beauty of autumn, August is somewhere in between, leading from one to the other; not too unlike the middle child who has neither place as oldest nor youngest, but is doted on by all. Yes, August is dry, and at the onset it is still hot, generally speaking. Stories from my mother told of unbearable heat, driving from Cleveland, Ohio to Kentucky in August, with no air-conditioning, no interstate highways, taking most of two days, and a strong desire to see family propelling them on down the road. Her memories should have made August a dreaded time, but not so. In between the hot highways and getting home, were rest stops — tales of grassy areas to enjoy a cold drink, a bologna sandwich, and kicking off their shoes. The sights, sounds, and feel of August in Kentucky are some of my favorites!

There’s a particular feel as the humidity begins to drift away on late summer breezes; and with it goes our need to get out a couple hours earlier to beat the heat. As August moves along, the hot air moves out and the mornings are scrumptiously inviting. An 87 degree afternoon is quite bearable when the day begins and ends in the 50’s and 60’s.  I recall the relief of watching one tobacco patch after another empty out — out of heavy wet blankets of July work; out of the fear of summer storms’ damage; and into the more pleasant tasks of firing, or curing. The dusty ground left behind, and the smoke trail from the barns, had the feel and smell of success.

I love the sound of cicadas chipping their way through a quiet afternoon, when the traffic sounds have quieted from carrying the people to wherever they were going, and before their returning home in the evening. If I am lucky, it’s a day when the nearby train tracks send out the lonesome sound of a train whistle, and I always smile; knowing the train is somewhere in between it’s coming and going, places I don’t need to know — only that I love its sound. The corn fields are talking as the stalks have dried to a two-toned green and gold, leaves rustling and tan tassels whispering their way through the day. August is hummingbird jamboree, heard clearly as they chase and chatter, performing acrobatics mid-air. Their activity alone, is cause for some to look forward to August. We miss the songs of Purple Martins who began their trek to Brazil last month, but the sweet chirping of goldfinches in the drying sunflowers more than makes up for it.  The bluebirds aren’t singing as they did in mating season, but their laughter as they all return home to splash in the birdbaths, is unmistakably their own. 

Butterflies, a beautiful August sight, are more numerous now than in early summer, as if relishing every last blossom while they can. Zinnias and crepe myrtles make a strong southern stand, offering the butterflies and hummingbirds an all-you-care-to-eat buffet. Unfortunately, the departing humidity also took many of the bright colors we enjoyed in spring and summer. Even so, the brightness of Black-Eyed Susans and sunflowers, shines brighter against the paling or absent garden colors. But for a farm girl, the garden growing tired means less work; and there’s the pleasure of a pantry growing fat with newly filled jars. Skies are blue again like springtime; often so velvety cloudless, I feel I ought to be able to touch the sky if I just stretch a little bit higher. 

Although not everyone gets to turn a year older in August as I do, we all turn a page as students begin a new school chapter; farmers get to see a light at the end of their harvest tunnel; and we are all one season wiser, older, and richer in blessings. As Labor Day approaches, families have made memories visiting and vacationing, and now prepare for fall and winter activities. Wherever we are in life, may we pause a moment to salute one season rustling by, and look down the road, with hope, to greet another.  

“The day is Yours (O God), the night also is Yours; You have prepared the light and the sun. You have set all the borders of the earth; You have made summer and winter.” Psalm 74: 16-17 NKJV

More Thoughts On Living, Father’s Day, and Remembering

15 Sunday Jun 2025

Posted by in Family, Reflections

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6/11/25
Sitting in the front porch swing, the air of midday seems still, but just alive enough to catch my attention; and perhaps too touchy with humidity for me to linger —  that is, until I check in with my senses. Lifting my eyes from the crossword puzzle I had intended to work,  I sense a sweet aroma from the deep purple butterfly bush reaching upward behind me from its neglected bed. Its blooms, larger than ever, are visited by the hum of bumble bees.
My listening is captured by the simultaneous chatter of various birds – although upstaged by the mockingbird calls. 

A hummingbird zooms in for a sip or two at the feeder. Delicate white pre-berries of the Nandina, complimented by the deep red of my mother’s large astilbe, vie for my attention. Dark yellow Stella D’Oro blooms, nearly exhausted from their show, complete the colors against summer’s green pallet that spreads across my view. And I think, what a nice day to be alive. This is living.


With Father’s Day approaching I am as usual, thinking about my daddy. He spent many days outdoors — gardening, fishing and hunting, and farming for a few years— besides growing up on a farm where milking and raising crops were his parents’ income. They cured their own hams and bacon; raised chickens and gathered the eggs; and he gathered enough enjoyment from gardens that he shared it with his own growing family for years. I wonder what he would think today of the tacky little garden I have eked out of the frequent rains. I wonder what they did back in the day when weather just would not allow tilling, nor completion of the planting. I recall my mother saying (as she would try to console me during the drought years) “honey a dry year will scare a farmer to death, but a wet year will starve him to death”.  As I look at the lush tomato vines, cucumbers, and pepper plants I was able to hill up to avoid being washed away, I catch myself talking to daddy — maybe bragging just a little. I am sure he would advise me to get Sevin dust on those green beans. He might also say I’d done well to hoe out what I could before this last rain. Whatever he would say, he would be pleased that I have continued gardening, being outside, caring about living things. He might say this is living.


As his last year took all of his vision and hearing, daddy forgot the love he had for life. He could no longer recognize which child or grandchild was in his doorway. I feel like that was the worst for him, because he had, over time, regained relationships so dear to him. Now, unable to carry on a conversation, he must have felt so alone. But I am not remembering those last days; no, I am remembering the living he enjoyed, and shared. That was living.

6/15/25
Recognizing the changes that come with age in vision, hearing, and expression, surely reminds us that we all have differences as well, in how we listen and see — our perspectives; we dance with nature to our own music. Enjoy one another’s love for life while it lasts. “Be of the same mind toward one another. Do not set your mind on high things, but associate with the humble. Do not be wise in your own opinion.” (Romans 12:16) Understanding others — that’s living.

I am remembering the bibbed overalls, the fishing poles, hummingbird feeders, white cats, beagle hounds and large gardens. Thick curly hair, Old Spice, Buicks and Oldsmobiles, soup beans and fifty dollar bills at Christmas, and pea shelling. Mostly I remember “Trish, this is your dad.” I miss you daddy. And, this is living too — having memories, and remembering the living that was done.

Come To the Table: Part 5 in Old Tables and Old Times

26 Monday May 2025

Posted by in In Memory, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Recall the kitchen table of your childhood — the one you knew held your next meal and where you’d find your people. Are you picturing a chrome table with armless chairs? Perhaps a large modern one, with a highly polished finish and upholstered chairs; or a dull oak table, worn with serving generations before you, comes to mind. If you are fortunate, you have something firmly seated in your mind where loved ones (whether two of you or twenty) gathered to share a meal. Perhaps like me, you also recall sitting at the same table doing homework, listening to the AM radio station, telling your teacher in your imagination, oh yes I can concentrate with the music playing. Are the children in your memory stifling giggles because daddy said “you don’t laugh at the table“; or are they racing to see who gets dessert first? Was there a greasy pair of salt and pepper shakers, a butter dish with little finger prints? Was the blessing asked; was the food cooked by one, or a team effort? Were there paper napkins, or paper towels; a tablecloth, or a bare table under your plates? Did everyone get matching glasses, or was there a mix of mishap leftovers, as mine are now? Was there chaos, or peace? Each of us will likely remember something different than the next. I am willing to bet, however, the one thing shared by all, is that there was a particular time for this gathering. The time may have been something-o’clock on the dot; or not timed by the clock on the wall, but understood by all concerned, that it would be according to the sky. When the work load consumed all the daylight hours, supper was timed when you saw dark approaching. Such was often the farmer’s suppertime. But, most importantly, in spite of it all — with the members around that table being imperfect — was there a sacrifice made and love shown, by the presence of the table?

This Sunday morning of Memorial Day weekend, our wise and kind brother who presided over the Communion table, appropriately pointed out how Memorial Day reminds us to remember the sacrifices that have been made. At the table of communion, we are also remembering — remembering the life and love, the sacrifice and selflessness in the death of our Savior Jesus Christ. Unlike our home kitchen tables, where everything and anything in our arms lands on the table, our Lord’s table has been cleared of everything except the unleavened bread and the fruit of the vine, the body and blood of Jesus. A place for His children to gather, at the appointed time, to share the meal prepared by the Father; this is our memorial time to honor Him — Jesus. Where I worship, we do this every Lord’s Day. I look forward weekly, to gathering around this table and quietly seeking Him.

As for the table of my childhood, I looked forward to being called to that table too. Even in the midst of complaining and criticizing, falling apart and falling from grace, there was an abundance of laughter and love, gratitude and grace offered, sharing and shining, as our family gathered to partake of Mama’s good cooking and live out the forgiveness we always sought from one another.

Sitting on my vinyl covered chair at our chrome kitchen table, I heard my daddy promise me fifty dollars if I was the valedictorian of our eighth grade class. In the spring of 1967, I scooped up that fifty bucks. Many promises were made and some were broken around the table; birthdays were celebrated and vacations planned at the table. Tears were shared, but so were stories of achievement; Weekly Reader was enjoyed, report cards discussed, as were articles in the Ledger and Times. No matter what the mood, regardless of the activity, one thing stood sure — we were part of a family who shared in a common meal, and everyone ate the same thing because that’s what Mama had fixed. And when Sunday morning breakfast was finished, we left the table to fight over the bathroom time, to get ready for church, where we would be gathered around the greatest table of all time. I urge you to hear His call and come to the table.

And when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, “Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” In the same manner He also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death till He comes. (1 Corinthians 11:24-26) NKJV

The reason we observe Memorial Day each year is to set aside a time to formally remember and honor the sacrifices of American military personnel who have died while serving their country. My sincere gratitude to them for taking from their lives, to make our lives more secure, free, and enjoyable! Thank you, to those men and women, for what you have brought to our tables; for the homeland where we gather around these, our tables; and for the privilege to gather freely in our churches.

The Drop-Leaf Table: Part 2 of “Old Tables and Old Times”

28 Monday Apr 2025

Posted by in Life, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Chess and Gertie Wilkins

By 1968, my maternal grandparents were pretty much set in their ways. Grandma still drank her coffee with a piece of biscuit dropped in it and sipped it from the saucer. Grandpa still shaved at the breakfast table, and shared a little coffee-milk with me. They liked things that were, like themselves, dependable, substantial, even durable – things like his old felt hat and a good iron skillet. A stout little wooden container for pipe tobacco for him, and rose colored rouge for her, were about as frivolous as they ventured. Oh, I do recall Grandma fitting into a nice girdle with the help of her two daughters, but maybe it was a necessity; I won’t call that one.

From my earliest memories, even before the 1968 photo, there was always the small, dark, drop-leaf table you see between my grandparents. In the living room where they had family Christmas gatherings, there was usually a fresh-cut cedar tree in the corner where two large picture windows came together. But as they aged, Grandpa and Grandma used the little table to hold a less conspicuous Christmas tree. I’m sure this was solely for the enjoyment of the grandchildren, as their only pleasure in life was, by then, just being there for their family, as much as they could.

When I was small, and I mean small enough to play under that table, I enjoyed feeling like I was in my own room, with the leaves, or sides, of the table dropped, partially enclosing me from the rest of the room. Betsy McCall paper dolls cut from the McCalls Magazine my grandma saved for me, were lined up along the baseboard, as I played the time away. I remember Grandpa sitting nearby, never interfering with my play. Just there, with me.

As Grandpa grew older, he sat for longer periods of time in a rocker in the den. Grandma spent more time in the kitchen, as good cooks do, and where the den television was in sight. But I’ll always remember him best in those picture windows, at the end of that long, scarcely furnished living room. Inexpensive furniture – a couch, the 60’s trio of two end-tables and a small coffee table, a couple of chairs, and that wonderful table – barely filled a room of hardwood floors and beige walls. A built-in, but fake, fireplace with a modest mantle completed it, and was the only decorative part of the room. Even the table I loved was plain.

I think I always knew this drop-leaf table was from Grandpa’s family, but until my adult years, I didn’t realize it was made by his father. The table had stayed with my mother who displayed it in her own living room. It, like my grandparents, is substantial, quietly fitting in with any decor, solid and dependable. It was knowing my great grandfather made it, and the memories of playing under it, that made me ask if I might own it after Mama.

I like knowing some things never change – things like a mother’s love, the taste of good coffee, the smell of pipe tobacco and a real Christmas tree, the look and feel of solid wood – old wood. My table has no carvings other than a minimal turning near the bottom of the legs. I have searched underneath for any sign of dating, and I’ve concluded it was possibly salvaged from some other pieces of good substantial furniture, or perhaps doors. The supports for the leaves are primitively made, being cut from the center of both side skirts, and swivel to support each leaf as they are needed. The finish is just as it always was, too dark to identify the kind of tree sacrificed for the life of the table. I doubt I ever refinish the plain little drop-leaf table. Many good times lie under that finish.

Not surprisingly, the table is like the ancestors who left it. Substantial, modest, and sensible in form and function, Grandpa was our rock, and Grandma our cushion, for so many sessions of life-building trials. They loved God, and did their best to follow Him. They wanted to be as unchangeable and dependable as the God they loved and served. Life is about change for the most part; I am just so thankful some things – especially God – never change.

Speaking of change, (although I wasn’t really speaking of change), but now that I think of it, the development date stamped on the fading photo is June, 1969. Pictures were snapped back then without knowing for months whether or not you got a good shot, or even if the film would develop at all. Many important events and times weren’t written about, and forgotten, because the people who were living those times either didn’t think it was important, or they had faith that photographs would last a lot longer than they do. Thanks be to God that He provided a written record, His Word, of our grand inheritance and His unchangeable nature.

So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath, (Hebrews 6:17) ESV.

I’d still like to hear more about your tables. I enjoyed the pictures Linda Pugh sent of her great-great-grandfather, two very old and beautiful side tables, and an unusual chair that I believe is from the days of worshipping in folding chairs. Next coffee break blog, I plan to reminisce about the coffee table in my husband’s office/John Deere room/den. It’s had a heap of living around it. Until then, have a great week!

Old Tables and Old Times

30 Sunday Mar 2025

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Seated in the sunroom, at an old library table, I pull my hand along the worn bare boards, oak I think, that form the top of this substantive table. It is its own distinct personality, unlike common styles of furniture in today’s homes. I long to know the story it owns. I bought it from my mother’s estate auction; she inherited it, along with some other belongings left to partially furnish my grandparents’ house, when it was rented out after their passing. As a child, I knew the table was there to provide a study table for the twin bedroom, as we called it. The room contained a pair of mahogany twin beds with pink chenille bedspreads, a beautiful old bureau, and this one old library table; surely there were a couple of chairs that I can’t remember. This room, while my grandparents were living in the house, became housing for college boys as it was less than two blocks from campus. Can you imagine a time when one could allow strangers to come and go through your front door, share the one bathroom, and sleep in the next bedroom! It was a good time in many ways, those 1960’s.

Grandpa, or maybe someone before he came to have the table, had glued linoleum flooring on top — no, it wasn’t even pretty linoleum. The legs, and a shelf that runs the length of the table just about shin-high, are still painted with a dull espresso color, worn and scratched terribly. I pulled off the linoleum, and — though ashamed to admit it — used a pressure washer to help remove the black glue. As it dried outdoors, the sun pulled the boards apart slightly. As you can imagine, it is a pretty rough-looking sight. Why do I keep it, you may be asking yourself. I wish I had an answer worthy of your asking. There is something within the grain of the wood that asks me to understand; to accept it as it is, even though I do not know its whole story. (Maybe we all feel a little like that?) I like the old table because it is something of my grandpa’s. Although, knowing how frugal he was, Grandpa likely found the table at a bargain, and its actual worth, even today, can’t be much. Knowing that the damage it has already suffered prevents it from being one of those “nice old pieces of furniture”, I still feel compelled to leave it as is, other than the linoleum of course. There is a carving in the end pieces between the legs; this is the only thing that keeps me from calling it a primitive work of furniture. Is it a bit of folk art?

If you have any ideas about this carving, or old library tables in general, please share in the comments.

Like the old table, I am quite worse for the wear in appearance. And, like the dear old thing, there is a story — my life’s story — same in basic shape and function as all who are born to their mommas, but different in detail; just as there were probably a score of other tables built like this one and shipped out in the same shape and function, but definitely different in the details of its life story. Don’t we all want to be seen for what lies beneath the surface? Under the wrinkles and age spots, under the flattened arches and flabby abs, and under the thinning gray hair, is a head that still thinks, and feels, and knows its own story. We want to be understood for our worth, not our wear. This old table is worth something to me because my grandpa saw a value in it for his purpose — actually for the college boys’ purpose, but who’s keeping score? It matters to me because someone I cherished bought it, or at the very least, cared enough about it to haul it home. That, for sure; plus I just have a foolish love for old unique furniture.

Feeling the oak boards once again, smoothed by the years of my arms and computer and books, and whatever else one puts on a sunroom table, I begin to understand why I still have it. Or, like Grandpa, maybe I’m too cheap to buy a real desk when I already have a substantive one — one of practical importance to me.

There is a table in my dining room, a prettier, albeit more primitive one, which I plan to talk about in my next coffee break. If you have an interesting item of furniture with a story behind it, please share with us here at the coffee break. Until then, remember, we are all given our worth by the greatest love ever to walk this earth. “Knowing that you were not redeemed with corruptible things,…but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot” (I Peter 1:18-19) NKJV.

What A Friend I’ve Lost

09 Sunday Feb 2025

Posted by in Friendship, In Memory, Uncategorized

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The quote is from ” C.S. Lewis’ Little book of Wisdom”.

On February 9, 2024, I jotted in a journal, “I visited with Dana, took Apple Crisp. Her MRI report doesn’t sound good”. The visit was following several episodes of illness, visits in and out of hospitals for her, and they were beginning to hone in on the culprit of her suffering. The apple dessert was made with apples she had picked and shared from her backyard and I had canned them. She shared first. All the time.

It wasn’t supposed to be this post. I am supposed to be planning a celebration of cancer remission with the many friends who have prayed for her, visited with her, and hoped with her. But she had lived long enough and served in the field of nursing long enough to know there are no absolutes or guarantees in life. Other than the one she voiced several times: “God is my strength”. On the sunny morning of February 23, I received a text from Dana saying malignant cells were found in her liver. It was not to grieve, but to ask for prayer, and to keep me from having to hear from anyone else what she knew would not be easy to hear. I cried a lot. On the 28th she was home, waiting for a plan; as always, optimistic. As February turned into March, information for plan of care was not as good as she had hoped. Supper, flowers, prayers, encouraging words all seemed so little; so very very little in effort to make the news feel better. A roller coaster ride was to be her life with talk of transplant, then no; surgery, then no; port and biopsies; finally a Vanderbilt team and a chemo plan. Dana was so relieved to finally have a plan. Two Fridays in to Nashville and one Friday home; wash, rinse, repeat.

Throughout the following months we swapped plants, plant pictures and conversed about plants. It was our favorite of the many things we had in common. Time for me passed in the mundane ordinary stuff of life; never take that for granted. NEVER take it for granted. The beautiful ordinary uneventful day to day life that Dana would have loved to be doing, was put on hold. But she kept being the beautiful thoughtful friend she always was.

With each new test/image/plan of care, Dana Lynn Bazzell looked it in the eye, chin up and walked straight forward bravely to meet her foe. I never heard nor saw a moment of wanting pity. In fact she worked to keep the conversations about everything else. And there were a lot of everything else’s to keep us busy because she just loved life. Plants, people, animals, cooking, nursing career memories, nurse assessment of her lab values, and what to eat when we reached our destination, were some of the topics. As many others know, Dana herself made the trips to cancer treatments an adventure, not a job to get done. She just didn’t see how allowing her friends to drive her to treatments, blessed us. She couldn’t stop saying thank you. On June 21, my last time to get to take her to Nashville, she took cookies to my daughter, and gifted me samples of my favorite perfume. I will always think of Dana when I smell J’adore L’Or. It is a beautiful soft gardenia-type fragrance; like her friendship. Gardenia’s were one of her specialties. I hate so much that my knee replacement bumped me out of the travel posse.

I want to say how much I hate cancer. It is a thief, an evil, like sin, straight from the devil himself. Since the fall of mankind there have been sufferings to endure and battles to fight. Dana would be the first to tell us Jesus died to defeat sin and death. Sometimes a cancer cannot be defeated in life, and requires a life to be given to stop it. Dana defeated her cancer February 7, 2025. I lost a friend who encouraged me, taught me how to be a better friend; how to save and transplant seedlings; how to share life. And I’m heartbroken that I didn’t get to keep her.

In one of her last texts, January 29, she said she just needed sleep. Rest now my friend. We will miss you Dana Lynn Harrison Bazzell.

Big Sisters, and other November Saturday Things

07 Saturday Dec 2024

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12/7/24 November Saturday mornings flew by as we enjoyed great-nephew ballgames, birthdays, shopping, and of course the fun weekend our kids are here for Thanksgiving. Preparations for Thanksgiving dinner at our table took time, but SO rewarding as I looked at each beautiful face around our tables; remembered loved ones who used to be here; and counted our blessings poured on so generously, in the life of Jesus Christ. While we missed those who couldn’t be here due to illness, or the natural course of family growth as it should be, I was reminded of the ‘Big Sister’ thoughts I wrote November 15 this year and didn’t get around to blogging it. I miss blogging when I let busy stuff and ailments interfere. Before I get into that, allow me to say how much my sister helped me this year.

While my four-month-old knee was not yet agreeable with kitchen duty, I was determined to get the family dinner done well (this year was my turn) but when it had been enjoyed, and we were enjoying one another’s company, my legs and feet were done as well! My sweet sister used her off duty year to jump in and start cleaning up the dishes, and never once complained that her big sister was too stubborn to use paper plates and plastic cups. Enough said.

11/15/24. For all the Chloes and Saras and Emilys and Kathys and Lindas out there, no matter what your name, Big Sisters: (lengthy, from the heart, and sobbing as I wrote)

I know a young lady who lost her little brother about a dozen years ago, and I think about her a lot. I’ve known others who did too – lost a younger brother or sister and learned to hop a one-legged race when they’d been used to a 3-legged race. Remember when you were kids? The weekdays of all our formative years were spent with peers, in class and extra activities. Weekends were sibling days. Maybe that’s why I especially think of siblings on Saturdays. Not long ago my sister and I lost our own little brother, all grown up and “old” to some folks’ way of thinking. But to big sisters they’re never old. We aren’t supposed to lose them.

Sympathy flows for all members of a family who’ve had a loss. My heart has broken for the parents who buried their babies. There’s no need to tell their stories; the lines on their faces and their quiet demeanor speak for themselves and we can’t begin to know their truest feelings. But today’s blog is especially for the Big Sisters.

As the older sister, “Sis” has some experience in grieving too. She hurts for her parents or other surviving family. She hurts at the toys no longer shared; basketball, and blocks, crayons and cars. And bird houses. Big sister is expected to accept the sympathy of outsiders, when she doesn’t even know herself how to voice her feelings.

I can only try to imagine how a big brother would feel. Often a man isn’t expected to break down no matter if he is four or forty. But he must feel a form of responsibility to fill Mom and Dad’s expectations for their children; to fill a void in their hearts which of course, is a shoe nobody can fill. My heart hurts for them too.

So, as an older sibling, I can say from a sister’s point of view, we also feel compelled to be there. Be there for close family members of Little Brother, no matter his age. We want to cure the ills he would have wanted to cure; to fix what he would fix. My sister and I will probably always ask ourselves what could we have done more. But since I haven’t lived in the future of answers, and we can’t live backwards, I don’t know the answer. I only can say, I understand sisters. I get it; when you want someone else to share your memories, or make new ones. When you want your excitement under the Christmas tree to be shared with one more like you. I know how you want someone to join you, or argue you out of, being mad at daddy. I know how your arms ache for a tug of war, or an arm wrestle, or a hug. I know what it’s like to want to cook their favorite dish, but no one else really cares that much for stuffed green peppers, or whatever yours loved. When a sound hits your ears and you recall how little brother fussed about it, you want it to sound louder so you might also hear him fussing. Or her. Little brothers aren’t the only ones who leave us. It can be a younger sister too, and I know these same things go for you, big sisters of younger sisters. I know also how thankful I am to have my younger sis.

A sibling’s passing is a loss with its own identity – often not well understood; probably because we really hate to make Mom and Dad cry more. Or maybe big sis or brother just hasn’t learned how to voice it. Like I said, it’s something like a one-legged race. Something shared is missing. Perhaps one crippling emotion is guilt. Do I feel guilty that my life was easier or longer? Yes and no. It ins’t a true guilt, girls, just something we have no other name for; a gut-felt sorrow that he or she doesn’t get to see you grow old. Things like that. There’s another face to this surviving sibling thing, and it is in some cases, relief they will not suffer further; although it is only a thin cloak of comfort.

Perhaps as a big sister, you were given charge of his care at times, and this becomes a heavy crusty shell we wear when we can no longer make stabbing efforts at helping our charge out of trouble. I still struggle with this. Big Sisters, you are not the parent. I repeat, not the parent. Do not hold onto that shell. Break through it and count, like blessings, the wonder you felt at his birth; at his handsome face; his witty humor; his teaching you to drive a straight shift; any and all good things you shared. You are equals – equally loved and appreciated, whether passed or survived.

It’s okay, in fact desired, by all who love you, that you go on living a beautiful life; one Little Brother would have wanted you to. This is important – you have a right to your own feelings of loss whether or not any are mentioned here. Your loss is unique because your sibling was. No matter how old or young the two of you were when parted, you still lost someone who shared your life uniquely. Whether you are angry, sad, or relieved for them, you are no longer able to tell them about it. But God can. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pleaded with God to tell my Mama, or my brother, or dad, something so important to me for them to know. Something that my heart craves to tell them. After praying, I feel a genuine calm for the crave, and I know God will let them know what they need to hear. God is always the answer to our crave. Just look into His word. You will be certain to find crave-filling messages, and so much more. He knows our grief and our good, our hurts and our healing, when we trust and turn it over to Him.

I pray God’s richest blessings on all the big sisters and brothers, and little sisters and brothers who will spend the holiday season without that One, and every other season, too. Let’s be grateful for every good day spent with him. We are allowed to forget the ugly days if there ever were any. I try to remember there are some who never had the joy of being a sibling. Yes, there is much for which we can say, “Thank You Lord”!

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Homecoming: When Good Things ‘Hit Home’

20 Sunday Oct 2024

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Saturday, October 19, 2024 When I picture ‘homecoming’ I think of autumn leaves, parades and people. You probably think of football games, fraternity/sorority reunions and corsages; the usual image. What we both have in common here, is people. Often, it occurs to me at the end of the day, how much of the day has a common theme. One thing leads to another and soon it makes a circle.

From the time I walked the golden leaf-strewn Ninth Street to our third grade class, and throughout the years’ homecoming parades at the very same vantage point, I have expected to see autumn leaves falling for homecoming. In fact, the rustle of leaves is as much a part of the parade as the drums and sirens. People of all ages line up to watch, laughing and waving and scampering through leaves to gather up candy thrown from the parade floats and vehicles. I missed all that this year. Several reasons contributed to my not being there, but the weather was not one! One of the most amazing autumn days ever, has graced our hometown with sunshine, breezes and the high temp of 72 degrees. Perfect homecoming weather! Remembering the years we have watched the parade while shivering in our mittens, or bumping umbrellas and tracking wet leaves into the car, it hit home how much I was missing today; along with missing my daughter who missed coming home due to Covid. She cares too much about us to risk bringing illness home.

My homecoming experience this year was a bit different for me. It has been sixty years since our Murray State University School of Nursing began. It was the Department of Nursing when I attended, and has grown to become a prestigious school in its own right. Thanks to a dear friend who asked me to go, we attended an informal brunch in Mason Hall this morning. A brand new building for the School of Nursing is in the making, so this is likely the last time I will get to be in the halls of what was my home away from home for three years, over three decades ago. As I stood there, looking at the familiar plaques, graduating class pictures, classrooms and such, it came home to me how fortunate I was to have an excellent school so near home; one where I received the education I needed to begin a meaningful satisfying career, albeit my second career. By that time, I had two children in school and my husband and I were self-employed in farming. Embarking on a new career as a non-traditional student was scary, but exciting. Talking to a few of my favorite instructors today, it again hit home, how supportive and encouraging these professionals were in helping develop new nurses. They not only provided education in knowledge, but also demonstrated a focus on the value of human life; professionalism. I know beyond a doubt I was blessed with the best.

At the brunch, I was privileged to see several whom I’d known as co-workers, or in some other capacity as we all strove to carry on the tradition of building competence and character in not only future nurses, but in each other as well. I felt fortunate to be in the company of such caring professionals. That, too, actually came home to me, as I met a former patient in attendance today. She told me how important I am to her, and even though my place in her life was a tiny spot, it was a very meaningful spot. Beside her stood her lovely daughter, the baby I was able, in some small way, to help bring into the world. This baby grew up and has become a healthcare professional herself, and was able to say she has heard her mom speak of me fondly. She knew her mom had been cared for by a team who gave their best. That; that is what we as nurses hope to do; to help the time our patients are with us, to be good for them. A state of wellness, whether it started out badly, or great, (as in expecting to take home a new baby), can always be made better. Today’s homecoming activity certainly helped my state of wellness to be better, if only in the good memories. But to be reminded of how we can pass on the caring attitudes of others from one season of life, into later seasons to care for still others, really hit home for me today.

I’ll rustle through some leaves soon just to enjoy a Murray autumn. But for today, I enjoyed rustling through fond memories, and being reminded how fortunate we are when someone cares enough to help us through some tough times, or help us build our future. As for the friend who asked me to go today, she was my clinical director for 17 years. Both retired now, we continue a friendship I treasure, and before I knew her, she knew my dad who drove her daughter’s group of cheerleaders in his little yellow bus, gaining the respect and love of her family. Isn’t it funny how the past comes home!

Linger With Your Memories, But Grow In Their Shade

17 Monday Jun 2024

Posted by in Celebrating, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Mondays, fresh with beginnings and business to take care of, still have the aroma of the weekend; often leaving us pondering how quickly endings arrive. Memories are real, but their sun has set and we don’t profit from sitting idly in their shade. I sat last evening going through photographs from the 1980’s and 90’s as requested by my daughter who conveniently forgot to do so before she left. She needed a family vacation picture from her childhood for a work project today. Old pictures are dangerous! Reminiscing can be sweet or sour, and sadly I notice each time I return to the shoeboxes of memories, that our film and camera, not to mention the lousy photography, have left many memories faded, almost non-existent; not too unlike my own ability to remember!

The fair complexion and auburn hair I once disliked, would now be welcome in place of my more aged appearance. Like so many things, it’s best accepted and not grieved. There are too many situations in life that deserve our grief, so I do not recommend creating more.

Throughout my Monday mountain of laundry, my mind was revolving around the past weekend’s activities and today’s anniversary of my mother’s passing. But there was no time to stop and write and now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. Mostly, I guess, it is how we ought not to look back too long, as we aren’t going that way anyhow. Father’s Day and our son’s birthday are so close that we often celebrate both the same weekend, and I was excited about grilling Saturday to celebrate our son, and out to eat Sunday to celebrate my husband. Family time is important, and also important, is to stop and praise God for creating family.

So how did all that pan out? Well, not as I planned; heat that could almost have cooked the steak without the grill smothered me on the porch. Our son had worked all day and fell asleep before he came so we waited…waited…The food was good, I will say, but the best part was the four of us sitting in the sunroom chatting. Then, with all my preparations throughout the day, my feet, back, and shoulders were screaming when I tried to put them to bed.

My husband became ill with upper respiratory symptoms and hardly cared how Saturday went, or even if the food was good. But bless his bones, he was up Sunday morning first, coaxing himself to be ready for worship. The rest of the day was good; daughter arrived back at her home safely by mid-afternoon; son back to his home; and husband and I finally got a much needed nap. How old does that sound? I know. It’s sad. But it’s wonderful too! All were safe. We were together. I recuperated and actually found a nice photo which was useful in our daughter’s project.

Then today, the day fifteen years ago on which my mother passed, found me remembering something wonderful about her too. Though there were characteristics about herself she wanted to change, and though her house was often messy with projects, cooking, canning, kids, whatever, she was there. She was doing life in a way that gave her family everything they needed. No time for looking back, she plowed forward through rain or shine, to make time for us all to be together and grow in one another’s shade. On the day our son was born in 1977, my mother was canning green beans, cooking a large supper for us and my brother and dad who at that time were farming and going through a rough patch. My husband and I had landed there two days before while our house was being readied for us to move into, and wouldn’t you know it – Chad came three weeks early, emergency cesarean section. Suddenly Mama had a family of six living there, and a family of five from West Virginia coming to stay to see the new baby. How do you put eleven people in two full beds, two twin beds, and a bassinet? It worked out because of my selfless beautiful God-loving Mama. And several pallets of quilts on the floor.

I am glad to have grown in the shade of my giant of a Mama. Linger long enough with your memories to be thankful; then grow forward.

Home Sweet Home

19 Sunday Nov 2023

Posted by in Celebrating, Life

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No matter how far or near I travel, even for a few days, I grow more appreciative of home. As I reminisce about a recent trip, and watch our cotton candy sky give way to dusk, I feel there really is no place like home.

I was thinking about the comparisons we make, which can be bad, stealing our joy; or good, increasing our appreciation for things. How was this place compared to that? How is home compared to there? How is our traveling compared to thirty years ago? (!) Having some bit of trouble re-acclimating myself to being home, I kept going outside for fresh air and just to look around and appreciate being home. My head felt “fuzzy” which could have been due to four days of driving the up, down and round and round path from Smokey Mountains to Asheville NC and back. It could as well be from riding with the country boy who found the reins and permission to go home. With ears pinned back and the scent of the stables, this steed was not looking back! I do believe he drove it like a rental!

Our early fiftieth anniversary celebration trip was splendid in many ways, but home cannot be overrated! I brought home touching memories, funny memories, and well, just memories (maybe best left unpacked). But from our front door, we found comfort and beauty like nowhere else. Not because it’s spectacular; no, that was the Biltmore Estate. Not because it is luxuriously accommodating; no, that was the Inn on Biltmore. Simply because it is ours. If there is any comparison to be done, it is only to say, it is better, because it suits us just fine. I found our beautiful Burning Bush hailing from the lawn and Brandywine Maple leaves raining from tree to ground. Our red leaves are no brighter, but no less striking, than those of other areas. But these leaves are here; our leaves. That makes them more appreciated; no prettier, just more appreciated. The drizzle of rain here is nothing spectacular, but so welcome! While in North Carolina, we experienced their severe draught, with disappointment at seeing very little autumn color. Other than a splash here and there of dull yellow, there was a brilliant red oak, common name Scarlet oak. They rather enjoy the dry conditions and were strutting their stuff! Compared to expectations, the lack of color could be a letdown. But compared to the rest of the landscape, those oaks were outstanding! And more appreciated than ever. Otherwise, leaves clung to trees drained of color, and not all the brown fields were due to harvest. A cloud of dust followed a John Deere combine as the soybean crop was being harvested on the Biltmore Estate. Rows of sunflowers surrounding the soybeans hung their big brown faces toward the ground, gasping for a break from heat and dust.

Travel itself can be a larger issue than the destination, so it helps to keep our eyes on the goal. We plan the route and reservations, pack the necessities, and prepare with small GPS screens and chargers, which once was a paper atlas, at least 10 by 14 inches in size. It’s the unknowns that must be dealt with as they arise. Detours; must I say more? To avoid backed up traffic our GPS took us off I65, and onto the ‘scenic’ route. I still feel dizzy just thinking about it. While we slowed down to a new speed limit, there was no stalled traffic and we had opportunity to really see that part of the foothills. On life’s journey, try a detour; even if a forced one. With a different pace you may experience some amazing stuff. Assuredly, if we let God plan the route and we pack according to His instruction, we’ll be prepared for those unknowns – as much as is possible.

Whether the journey goes as planned, or has sudden rounds of ‘what?’, all roads eventually lead home. Our son’s first book he learned to read was called “Home Is Best” which as a toddler, he ‘read’ from memory of hearing it read to him. It began, “East, west, home is best. Sometimes home’s a hanging nest.” It went through many animals and the different kinds of homes they have. Each one is the best. Because it is theirs. Make your home what it needs to be for you and your loved ones’ comfort. Protect it, cherish it, and make it the safe haven from which all can go out and appreciate the world at arms length, and then love coming home.

Likewise, life’s journey has beautiful rewards, as well as its ups and downs. The goal should be getting back home; the eternal home that God has waiting for us. Life can be a fun trip, or the travel may be difficult, but oh, won’t it be great to get home! In Ecclesiastes 12:5, we are reminded, “for man goes to his eternal home, and the mourners go about the streets.” Thinking about the difference age has made in actual road trips, the difficulty of it and adjustments to be made, I realize reluctance to see the vacation end is a thing of the past. We are so ready to get home. Similarly, aging does a miraculous thing about this life thing – we may not cling to it as we did in our youth. The more we roam, the more Heaven is our home.

I try not to get too wrapped up in the trip and keep my eyes on home. Jesus has prepared it (John 14:2), protected it for our homecoming, has forwarded the route details to us in His holy word, and I genuinely believe His presence there will make the trip worthwhile. Trisha

“For we know that if our earthy house, this tent, is destroyed we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” II Corinthians 5:1