Welcome!

Hi,

If you just discovered this blog site, I highly recommend you scroll alllllllllll the way down to the bottom of the page and start with "Day 1." Work your way back up, "Day 2," "Day 3," etc...

Thanks for reading. Your comments are welcome.

Peace, Joy, Love,

Cheryl

50 Goodbye

Day 50

March 10

Dear Dad,

Yesterday was my last day here in Lima. After I cooked Sunday lunch for Randy, David and Marie, we worked together on a plan to prepare for my trip back to Chicago. The ice storm let up just enough for sunshine to break through on our efforts.

Randy readied your car, David cleaned out his van, and Nancy and Floyd drove in from Lyons to load the last twenty boxes. We drove the van-load up to Steven’s basement. For dinner we enjoyed one more meal together at your favorite Cracker Barrel. Your family and community continues to take care of me!

I gave the new Thompson Reference Bible I found in your closet to Floyd after dinner. It turns out he used to have one exactly like it. He said it was the best Bible he ever had. He loved it. However, he left it at his sister’s awhile back and something happened to it. He was thrilled to receive this gift from you.

This morning is clear and bright, good for a road trip. In a few minutes I’ll be turning the key in your Grand Marquis, pulling out of your driveway and heading home for good. But before I go, I have some important things to tell you.

I know you are in a “Far, far better place than you can ever imagine,” as you once told the nurse in dialysis. But just in case you are wondering, I want you to know that I figured out the answer to one of your questions.

Remember, sitting on the side of your bed last summer you said, “Cher, I’m ready to meet the Lord. I don’t want to question him, and I understand he has a purpose for my staying here. But I ask myself, what is that purpose? Why am I lingering?”

You lingered because we all still had much to learn, much to receive, and much to give.

So, thank you for all those nights you paced and prayed. Thank you for loving us, for loving God, for embracing every moment of your life, for your joy, and your passion.

You’ll be happy to know Steven and I are getting along well, and both of us, along with Harold and Leslie really enjoy spending time together. And, by the way, you were certainly correct to leave all the financial duties and paper work to Steve--he’s doing a great job. You’ll be glad to hear one of the first things he did was pay off your dental bill to Dr. Muscarella! No worries, Steve’s handling everything just the way you would have wanted.

I ran into Nurse Judy the other day at Topp’s across from Tom Wahl’s. It was strange seeing her out of context. She’s just as soft spoken and sweet in the grocery store as she was in your living room!

Dad, I’ll never forget the day last summer when we worked in your garden together from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. The weather was perfect, I packed us a lunch, and we set about the business of pruning, tying up vines, weeding, harvesting, raking, watering, laughing and talking. We shared a creative passion for the garden work which made the hours fly by and had us comment again and again for months after, what a great day it had been.

I can imagine the smile on your face when I tell you I’m getting to know my cousins! Norma calls often--I think in the future we will plan to visit Aunt Anne and Uncle Bob in St. Louis together. Cousin Walt left a really nice message on my cell phone last night.

Cousin Gloria told me an interesting memory of hers from when we were little girls. She said,

I remember being with you one time at the church your dad pastored in East Bloomfield. You and I were sitting in the service and I observed how you copied every move your dad made. The placement of your hand against your face...you know, in that thinking, pondering pose that your dad would do. When I commented to you about it, you said "I'm just like my dad." You were always very tied to your dad's heart. It's obvious…you loved him dearly!

As my role model, you showed me how to be receptive to God’s will, act on my convictions, love my neighbors, strive to be undaunted, find pleasure in the joy of living, and grow old with grace.

I do love you dearly. Thank you Dad.

I have to go now, it’s time to leave.

Marie packed egg salad sandwiches and brownies, just as I like, for the long drive home.

I’ll have all the clips for my hair rollers in one place now! But part of my heart will always be here with you.

With love and hope...

Your daughter,

Cheryl

P.S. I packed your last jar of canned cherries very carefully. One day when Harold and I have the country home I've always dreamed about, I'll open all the boxes I packed from your place. When I get to the cherries, we'll pour a couple bowls, take them out to the garden, and looking back at the greenhouse full of flowers in your vases, we'll raise our bowls to you. The anticipation is as sweet as I know the taste will be!

36 - 49 Day by Day

Day 36 - Day 49

February 24 - March 9

Two weeks go by…

…starting with a Sunday ride to Bristol Harbour for lunch. Not much interest in eating. Instead, I move out to a sunny patio seat near the edge of the snow covered lawn--the edge of winter, the edge of a grand hill overlooking the lake, the edge of my emotions. They spill over as I say goodbye. I cry for the words I forgot to say at the end, I cry for memories of impatience, I cry because I didn’t open father’s last jar of canned sweet cherries to share with him after the Superbowl. He suggested we do just that, to celebrate, and I said, “Oh no, I don’t want to eat the last of your favorite cherries.”

He called me in Chicago last year to inquire how to can cherries. A friend had given him several quarts. I researched "fruit canning" on the internet and called him back with instructions. Though he didn’t have official canning equipment, he made do with a large pot and old jars he had saved. I don’t know where he found the strength to lift each jar out of the boiling water with a pair of tongs. Father successfully canned about a dozen small jars of the most delicious, dark cherries. He refused to open a jar until late fall, preferring first to look at them proudly and anticipate the pleasure for a few months.

When finally opening one, the taste met all his expectations. He returned to an open jar over and over, usually finishing it off in one evening. On two of my visits he shared this treat with me.

After the Superbowl game he said, “Cher, how about we open the last jar of cherries to celebrate,” but my mind played tricks on me. I thought I should not eat half of his last prized jar, but rather I should leave it there for him to enjoy the whole jar by himself some day when I’m back in Chicago. I declined his offer.

Now I sit overlooking Naples Valley, Canandaigua Lake, and our times together--and realize I should have opened that last jar and savored every bite sharing the experience with him. He only had a few days to live. I didn’t let myself believe it, and missed the opportunity. Worse, I wonder, in my ignorance, how I could have denied him that pleasure.

This is the most difficult, of all of it.

I pull myself together and walk to the car, so my tears won't fill up the valley.

....................

Days pass, routine sets in…

…I sort, pack, give away, throw away. Tine delivers car-loads to the shop in Bloomfield, Sarah sends students to take van-loads to a dumpster, Brian and Ruth drive away truck after truck-load of furniture. Sarah and I clean. June and I clean. I have lunch with an old high school friend.

As I finish the two kitchen cabinets, I look down at the empty shelf and there sitting proudly in the middle of it, is mother’s ring--the one I lost days ago. I think she is reminding me this is her kitchen! I slip it back on my little finger next to my ring, which is next to father’s.

Melinda arrives the next weekend to help, and happily performs all the duties I left undone. She makes sure I haven’t missed anything. At one point while packing a box, I hear mother’s ring fall off my finger again. Though I can’t find it, I’m not alarmed because I know it has to be there somewhere on the rug--I’ll find it later.

We meet Steven and Leslie for lunch and learn about western New York “Garbage Plates.” Each restaurant has a different name for it, like “Messy Plate” or “Sloppy Plate.” The plate starts with a covering of macaroni salad, on top of the salad is a layer of fried potatoes, then a choice of either two hot dogs, two hamburgers, or two cheeseburgers on top of the potatoes. A squirt of horseradish mustard, then finally it's bathed with a spicy meat sauce, similar to a meat chili, but not quite. I try a plate, and over the next three days track one down in each of three more restaurants. Talk about grief looking for comfort!

I decide to tell Steven the story about losing mother’s ring, then finding it again in her cabinets, then losing it once again. I’m looking for symbolism, or messages, when Melinda settles the discussion reminding us the ring was simply too big for my finger.

Steven picks up two more boxes from father’s--I saved mother’s old music books for him. He and Leslie sing “Old Time” music, which makes up a lot of mother's collection. In the evening Leslie calls to say, as she was putting one of the boxes away, something shiny caught her eye. She looked closer and there was mother’s ring nestled in the music books! Steven and I conclude simultaneously, mother must want her ring to be at Steven’s! She got out in the last box of her belongings!

....................

Good homes are found for father’s special pieces of furniture. Friends who cherish his memory now have his piano, grandfather clock, and display cases. I visit many of his friends, leaving mementos, memories and farewells.

Unsure about two crystal decanters, Melinda suggests leaving them on the counter and sooner or later I’ll know what to do with them. On the last Friday, long-time friends of the family offer to take me to Red Lobster. When I remember the restaurant is right around the corner from the dialysis unit, I finally know what to do. Before lunch I ask them to turn at Jay’s Diner, into the complex with the Big 10 theater, and I visit father’s dialysis unit one last time. I hug father’s partners in the chairs next to his and we talk about our families. I leave one decanter with Ionie and one with Mrs. Boyd.

....................

Though I've been sleeping at David and Marie’s every night, I still leave my suitcases in father’s back room. Now everything is gone, the apartment is empty. It’s time to take the suitcases down the hall to my guest room next door, for the last two nights.

But they don’t move easily. They stay in position as I back against the wall, sliding down to the carpet into a gulf of emptiness where father’s life has been. I understand the words “gut-wrenching” for the first time in my life. Wrenched, I gasp and gasp for what I have lost.

When able to stand, I make my way to the door, by way of the kitchen. Though not there, I see his medicine on the counter in a red plastic box, I see the canister set full of ingredients for his cookies and pies, I see the toaster next to Razzelberry jam, his midnight treats by the mixer, the day's fruit ripening on a crystal tray--all in this empty space, that should not be empty.

....................

Marie takes me in.

Later we work together, rearranging her complete collection of china tea cups--half into father’s display case now in her living room, and half into her family’s antique cabinet. We laugh and delight in the beauty and story of each cup and saucer. Mother also had a collection of English Bone China teacups like Marie's. Only to look at, we never touched them.

I have the mother I need this evening, to get me through.


One more day.

35 Problem Solving

Day 35 - February 23

(Photo: "U.S.O." Girl!)

In 1972 I worked for the U.S.O. in Germany while visiting father and mother for a few months. At the time, the United States Army occupied bases throughout West Germany. As an employee for the United Services Organization, I manned an information booth in the Frankfurt Airport.

My booth perched on a raised platform where I was set up with a military phone, enabling connection to army bases throughout Europe. American personnel exiting customs in Frankfurt saw two familiar stations--the U.S. military booth with Army and Air Force personnel and my booth with the big letters U.S.O. on the front.

My job was to assist military dependents. Day after day, young wives, often with young children, arrived in a strange country after many hours on a flight, to be reunited with their husbands. However, I was there for the ones who arrived only to discover that no one was there to pick them up. To this day I don’t know why it happened so often, but communication failed, flights changed and soldiers were sent to the field…for whatever reason, they were not there. And, more than once I was shocked to hear, “My husband doesn’t even know I’m coming!”

I persisted until husbands were tracked down, calling the bases, asking for commanding officers and basically problem solving for women who were fatigued, confused, afraid, and more than happy for someone to help. If a husband was in the field, then we moved to Plan B.

I had studied German for two years in college at that point, but only remember using one German phrase successfully. The airport restrooms were attended by airport employees and it was expected for travelers to leave money on the counter at every visit. I learned to say, “Ich bin ein Flughafenarbeiter,” explaining that I too was an airport worker, so a tip was not expected each time I visited!

Every morning I walked down the little village hill to the train station with the German commuters on their way to Frankfurt. At the Frankfurt station I found the train directly to the airport. I thought I had figured out how to navigate my commute until one evening in my second week of work.

Father loved to tell the story of how I boarded the train to Wirtheim which would have taken me home. However, unknowingly, I had really boarded the train to Wertheim--a city I didn’t even know existed! The difference in the “i” and the “e” eluded me.

I rode for the usual thirty minutes and then noticed the ride was becoming longer and longer. After an hour I started to ask around, “Is this the train to Wirtheim?” in my school-girl German.

Each time I asked, I received the same answer, “Ja, Wertheim!” It sounded like Wirtheim to me! I continued to ride, wondering how the thirty-minute commute to father and mother’s village could be turning into two hours.

Not knowing what else to do, I rode all he way to Wertheim--three hours from their home--and when I arrived, discovered I did not have Deutschmarks to pay for a return trip back home. It was late at night by then and no currency exchanges were open. Thank God a kind soul took pity on me and let me trade with him, U.S. dollars for German currency!

Today cousin Nancy and her husband Floyd are coming to help. Floyd worked all night Friday, but they arrive Saturday mid-morning to help with the kitchen. They were stationed in Germany years ago, and were able to spend time with mother and father, as well as take advantage of any free time they had to travel throughout Europe.

While Floyd helps pack china and glasses, Nancy attacks the cabinets. We reminisce about our days in Germany. We pack the china I purchased as a Christmas present for mother at the Rhein-Main Air Force base with the help of an MP I met at my U.S.O. booth. We chat about all the trips to outlet stores throughout Germany as we pack so many collections of mugs, plates, candles…

They tell about one outlet where large crates of china plates were reduced to a ridiculously low price. The Americans bought them up--such a bargain! The Germans purchased them for a celebration in which they needed a lot of plates--to break!

Floyd’s witty remarks keep us laughing while he does the heavy lifting and helps me keep straight--these items in a box for Matt, these in a box for Melinda... Nancy tackles shelf after shelf which I can not bear to approach. She sorts mother’s multi-cabinet Tupperware collection, finding a lid for each container--more than my small dose of concentration could possibly accomplish. By the time we are finished, only two cabinets remain.

This space where family came together daily, nourished each other daily, where stories of father and mother’s lives unfold as we pick up a dish, coffee pot, French fry maker, egg cup, pie pan…too many memories abound to do this alone.

In the midst of my fatigue, confusion and fears, they persist till the job is done. We finish off our day at Cracker Barrel remembering father’s joy at their last meal there with him.

Nancy and Floyd are my U.S.O. today!

34 "Mercury is the source of words such as merchandise, merchant and merciful."

Day 34 - February 22

In my most early years, as a toddler and pre-schooler, at the end of each day father walked through our front door, turned to the hooks on his right to hang his overcoat, and placed his dress hat on the shelf above. Then he was ours for the evening.

Mother prepared dinner in the narrow kitchen above a coal furnace. Outside the kitchen door a huge opening loomed for coal deliveries. Red and white metal cabinets surrounded her. Underneath the sink, a silver emblem identified the manufacturer--some kind of winged creature, similar to the Roman god Mercury. At the other end of the kitchen our fifties dinette set lined the left wall while the washer and dryer filled up the right.

After dinner I tossed the green silky throw pillow on the living room floor. This was the sign for our play to begin. Father joined me for all manner of giggling and wrestling. We laughed so hard we cried, every night.

While mother washed the dishes, he asked about my day and I played records for him. My 45’s and 78’s were quite an eclectic collection--Red River Valley, Love is a Many Splendored Thing, The Nutcracker Suite, You Are My Sunshine, The Yellow Rose of Texas and Chicken Little’s, The Sky is Falling, The Sky is Falling!

Mother, barely twenty years old at the time, made her way through day after day, finding young housewife things to do. She cooked and baked, laundered and ironed. She read McCall’s magazines and the Reader’s Digest in her stuffed yellow rocker. While she read I set up my record player in her bedroom.

One day she decided to teach me to iron father’s white handkerchiefs, each one embroidered with a fancy letter “G.” I insisted on ironing them from then on. My favorite part was opening his cavernous dresser drawer and depositing the carefully pressed and folded little piles in their place.

Here I am at the other end of the story. Now I’m opening drawers and closet doors, deciding what happens next. I plan to pass father’s clothing on to a good will shop. I choose a matching tie for every one of his many dress shirts, arrange each tie around the neck of each shirt and slip each arrangement into a plastic garment bag.

I save his suits for visiting ministers from Haiti and three sport coats for me to wear around the house when I’m chilled.

Careful piles fill the room. Slowing down, it’s no light task, to observe the trappings of father’s distinction in piles all around.

Elvis sings, It is no secret, what God can do. What he’s done for others, He’ll do for you…

Tine comes to the door.

“I’m ready to help. Do you want me to take all of this out to my car? I can drive it to our Community Support Shoppe in Bloomfield for you.”

Tine takes care of it all--several car loads over the next few days.

The shop is run by New Hope Fellowship Church. The name has changed, but New Hope is the church father founded along Route 5 & 20 on the edge of East Bloomfield. I remember as a grade school student, whenever we drove by the old church building which had been converted to a pottery shop, father was concerned that it wasn’t a house of worship. Eventually he found a way, with community support, to purchase the building and open it as the Berean Gospel Church.

The rest is history and now his belongings will be taken care of by the church’s members who will make sure they are used as a blessing to members of the community at large.

It’s all history now.

…except for the part that still lives in me

…and keeps me writing

…so my sky won’t fall.

33 Keep it Simple

Day 33- February 21

The first night Sarah joined me for dinner she volunteered to help after dessert. We found a hammer, then it all came down--calendars, mirrors, clocks, ceramic plates, wooden plaques, wax hangings, straw hangings, woven hangings--purposely positioned for twenty years defining the boundaries of this personal space…wall by wall. She used the hammer claw to remove every nail and picture hanger in father’s home.

The next night I walked down the hall to eat dinner with David and Marie, returning in the evening to putter and pack at father’s. They gave me a key to their home. When I tired, late into the night, I returned to sleep in their guest room--my pattern for twenty-one days.

Tonight Sarah comes over again. We eat leftovers and look for an evening project, settling on a little iron wall hanger. Ornate, Italian, with five tiny hooks, mother used it to display European pot holders over the stove. Through the years a very thick grease build-up has caked in all the decorative creases. Remembering her own mother’s advice, Sarah looks for an old tooth brush and white toothpaste. We find both and she proceeds to sit, methodically scrubbing away while we talk. Father would have applauded our diligence.

I ask Sarah if she would like to choose a vase to take with her. We talk about her sister and she picks one out for her too. Last year I arrived from Chicago one May day as father’s eighty-second birthday was approaching. He already had plans in motion. Sarah and Rebekah were baking him their specialty cheese cake with homemade chocolate sauce and fresh strawberries, and father wanted to have an Open House.

“Cher, we’ll keep it simple. We’ll have cheesecake and just tell a few friends they can stop by for a piece any time on my birthday. Well, maybe I’ll make my pineapple cake with the cream cheese frosting too. What would you like to make?”

He began to go down the list calling friend after friend. At one point I counted up and realized he’d talked to almost forty people so far, and he was far from finished. “Dad, I think we are going to need more food!”

When the day arrived we not only had cheesecake and pineapple cake, but we also baked two apple pies, blueberry squares and a chocolate cream pie! Friends filled his rooms from their early lunch breaks until dinnertime. He held court on the living room sofa while Sarah, Rebekah and I served pie and cake on his china and crystal. June washed dishes half way through so we could start over.

We kept it simple, if by simple one means taking care to make sure every friend and guest feels specially treated and loved. What better way to celebrate his birthday than to allow him this pleasure.

In the summer between my visits, along with his neighbors, Sarah and her friend, Bethany, maintained father’s garden for him. They weeded, watered and harvested. I arrived to finish the other gardening chores. Father raked straight lines in the soil between each row of the faithfully weeded vegetables. “Cher, I think this is the best garden yet, don’t you?”

He taught us by example to reach out boldly, to care and love unconditionally, and to find pleasure in the joy of living.

The toothpaste is doing it’s job. We scrub till iron roses from Italy shine clearly above each hook.

We share moments together in his space, caring for his memory, grateful for what we have learned.

32 Our Best

Day 32 - February 20




Steven is taking care of father’s desk contents, office closet, books, stamps, coins, Hummels. We exchange queries: Does this look important? Is that something you want? Where do you think I’ll find a key for this?

During the years when father walked daily, he recorded each mile in little green record books. Every time he filled his car with gas, he entered data in spiral notebooks--mileage, gallons purchased, price. Eighteen years on the mission field, he listed every single expenditure, every single contribution--all monies in and out faithfully recorded down to the penny. Boxes of this paperwork filled spare closets. Add to that, every letter, card, newsletter, bill invoice, bank statement, receipt, you-name-it piece of paper that entered his life, he saved.

I stand at the kitchen counter, a small spoon in hand, tapping gently against the rims of crystal pieces. I love the different tones and the sensitive quality variations. Some are muted chimes, others ring like bells--one bell sings like a breathtaking solo in an Italian monastery on a hill overlooking a bay.

I begin to pack it in boxes. There is no room to accommodate this crystal collection in my home. Yet, it’s beauty is tangible, and I decide I want this tangible expression in my life.

I know it’s idealistic. Our family was no more perfect than the next. Our love no more unflawed than the next. But in spite of any of their mistakes, I know mother and father did the best they could, given who they were and what they knew, given the times they lived in, their milieu, their role models and the trials of their own childhoods.

The crystal posed from behind glass display doors, and hid in cabinet recesses most of the time. But it had its moments--a vase full of flowers transforming the dining table and tall water goblets sparkling at the head of each plate for a dinner full of guests.

When I stayed with father each month these last two years I tried my best to create meals he could eat, but would also enjoy. In my own home we often grab whatever plate and glass is available, and unless guests are present, we proceed with our meals quite unceremoniously. However, remembering mother’s attention to detail and father’s appreciation for it, I set a careful table for our times together.

I made a decision without consulting him. It was time to use the crystal! Mashed potatoes on the menu? They filled up a crystal bowl. Carrots, green beans? Two more crystal bowls. Dr. Pepper? Crystal goblets. Postum with cream and sugar? They came to the table on a crystal tray. M & M’s on an end table? In a crystal candy dish. Cough drops? Crystal!

Every time I turned around, I found another use for these delicate, melodious pieces. I picked wild flowers along the edge of Lima’s country roads--into the crystal.

I thought at first he would object. For so many years it had only come out on special occasions. Instead, he smiled. Even though mother would never have used it with such reckless abandon, it reminded him of her. He saw her like crystal--the beautiful girl he married, her lovely singing voice, her fine qualities, their many years of devotion to each other.

One of the boxes of paper in father’s closet is full of letters he and mother wrote back and forth the year before they married. I save the whole box, but only open one letter, reading the closing.

...Well, honey, I’m sure that by the tone of this letter you know that I love you and miss you very much--and “the half has never yet been told.” I’m sorry I must close now. So long Ruth. I’ll try to be back soon.

With my fervent love for you,

Chet

Along with these letters, I will transport ten boxes of crystal to Chicago, and while they may hide away in a storage closet for some time, I know the day will come when there will be a place for them. I will start by scattering a few pieces throughout the condo--a crystal tray for the TV remote, another one for a jar of honey, a vase for the guest room, a bowl for whatever I choose to put in it!

The best of what my family was and is--our hope, our fine qualities, our abiding love--will sparkle and brighten our everyday lives in the midst of our chaos and imperfections.

31 Piece by Piece

Day 31 - Feb. 19

















I squeeze room on the kitchen table between the photographs, for my coffee and notebook. Will it be difficult to find addresses for each cousin who attended the funeral? We never lived near extended family.

I remember a few scattered visits from my childhood.

Father’s cousin, Theo, married an Italian who made his own pasta. I remember watching in awe as Leonard cranked out the long spaghetti noodles on the kitchen counter. I played with their daughter, Marilyn, and other cousins in their back family room or down in the basement. No one was allowed in the living room…the lights were never turned on, we were told not to walk through it, the room was being reserved. What a contrast to the reckless abandon of pillow fights with couch cushions in the family room, boxes of old clothes and jewelry strung out all over the basement in our fantasy play, or the crescendo of warm laughter and love in the kitchen where such wonderful Polish and Italian fare was created and relished by this chorus of family!

Grandmother’s home also had a living room in reserve, darkened and unused. A front door opened into the dining room, mainly a walk-through on the way to her kitchen. Uncle Simon, one of father’s oldest brothers, however, did use this dining room. Every evening after work he rested in an easy chair by the window, his tiny respite on earth. I learned many years later, he was one of the brothers who suffered very hard times in the mines as a young teen. What I knew as a child was sitting on his lap to say goodbye before our road trip back to Rochester, he always found a handful of change in his pockets to place in my hand--his Polish Uncle farewell. He died in his sleep one night in the bedroom he and three brothers had shared growing up.

I have a vague recollection of Aunt Ethel, the oldest sister, sitting in a corner of the kitchen warmed by the wood-burning stove. She’s the one who took father with her on Sunday morning to a Pentecostal service in the next little town. Grandmother, directly from Poland, was Roman Catholic. The catholic church loomed large on a corner down the next block from their home. I heard stories of Polish women on Good Friday, encircling the huge structure on their knees. They prayed and progressed step by step, knees on cinders, bleeding, all the way around the church. Father, the last of twelve children, was to be the priest in the family.

Ethel bundled up nine year-old Chester after mass for the couple mile walk to the church she’d discovered--a church proclaiming the message of God’s love free to anyone who accepts His son, Christ, into his or her life--no penance to pay and plenty of joyful praise in that hour of thanks! Father never wavered from those days forward in his love and dedication to this God of grace, mercy and love. Grandmother told him he must attend mass until he completed his confirmation at age twelve.

He recounts that morning after the confirmation, running all the way to church and never looking back! One by one over the years, most of the brothers and sisters, and finally grandmother joined in.

“David, do you know where I can find a few little boxes? I’d like to put together some items to send to my cousins who attended Dad’s funeral.” Fifteen minutes later David arrives with an armload of perfectly sized boxes, the exact number I need. I arrange them side by side in father’s living room, write a card for each cousin and enclose the photographs hand-picked the day before.

I have not yet sorted, packed, or thrown away any of father’s possessions. I know it’s time to get started if I’m going to complete this project in two weeks time.

Opening the German cabinet doors and glass display cases, I reach in to father’s life. But for today, it is only to hold it, piece by piece, as I pass it to each cousin’s box. I pass it to the children of his brothers and sisters, back to his family, desiring to somehow connect them with his loving spirit through these material possessions he touched.

After calling hours, the night before father’s funeral, Gloria and Norma noticed a photograph on father’s kitchen wall. I had framed a photo Uncle Bob blew up from a snapshot. The family is posed in grandmother’s reserved living room, the lights on full. Together we looked up at each of our parents, early in their marriages, the men standing behind their wives, all gathered around grandmother.

Though we never lived near each other, and I barely know these cousins, I discovered it was easy to find each of their addresses after all. I simply opened father’s little hand-written address book. There alphabetically, some with married last names I was unaware of, in his miniscule hand writing father had recorded complete, accurate and up-to-date addresses and phone numbers for each one.

I begin to fill the hole he has left in my life, with these connections.

“Thanks, Dad, for the roadmap.”

Perhaps we cousins are like an unused, darkened living room. A special place in the house, we've been held in reserve, and now the lights are on full.

30 Lead Me, Guide Me

Day 30 - February 18



Melinda’s back in school, Matt and Harold Martin are working. Harold left for Chicago.


Marie and David are cleaning out the vacant apartment across the hall. Cousins have long since departed.


I walk through father’s door, turn on Elvis Presley’s gospel CD,

…There will be peace in the val-ley for me-e-e, some day…

I sit on the blue couch facing a cabinet full of dusty Hummels,
and wait.


I walk to the kitchen, make a cup of International Coffee instant gratification and return to my seat. Music books stand on the piano. Scrapbooks of father and mother’s life together perch to my right. Racks of CDs rest on their turntables.


Elvis sings,

…I am tired and I need Thy strength and power

to guide me over my darkest hour.

Lord just open my eyes that I may see,

lead me oh Lord, won’t you lead me…

and I wait.


Even the phone is quiet. No one calls father’s home now.

…over my darkest hour…


I call father’s friend, Sarah, “Would you like to have diner with me tonight? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Good, I’ll see you then.”


The quiet returns.


I open drawers of pictures, dumping hundreds of glimpses into a lifetime on the table. I pick up each one, searching--the faces, the backgrounds, the time, year, situation, event. I wonder who took each picture, who will want each picture. I sort one pile of photos instinctively, for no particular reason, simply knowing I must save them. I create a shopping bag full for Steven.


Then I choose two or three for each cousin…


Elvis is singing,

…oh I wish I was in Dixie, away, away…


I’m in Dixie, where I was born. Old times are not forgotten.


The pitch rises, the tempo slows. Elvis deliberately emphasizes,

…Glo--ry, Glor-y, Halleluiah

His truth is marching on…


Then, words I never noticed before, catch me as I stand by the sink filling a crystal vase with water, tidying father’s kitchen, moving on…


…So hush little baby,

don’t you cry.

You know your Daddy’s bound to die.

But all my trials Lord, will soon be over…


My goal is to have father’s apartment completely cleaned out in two weeks. I will use the third week for tying up loose ends and visiting his friends for last.


For the next two weeks I'll begin my day each morning with instant International Coffee and Elvis.

...I come to the garden alone,

while the dew is still on the roses.

And the voice I hear, falling on my ear...

The two-CD set plays all morning long.

29 Leftovers--Flowers, Food and a Dream

Day 29 - February 17

Things to do on the day after a funeral:

· Ask sister in-law to create multiple smaller flower arrangements from the bountiful array of flower baskets and bouquets sent to the funeral home and memorial service. Use up all the generic florist vases under the cabinet and in the closets.

· Have them delivered to nursing homes and hospitals.

· Grab some butter, honey, brown sugar and one can of every fruit in loved one’s kitchen cabinets. Also find raisins, cloves, an apple, and an orange from the refrigerator.

· Take the ham donated by friends of the family, throw all the fruit, sugar, honey and raisins in the pan around it, coat it with a butter-honey-brown sugar mixture and score the fat in a diamond design. Ask son’s girlfriend who doesn't cook to place a clove in the corner of each diamond.

· Bake and serve for lunch with leftovers, to the amazement of family members who observe the process.

· Take a flower arrangement to the door of each friend who helped the family make it through the week.

· If loved one left the office furniture and books at a place of employment to a friend, remove personal items and call friend.

· Since vases are important while creating flower arrangements, notice loved one’s incredible vase collection from around the world and pack them away immediately to preserve--especially if loved one dreamed of having a country home with an attached green house.

· Begin to imagine fulfilling that dream. Envision the vases standing at attention on an upper shelf encircling the green house.

· If executor of estate says loved one wanted one last dinner at Olive Garden for family on his credit card, enjoy one last dinner at Olive Garden!

· If spouse must depart for airport to return to work, appreciate good-bye hug--it will have to last for twenty-one days.

28 In His Everlasting Love

Day 28 - February 16

The night before, Harold Martin revealed he’d traveled with no overcoat, not having one suitable to wear over suits. Temperatures between ten and eighteen degrees Fahrenheit were predicted for the gravesite ceremony after the funeral. Harold suggested his youngest son take a look at his grandfather’s overcoat. With the rest of us sincerely doubting this solution, Harold M. slipped his arms into father’s dark overcoat, only to discover it fit perfectly.

Randy brings the Christian flag from his church in Canandaigua to drape on the casket for the service. Representatives from the church of Poland arrive to pay tribute in a special viewing before the proceedings begin.

For a very long time, I have experienced family as our small group which maxes out at five, plus father. This afternoon I feel family in long rows all around us.

Friends throughout the auditorium travel to Toronto with father as they view the musical slideshow overhead. They plant his garden and attend his birthday parties. They peek in on our thirtieth anniversary vow renewal service, officiated by father. They remember the taste of his strawberry pies and blueberry pancakes. They learn father was a gunner in the air over Italy in World War II as they read his bio. They gather to celebrate his life.

Matt and Harold Martin, then Ron and Walt Gretz, and finally Bobby and Brett, line up to bear father into the ceremony. A flank of honorary pall bearers follow, men who lifted father up in life, and who in return had been lifted up by father.

In an Elim Fellowship newsletter the next week, bullet-points will highlight the service:

--“He was a Gentle Giant.”
--“Uncle Chester was like a quiet river that flowed very deep.”
--“Chet taught us that love always wins.”
--“Everyone felt special around Chet.”
--“He taught me how to give.”
--“His significance came from making others successful.”
--“He loved his Dr. Pepper!”

His ninety-three year old dear friend of many years, Carlton Spencer, sent an email to father in his last week. With dramatic expression, conveying Carlton’s love in every sentence, the pastor brings his letter to life:

Thanks in our Lord, Chester, for your phone call this morning.

I have been debating how best to reach you and was going to call David or Marie to find out, when I received your call. You report that your doctors are giving you, “not many” days before you join Mary Ruth in the presence of our Lord! Please take my loving greetings to her and to Elizabeth! I’m on my way Home--but do not know when He will call.

David and Marie report that you speak occasionally of our times together--our travel by car into the night and our escapades in the plane. You have flown with much better pilots than I, while in the military and of course in commercial aviation. I attempted to be a pilot while you prayed! And the Lord preserved us through all our journeys. Praise Him! And, I remember you taking my VW on a Western trip on Elim’s behalf--and got converted to VW’s. If we were together we could do a lot of reminiscing. Right? I am sorry that I am so far away at this point in your life.

I also recall your conviction and call from above, when you first joined us at Elim --my first year as president-- and yours as Dean. Together we faced the challenges in those ensuing years. You stood by me. We stood together, as we watched the Lord intervene for us time after time, including the transition of Elim from Hornell to Lima. You were a true brother throughout those years. Thank God, Chet, for those grand recollections and your loyalty all the way! You have been a stalwart in integrity, Christ-likeness and brotherly love at all times!

And our unity did not end there--it continued while you served in the pastorates and in your years in Eastern Europe. I’ve not forgotten your trip from Germany to a distant airport, to bring my passport, which I had left on a shelf at your home. Through the years our lives have been intertwined--and I am grateful to God for you and for your loving faithfulness which proved itself in the occasions when in a loving spirit you corrected when I failed. A real brother! Thanks, again!

Our times together have been few in these more recent years, but I am glad that you lived so close to David and Marie, where in my stead they could serve you, and you serve them! Thank God you have been knit with me and my family through the years. All of mine love you, as do all whom you served, at and through Elim and elsewhere…

How can I say Farewell ?

I wish I could be with you now--and share in your farewell service, but age is telling on me also. Your 84th birthday is in May, and my 94th follows in July. Together we have seen God’s good hand over and over again--in fact continuously for nearly sixty years. God has been good to us and our families. So glad you have yours with you now. Please, greet each of them for me.

Au revoir, my beloved brother -- “Till we meet at Jesus feet…”

In His everlasting love,

Carlton

Speakers and eulogies continue, providing insights, humor and inspiration. We break down during the hymn, “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” just before the pall bearers lead father down the aisle. Outside, they replace the Christian flag with the American flag for the ride to the cemetery and the closing gathering at the grave.

Uncharacteristic of an Elim funeral, we end right on time. Not expecting such timeliness, the funeral director has advised the Honor Guard of a later meeting time at the cemetery.

We wait in the row of cars for the young men in uniform to arrive, while the pall bearers stand outside by the hearse. Sun shines brightly over the snow covered fields all around. The crisp cold uses the sun to focus each tree, stone and pine needle with a fine-tuned clarity against the white back-drop. Through the car window I watch Harold Martin and Matt in their suits and overcoats, by father’s side. They don’t even feel the bitter cold as they wait the twenty minutes. Rather, they know duty and love, focus and companionship, with Ron, Walt, Bobby and Brett, as they prepare for father’s last journey.

“On behalf of the President of the United States, we thank you for your father’s service to his country,” the young man kneels as he hands me the meticulously folded flag. Aunt Anne sniffles and tear droplets try to freeze on our faces. Taps play and echo in the snowy woods.

Brett holds my elbow as I navigate back to the car. Then he disappears, back to Virginia Beach again.

Everyone else dines at the church on one of Esther’s specialties.

Near the end of dinner I stop at Nancy and Floyd’s table. Floyd is clearing and cleaning up the area. “See, I’m being like Bobby, helping out. I’ve noticed it seems like everyone has that helpful spirit right now.”

Cousin Floyd works nights as a mechanic on tractor trailer trucks. He explains, “I’m going to miss your Dad. Whenever I was with him and someone else came around, he would introduce me with such enthusiasm. He would say, ‘This is Floyd--you know, he works on those big rigs!’ And he would have this really big smile on his face, like it was the greatest thing. He made me feel so good. I’m really going to miss him.”

Yes, we’re really going to miss him.

27 Connections

(Harold Martin and Matt, Bobby, Jackie/ Cheryl/ Peggy 1969, Melinda, Dad and Matt 1989, Cousins, Dad's apartment)

Day 27 - February 15

We purchased a home, moving from the near north side of Chicago to the suburb of Oak Park in 1987. Matthew was ten years old. For the first time, having our own driveway and garage, we contemplated installing a basketball hoop. Upon father and mother’s return from Europe two years later, during their first visit, father--sixty at the time--was the first one up on the garage roof with Matthew. They worked together to secure the hoop structure--the promise of hours of pleasure for years to come.

Matt’s little brother, Harold Martin, joined his first basketball league at the YMCA that year when he was only five years old. The teams played half court with lowered baskets. Father relived the game he attended, many times over in the years that followed. He beamed with pride and amusement recounting the way little Harold Martin dribbled with one hand while directing his teammates with the other, and when the game points were on the line, stepped back to sink a three pointer!

The two boys, young men now, ready to lead Grandpa's pall bearers, join Melinda on a flight to Rochester. Harold M.'s girlfriend, Leslie, who joined us for Christmas only weeks before, accompanies him. Bobby waits at the airport to drive them directly to the funeral home. A white house at the top of a hill in Lima becomes an intersection for the players in father’s life.

His children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, his sister and brother in-law, pastors, former parishioners, neighbors and doctors, his confidants, prayer partners, co-workers and friends, form an honoring and loving parade. Friends from around the country and around the world are there in the flower bouquets. Former school friends of Steven’s and mine surprise us with their support--the line-up almost historic East Bloomfield and Holcomb--Saxby, Rayburn, Hamlin and Murphy…our past met our present.

Matt, Melinda and Harold Martin put faces on the many stories father had told his friends about his grandchildren. They are astounded to discover person after person shaking their hands knows all about our Christmas vacation at Bristol Harbour. In the six weeks since the holiday, father has told all his friends every detail about the meaningful week by the lake with his family.

Uncle Frank’s daughter, Gloria and her husband are here. Out of the corner of my eye I watch relationships developing as she spends time with my children. Her brother, Ron, will arrive the next morning to participate as a pall bearer. Uncle Walter’s children--Norma, Walt, Melody and Dale--are here with their families. Walt will join Ron tomorrow, also a pall bearer. Aunt Anne’s daughter, Nancy and husband Floyd represent her brothers and sisters.

Over the last few years these family members have experienced their own losses. They know. Part of that knowing is a need to connect, part of that knowing is an ability to go out of their way to support, and part of it is the realization of this one more complete loss.

I do not spend time at the casket. Father isn’t there. Rather, he is in the room full of animated conversation, his spirit flowing and reveling in the coming together of friends and family.

Into the cold night, our extended family caravans back to father’s apartment. Church members have prepared a buffet feast across the hall for the thirty or so of us. We travel back and forth between the buffet and father’s welcoming rooms--not quite the big Polish funeral parties I remember attending in Dupont as a child, but, our own version of finding a way to reach out to each other again...finding a way to be father's guest one last time.

Families retire, to tuck away in guest rooms and hotels, on strange beds and multiple air mattresses.

I look it all over, read, re-read, and re-read again, thoroughly reviewing this intersection, I almost can't move...

...when "Clear right, Cher," sails into my night.

26 Focus

Day 26 - February 14

Attire is not uppermost in my mind, hasn’t been for months. I found a utilitarian routine to dressing while at father’s. I depended on three work-out sets from Land’s End for everyday. They were comfortable, passable looking, and of course I was always ready for the day when I might actually decide to work out. For trips to doctors and days in the hospital I chose a white blouse and black pants. For dinner guests I simply upgraded the white blouse, keeping one jacket as an option. I discovered a woman can live on a five-outfit rotation.

It’s all about focus. No place exists for pondering fashion choices or beauty enhancements when every movement is focused on caring for another. It happens naturally, like breathing. I did not consciously rise each morning saying, okay now I’ll make sure father can breathe, I’ll make sure he can eat, walk, and sleep. Instead I woke up, walked through the day and automatically focused on his every need without thinking about it--it simply happened.

Commenting one time, my children marveled at my devotion to father every minute of our time together. I was surprised to hear their comments, not having seen my role as a servant, not having felt the least bit of pressure to serve. That's not to say I didn't tire, but it’s all about being in the moment, and doing what needs to be done. Without focus, we often don’t know what it is we need to do. I’m thankful for the learning experience, the opportunity to walk with such purpose and follow instinctively the path laid out in front of me.

With funeral home calling hours one day away however, a new focus creeps into this day. I turn to Harold and declare, “I have nothing to wear!”

It has been a very long time since I shopped in a mall. I don’t know where to start, and frankly don’t want to start. I settle quickly on a matronly suit to get it over with and go home. Then, dissatisfied with the purchase, having had a little taste of the shopping experience, it starts to come back to me. “Harold, I should have gone to Chico’s!”

Calling information on my cell, we discover one Chico’s exists in the Rochester area, in Pittsford. A Starbuck’s camps next door! Armed with an iced venti latte, I walk through the entrance into a familiar shop of possibilities. I’ve been away so long.

“May I help you look for something?”

Accustomed to living in a world of straightforward tasks, I blurt out, “Yes, my father died this week and I need something to wear to the funeral home and also to the funeral the next day.”

Sharon offers her condolences and with quiet confidence assures me she will help find exactly what I need. And she does. After trying on forty, or perhaps more, outfits and combinations of outfits, I cash out of Chico’s relaxed and relieved. Sharon shopped for me, searched the back for special items when necessary, and left me alone to decide. She focused on me and my need to be dressed for father’s funeral.

Chico’s rules.

We dine with Bobby, Ben and Sarah this evening. Elim Fellowship and the church, focused on care, have completely stocked the kitchen of a vacant apartment across from father’s. Early in the week Margie and Dick filled the fridge with salads, cold cuts, fruit, bread, bagels, eggs, water, pop, cheeses and more--filled to the brim. They also stocked the cabinets with cereal, tea, coffee, honey, jelly, paper goods, and pastries--you name it, the kitchen has it--all for our family and our out of town guests. Marie and David brought in a large dining room table and chairs.

In this no-longer empty apartment we welcome another fabulous dinner from volunteers, set a candlelight and lace table the length of the living room, and share stories throughout our meal.

This Valentine’s Day Harold and I do not exchange gifts or cards. We do exchange knowing we loved father, we lost him, and now we are there for each other.

We feel the warmth of father’s community all around us in this candlelit room.

25 "...Act,— act in the living Present ! ... Longfellow

Day 25 - February 13


An avid Jeopardy fan, Marie cheers aggressively every night for the contestant she wants to win. She chooses the one she perceives deserves it the most, whether by a pleasing demeanor, quiet disposition, or humble appearance. Often, once locked in, that contestant can do no wrong and the other two can do no right. Or sometimes two contestants pass for winners in her eyes, and the third is vilified. All done in good fun, the half hour in her living room is far more entertaining than the half hour on TV!

She imbues her every activity with the same enthusiasm. Her weekly house cleaning is the most thorough I have ever witnessed. The local church office where she works also benefits from her ability to jump into projects feet first and take off running. Among her many other tasks, she organizes volunteers to supply complete dinners for families of deceased loved ones, every night until the funeral. This not only includes immediate family members, but also the entire extended family when present. These meals can accommodate as many as 35-40 people, every night of the week preceding a funeral.

Our family is small, but when Harold arrives, back from Chicago this evening, we sit at father’s kitchen table with Steven, Leslie, and Bobby, cared for by the church. It is truly a Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings, topped off with a homemade cheesecake. For an hour, conversation flows, punctuated by declamations of, “This stuffing is really good…nice salad…even the cranberry sauce…love those mashed potatoes…haven’t enjoyed sweet potatoes like these in awhile…an amazing cheesecake.”

What a relief to laugh and enjoy! What a privilege to be entertained in father’s kitchen once more!

Earlier in the afternoon I glanced down at my hand to see the reassuring rings lined up on my fingers--mother’s, mine and father’s--when I noticed in alarm, mother’s was no longer there. In a silly gesture, I covered each of the rest of my fingers with her old costume jewelry rings. I sit at dinner with ten rings on, sparkling gaudy fake diamonds and rubies, not wanting Steven to notice I lost mother’s gold ring.

At the end of the night, Harold and I talk with David and Marie before heading to their guest room-- Marie’s crossword on her lap and David’s book of poetry at his side. They cared for father for the last few years. David checked in each day, sometimes making sure medication was taken, often getting a grocery list from father. He opened father’s mailbox every afternoon, delivering the mail to his living room. He drove him to countless appointments.

He and Marie always let father know when they were leaving town, and the first thing they did upon returning was check in with him. Father made cookies and potato pancakes for their grandchildren when they visited. He laughed with pleasure remembering the grandson who was unafraid to raise himself right up to father’s "good" ear and yell into it if he thought father couldn’t hear him. He officiated their daughter’s wedding. They entertwined like family.

Now they care for us.

Preparing for bed, I remove all the costume jewelry and stare at my hand. Two rings.

Content, I think to myself, “This time is about father.”

24 "...act that each tomorrow, find us farther than today." Longfellow

Day 24 - February 12

One day I'm listening to father, and the next, he doesn't exist?

On his glass-topped table, I fill a notebook with plans, reminders, numbers and lists. I make coffee at his counter, savor the last bites of Boston Cream Pie from his fridge, and call for flowers and music arrangements from his land phone. From his cell we call family and friends…Poland, Virginia, Tennessee, and Chicago…Bristol, New Jersey and Herkimer…Florida, Owego, Pennsylvania…California…

I drive his car to appointments. At every intersection I remember his voice. He always watched the traffic to his right for me until there was an opening. Every single time he announced, “Clear right, Cher!” when he thought it was safe to drive on.

His high school graduation ring is with mother’s on a dresser in the hall. I slip hers on my little finger next to my wedding ring, and his on my middle finger. Every time I look down at my hand, I see myself, with mother on one side and father on the other.

I find words to the hymn father wanted sung at his funeral, “Jesus Led Me All The Way.” I look up Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “A Psalm of Life,” which father had recited to me one day after lunch. We lingered at his table as usual, while he told stories. That day he started reciting a poem he’d learned in high school. Hearing the words, I knew then, it was his story. He said, “This is my favorite line,” and proceeded with heart-felt gusto, “Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!”

I call Paul Johannsen, Norm Moran, and Ben. They will be there, as father had wanted. They will pay tribute to their teacher, their friend, their co-worker, their brother. I talk with the local pharmacists who helped father through the maze of medications in his life for the last several years. Steven calls all of father’s doctors. He mails the letter to hundreds of names we gathered from father’s saved envelopes. They go out to New Zealand, Japan, Switzerland, Germany, Siberia, Australia, Poland and all over the United States.

The story rings out--like bells tolling, balls rolling, lists checked off, hours ticked by. Nothing feels different, or looks different. Every piece of father’s life is still in order. But no matter how hard we work, we know we can’t keep it together much longer. The funeral is coming in four days.

A few summers ago father was excited about the new ferry in Rochester. It crossed Lake Ontario. Toronto, Canada was its destination. Harold and I were visiting and father wanted to take us on the ferry. We hadn’t planned for a trip to Canada, but Harold travels often in his work, so he was prepared with a passport. I however, did not have one. This did not daunt father. He said we could call the town clerk in Hornell, NY and see about getting a copy of my original birth certificate.

We traveled country roads south, on a beautiful summer day to Hornell. We discovered the hospital where I was born, now a nursing home, we tracked down the clerk’s office, and indeed, procured my birth certificate.

Tickets reserved, we sailed off the next morning for Toronto. The ferry was magnificent, actually! Inside it was designed on the order of a futuristic airline, in grand proportions. We watched the bustling waves of our wake as we ferried out of the Rochester port. We toured all day in Toronto and returning that evening, watched the sunset off the back of the ferry deck.

The trip was exhilarating, an unexpected adventure. Today the ferry no longer exists, whether due to financial or political reasons, I do not know. But I do know there will be no wakes cut by that giant sea vessel leaving the Rochester port again.

Also, I do know, as I approach an intersection I will never again hear his words, “Clear right, Cher.”

I am so very grateful for father’s undaunted spirit and watchful eye. And though he is gone, the same spirit will move us forward each day this week of planning and checking off lists.

The spirit guides my fingers on the keys of this tale.

23 Open Sky

Day 23 - February 11

Steven and I drive to the next town for our morning meeting with the funeral director. We remember a few things from our experience when mother died. I pack a suit, tie, shirt and accessories in the car along with framed photographs and two large collages.

Yet this is nothing like the time mother died. This time father isn’t here. He isn’t the one making the decisions, he isn’t the one in charge. So who is left? Us? The kids? This is our first taste of life with no umbrella. The only thing between us and heaven is open sky.

We proceed cautiously. If one doesn’t feel strongly about an issue, a quick pass is made to the other. Sometimes, one does feel strongly and the other generously gives in. A few times, we both feel strongly and have different opinions. How carefully we tred, not wanting to offend, not wanting to cross the invisible line that would divide us. Through disagreements, we keep our bond of two.

We decide on timing and schedules, write a bio, purchase flowers, call friends and construct a letter. Father kept every card and letter he ever received, lined up in boxes, each card and letter returned to its original envelope. We create a mailing list for our letter by sorting through hundreds of his envelopes, back through the years, choosing to stop at 2003.

I remember the week before mother’s funeral as one long feud for us. Steven and I didn’t agree on anything about the arrangements. Though we wouldn’t have said it at the time, we acted like children. Now we put on our best adult faces.

Over early breakfast in the Lima Family Diner, we discuss the funeral with father’s pastor, Jerry. As a pastor himself, Steven has probably officiated more than two hundred funerals. This time he is the “family” he always tried diligently to provide for in those many services. I hope father's service will inspire my children. They know and love their grandpa, but I want them to hear his story in a new and complete way. Needs, hopes, and desires tumble onto Jerry’s notepad.

As Steven and I work on the mailing list, we receive a call. Aunt Anne and Uncle Bob have arrived from St. Louis. They traveled as soon as their arrangements were made, hoping to see him. We welcome them at father’s, offering tea and a look at father’s hospital bed and view from his last day.

Anne, the last survivor of father’s brothers and sisters, is two years older than father. She looks like father, smiles like father, and shares his loving spirit. We learn from Uncle Bob she wanders in the night eating and praying like father and she finds it very difficult to admit her dietary cheating, exactly like father.

We feel like “the kids” again for a few minutes.

She tells us, “I thought I would be the next one to go. I miss him already. I prayed for him all the time. Oh, I prayed for him…I really wanted to see my little brother, but I didn’t make it in time.”

Aren’t we all, still the kids?

22 Purpose Fulfilled

Day 22 - February 10

Sunday... a day of rest.

The morning before, I called Brett in Virginia Beach to tell him of father’s condition. Father and Brett were close friends, father having assisted him in his pursuit of an Army chaplaincy career. He responded, “I’m getting in my car and driving up there to help. When I get there you tell me whatever you need me to do and I’ll do it.” The twelve hour drive turned into fifteen. Brett endured a “Planes, Trains and Automobiles”-type experience when his car broke down, he made his way to an airport, rented a car, and then drove the final hours in a snow blizzard, arriving around 1:00 a.m. We put him on duty for the night with Harold. Indeed, the two strong men worked together carrying and caring for father through his wakeful night.

Bobby drove Melinda to the airport at 4:30 a.m. Father met Bobby several years back when he could no longer drive long distances. Father served as a guest speaker on Sundays throughout New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and Bobby volunteered to drive him whenever possible. Father told me, “Cher, Bobby is a good driver. I can relax with him. He's a great help to me.” When I finally met him, I realized Bobby is all that and so much more. He anticipates how he can be most helpful, we always laugh out loud and feel so much better in his presence, and somehow he is always there when needed most.

I walk down the hall from my night’s rest and into the sun-drenched apartment. Brett has filled the kitchen table and the fridge with breakfast and lunch goodies and is sitting at father’s bedside. The hospital bed faces a window overlooking the glistening snow fields. Brett comments how amazing and appropriate that the view outside father’s window includes the church in the distance on the left, the Bible School father has served for so many years of his life on the right, and at the top of a hill, flags symbolizing father’s service to the nations.

I convert the leftover potato soup into a Polish breakfast borscht for father, by adding vinegar, chopped pieces of Polish sausage and hard-boiled eggs. He sits up facing the spectacularly sunny view as I help him eat the borscht.

The first part of the day father smiles when friends arrive. He wakes from time to time and seeing Bobby or Brett at his bedside, smiles, and speaks their name. He squeezes Marie’s hand. When a Polish friend calls, father listens and mouths, “I love you,” into the phone. After his borscht he wants to sit on the side of the bed. I hold him there as he slips his arm around my waist.

No more conversations--he has spoken all his words for this life time, and words a-plenty they were! Good words, lasting words, loving words.

Brett, Bobby, Harold and Steven take care of business--meals, greeting visitors, running errands. Father sleeps restlessly. We take turns sitting with him.

I receive a call from Chicago--pipes have burst in the condo above ours and water is rapidly leaking into our unit. Though I think it futile, I try to waken father. “Dad, Harold has to leave for the airport. He is going back to Chicago,” I speak into his ear. He immediately rises up as if he wants to stand to hug Harold.

“What do I do?” Harold asks. I suggest he sit and hold him on the side of the bed as I had earlier. They sit huddled together, Harold overcome with emotion. Then, holding him up, Harold prays a simple prayer for God to please take Chester home, quietly and peacefully. He hugs father, and gently lays him back down.

Steven drives Harold to the airport. I sit at father's side while Bobby and Brett talk with cousins Nancy and Floyd in the living room. Bobby walks back to join me. Bobby’s grandfather, the same age as father, died exactly one month before--to the day. Bobby recently told me the story about his whole family being with his grandfather for so many days and nights in the hospital. When he died though, Bobby was home sleeping, he missed being there with him.

I walk out to the door to say good-bye to the relatives. After they leave, Bobby calls my name. “I don’t know what happened, Cheryl. He took two breathes a little louder than usual. I was waiting for him to take the next breath and… I don’t know what happened.”

I look at father’s still face, not laboring to breathe, “Bobby, he’s passed on. Look, he’s at peace.” I am only happy for father in that moment.

I do not yet realize I will never hear the phone ring again in the early evening and know it is father calling to ask about my day, calling to ask about each of his grandchildren. I do not yet realize I will ache to plant his garden with him in May. I do not yet realize no one on earth will feel my loss the exact same way, and a solitary mourning is coming.

“Bobby, you may have missed being with your Grandfather when he died, but you were there for my father. Thank you.”

Before I know it, father’s friends gather, saying they felt compelled to come over. Bobby calls the hospice nurse. She gives him instructions. Brett hugs me and says he is heading back to Virginia Beach.

He was here when we needed him--I had a good night’s sleep, Harold had help, and the day proceeded smoothly--and now he's gone.

Today I knew angels, and father met God.

21 "I know Lord, I know."

Day 21 - February 9

Jerry, father’s care pastor, promised to arrive at 7:30 this Saturday morning with helpers, to disassemble his king-size bed. They knock on the door, on time with power tools. I walk father down the hall to Marie and David’s to keep him out of the demolition and removal activities. Propped up on their living room recliner, while I scurry back and forth, he asks, “Marie, when is breakfast being served?” She offers to make him anything he desires. They settle on two poached eggs and toast.

The night before, arriving home from dialysis, we discovered a church member left a huge bowl of potato soup for us--with father's Polish background, easily one of his favorite dishes. Realizing he wasn’t strong enough to lift the spoon, I sat next to him on the sofa, helping as he relished the creamy delight.

This morning, with poached eggs, I sit once more offering up each spoonful. I think to myself--how smooth and unspoken this transition! I don’t ask him if he wants help. He doesn’t ask me to help him. We both accept and understand our roles with no hesitation or discussion.

A friend stops by to talk with father at Marie's. Melinda, with the exuberance of youth is studying the three Boston Cream Pie recipes father found, ready to choose one and begin baking. David and Marie field phone calls and cart casseroles to their van in preparation for a winter outing in Mendon Pond’s Park. Harold checks in on the bed operation and I speak on the phone with Steven. Both apartment doors remain open while sections of his bed march by and all of us walk back and forth for one reason or another.

Father looks up, and speaking loudly enough to be heard above it all, insists, “Who’s in charge here?”

We laugh, and though not feeling in charge, I answer, “I guess I am, Dad.” Steven, on the other end of the phone line says he's surprised father has to ask.

The laughter trails off, “Cher, what’s on the schedule today?”

I fill him in, "The hospice nurse at ten, then you can rest," echoing our past early morning exchanges.

She examines father, then fills our plate with a plethora of instructions and narcotics I am very hesitant to administer. He has only one question, “Does this mean I can eat anything I want?”

His diet has been severely restricted for years. “Yes, you can have anything you want. What would you like?”

Quickly he replies, “A bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich."

The nurse recommends we at least try the very smallest dose of medication for father’s discomfort, after which he sleeps the rest of the day. Awaking in early evening, his first words are, “May I have that BLT now?”

Melinda calls out from the kitchen, where not one, but two freshly baked Boston Cream Pies sit on his counter, and she is preparing dinner with special hors d’ourves for all of us, including the neighbors, “I’ll make it for you, Grandpa!”

She walks to the sofa where father sits against the pillows, nodding in and out of consciousness. “Here, Grandpa, I cut it in triangles for you, so it will be easier to take a bite.”

He smiles, but doesn’t waken. We try again, and with pleasure he bites down on one corner of that BLT triangle…then falls asleep again. Melinda surmises he will have a nice surprise in his mouth when he wakes up... and he does.

While he sleeps, we eat our grilled bacon-wrapped dates and aged cheeses sitting in the living room with father. He always loved entertaining guests, preparing special foods and serving them in fine style. We drink our juice in fancy wine glasses from Germany--Bobby, David, Harold, Melinda and I, celebrating father’s presence with every morsel and sip.

His words are few today. Mostly, he sleeps on the couch. In the afternoon we hear him speak from his sleep, as if in conversation, “Yes Lord, I know Lord, I know.” I wonder if God is telling him it's time to come home.

Melinda’s flight to Chicago is scheduled for 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. Before she turns in for the night, we walk to father's bedside.

“Dad, Melinda is leaving to go back to Chicago,” I speak loudly next to his ear. No response.

“Dad, can you wake up for a minute, Melinda wants to say good-bye?” Again, nothing. We stand by his bed for awhile.

Finally, Melinda says, “Grandpa, I love you.”

He opens his eyes, wide, looking up at her. With clarity, conviction and a tender smile on his face, he tells her, “Melinda, I love you too.”

“Bye, Grandpa.”