I miss her
I found this lying on my desk today. It's a letter from A Friend of the familly to my mother. The women spoken of us was like a second mother to me. I don't know why the letter surfaced, since it was dated back in august of 2004. I posted it not really for anyone else to read it but for myself to save it forever. This journal has become more of an online filling cabinet. Just thought I would use you as a sounding board for some of the random thoughts going through my head these days. I spend a little too much time in my head sometimes, I think, - a dangerous place for me to be. As a friend of mine said, "I may not be much, but I'm all I think about!"
But anyway, I am just coming out of a two or three week funk that started when we went on vacation to Yellowstone. Stephen, Adam and I spent a week there with my brother Russ and sister Sandy and their families. It was a good trip; we saw and did a lot of good vacation things, but underneath it all was the current of disappointment that Connie was not with us. I still cannot even think about it without welling up with tears; it wasn't s'posed to be this way. Yes, I know she is in a better place, and I really believe she is happier there (more on this later), but I am still so disappointed. I keep thinking of how we would have enjoyed things together, how proud she would have been of seeing our two boys in action, and on and on.
Today as I was walking in the park I passed a bridge that we restored a couple of summers ago. One spring we discovered the bridge that used to be at the upper end of the atheletic field down at the other end of the field where the spring floods had deposited it. I gathered up my kids and a bunch of their friends that were visiting and we picked the bridge up and carried it back where it belonged. Then I grabbed a couple of telephone poles and laid them across the creek so the bridge could be laid over them without fear of washing out again. When the time came to set the 12 foot bridge back in place, I did not have a ready labor supply; Connie was the only one around. So I got a bunch of pipes and poles and fence posts that we could set up as rollers, and Connie, being the good sport that she was, helped me roll it back into place. She never thought of herself as physically strong, but she was willing to try and to help.
And that reminds me of the time when she was seven months pregnant with Heather and I was nearing completion of the basement project in our old house. I had the brainstorm that instead of renting a 32 ton jack to lift the house off the old foundation support, I set up a piece of telephone pole and a series of wedges to lift the house. While I held onto the telephone pole and the wedges, Connie beat them into place with a sledgehammer, lifting the house the quarter inch we needed! Everybody thought of Connie as a "Girly-girl", and she was, but she still had a lot of hutzpa underneath that lovely exterior.
I was talking with one of our dear friends the other day about Connie, and she shared with me how amazed she was at Connie's ability to take in stride things that would stress a lot of us out. One day she had to physically restrain one of her students who was out of control on the playground. The kid was almost too strong for her, but she knew the proper "take down" procedure and got the boy's arms wrapped around himself, and then sank to the ground, using her weight to bring him down, too. Then she asked one of the other students to go and ask the principle to come and help her. That evening as she told our friend about it, she did not indulge in theatrics about how shaken she was, having to hang onto this kid for quite a while to keep him from hurting himself, biting, kicking and screaming until help arrived. She did a lot of things like that, with genuine courage, willingness to face and endure difficulties, without complaining.
I am also aware of the depth of comfort that she provided me. When I was overwhelmed or frustrated at my job or employees, or even my own occasional ineptness, she was consistently a good listener, and I almost always felt better after talking things out with her. We spent a lot of time talking about our dreams for the future, and out of those dreams we accomplished many good things together. Our kids, home, church, cabin, neighborhood and school activities, vacation and retirement plans; I guess one of the biggest things I mourn is the loss of some of those dreams. Sometimes I feel like there is nothing to look forward to other than heaven. I can easily understand how often spouses do not last long beyond the loss of their mate; the whole is just too big, the pain runs way too deep for me to handle.
In the last few weeks I have been feeling pretty sorry for myself, and I have also had a lot of the "anger stage" of grief: why couldn't God have healed her again, (dammit)(pardon my french). We had so much to live for, so much to do, and we had gotten to the point in our love where we each knew that we could and would be the "love of our life" to each other, not just in word but in deed as well. We actually took the time now and then to say, "What would make you feel really loved right now?" and we tried to understand and talk each others love languages, both giving and receiving. Why did it have to end!?
Even as I say that, I know better. When I ask "Why?" I am trying to be God and have all the answers, but I don't and I'm not. And I do know that God has not abandoned me or my kids, or left us to our own devices; He will still come through for us just as He has in the past.
For something like ten or fifteen years I have not remembered dreams when I wake up. So it came as something of a surprise when I woke up on the day of the sixth month anniversary of Connie's passing and remembered the dream I had of her. In fact, it seemed quite a bit more of a visitation than a dream: I was talking with Connie, and burning within me was the disappointment I felt over not having been able to say goodby before she went comatose that day. She was seated in the dream, utterly at peace, so much so that she seemed preoccupied, perhaps enthralled is a better word, much more aware of the goodness she had graduated to than the "things of earth...grown strangely dim". I told her how much missed her, and with fond sympathy she simply said "I know". That's all I remember, but it spoke so clearly to me that she knows what is going on but she has moved on to better things. I have to let her go. I have spent a lot of effort avoiding thinking about her because it is too painful; now I am ready to start remembering with gratitude.
Donna, thanks for listening. You have always been a great listener and a good friend to all of us. Mo' later.
John
I miss you Connie
But anyway, I am just coming out of a two or three week funk that started when we went on vacation to Yellowstone. Stephen, Adam and I spent a week there with my brother Russ and sister Sandy and their families. It was a good trip; we saw and did a lot of good vacation things, but underneath it all was the current of disappointment that Connie was not with us. I still cannot even think about it without welling up with tears; it wasn't s'posed to be this way. Yes, I know she is in a better place, and I really believe she is happier there (more on this later), but I am still so disappointed. I keep thinking of how we would have enjoyed things together, how proud she would have been of seeing our two boys in action, and on and on.
Today as I was walking in the park I passed a bridge that we restored a couple of summers ago. One spring we discovered the bridge that used to be at the upper end of the atheletic field down at the other end of the field where the spring floods had deposited it. I gathered up my kids and a bunch of their friends that were visiting and we picked the bridge up and carried it back where it belonged. Then I grabbed a couple of telephone poles and laid them across the creek so the bridge could be laid over them without fear of washing out again. When the time came to set the 12 foot bridge back in place, I did not have a ready labor supply; Connie was the only one around. So I got a bunch of pipes and poles and fence posts that we could set up as rollers, and Connie, being the good sport that she was, helped me roll it back into place. She never thought of herself as physically strong, but she was willing to try and to help.
And that reminds me of the time when she was seven months pregnant with Heather and I was nearing completion of the basement project in our old house. I had the brainstorm that instead of renting a 32 ton jack to lift the house off the old foundation support, I set up a piece of telephone pole and a series of wedges to lift the house. While I held onto the telephone pole and the wedges, Connie beat them into place with a sledgehammer, lifting the house the quarter inch we needed! Everybody thought of Connie as a "Girly-girl", and she was, but she still had a lot of hutzpa underneath that lovely exterior.
I was talking with one of our dear friends the other day about Connie, and she shared with me how amazed she was at Connie's ability to take in stride things that would stress a lot of us out. One day she had to physically restrain one of her students who was out of control on the playground. The kid was almost too strong for her, but she knew the proper "take down" procedure and got the boy's arms wrapped around himself, and then sank to the ground, using her weight to bring him down, too. Then she asked one of the other students to go and ask the principle to come and help her. That evening as she told our friend about it, she did not indulge in theatrics about how shaken she was, having to hang onto this kid for quite a while to keep him from hurting himself, biting, kicking and screaming until help arrived. She did a lot of things like that, with genuine courage, willingness to face and endure difficulties, without complaining.
I am also aware of the depth of comfort that she provided me. When I was overwhelmed or frustrated at my job or employees, or even my own occasional ineptness, she was consistently a good listener, and I almost always felt better after talking things out with her. We spent a lot of time talking about our dreams for the future, and out of those dreams we accomplished many good things together. Our kids, home, church, cabin, neighborhood and school activities, vacation and retirement plans; I guess one of the biggest things I mourn is the loss of some of those dreams. Sometimes I feel like there is nothing to look forward to other than heaven. I can easily understand how often spouses do not last long beyond the loss of their mate; the whole is just too big, the pain runs way too deep for me to handle.
In the last few weeks I have been feeling pretty sorry for myself, and I have also had a lot of the "anger stage" of grief: why couldn't God have healed her again, (dammit)(pardon my french). We had so much to live for, so much to do, and we had gotten to the point in our love where we each knew that we could and would be the "love of our life" to each other, not just in word but in deed as well. We actually took the time now and then to say, "What would make you feel really loved right now?" and we tried to understand and talk each others love languages, both giving and receiving. Why did it have to end!?
Even as I say that, I know better. When I ask "Why?" I am trying to be God and have all the answers, but I don't and I'm not. And I do know that God has not abandoned me or my kids, or left us to our own devices; He will still come through for us just as He has in the past.
For something like ten or fifteen years I have not remembered dreams when I wake up. So it came as something of a surprise when I woke up on the day of the sixth month anniversary of Connie's passing and remembered the dream I had of her. In fact, it seemed quite a bit more of a visitation than a dream: I was talking with Connie, and burning within me was the disappointment I felt over not having been able to say goodby before she went comatose that day. She was seated in the dream, utterly at peace, so much so that she seemed preoccupied, perhaps enthralled is a better word, much more aware of the goodness she had graduated to than the "things of earth...grown strangely dim". I told her how much missed her, and with fond sympathy she simply said "I know". That's all I remember, but it spoke so clearly to me that she knows what is going on but she has moved on to better things. I have to let her go. I have spent a lot of effort avoiding thinking about her because it is too painful; now I am ready to start remembering with gratitude.
Donna, thanks for listening. You have always been a great listener and a good friend to all of us. Mo' later.
John
I miss you Connie