My Last Tribute to Papa

Our papa may have been a man of few words, but his life was a living example to us.  He was a doer by nature. He was  a hard worker both on the job and at home.   

He was busy doing dishes, or sweeping floors, doing yardwork, piddling away in the garage, or taking us out on cardboard hunts. The station wagon, a back yard perfect to get lost in, and a bar with slippery floors for spinning were a kid’s delight.  Growing up, his bark was way bigger than his bite. He teased us, he gave heavy handed birthday spankings and if you passed by him too closely, you might get a, “skeetz. . .”  

Papa was present in all the moments that mattered most to us.  I remember fondly the day I gave birth to Anjalene, his first great grand-daughter, named in part for his love, Angela.  He sat in the waiting room until after midnight to welcome her into this world. And my brothers would agree, he was at birthday parties, games, confirmations, graduations, weddings, and births until his knees started slowing  him down.  Alan and I will always have the memory of vacationing in Hawaii with him.  Seeing Pearl Harbor after years of hearing his war stories was a moment we won’t soon forget. There were always stories of serving in Italy with John Wayne told time after time. Papa’s love of westerns ran deep and were often playing when we stopped by for a visit. It was easy to get lost in a “shoot em up cowboy” movie with him.

But in the end, it wasn’t Papa’s service that made him one of the bravest men we knew. At 91, he  willingly and confidently stared death eye to eye day in and day out over the last couple of years.  Bravery became waking up each day and still being here, despite a set of knees that were becoming increasingly uncooperative and were limiting his ability to get out and socialize. To be brave is to confidently know where we are going when this life is over, palms uplifted, to offer ourselves as the sacrifice.  That is bravery.  And there he was, glasses on, prayer book in place, rosary in hands: praying.  His very life had become a living prayer.

His body ached and the only thing that probably brought any type of real joy to his confined life the last four months was the hope of heaven.   We didn't see fear when we looked into his eyes. There was  a peace about him because he knew what awaits.  He knew there would be a grand reception and his soul would be set free from the body that was failing him in his old age.   He was ready.  He wanted to be called home.  He wanted God to usher him into the promised land.

So from bed, he prayed diligently.  He prayed with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in our God.  He didn’t fear his death.  He welcomed it.  And that brings us comfort. . . that God would guide papa to the ultimate peace, the peace we have looked for our entire lives, but could not be found until our final moment on this earth.  His homecoming, surrounded by all of our love and prayers, was a beautiful moment.

The last words he spoke to me mid-week when I asked, “How are you?” was his traditional response, only this time whispered, “Still here.”  It was in that moment that his answer became the window into his soul.  He had poured into our lives in his own silent, strong way since the day of our births.  The power and depth of his words weren’t lost on me.  He will always be here, in our hearts for as long as we live and his legacy will be his love.

Promises

"Because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace." Luke 1:78-79 (NIV)

I saw this and immediately thought of papa.  His ninety-one and a half years on this earth has been lengthy.  I have no idea how long he has remaining, as there isn't a diagnosis that we have to go off of, but I know he's tired.  His body aches and the only thing that probably brings any type of joy to his confined life is the hope of heaven.  And what a promise he has in his heart.  

I don't see fear when I look into his eyes. There's a peace about him because he knows what awaits.  He knows there will be a grand reception and his soul will be set free from the body that is failing him in his old age.   He is ready.  He wants to be called home.  He wants God to usher him into the promised land.  He doesn't mind leaving behind the legacy he was a part of creating because his physical work here is done.

From bed, he prays diligently.  He prays with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in God.  He doesn't fear his death.  He welcomes it.  And that brings me comfort. . .knowing what a tender and loving God we have, that he would guide papa to the ultimate peace.  The peace we have all looked for our entire lives, but could not find until our final moment.  It will be a beautiful thing: his homecoming.  Until then, we will love him well.

Desert Delight

Me: a really long time ago

A couple of weeks ago, I did something I don't care too much for.  I took one for the team and said, "Yes" to a day trip to the desert.  I am not a desert girl.  I may have grown up going there with my grandparents, but eventually when the dust settled, I realized the desert was not for me.

Our 1st trip out in the Polaris

One of the original desert trips

It must have been the experience of being with my grandparents that made desert life so appealing when I was a kid.  My grandma always had a stocked pantry in the trailer and there was always plenty to do with the cousins.  My grandpa would take me out in the dune buggy and not try to terrify me.  We would go at a safe, sane speed and he would point out rocks and trails and things of interest.  The wind and dirt in my face might have been considered fun then, because I was with the greatest grandpa on earth.  My grandpa was so kind, gentle, funny, and such a good husband.  He was easy to be around and when I think about it now, I could see Jesus through him.  He was always offering help, attending assemblies and such when parents couldn't, he would drop off and pick up so visits could happen. . .and he treated my grandma like a princess. He loved her and it showed.

Arlene and Shelby Gaul: your maternal Great Grandparents

My grandpa was the gentle one; the one we went on walks with looking for aluminum cans. the one who watched us play at the park. He was the one with the loudest laugh and the happiest heart.  All I remember is love.  That guy. . .in the yellow Volvo until it was no longer safe to drive was such an easy man to be around and love.  My first ride on the Amtrack train was with him, a trip to my first trout farm, and I remember a metal dingy boat on some water I think might have been Salton Sea.  His snoring was fierce and comforting, his presence loud and known even in slumber.  Grandpa Shelby was a good man.

I'm so happy Bean got to know him.  He got to love her. . .even if it was only for a little while.

Grandpa Shelby at Lene Bean's Baptism

 This man whom Ernie called, "Chief"  meant a lot to me.  I don't know that I even realized how much until he was already gone.  He was always in the background. . .I realize my grandma performed actions out of love, but in such a way that sometimes she was impatient or rough around the edges.  My grandpa; however, did what he did out of love: with gentleness and pure enthusiasm.  We were never a burden.  I always felt like I was a gift.  And therein lies the greatest gift I long to leave my kids.  The legacy of love colored brightly by our love of Christ who loved us first.

Great Grandpa Shelby Gaul and me on my wedding day.  He got out of the hospital THAT morning!

The Dream

I remember this one time I had a dream that came back to me in the middle of math class my Senior year. As I looked at some crazy trigonometry notes, there in the middle of a bunch of numbers I had written:  I saw Nana in a white room and she talked to me.  I was weirded out. I had to leave the room, not knowing what it meant but knowing it had to mean something.  As I walked around my big, open, high school campus, it came back to me in bits and pieces and I needed to get to my papa's to let him know, his wife who had died almost a year ago. . .was fine.  She visited me just so she could give me this message for him.

Even now, this dream is so meaningful on so many levels.  I don't remember dreams.  I'm not sure if I truly don't have them or if I just wake up and do not remember a thing.  But I'll always remember that one.  It's like my Nana chose me on that day to be a messenger to my Papa, who was still visiting the cemetery daily for hours on end.  In fact, when I did find him later that afternoon,  it was in front of her grave, in his parked car, out in the rain.  And he had tears in his eyes as I told him the parts of the dream that I could remember.  I recently told this dream to the kids.  For never having met their Nana, anytime they see a blue bird fly across the sky, they call out to me.  They don't want me to miss the opportunity to catch a glimpse. . .of Nana (a bird lover).

There's certain things I remember about my Nana as a little girl.  I often wonder what quirky things my own kids will remember about their grandma when they are older.  For example, my Nana always prayed before we drove somewhere.  She usually had a damp washcloth with her, and she spent hours in a dark bedroom or perfectly applying her make up in her bathroom. I remember vividly us around a kitchen table, and having to stay out of her perfect, formal living room with the plastic covered furniture.  I remember singing, lots of singing.

I remember a station wagon, and my song about the pink jacket.  I remember her chicken mole and the tight pigtails she could make.  I remember these seemingly meaningless things that mean something now because I actually remember.  Her only brother often would remark "Ah, Angela," when I would say hello or good-bye and turn my cheek up to accept a kiss without giving one in return. . .and there was always a sense delight in me with the realization that I was some how like her, even in such a simple way.

Angela, part of our daughter's namesake. . .memories that seem a lifetime ago, but gratitude that they're my memories for the taking and sharing in this sacred place. It is here I recount to my children so that my legacy might one day live on. . .maybe it will be the gift of my words, sharing our family history that they might always remember who they come from and who we strive to be.
"In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps" (Prov. 16:9). 

Living and Leaving

I went to a funeral today for Ofie and got to thinking. . .as one usually does when they are paying their respects and listening to the eulogies and words from loved ones.  I was happy to hear that Ofie was blessed with four grandchildren.  And I thought of her fierce desire and enthusiasm for becoming a grandma.  She radiated joy with just the thought of what a grandchild would mean in her life.  She was so interested in my babies and what they were doing and saying.  I tell you, her daughter and son in law were planning a wedding and her mind was already on the grand babies.  And I couldn't help but wonder at God's glory for planting that desire into her heart early on so that when the babies came...she embraced every little second. I bet no time was wasted. She knew what a gift they were: the gifts she had been waiting for and so she became "amma," whole-heartedly and completely. And then she was gone too soon, but what little time she had with her grand kids, it sounds like she made it count.

The funeral came on the day after a long awaited family dinner.  I think the last time we may have all been together was early September.  It is now November.  Too long.  Too much time has passed.  Too much busy not enough rest.  Sundays at our house has become a day to go to church together and then rest, watch some tv, go for a walk, only do minimal cleaning. . .and eat a good dinner.  That has been on my to-do list for the last two months, and it's working.  It's a nice, calm way to end our weekend and reconnect before the new one throws any curve balls at us.  But I really wanted my kids to have some scheduled time with their grandparents and cousins.  I was happy to ask for once a month but to my delight we agreed to try twice a month!  That makes my heart full.

Sometimes, I must admit,  I feel like the odd man out--But listening at Ofie's funeral today, I was reminded of how she walked in her faith and upheld her convictions in a way that wasn't preachy or arrogant.  I knew she loved God by the way I saw her love people.  Obviously, God and her family came first and it comforted me to feel like I am walking down a similar path with my family--we might not look like everyone else, but it's who God is calling us to be.  I have to chuckle as the words I speak to the teens and tween come back to me, "Right is always right even if no one is doing it.  Wrong is always wrong even if everyone is doing it."  Sometimes being different is being who God wants you to be.  Ultimately, my goal is to meet my maker and for my kids to know and love the Lord so we will love as many as we can along the way. I think Ofie and I had a lot in common.  I do.

So today we walked to ballet, pointing out butterflies and birds along the way.  This afternoon, I walked around the lake while the kids ran.  I breathed in the beauty that was before me.  All of it. And tonight, we danced in the kitchen after dinner to "God of This City."  And this little one fell asleep listening to her dad reading Charlotte's Web aloud to her. And the day was a gift. . . so we decided to live it as such.

One day she will no longer sneak into our bed in the middle of the night. . .and I will miss her.

I get to be there for this.

And this.

And this.

And this.

“We are the windows through which our children first see the world. Let us be conscious of the view.” 
― Katrina Kenison
Children are a heritage from the Lord,
    offspring a reward from him.
4 Like arrows in the hands of a warrior
    are children born in one’s youth.
5 Blessed is the man    whose quiver is full of them.
Psalm 127:3-5