The month of April is almost over for 2022. As I pondered my usual “what shall I write about this week” question, several ideas came to mind but I quickly dismissed them. The topics I thought about would only cause me internal angst….maybe upset some people who don’t think and believe like I do…or fell into the category of “you already wrote about that…” As I sat down to my laptop to check email, banking sites, etc. my thoughts wandered to the month of April as I also addressed a birthday card for a family member. As I wrote out a greeting to her, I realized how many birthdays we celebrate in the month of April alone. These days of celebration span a few decades and each person whose special day falls in this beautiful early spring month is a special and unique person in our family. The first ones that come to memory are two uncles who actually shared the same birthday, April 1. They are Uncle Virgil–or Bud–as I called him. Secondly, Uncle Lyle. Both men were older brothers to my dad. Born several years apart, they were also very different from one another. Uncle Bud worked many jobs raising his large family; Uncle Lyle was a career officer in the U.S. Air Force, a fighter pilot in World War II. Lyle had a large family, too. I wasn’t particularly close to my Uncle Bud…I got to know Uncle Lyle better as an adult when his retirement from Service allowed more visits back to Michigan. In 1987 we visited him when he lived in Sacramento and I was able to fly out to say my goodbyes when cancer was taking him from us.

Next on my “top list” is my husband. He was born April 7, arriving early weighing 3 lbs. 3 ounces, with a hernia and club feet to challenge his doctors in 1956. Both ailments were corrected and he thrived with no further complications. His brother Paul joined the family on April 10. Though he was fine at birth it was Paul who caused my in-laws to make numerous visits to the ER due to injuries associated with being a kid at play. He’s also the one my husband fed worms to while Mom K. did some gardening in the yard. Youngest brother John arrived on April 30. He had to be delivered by C-section due to the size of his head. He was more of the jokester of the three…loved babies and kids…could be fairly precocious himself…as an adult gave everyone a nickname and took on the beloved title “the baby whisperer”. He left us way too soon a few years ago….I hate cancer (that’s another topic for another day).

Our first granddaughter was born April 6–opening day of baseball season that year! (to the delight of her dad who is an avid Boston Red Sox fan). She needed some help getting here, too, so an emergency C-section ushered her into all the loving arms waiting for her, us, grandparents on her daddy’s side, aunts, uncles. She’s 7 now and continues to amaze us with her kindness, charm, insight, and how hard she loves everyone.

Our second granddaughter came on April 2. Because her momma is a Type I diabetic, her birth was scheduled. She was born in 2020 when Covid was at the top of the list for the most dangerous threats to society. We were able to  meet her once she got home. This beautiful two year old has the most infectious smile, loves hard, and is affectionately called “Siss” or my fav to hear from her momma, “Sissy Britches”. I am excited to see how she continues to develop who she is as a uniquely created little girl.

My oldest brother’s wife celebrates her birthday on April 20. She came into our family when I was 14 and became an older sister in many ways. I thought it was so cool to have a brother get married when I was that age, be in their wedding and later become an aunt to their three daughters! Stacey, their oldest, was born April 22. She’s now 54 which absolutely blows my mind. She’s more like a little sister now. Our phone conversations always last at least an hour. The youngest daughter, Erin, came along on April 29, 11 years younger than her older sister. I can remember being told about the pregnancy by Stacey, thinking my dear niece was daydreaming or spinning a yarn…nope, baby Erin was born, joining our growing family and was a delight to all. 

These special April birthdays span from the 1920s to the 2000s. Much has changed how babies come into our world…two uncles born at home on the family farm…hospital deliveries either with the natural order of labor pains or surgical intervention….waiting for delivery to “see” what the baby was to today’s technology of ultrasound which reveals the precious gender so names can be chosen, rooms prepared, parties to shower each newborn with the appropriate clothing and accessories. 

Psalm 127 has a verse that reads: “Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are children born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.”  My grandmother, who was the mother to my dad and his 10 siblings always said that children were precious…every single one…She was able to say that of her own 12 (one preemie death)…and eventually the 50+ grandchildren that came from her 11 children. She had a lot of wisdom, tremendous and ample love to give to her very large family. She alone, along with grandpa, had to wear several quivers in my opinion to hold all of her “precious arrows”. Although my personal quiver doesn’t need to be as large compared to hers to hold my blessings, it has been a  special honor to have added arrow after arrow each time “new life” was born. Not sure what the next 20 years will look like, but I’m certainly open to adding some more April birthdays when other special blessings come my way, Lord willing.

The show is in its final season now. The three Pierson babies are now 40. Dad died when they were 17. Mom is remarried. She’s still the focal point of their lives–with a lot of codependent behavior going on–but most moving is that she now has dementia. Earlier episodes began to disclose the onset of the disease and her determination to rise above its symptoms, taking charge of decisions for her life while she is able. Very subtly I’ve watched each week, picking up on how Rebecca is slowly going deeper into her world that is leaving her without the ability to remember small details of her past….looks of anguish as she searches the air for a word she cannot find….the latter, how in a particular plot line she could not remember the word “caboose”. It was part of a storybook she had read many times to her children. Try as she may, her struggle to pull the word from the air could not and did not come. She was reduced to describing “caboose” as “you know, the car that comes at the end of the train…” She knew “where” it belonged, but was unable to call it by name.

I share this with you because watching this beautiful fictional woman poetry the throes of dementia have hit very close to home. In 2009 we moved our dad from his home to assisted living. His own dementia had begun slowly and we kids needed to intervene and place him in a living arrangement that offered him protection, care, and socialization. He died in 2012, unable to converse for a good amount of time prior to his death. While that was hard, in between times of watching him lose vocabulary, the ability to communicate was likened to death. Every time he took one step further into the world of dementia, my heart sank. 

I remember when dad had a similar experience to Rebecca’s, trying to pull a word out of the air. He had put on his shoes and was attempting to tie them. After fumbling a bit, he looked up at me and asked “will you help me tie my….um….my…..these ‘connectors’”. Ah, the word shoelaces was gone but the concept of their purpose remained in a diminished cognitive moment.

When dad first moved into a higher level of memory care, one of the administrators casually asked me what dad had done for a career. “Why, he retired as the chief building inspector for the City of Saginaw”. She giggled. That explains it, she said! “Your dad walks around the building looking at the handrails, door frames, etc.” In a few days she had given him a clipboard and pencil so he could “make notes” of his findings. She entered “his world” and offered dignity and purpose to a man who no longer understood purpose, but somehow it bubbled to the surface with actions that came from deep embedded memories that were trapped in the remote memory known only to dad and God at this point. 

My fictional friend Rebecca is slipping away, right before the eyes of her loving family and all of us Pierson family fans. Admittedly it’s hard to watch. With each fail, each struggle, every empty look I am stung by my own REAL life episodes of my dad’s disease. I continuously remind myself that dad’s three years of living with dementia does not define who he was as a man, a husband, a dad, grandfather, brother. He had 80+ years of a very vibrant life! Over the course of those 80 years he had coined a phrase “family is everything”. It was his simple way of letting us know that material possessions didn’t compare to what family offers. This little phrase was one that stuck with him even when other words, deep conversation were gone. 

On the day of his move into his last home–Meadowview–myself, my brothers, their wives, and a few of the grandchildren worked together getting his bed set up, clothes put away, pictures hung. It was dark, time for us to return to our homes, and allow dad to adjust to her new surroundings. My niece Ashley and I had followed dad into the darkness of his bedroom. He had moved a small footstool to the side of his bed and asked us to kneel. Dad knelt in front of the stool and through a moment of great clarity “Thanked the Lord for this day, for this family…”A little footstool had become an altar, a place of prayer, that created a memory that I will cherish forever. 

“Family is everything”…in life and even in the wonderful dramas portrayed on television. I think we can learn a lot from both worlds. Afterall, those are real people telling a story written from stuff that  happens in many families. I know how my dad’s own “story” ended. In the remaining episodes of my beloved TV series, Rebecca’s story will be told in its finality and I’ll be front and center to see how it all ends….

In this moment, dad was struggling to tell me what he was thinking.  By the grasping of our hands, the deep look into each other’s eyes he was attempting to communicate that “Family is Everything”. 

Holy Week Reflections

Ah, it’s Holy Week 2022. It’s Wednesday. Already my thoughts and emotions are being stirred as though someone has entered my mind to mix and blend everything inside into one big bowl of unsettled feelings….yesterday was a wonderful day. The sun was shining. The air was warm. I had our grandson for the day and life was grand. I went to bed feeling a good tired, my heart full of contentment, satisfaction, and joy. I slept the night away, though a bit fitfully, and woke at 8 am. I made my way to the coffee pot of fresh brew which is always waiting for me…grabbed my phone…sat down in my prayer chair as I picked up my Bible, prayer journal and pen…and then a shift from sleepy eyes to ones being overcome by tears began to slowly invade the quiet of my room and spirit. My awareness that I am in the throes of Holy Week washed over me like an unexpected gentle rain. Memories of past Holy Weeks began to flood me with images and a deep longing for loved ones who are now gone, mainly my parents….remembering also the significance of Holy Week 1979, my first true appreciation for the work of the Cross as a new creation in Christ, having given my life to Him that year on Ash Wednesday.

This morning I found myself being drawn to how a variety of music offers to inspire the listener. There were the Gaither men with “Jesus Messiah”….Andrea Bocelli and his lovely daughter with “Hallelujah” as well as he with Celine Dion singing “The Prayer”….followed up and ending with a recording by S.M. Lockridge “It’s Friday But Sunday’s Coming”. (that 3 minute video will be my Good Friday social media post for the day)

With tears slowly making their way down from the corners of my eyes, I thought of my own vocal work which began in my teens and carried through to adulthood. I remember my first major solo in a Holy Week cantata at our church. I was thrilled for the opportunity and scared out of my mind, all at the same time. The evening of the presentation had arrived and I paced back and forth in my parents’ living room waiting for my best friend to come get me. She was singing, too. We shared the same love for music, she an alto and me a soprano. In my mixed bag of emotions as I paced I questioned “why” I had agreed to performing a few solos in the cantata. My choir director had convinced me I had the voice. I was not convinced I possessed the confidence or the ability to overcome knocking knees and a stomach that felt like I had been riding roller coasters all afternoon.

But, my writing today isn’t about ME and those years of singing, although they certainly hold a very dear spot in my bank of precious memories. The words and thoughts I’m bringing you today are mere attempts to describe my heart as I anticipate Maundy Thursday tomorrow, followed up by Good Friday in two days, two very hard days for our Christ, yet without the horrific pain of an arrest, betrayals, torture among accusations from an unruly crowd and religious leaders–all who were instrumental in fulfilling God’s plan to redeem a cruel world–Sunday cannot come with all its glory and overshadowing of darkness and death!

In March of 2019 my husband and I traveled to Israel. We visited the Garden Tomb which is considered to be the actual burial place of Christ. As you can see from the photo, the space inside is not large by any means. A small platform serves as a step up to enter. The garden where this tomb is carved in the surrounding rock is beautiful. Trees, plants and flowers fill the edges of the walking paths. There are benches to sit and enjoy the beauty. There is a line to the tomb where inspired visitors from all over the world come to “see” the place where the body of Christ was laid some 2,000 years ago. When it was my turn to step up on the platform and gaze at the uneven rock inside, drawn to the crevices among the hard surfaces, I could not fully grasp that I may indeed be standing on the very spot that His body was laid on a Friday….a body ripped and shredded, drained…wrapped in burial cloths….waiting for the third day following  death on a cross to an explosion of glorious life….a moment in history that has forever changed the world…but more important…changed me. 

I’ll end today with something my father said to me. “Susan, everyone loves Christmas. It’s when we celebrate the birth of Christ. Christmas is like a slice of cake. But Easter puts the frosting on that sliver of cake. Easter is what Jesus is truly about.”…..I pray that if you are reading this, that the events of Holy Week take on the time of your own reflection. You don’t need the actual experience of visiting the Garden Tomb to see that it’s empty. Trust me, as I said, I’ve been there. All that’s present is a hole in the rock wall, crevices, rough sides and a sense of holiness that is indescribable, a holiness worthy of being humble in posture and attitude to pause, become quiet, turn off all the noise from the world, and participate in the miraculous power that was operating from Thursday until Sunday some 2,000 years ago. 

A favorite year round activity that I enjoy is that of feeding our local birds. These tiny visitors to our yard provide beauty and pleasant interruptions to a cold wintry day or warm spring mornings, especially when windows can be open to allow gentle breezes to bring in the melodic sounds of whatever “bird choir” is performing….we’ve got our share of crows, sparrows, cardinals, morning doves, woodpeckers, bluebirds, spackles, finches. Even noisy blue jays are welcome although I don’t like how they bother the robins’ nests that are buried high in our pine trees.

I’ve always thought I can learn a lot from these tiny creatures that live in and around our property. Every morning when I wake up, I walk out to my dark kitchen to pour my first cup of coffee–thank you to my husband who sets up the pot to brew right on time!–my second stop is the container holding bird seed. Currently, we don’t have any fancy bird feeders; we simply scatter the seed on the deck railing. Before long, our little visitors come and enjoy their meal. I have no way of knowing if I’m providing breakfast or a mere extension of their dining experience that probably began long before my getting up at 7:30 am. Their 5 and 6 am chatter gives me a hint they’ve been about their day much sooner than to my liking…

Do my little friends “know” that I will put out seed for them? Have they come to rely on me doing so? What if I forget? Will I disappoint them or cause small bellies to worry about where or what they will eat? My imagination that tries to conjure up thoughts, worries, questions from their world causes me to reflect on my own daily needs and where I find sustenance for my day.

I awaken to a new day–Lord willing–forgetting that God Himself has not slumbered nor slept. The mere fact that a sovereign God does not require physical rest like I do is a concept I may never comprehend but still fascinates and assures me at the same time of His power to protect and watch over me. I’m blessed to get a simple cup of freshly brewed coffee and make my way to my prayer corner where my Bible, journals, pens are waiting, carefully arranged on a table after meeting with Him yesterday. I sit down, sip my coffee, while opening a current devotional on my Bible app–technology is great for all the right reasons!–and dig into listening and reading the assigned verses for “today”….I don’t have to go far to find my “daily bread”. It’s here waiting. It’s been provided by Him. His scriptures are alive and active for me. All I have to do is look, come, and feast from the bounty of His written Word.

My cozy prayer chair is my personal deck rail that is laden with all that I need each morning…scripture…music through my phone….light from a lamp illuminating the pages of my Bible as I read…shining on my journal as I pen my thoughts and needs for myself and loved ones. It’s to this beloved corner of a bedroom that I come, knowing that God is ready to meet with me, to actually “feast” with Him, to talk or sing about what a new day will offer me with each passing hour. Do I know that God has brought His Word to me? Yes. Is He aware that I am grateful? Yes, I remember to thank Him every morning. Does He fill my belly with good things? Yes, He does, sometimes to overflowing.

Yes, I can learn a lot from the beauty and habits of the various birds that visit our yard. I can also remember that “God’s eye is on the sparrow…and surely He watches over me”. He sees me. He protects me. He sustains me. And He does all of this 24/7 without need of rest. Or a fresh cup of coffee for a quick pick-me-up although I’d like to think He does enjoy a good hot mug of heavenly brew!