"Mom, please, it'll be okay. I just want us to sit there on the sand and eat the Jell-O and think about Dad. We can dress warm and we'll take a blanket."
I thought I'd done a good job of helping Andrew adjust to his father's death these past two years as I tried to be the best "only" parent a child could have. But I wasn't sure about this early morning ceremony thing at the beach. As he waited for my answer, the pleading look on his face told me how much his idea meant to him.
"All right, Andrew," I said reluctantly. "We'll have to get up at 5:15 if you want to get there while it's still dark."
"No problem, Mom! I'll set my alarm. Do you think Wayne would come if I ask him?"
I wondered what Wayne, the man I'd been dating for a couple of months, would think about Andrew's plan. Wayne's wife had died just two months after Harold, and I knew Wayne was still dealing with his own grief. I didn't know if it was fair to drag him along to Andrew's strange beach ceremony.
That afternoon, Wayne stopped by the house while I was stirring the red Jell-O. Andrew launched into his plan.
"So, Wayne, do you want to go? The sunrise will be great!"
"Sure, Andrew, I'm glad you asked me."
I shot Wayne a look that said, "Are you sure about this?" Then I said, "Do you realize it's going to be only 20
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degrees tomorrow morning? With the wind off the lake, the wind-chill factor will probably be below zero!"
Wayne smiled, "It'll be a great adventure."
The next morning as Wayne pulled up in front of our house, Andrew and I greeted him in our full winter gear. Both of us were wearing jogging suits under our heavy winter coats, hats and mittens. I had earmuffs on under my hat.
I tossed an old green bedspread into Wayne's van then retrieved the Jell-O from the refrigerator.
A few minutes later, in the pitch dark, we arrived at Grant Park Beach in South Milwaukee, the only humans in sight. Naturally, I thought, nobody else in his right mind would be here at this time in this cold!
Wayne and Andrew smoothed the bedspread on the sand about 30 feet from the jet black water. We snuggled close to the front of the bedspread and pulled the back half up around our bodies as a windbreak.
For a few minutes, Andrew's "silence" rule made me uncomfortable. But then I looked at Wayne and Andrew and knew that they were both remembering and missing the person they had loved so much in life.
I knew Wayne was thinking about the wonderful relationship he'd had with his beloved Janet, his wife of 31 years. And without a doubt, Andrew was thinking about Harold. About the walks they took along the lake. About the plays and concerts his father had taken him to. About their trip to Florida just two months before he died.
I looked at them, concentrating on those warm, wonderful memories and suddenly my heart softened. Could it be that Andrew is on to something by having this ceremony? I wondered.
I pulled the green spread tighter around my neck and recalled a verse in Philippians 4:8 that said: "Fix your thoughts on what is true and good and right. Think about
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things that are pure and lovely, and dwell on the fine, good things in others. Think about all you can praise God for and be glad about."
I recalled the happy, early days of my marriage to Harold. The bike rides, teaching Harold to ice skate, the two wonderful trips to Arizona to visit his sister and brother and their families.
I remembered when Andrew was born, in Harold's 51st year, and how proud he was of his new son. Why, he'd passed out cigars the day he found out I was pregnant!
I recalled how scared I was when Harold had emergency gallbladder surgery a few years after we were married. I remembered how I laughed when he dressed up in a crazy red plaid sportcoat and too-short, orange plaid pants for "nerd day" at the high school where he was principal.
Suddenly, the unhappy times in our marriage faded away and as I watched a line of pink and steel blue clouds inching their way onto the horizon, I felt as if a dam had broken. All the good memories that I'd buried the day Harold moved out of our home came rushing back.
I pulled the bedspread tighter around my neck and snuggled closer to Andrew, who had his head on my chest, trying to keep the cold away. The more I thought about Harold, the more I realized how much I missed him.
Even though it was still 20 minutes or so until the actual sunrise, the intensity of sunlight from below the horizon was filling the beach with an eerie sense of "almost" day. And I was filled with an eerie sense of "almost" peace.
Andrew motioned that it was time to eat the Jell-O. I took the lid off the container. When I placed a spoon into Wayne's hand, I squeezed his fingers through bulky gloves. He smiled and I knew he understood what was going on in my mind and in Andrew's.
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And so we three ate red Jell-O at dawn on the shore of Lake Michigan in a wind chill that felt very close to zero degrees. But somehow I wasn't shivering. And the Jell-O tasted good.
Just as the sun popped up on the horizon in a magnificent display of color, Wayne and Andrew stood up.
"It's okay to talk now," Andrew said.
Wayne put his big arms around Andrew and held him close. "I know what you're going through, Son. I loved my wife very much, just like you loved your dad. And it's a wonderful thing to take time to cherish those memories."
I stood up as the full ball of wild orange sun now rested precariously and breathtakingly beautiful on the horizon line. "Andrew, let's walk along the shore for a few minutes."
"Good idea," Wayne smiled. "I'll go warm up the van."
As Andrew and I walked hand in hand along the edge of the water, we talked about his dad. Andrew picked up pebbles and tossed them as far as he could throw.
"I love you, Dad!" he shouted to the wind.
It was time to leave. When we arrived back at our house, Andrew announced that he was going to fix his specialty, "French toast for everyone!"
Later, as we clinked our glasses of orange juice and toasted Harold Lorenz, I knew that because of this sensitive 11-year-old child, I'd not only been led into a strange world of ceremony and silenceI'd been given the chance to grieve openly for the first time and to "dwell on the fine, good things in others." After that day, it seemed easier to praise God for everything in my life that is "true and good and right"including a very special young son named Andrew.
Patricia Lorenz
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When We Give Thanks
Kind words do not cost much. . . . Yet they accomplish much.
Blaise Pascal
We always celebrated Dad's November birthday on Thanksgiving Day, even after he entered a nursing home. As years went on, these events took on a double meaning for mea traditional birthday party for Dad, and a personal thanking for all he had been to me in my life.
When we knew that it might be his last birthday, the whole family decided to rearrange Thanksgiving plans and come together for a huge Grandpa Simon birthday celebration at the nursing home. It was a crowded party with lots of noise and abundant food. Dad was having the time of his life. He was a marvelous storyteller, and here was the biggest captive audience he'd ever had. The party crackled around him.
During a quiet moment, I announced that it was now Dad's turn to listen to some stories for a change. I wanted everyone to tell Grandpa Simon what we loved about him. The room became still, and even Dad was quiet as his family
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crowded around him, like subjects around the throne.
One after another, people told stories from their hearts, while Dad listened with wet, flashing blue eyes. People recalled all kinds of lost memoriesstories about when they were little, stories about when Dad was young, stories that are shared family treasures. Then someone told the story of Mother and the vase . . .
My mother was a short stocky woman, who always bent over the table to read the newspaper. Leaning her elbows on the table to support her chin, her body made a perfect right angle. One night, Dad pla
ced her precious gold-plated vase, a family heirloom, right on her fanny at her body's angle. She couldn't move, couldn't stop from laughing, and screamed for help through her tears, while the vase teetered precariously. We all rolled on the floor laughing until Dad finally rescued the vase.
The stories flowed. Each one seemed to trigger the memory of two more. Even the littlest grandchildren couldn't wait to tell Dad why they loved him. For a man who had been kind to so many hundreds of people in his life, here was our chance to celebrate him.
A few months later, at Dad's memorial service, we more fully realized what we had given Dad that night. Those were the stories people normally tell at a funeral, after a loved one is no longer around to hear the words. They are told, then, full of tears, with the hope that the departed will somehow hear the outpouring of love. But we had given those loving memories to Dad in life, told through laughter, accompanied by hugs and joy. He had them to hold and roll over in his mind during his last months and days.
Words do matter, and they are enough. We just need to say them, to speak them publicly to the ones we love, for everyone else to hear. That's the way to give back love, and our chance to celebrate a person in life.
Sidney B. Simon
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A Mother Is Waiting
God could not be everywhere, and so he made mothers!
Jewish Proverb
John Todd was born in Rutledge, Vermont, into a family of several children. They later moved to the village of Killingsworth back in the early 1880s. There, at a very early age, both of John's parents died.
One dear and loving aunt said she would take little John. The aunt sent a horse and a servant, Caesar, to get John who was only six at this time. On the way back, this endearing conversation took place.
John: Will she be there?
Caesar: Oh, yes, she'll be there waiting up for you.
John: Will I like living with her?
Caesar: My son, you fall into good hands.
John: Will she love me?
Caesar: Ah, she has a big heart.
John: Will I have my own room? Will she let me have a puppy?
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Caesar: She's got everything all set, Son. I think she has some surprises, John.
John: Do you think she'll go to bed before we get there?
Caesar: Oh, no! She'll be sure to wait up for you. You'll see when we get out of these woods. You'll see her candle in the window.
Sure enough, as they neared the house, John saw a candle in the window and his aunt standing in the doorway. As he shyly approached the porch, she reached down, kissed him, and said, ''Welcome home!"
John Todd grew up in his aunt's home and later became a great minister. She was mother to him. She gave him a second home.
Years later his aunt wrote to tell John of her own impending death because of failing health. She wondered what would become of her.
This is what John Todd wrote in reply:
My Dear Aunt,
Years ago, I left a house of death, not knowing where I was to go, whether anyone cared, whether it was the end of me. The ride was long, but the servant encouraged me. Finally I arrived to your embrace and a new home. I was expected; I felt safe. You did it all for me.
Now it's your turn to go. I'm writing to let you know, someone is waiting up, your room is all ready, the light is on, the door is open, and you're expected! I know. I once saw God standing in your doorway . . . long ago!
Excerpted from Moments for Mothers
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I Thought You'd Want to Know
We must not only give what we have; we must also give what we are.
Desiré-Joseph Mercier
Diane Weinman suffered an unbearable lossthe death of her 17-year-old daughter, Katie, in an auto accident. In the midst of her grief, she received a letter from the sheriff's deputy who had been at the scene. The letter made the loss a little more bearable for her and her husband.
Mr. & Mrs. Weinman,
I am sorry for your loss. I am writing this letter to you because I have three teenage children of my own, a son and two daughters. If any of them died, I would want to know the things that I am going to tell you.
I came upon the accident scene on an icy stretch of road. Katie was in the driver's seat. She had received a severe blow to the left side of her head, and the force had rendered her unconscious. I lifted her head to ease her breathing; then I held her gently and kindly until the rescue personnel arrived. After a few minutes, it was
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clear that Katie did not survive, but we did not stop helping her breathe until an electronic monitor was connected to her and verified that she was gone.
I wanted you to know that Katie was not awake and frightened and sufferingshe never regained consciousness. I also wanted you to know that she did not die alone. She died being held by a father who loves his own teenage daughters, and knows how precious children are. I am sorry this happened to your little girl. Please call me if you should ever wish to talk about that day.
Prayerfully,
Robert Gross
Lane County Sheriff's Department
Not surprisingly, the Weinmans did want to meet Gross. This happened at Katie's funeral. "Then a few weeks later he stopped by to visit, stayed for two hours and answered every question I had," Diane Weinman said later. "It helped so much, because he's a dad and he knew my pain. He was direct and honestand he has a strong faith. He made a big difference. Even in my pain, he told me what I wanted to know."
Karen Nordling McCowan
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Matt's Story
All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.
Leo Tolstoy
I was grieving. I was grieving because recently my doctor told me I had multiple sclerosis, an unpredictable disease that can wreak havoc with the central nervous system. But I couldn't only grieve for myself. My good friend, Matt Bennett, had just died.
The phone rang at seven o'clock Saturday morning. Matt's father, Jesse, spoke quietly, "We lost Matt in the middle of the night."
Matt had been, and always will be, my role model. He was a lion of courage. I met him when he was 13 when I was asked to cover his story by my newspaper, a Los Angeles daily. Matt had been diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a fatal cancer that would eventually course its way from his stomach through his entire body.
It wasn't a story a newspaper normally covered, but what intrigued us was that Matt wouldn't quit his baseball league. He just kept playing ball, struggling along
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despite his pain, still filled with a sense of humor. He was a large boy. His own mother called him an ox, and when I first met him he gleefully whipped off his baseball cap to proudly show me his bald head after chemotherapy.
He was one of a kind, our Matt. Here I was a reporter, but I couldn't help getting close to this family. I lost all sense of objectivity. Forget it. There was so much love between Matt and his mother, Billie, you could feel its intensity when you walked into their houseor wherever they were together. She left her job and cared for Matt every day of his life, including the times he decided to try the next experimental drug and she heard him screaming in pain from the next room.
"There's still hope, Mom," he always told her.