Dear Mom

It's Vacation Bible School week here in my world. I never quite realized before what a trigger that simple, summer activity is for me......

Dear Mom,

I can just see you, back in the day, urging daddy to go with you to invite children to Bible School. You loved Bible School. You loved picking up the children and making connections with their parents. Longer ago, when you were young and in your prime, you enjoyed getting creative with making song posters and teaching class. Your famous "Noah Noah" and "Jonah" song sheets live on through second and third generation students!

Bible School in your day was no small deal. Sometimes you hosted out of state teachers, taught a class, picked up students and took them home, helped with snack and maybe even led the singing all while juggling laundry, canning green beans and hosting teachers for a lunch or two. This went on for two weeks straight.

I know you got stressed and worn out and things didn't always go perfectly but you wouldn't have missed it for anything.

Bible School in the hills of Arkansas was something my pioneer parents and their cohorts took seriously. Because our community was spread out so widely, we hosted a morning Bible School at our church and an evening Bible School at a local church at the other end of our community. Teachers would come in from out of state to help and many of them would teach at both places i.e. third grade lesson to one group of students in the morning, the same lesson to a different group in the evening.

The schedule sounds crazy to anyone who was never a part of it. Bible School morning and evening for two weeks?? How?

Some of my best memories are my youth years when I would teach morning and evening and join the whole gang of teachers for lunch at someone's house every day. We went shopping together, went on picnics, played games, prayed and fasted on Wednesdays, helped each other prepare our lessons... Some of the friendships made with youth who came to help us teach are still alive today.

I know time has a way of changing things and often our own era seems to have the best memories. Oh the stories I could tell of hot, cramped little classrooms at the old, Wolf Bayou church where the old, folding seats creaked and the curtains strung up everywhere still didn't provide enough "rooms" for all the classes. The noise and temperature levels in that old building were high but the singing rang and the silence was breathless when the storyteller got up to tell us the next installment of his story.

Yes, memories are golden. It's no wonder the very mention of Summer Bible School brings waves of nostalgia and memories galore. In the middle of all those memories, somehow you seem to be at the center, Mom. When I pull out your old flannelgraph and tell the old, old story to an eager group of 20 some 9-11 year olds, there's an inevitable ache in my throat and tears in my eyes.

Times have changed in Arkansas. There are nicer accommodations now, more people to reach around, busier schedules and less need of doing nothing but Bible School morning and evening for two weeks straight. But the children are still coming and the legacy is still going on. On the last day, when the parents and grandparents show up for the program, they can join in singing "Noah Noah" just as lustily as their children and grandchildren!

Sometimes I wish I could roll back the years and relive those memories of bygone days. I wish I could be your little girl again, Mom, helping to fill the big, metal igloo with water for drinks and riding along to take the rowdy bunch of children home. I'd join the out of state teacher's children in "the little chicken house" to hold up imaginary song sheets and play our own rousing version of Bible School. Sadly, I can't do that.

So, I'll wipe the tears, swallow the lump in the throat and live the now. Hopefully someday my children's memories will be warm and nostalgic too. But I promise, Mom, they won't be half as grand as mine.

Dear Mom

My husband is gone this week, Mom. Any idea why that's been making me think of you?

Chris went off to Arkansas this week on a work adventure with his buddy from Horton's Countertops days. I'm happy he had a chance to get away and do something out of the ordinary. At the same time, I'm missing him dreadfully and it's made me go back in time and wonder how it was for you, Mom.

Your husband was a preacher. All the years of my life were interspersed with occasional weeks and weekends when Daddy would be gone. A lot of my memories of those times are vague; I was the youngest and everything happened before I was born (or so I used to think). Most vivid in my mind are the many, many weeks Daddy spent an hour away from home, teaching classes at Calvary Bible School.

This week I've been trying to imagine what those weeks were really like for you, Mom. Calvary Bible School landed in the middle of winter. In Arkansas, this could mean many things -- moderate weather, freezing temperatures, sunshine or maybe an ice storm. Back in those days there were cows to be checked on and a whole broiler house full of chickens to keep fed and alive. Way back in the day there were also pigs, I believe, who managed to make as much nuisance of themselves as possible when the man of the house was away. Inevitably, when Daddy was away, the cows would find their way through the fence or the feeders in the chicken house would decide to malfunction or the ice on the pond would need to be chopped so the cows would have water or a vehicle would refuse to start. Indeed, it seemed the whole farm was just waiting for the handyman to depart to spring any number of catastrophes on the poor wife left behind.

The thing is, Mom, I have good memories of those weeks! You used to let us take turns sleeping with you and do special things together those weeks when Daddy was gone. I have nothing but good memories of those days and I've been marveling this week at how much that fact reflects on the kind of Mom you were.

Daddy was not just a text away back then. In fact, you couldn't even count on the fact that you could get through if you tried to call him at any given time. You had children to care for -- to make sure they got to school and to settle disagreements between and to feed and keep happy. You had double the work and worry with your husband gone. I'm sure you felt lonely some days and misunderstood. I bet you looked at all the other wives who's husbands never taught at CBS and wondered what they had to complain about? I know you were just as human as anybody else, Mom, and there were times when those weeks without your man at home were just plain hard.

Maybe time dims the memories, but when I look back those days are filled with cozy times together and a mother who loved us and made us feel special. This week I'm the mom. I don't have any chickens or cows, much less pigs. It's not snowy nor icy and my husband is a text or phone call away at pretty much any given moment. I realize now the effort you put forth, Mom, to make good memories for us those weeks when Daddy was gone. I know now that you weren't necessarily having as much fun as we were. And, I for sure know that letting us take turns sleeping with you was most certainly not for your sake!

Thanks Mom.

Love, Bethany

PS. I'm trying to make good memories this week but, I confess, I'm drawing the line at letting anyone share my bed.

Dear Mom

I made applesauce today, Mom -- delicious tangy-sweet sauce from bags of big, beautiful, spot-free apples. It made me think of you.

You taught me many things, Mom. Most of the time I go along living my life, oblivious to the many ways you influenced me. Once in awhile something like a bag of shiny, beautiful apples will look me in the face and make me stop and think.

All the years that I was a part of your life, you lived in Arkansas, Mom. While being from the south is, without question, superior in many regards, easy access to fresh fruits and luscious gardens isn't one of them. You loved to garden and toiled tirelessly in spite of inevitable drought, poor soil and pesky bugs. You canned and froze and served fresh, and not once did we ever go hungry.

But this is what I learned from you, Mom -- you made do with what you had. If the corn produced little (as often was the case) but the green beans were prolific; we ate green beans. If an early frost nipped the peach trees we did without peaches. Because strawberries were expensive and blackberries were free, we spread our bread with blackberry jelly. I don't remember you ever once making a batch of strawberry jam, are you sure you were a true Mennonite, Mom?

English peas didn't do well, so we ate purple hull peas and zipper peas and lima beans. My brothers will testify to gaining pill swallowing skills because of the need to consume those loathsome limas. We ate okra because it grew and pears from the old pear tree on the odd years that it produced. On those years we were all expected to try new things like pear butter and pear and pineapple jam because -- you know, free food.

You were always willing to use what was available, Mom. When Ervin Dorothy had squash, you canned it. When someone offered you peaches from their scrubby little trees, you froze them. If there were strawberries available, we enjoyed them. And when it was time to can applesauce, you never stressed over Jonathons or Cortlands or Golden Delicious or Ginger Golds. You didn't insist on brown sauce or pale yellow or pink; you took what was available. I will never forget the year of the ugly red apples and the tasteless pink sauce.

It was me who needed apples that year, Mom, and me who had no money for being choosy. When a church lady's neighbor offered apples, free for the taking, we took them. We loaded up baskets and buckets of the spotted, red things and you came over to lend a hand. They sure weren't the prettiest apples nor the biggest. But we cut and snipped and cooked and when the applesauce came forth all pink and tasteless, you cheerfully added sugar and cinnamon and whatever else we could think of and called it good.

Today I thought of you, Mom, as I sliced up my beautiful, spot-free apples. As the sauce came out, all golden and tangy-sweet, I remembered. And I thanked God for a mother like you who taught me to make do with what you have. I also breathed a quiet thank you that this year it was shiny Ginger Golds.

                        Love, Bethany

Dear Mom

It's late and I am tired. Tears wet my cheeks; my heart is sad and weary. I just want to ask ---

What is Heaven like, Mom?

When your sister stepped through the pearly gates yesterday, were you there to give her a hug? Are you both young again and full of energy? Are you walking arm and arm, exploring the beauties of heaven?

Tonight, I'm just wondering ---

What is Heaven like, Mom?

Can you see us down here, struggling to make decisions? Do you see as God does, the beginning from the end? Does it all make sense now, the questions and the imperfections of this old world?

I wonder, really wonder ---

What is Heaven like, Mom?

Will it matter, in the grand scheme of things, how much work I got done this week? Will it matter if my girls have new school dresses and how much corn I have in the freezer? Will it matter that I couldn't make it to my aunt's funeral?

In the whirl of all the going and doing, I'd just like to ask ---

What is Heaven like, Mom?

Can you see my angel baby? Walk and talk with all your old friends who went before you? Hug your granddaughter who lived here only a few short days? Is sitting at Jesus' feet, gazing into His face, enough?

I really have no idea, I just wonder ---

What is Heaven like, Mom?

"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." I Corinthians 13:12

I miss you Mom. Can't wait to join you up there!

Even so come Lord Jesus........

Love, Bethany

Dear Mom

I don't talk about it as much as I used to, Mom, but I still think of you. In the ordinary, everyday activities of life one thing or another will spark a memory and I'll think of you....

I think of you when I sit on my lovely porch, enjoying the woods and the breeze and the quiet. You always loved porches and decks and dreamed of one on the back of your house where no one could see you relaxing. I'd love to let you relax on mine.

I think of you when I make sugary biscuits and serve them up on a Sunday morning to children who came straight from bed to snatch them up and eat them. Just like I used to back when I wasn't the mom who got up early and slaved away in the kitchen before the rest of the household stirred.

I think of you when I make tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches on your Belizean camal. (If you've never tried sprinkling Italian seasoning and garlic salt on your cheese sandwiches before grilling, you should try it. Yum.)

I think of you when we have visitors who exclaim over my shelves and I tell them, "These gold dishes were my grandma's, then my mom's, and now mine." (The ones on the lower right.)

I think of you when there are piles of dishes and it's really one of the children's turn to wash them but I feel sorry for them and do it instead. I learned that from you, Mom.

I think of you when we carry our supper outside and eat it in the cool, evening breeze. It reminds me of our old picnic table and spraying 'Off' to discourage the bugs and swatting the cats away as we enjoyed supper outside because you liked to make our eyes sparkle, just because.

I think of you when Jennifer begs to plant a little garden - even if it's late; even if it's rocky and weedy and all we have is a hoe and a shovel. You gave me a love for gardening, Mom, and I just can't say no.

I think of you when my girls drag their mattresses out on the porch on a warm summer night. As I help them set up their cozy beds and roast marshmallows over candles I remember how much you loved to sleep outside, Mom. You would have loved to hear about their "camp out".

I think of you when I stir up this crumb cake. I wonder how many, many tin foil pans you filled with this delicacy to give to a family who had lost a loved one or needed a little cheering? Now it's my go to dessert when I need to make a meal for a family with a new baby, and I always think of you when I make it, Mom. (This particular pan was just for us, and disappeared in one day!)

I think of you, too, when I hear of your sister who is suffering from cancer. As much as I miss you, Mom. As much as the everyday things in life bring up memories and I think of you and wish I could talk to you again to tell you things or ask you questions. As much as I pause sometimes, with tears in my eyes, and wonder what life would be like if you were still here, there is no way I could wish you back. No way I could wish a different way for you to go; no way I could wish for you the hardships of sickness and old age and pain on this earth in exchange for the glory you are experiencing.

So, when the 101 things come along that remind me of you, I will remember with a smile and a tear and treasure the memories.

Love,
Bethany

Dear Mom

I was hurrying along through Aldi, list in hand, gathering up groceries as fast I could with four children in tow. This was the last store, and we were tired of shopping. Suddenly, there they were, Mom. Memories washed over me as I gazed at the pile of acorn squash with their sale price waving like a flag in my face.

Ahh, how you loved acorn squash, Mom. You would accept them happily from dear old 'Ervin Dorothy', who always seemed to end up with an abundance of them. We would all groan, knowing exactly what was coming next: acorn squash with meatloaf tucked inside was sure to be on the supper menu. We turned up our noses, even daddy, who willingly ate almost anything. The only redeeming factor was the meatloaf and even that could hardly make up for the stringy, yellowish-orange squash that also had to be eaten.

Standing there in the grocery store, memories flooding my mind, I hesitated only a second, Mom. Then I picked a pretty, green squash from the pile and added it to my cart, just for you....well, sort of.

Actually, your efforts to teach us to like all kinds of food paid off, Mom. Somewhere along the line I acquired a taste for acorn squash and the sight of them there on the pile made my mouth water. I would buy one, just for me.

The past week has been hectic, Mom, and the acorn squash lay neglected til I noticed, with alarm, it had developed a bad spot and needed to be used. I intended to fix it yesterday but time got away from me and I finally had to give it up. Today, though, I was determined.

I cut the bad part off and reduced my meal to half a squash - two halves would have been too much anyway. Then I scooped out the seeds, tucked some hamburger inside and popped it into the oven. As I scurried around finishing up other projects, I looked forward to my lunch. But I hadn't taken into account one thing, Mom. Or maybe it was several things.

I never asked you how to make acorn squash, for one thing. Then again, maybe the ones grown by your dear friend were just that much better than Aldi has to offer. Whatever the case, my lunch didn't turn out to be that great. I dabbed on the butter and sprinkled the salt but it still lacked the flavor my memory had envisioned. Quite possibly it should have been baked longer but I was in a hurry, so I ate the softest part and pitched the rest and thought of you, Mom. I'm sorry I didn't carry on the tradition of making my children learn to like all kinds of food but they were quite happy to hear I was buying the squash just for me!

Some things you just never forget and acorn squash will always make me think of you, Mom.

Love you,
Bethany

Dear Mom

It happened today, Mom. I'm not sure why I chose to let it happen this way but it just seemed the most natural, so I did.

Sometimes I almost forget that Charles never knew you, Mom. Forget that he was only a year old when the call came. Forget that you only ever saw him twice. Forget that the name "Grandma Gingerich" means nothing to him.

We've often looked at pictures together, Charles and I, and it always makes me smile to see his face brighten in recognition at the sight of "Grandpa Gingerich!" He's never asked about the lady with the wavy, white hair and I've left it at that. It never seemed necessary to me to try to explain about a grandma who isn't here anymore. Seemed like it would be so confusing for a little mind.

Lately Charles has been spending lots of time looking at pictures with his Grandpa Eicher who lives up the hill. Grandpa explains every picture in detail, and Charles comes home telling us how Daddy fixed the shop and now we live in it. "It had a garage door," he tells us, "Then daddy put in windows!"

Today we were looking at pictures, just Charles and I. "What are we doing?" he kept asking, and "There's Jasmine and daddy and..." as he pointed out who he knew.

I watched with interest as he started on this one. "There's daddy, and Jasmine, and that's Grandpa Gingerich!" His little finger wavered and there was a long pause. Then he pointed to the lady with the wavy, white hair and asked in a puzzled voice, "Who's that, Mamma?"

There's no way to tell a three year old all that you wish he knew. No way to explain how special that lady is and how much she loved him. No way to magically instill memories that you know he'll never have. No way to fill all the gaps and tell all the stories you hope he'll someday know. No way to stop the lump in the throat and the tightening in the chest...

"That's Grandma Gingerich," I tell him softly. "She died and now we can't see her anymore but that's Grandma Gingerich." Simple, matter of fact, basic. "Uh huh," he nods, then pauses to look again and accepts my explanation without further question.

Someday he'll hear all the stories, Mom. Along the way we'll rehearse memories and stories and remember whens. Little by little he'll pick up the history of the lady with the wavy, white hair. It won't be the same as knowing you, Mom, it can't. But we'll pass on the legacy of who you were. Around the lumps in our throats and through the tears in our eyes we'll give the next tidbit as the opportunity arises.

We saw another picture in our time together today and again the little eyes lit up in recognition and then the little finger wavered.

"Do you remember who that is, Charles? Do you remember Sara?" He nods. "That's Grandma Sara," I tell him and he smiles happily and moves on. Trusting, accepting little child heart! No wonder Jesus told us to become like children.

My heart is full, and humbled, and touched. I think you would be glad, Mom.

Love, Bethany

Dear Mom,

I've been avoiding this, Mom.

Been spending half my time 

pretending there's nothing going on

and the other half trying to figure out

what it is I'm trying to avoid.

It would be tempting to blame it all 

on four innocent pieces of fabric.

We had fun shopping for them --

well, mostly anyway.

It took us awhile to decide

what we each wanted

but I think in the end we were 

pleased with the choices we made.

And it was fun to decide
how to make them --

A square neck or a round one?

These sleeves or those?

A belt or no belt?

But somewhere between decisions 

and seams and hems

the fun began to seep away and

a new feeling took it's place.

The only word I could honestly give

the feeling was resentment.

After all, let's face it,

 no one ever plans to make dresses 

for their Dad's wedding!

As I stitched and ironed

(and used the seam ripper),

I would discover a lump forming

 in my throat

and pretty soon a tear would escape

and then another and another....

If no one was around,

the tears might turn into

a full blown sobfest

but mostly I would take myself

in hand and preach.

Why am I crying anyway?

I'm happy for my Dad.

I'm glad this is happening.

 I like Sara, for pete's sake!

And no, you are not going to write about this, 

I would tell myself. People do not

 need to know everything.

It is good to deal in facts, I believe;

to not allow oneself to wallow

in a hopeless mess of

 feelings and emotions.

On the other hand, it is also good 

to realize that one is human

 and therefore 

one will have feelings and emotions

that cannot be dismissed completely even with the truthfulest of facts.

A friend of mine said it best 

when I poured my feelings into 

her kind ears --

"Because. It's missing your mom.

Let the grief come."

Ahhh. That is it.

It's not because I'm unhappy 

about the plans,

Not because it's all so 

hard and terrible, 

And for sure not 

because I don't like Sara!

It is really the simple fact that the need for these dresses 

brings home the stark reality 

that you are not here, Mom.

And I miss you, that is all.

And so, when the lump comes into my throat and the tears spill down my cheeks, I will allow them their place; they are necessary and healing.

But come Saturday, when we don the lovely dresses and celebrate a new beginning, I will smile with happiness in my heart for the two 

special people joining hands. 

Because it is okay to miss you, Mom,

and embrace the welcoming of my dad's new wife all at the same time.

And maybe it's okay for people to know everything, after all.

Dear Mom

Two years ago the phone call came that changed our lives forever. Last year we made it past the one year mark and now, here we are, two years removed from that early morning phone call.

My family has never been the kind to make a big deal out of these sorts of anniversaries. Everyone is different, and I won't attempt to say that one way is better than another. For myself, I prefer not making a big deal but I am finding that it is also beneficial to take the time to look back and feel some feelings.

We have an amazing God who created us with the ability to go on living in the face of loss and grief. Think about it, the sun keeps coming up every morning, the flowers bloom, the children say funny things, new babies are born, people get married, we celebrate anniversaries... Life goes on, and even though sometimes we wish it would stop, God was wise to make it work that way.

This morning I am taking a moment to look back and remember... I feel again the raw grief and numbness of two years ago. The pain and the stumbling through the motions of things. The tears and the loss and the ache.

And then, I am remembering last year, and the 'new pink skin' and the growth and the realization that amongst the memories and the loss and the sadness, there is healing and new life.

Today, I pause to look around me and remember. The tears that come with the remembering are healing but equally so is the evidence of all that the Lord has done in the last two years.

Life has gone on. We are still here and we have grown. The sun is still rising every morning, the flowers are blooming again, people are getting married...two special people on July 30...and the children are still saying funny things.

God is good.

The memories will always be there, and I am blessed to have them. Today I pause to remember, to heal, to live.

Dear Mom.....and a Winner!

We're home, Mom. 

Home to the grey house with the welcome sign by the door. Home to the old, wooden doors that are hard to close and the piney walls with the familiar pictures hanging on them. Home to the painted cabinets and the silverware drawer that sticks and the white cereal bowls. Home to the toy room with it's scratchy carpet and basket of empty spools and old cupboard stocked with vintage toy dishes and empty containers of all sizes carefully saved for little hands to play with. Home to upstairs bedrooms with electric heaters to keep us cozy along with handmade quilts and knotted comforters.

How can a house be so full of you and yet you are not here, Mom?

The magazines on the end table and the papers in the basket scream your name. Your desk sits silently, letters tucked in their basket, pens waiting quietly in their cup, papers with your handwriting sticky tacked on the wall, all expectantly awaiting your touch. Your Bible lays on the little shelf, your teapot sits on the kitchen stove, the cookie jar has been replenished, though not by your caring hands.

How, how can a house be so full of you and yet you are not here, Mom?

A sadness I thought had long passed sweeps in and tears turn to quiet sobs in the night. How is it that the familiar can hold you close with the warmth of memories, yet stir sadness and tears from deep inside?

Life marches steadily on, Mom. Though sometimes we wish it would stop or feel, at times, that it has, it continues relentlessly onward. In the darkness of nightime, we mourn it's passing; in the light of day, we rejoice in its continued journey and the joy that weaves it's way into the passage of time.

It is Christmas time, and we are home, Mom. The house that is so full of you reminds us keenly of your absence. We miss you. Tears wet our cheeks and a lump settles in our throat but through it all there are threads of joy. There is family and laugher; there is love and warmth. There are new memories to make, new stories to write and a new twinkle in daddy's eye at the mention of a lady in Indiana.

God is good, Mom. I am thankful for the past and the memories with you in them that have shaped and molded my life. The future holds promise of His continued goodness and I am thankful that the story He is writing is not finished yet, and eager to see what surprising chapters He will weave with the darkness and the light.

The house so full of you feels empty without your presence. But how glad I am that you were here, and the memories are sweet!

Love, Bethany

I so enjoyed your comments and participation in celebrating mom's birthday! The only part of a giveaway I don't enjoy is the fact that I can't send every one of you a package. Turns out the winner is someone close to home - Karen Regling, Congratulations! When we get home, you can look forward to an evening at our house with one of our lively discussions and lots of laughter, with maybe a few magic tricks and plenty of jokes sprinkled in along with a brown envelope full of goodies to take home and enjoy!

Merry Christmas to all of you!

Dear Mom

Looking through baby books.....

Isaac...

Jasmine...

Jennifer...

Lillian...

Charles...

I miss you, Mom.

That is all.

Dear Mom

You should have been with us last night, mom. Should isn't even a good word really, but we wanted you there. I've had conflicting emotions all weekend with family members around. It sounds strange, but I've found myself trying to dredge up the sadness.

I've tried to imagine what it would be like if you were still here, mom. How you'd sit and read stories to the girls while grandpa helped Chris at the house. How we'd talk and look at pictures and talk some more. How you always enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and watching the games and activity of your family. How we counted on you just to be there with your smile and your simple presence.

Somehow all of my imagining never managed to bring up the sadness that I was expecting, mom. And I found myself wanting it; longing for it; needing it. I'm not ready for it to be gone. It's not supposed to be this way. I don't want it to feel normal to have my dad and sisters here by themselves!

The feelings did come, and with them the tears.

I know it's ok to let go of the past and allow the present to be normal. But sometimes tears are still the most cleansing and bring the most healing. Dads are wonderful, and sisters are the best, but sometimes?

Sometimes it's mom that we want and no amount of time and healing can ever erase that feeling completely, I don't think.

I miss you, mom.

Love, Bethany

Ps. To my sisters: I'm really sorry about the picture. I didn't plan to use it but it wanted to come in there, so I let it.

Dear Mom

The sharp pangs of missing you don't hit as often, Mom, but sometimes that feeling shows up out of nowhere and startles me with it's intensity. A random thought or incident or story or memory will suddenly bring to my consciousness the painful reality that you are gone. Gone.

Just yesterday a silly "bunny trail" thought process led to thoughts of you, Mom, and the way you would have responded was so real in my mind it made me catch my breath and remind myself that I'll never hear you say that again! The usual sadness of never being able to talk to you again followed. So many things I would love to tell you all about, Mom.

We did a tiny little garden spot again this year, Mom, for fun. A row of your marigolds went in along the back, then tomato plants on one end and cucumbers on the other and Jennifer's ten precious green bean seeds given by her first grade teacher along the front. It was really too much for the tiny space but I couldn't say no to the green beans, so we crammed it all in.

You would love to see our little plot, Mom. Jennifer's teacher had told her these green beans need a fence to climb on, and the minute they popped out of the ground she couldn't stop reminding me of that fact! So, one day when I was at The House On The Hill, I went into the woods and gathered myself a nice stack of sticks. Back at home we fashioned a little fence for the beans and a teepee for the cucumbers. Jennifer was so pleased!

We've had such fun watching our plants flourish, Mom. It has rained and rained and our plants are lush and green. The tomato plants have taken over their alloted space and then some. The marigolds are growing taller by the day, making a living fence along the back edge. The cucumbers have lagged behind a bit and not all the seeds came up, I don't believe. The beans? Those things actually did climb. Right up our makeshift fence and on off the tops of our sticks!

We've had a few unwanted visitors in our patch. When the beans and cukes were small, some curious critter with pointy hooves decided the tender leaves should be sampled. The plucky little plants bravely grew on and were climbing beautifully until just last week somebody came back for another meal. In spite of that, there's fruit on the vines! Every discovery of tiny veggies growing brings excited smiles and bright eyes. And we've used your mothball strategy and hung some around to (hopefully) keep away future pests.

It's because of you, Mom, that I'm doing this. You modeled a love for growing things and I do it for the fun and the opportunity to pass on the love, not for the handful of green beans that we might get from ten small seeds. I treasure those summers spent hoeing and planting and weeding and harvesting. And if those cucumbers and tomatoes survive? Yum. I can taste them already!

Love you, Mom.
You are still missed...

Dear Mom

Almost I am tempted to not bother with this post, Mom. At the moment, it would be rather easy to let all the feelings and emotions that glide along just under the surface stay right there, under the surface. In many ways it would be easier to leave what isn't disturbed be and pretend that tomorrow is just another day.

One year ago, Mom..... one year ago I had no idea I had heard your voice for the last time. One year since that early morning phone call that froze time in place and sent the world spinning. One year since I stumbled around the house in numb, robot fashion, packing clothes, making phone calls, answering texts, preparing to leave for a trip who's purpose I could hardly begin to wrap my mind around. One year since I hugged family members while the tears streamed, one year since I sat in the cold funeral home and went over the plans, one year since I saw your face for the last time, Mom.

I can't help but wonder what this year would have been like had you been here, Mom. It's impossible to say what all would have been different; what all the same. I have a feeling that grief affected more areas of my life than I have any idea of! That a lot of the aches and pains and hard things this year have been a side effect of a grieving process I hardly even knew was going on sometimes.

I remember my first, numb thought as I tried to grasp the news that morning, a year ago. "I'm so glad she could go so peacefully!" I'm still glad, Mom. I can think of at least half a dozen funerals this past year of people who's passing meant weeks, even months, of pain and suffering and watching helplessly as the life slowly slipped away from a loved one. If there is one thing I've realized this year, it is this: death is painful. It doesn't matter what the circumstances are, for those remaining here in this fallen, broken world, death is hard. There are many different ways for death to claim one's loved one, but there are no 'easier' ways!

I still miss you, Mom. It is impossible to count the many times I have wished to tell you something, ask you something, this past year. How do we take life so for granted? When it is gone, there is no end to the things one wishes one had asked or talked about or done that can now never happen. Sometimes I am still startled by the realization that my youngest children will never know their Grandma Gingerich, and how quickly the memories of my older children will fade! It is sad, but it is life. God never intended for us to live in the past, wallowing in the pain and the 'if onlys' and the sorrow.

Really, there IS an 'easier' and a 'harder' to this thing of death. Life doesn't end here, with the coffin and the grave and the goodbyes and the tears. To know that one's loved one is walking the streets of gold in the presence of God the Father is immeasurably, undoubtledly 'easier'!!

And so, here we are one year later, Mom - May 6, 2015. We're still hurting in places; still stumbling around, finding a new way without a Mother's 'glue' to hold the family together. Life has gone on. Sometimes the ache is deep and the pain sharp; sometimes the joy is real and the memories sweet. Mostly though, I am still here, remembering your words in that last phone call, Mom - "I guess the important thing to remember is that WE know there is a God!" I am as sure as ever that you are right, and I am forever thankful for a mom who taught me what is most important in this life. Because of Him, there is Hope, and life is worth living! Because of Him, I am looking forward to a joyful reunion one of these days!!

Love, Bethany

Dear Mom,

There's a flu bug making it's rounds at our house, Mom, and I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about you. I started with the unmistakable symptoms yesterday - aching head, stuffy/runny nose, chills in a nice, cozy house. And at 3 a.m. this morning, I woke up with an earache. I've actually very seldom had an earache, but that doesn't mean I don't know any tried and true remedies for one, thanks to you, Mom.

We never went to the doctor when I was growing up. I do mean that literally, almost. I remember going to the doctor one whole time before I got married and needed their prenatal services. That was, I believe, for a kidney infection when I was probably 11 or 12. I don't really think we were such an extra healthy lot, I think our maladies just didn't stand a chance against the home remedies thrown at them!

From as far back as I can remember, you had a remedy for everything, Mom. Sore throat? Gargle with salt water and drink honey and lemon in hot water; spray your throat with chloraseptic, that old spray bottle with the green liquid that lived in the medicine cabinet. If it was severe enough, you might get a batch of vinegar candy made to sooth your throat. I can also remember, as a child, going to bed with a hot, wet rag, covered with a dry one, pinned around my neck. I'm not really sure what that was supposed to do, but it did it, as I recall. A cold? Mega doses of vitamin C and good old Vicks were the first weapons in line. Of course the best thing of all (although you could hardly ever persuade anyone else to do it) was salt water up your nose. Cleared your sinus issues right up, supposedly! An earache, of course, required vicks on a cotton ball tucked into the offending ear.

There were also the many 'cure alls' over the years. I can't remember them all, but Ozie Compound was the thing for a few of us delicate, sickly souls. I don't remember how to spell it, but I certainly remember the image of that black, oily stuff in the little cup beside my plate every morning. It tasted like motor oil. Don't ask how we knew that; some things you just know! Then, there was the period of time that we passed the bottle of Sulfur around every morning, and each person stuck the handle of his spoon in and downed his little pile of the dry, powdery stuff. Sawdust, that's what that tasted like. I think corn bags could be included in the list of 'cure alls'. Just warm one in the microwave, and you were ready to cure anything!

It was for good reason we children would whisper our maladies to each other and add, "But don't tell Mom!!" We knew what the first question out of her mouth would be, "Did you take anything??" Our invariable answer was cause for much exasperation, "Weeelll, no." Although, on occasion we might state our affliction and add triumphantly, "And yes, I took something!" Why we wanted so badly to prove her remedies wrong, I'm not quite sure.

So it was, that I woke up at 3 a.m. with an earache and thought of you, Mom. I made my trek to the bathroom and crawled back in the cozy bed and couldn't sleep. I laid there for a while and fought the urge to get up and do what should be done. Finally, I gave in. I climbed back out from under the warm covers, dug around for the Vicks and a cottonball, and stuck the slathered thing in my ear. Then, I did one better. I groped in the dark for my rice sock, opened the microwave as quietly as I could and stuck it inside. While I waited for it to warm, I was tempted to check for a flannel night gown and house slippers!

Just wanted to tell you, all your home remedies were not in vain, Mom. Aren't you proud of me?

Love, Bethany

Dear Mom

I missed you terribly last week, Mom. I was reading a book that reminded me of you and then, several days before my birthday, I got an email from Daddy. "Is there something of Mom's you would like to have for your birthday?" he wondered. That did me in!

I tried in vain to think of just the perfect thing that I would want. I considered this and that, but nothing really struck me as just right. I finally emailed him back and said that I'd just as soon have you!! It's things like this that cause reality to hit me suddenly with the realization that you.are.not.here. That you will.never.be.here. That my time with you is o.v.e.r. It just seems so impossible that I can never ask you anything again; never tell you anything again; never listen to your stories again. I'm thankful for the years I had you, Mom. So thankful. But sometimes I miss you desperately!

There was one thing you had that kept coming to my mind that I've always wanted. I bet you could guess what it was, Mom, you knew how much I liked it! It wasn't something that was really sentimental. Not something that went way back or held lots of memories, but I knew I would love to have it.

Every year on your birthday you received a gift from a girl who shared a birthday with you. I remember the year your package contained a beautiful, blue teapot with "chimes" of cups and spoons hanging from it. Since I owned quite a collection of teapots, I thought your gift would look quite nice in my house! You just smiled and hung it in your kitchen window and said maybe you'd give it to me someday.

Today a package came in the mail, and there was my teapot chimes! I blinked back the tears, and swallowed the lump in my throat and listened to my girls exclaim and told them the story of your birthday gift. They didn't say that they wished it were theirs, but maybe I will pass it along to one of them....someday. For now I'll find a special spot to hang my gift, Mom. And I'll treasure a little piece of you every time it catches my eye.

PS. Thank you Daddy, you made my day!

Dear Mom

I stood in the long, long line today, Mom, and the memories came rushing back over my senses. Soon the lump in the throat followed and the tears spilled and the urge to rush out of the room and let them come in torrents. I sucked it down (the urge) and gave the hugs and said the meager words and offered the warm handshake and sympathetic smile.

"You know what it's like," some of them said. "You've been there," said others, "Only for you you had no time to say good bye! I can't imagine." "How is your dad making out?" some wondered, "How has this year of adjustment been for you?" one person asked.

It's times like these when I still can't quite grasp that I am *that* person - the one who has been there, who knows what it's like, who's dad is alone, who's dealt with grief.... Sometimes it still seems completely unreal; not me at all!

There are those times, of course, when it hits hard that this is, most certainly, real! I suppose, like everyone says, the Holidays are a prime time for those feelings to crop up. Over Thanksgiving time I found myself mourning the loss of ever eating your cornbread dressing again and chiding myself for never asking the details on how to make it myself. And how I would love to have your chicken and biscuits again.... such little things, but they make it all so very real that you are no longer here!

Mostly though I continue to miss being able to tell you things, Mom. So many, many little details of life that just seem meant to be shared with you! Take the viewing we went to today - definitely one of those things I would have been telling you about, making the connections with the people you knew - "You know, Chester Mast's wife. Yes, you know her parents are from here, Cal and Sadie Troyer. They would have been Marvin's neighbors when Chris was young, their children rode to school together." And you would have filled me in on how you knew Chester's parents and all the other pertinent information involved.

I don't even know why I'm writing this tonight, Mom. It's not that I'm really so sad or wish you were here so much. I guess I realized several things today. One is, like I've decided before, there's really no "easier" way. There are pros and cons, yes, but easier? I don't really think so. Also, the more viewings I go to and funerals I attend, the nearer Heaven becomes. I think God intended it to be that way. And that question about my dad and how he's doing that I always dread and never know how to answer? I discovered a good answer today - "He is amazing." I like it. I think I'll keep using it. Because he is!

Dear Mom

I'm thinking of you tonight, mom. Actually, it's not too often that thoughts of you aren't hovering somewhere in the back of my mind! I think of you most often when I'm doing things I would have usually told you about - things like baking for the school auction, making apple pie filling, washing windows and cleaning lights, advice on the child's hurt toe and children's quotes and escapades......

Then there's the fact that daddy is coming next week. I can't wait to have him around! To see him have a chance to interact with my little people, a chance to get to know them better and be a part of their lives and a chance to have him check out my ailing sewing machine and anything else I can think of that needs fixing! ;) Everytime I stop and think about it too much though, a painful lump fills my throat. You won't be here, mom, and how I would love to have you!

Daddy could go off and work on the car Mark wants him to help with and we would sit here and talk and talk and talk. You would wash my dishes and read stories and play games with Lillian and get to know Charles...... how you would love to hear him sing! You would want to hear Jasmine play the piano and ask Isaac about his memory work for the Quiz Team and listen to Jennifer read. Yes, how I would love to have you here!

But there's another reason I'm thinking about you tonight, mom. Somewhere tonight there's an Aunt of mine who is breathing her last breaths - or, at best, living her last days. After years and years of battling an incurable disease that slowly but surely left her able to do less and less for herself, her battle is reaching it's close. A month ago we thought it was time, and now here her family is again gathering around and waiting.

I know she was an inspiration to you, mom. I know you admired the grace with which she accepted the changes that continued to come her way. I think it was partly because of her that you found the courage to accept your own "handicaps" with grace.

And so, tonight, as I think about it all, I can't help but be glad that God spared you the slow, painful process of losing your abilities. I can't help but recognize the beauty in the quiet, peaceful way He chose to call you Home. I miss you, mom. And, while I would love to have you here next week, I have to remember that I am so glad I know you are There!

Love, Bethany

Dear Mom

The other day I was working on a project, mom. There was cloth and scissors and pins and as I lined up edges and pinned and snipped, I suddenly felt so much like you I could hardly ....... I don't know. I can't explain it!

Some of my earliest memories are probably of you working with quilts, mom. I can't remember a time when I didn't know how a quilt went into a frame! You hated measuring and figuring and the very thought of piecing a quilt would have ruined your day but how you loved to quilt! I inherited those genes.

It wasn't that you couldn't measure and figure or piece a quilt, mom, you could. You just hated doing it! You had an uncanny knack for "eyeballing" things, as you would say. You'd trim the edge for your lining or batting, and rather than go to all the hassle of measuring and figuring, more often than not you'd "just eyeball it" and end up with a line very nearly as straight as any meticulous measuring or figuring would have produced! I inherited those genes too.

You worked with all kinds of quilts, mom - perfect, uniform ones, and imperfect, crooked ones! You would fudge a little here and tuck a little there and we learned that most of those bubbles would "quilt out" and many a person would "go from here to New York and never notice" those crooked lines. You loved the people and the stories behind the quilts so much more than perfection! I hope I've inherited those genes too.

Someday maybe I'll quilt for others like you did, mom. For now, when I smooth and pin and "eyeball" and cut and my girls look on and say, "How can you cut straight like that?" and "What are you doing that for?" I'll think of you and treasure the memories!