I wrote this when I was caring for Jack, but it is true everyday.
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Change is in the air,
Everywhere. For the better? It depends on who you ask. But some things never Change. I'm glad I can affirm, With no apology, That God created marriage For a man and woman until Death parts them. I'm glad I can stand Up For my belief without Putting other people Down. And I'm glad I can choose To love those who Disagree. I only hope they choose To do the same for Me.
Jack's favorite/only niece
Wanted a few of his Ashes. She wanted to spread them Around his favorite spots Where he grew up, back In Pennsylvania. She carried out her Task today, a Bittersweet one. I'm glad Jack's daughter Could be with her too. They tossed some in Pine Creek Where he loved to fish, And others at a lovely park. They saved his remaining Remains for the top of the Hill, The scenic spot that I knew Well too, Because we stood there Together admiring the View. I searched through our photo Box and found the pictures He took there, So I could see the scene as Carol Ann and Chris carried out their Loving last rites. I felt a sense of Pleasure and peace knowing That his ashes were strewn About back home. I wondered, though. What would Jack think? Would it matter to him? But then, knowing my man, I believe his words would be, "Whatever helps you, Honey, Is all that matters to me." (And thanks to Tanna and Dennis for sharing the beauty of their farm.)
Another poem from the past. I'm praying for each one of my friends who are facing dementia today, either battling it, or being a caregiver for a loved one who is slipping away.
The Search (D Days) Jack said he left it on the Table. But he can't find it. For hours he's been Searching, Pulling out drawers in the Living room, Dining room, Bedroom, and Now he's moved to the Garage. He's worn himself out. He's upset, Muttering sentences I Can't understand. I wish I could help him In his search, But unfortunately, Neither of us know What he's looking for.
This is an article I wrote a number of years ago in honor of my dad on Father's Day.
I was afraid of my dad. I know now, I shouldn't have been; for he had never hurt me. On the contrary, he was a good man, a hard working farmer. But for some reason we had never connected. I was the youngest of six children, and the only girl. While my brothers helped Dad with the farm work, I stayed close to Mom in the house. Dad was too busy to spend time with me. He was up before dawn milking the cows, and it was dark when he was finished with his chores at night. In addition, I don't believe he knew how to relate to a daughter. I couldn't talk with him at all. In fact, if I needed to communicate with him, Mom was our go between. While living at home, I can't remember a single one on one conversation with him. Dad didn't talk to my friends either. When they came over, he simply ignored them. And when he talked to someone on the phone, he never said good-by. He simply hung up. It was just the way Dad was. As the years passed, I married, had children, and was widowed. Mom died too, and both Dad and I were alone. Our relationship had improved by then. We could at least carry on a conversation. But I wasn't prepared for my dad's phone call one evening. "Brian wants to buy the farmhouse from me. I'll sell it to him if I can move in with you." Brian was my nephew, and it made sense that he would buy the house. It made sense, too, that Dad should move in with me. Even though he was 90, he was in good health. He would help financially. But the long ago fears resurfaced. What would we talk about day after day? How would I deal with the loss of privacy in my tiny house? I would never be alone. I had finally adjusted to living by myself. How could I cope with this new change? I wanted to say, "no"; but I couldn't. If I said "no" to my dad, I would be saying "no" to my heavenly Father. For in my heart I knew he wanted me to make a place for my dad. And so, I determined with God's help that I would welcome him. Some of my fears proved to be true. I did lack privacy. And having company was awkward. Dad would either monopolize the conversation or not say a word. Getting away for a night or two was difficult since he refused to go to anyone else's home. But on a positive note, a new understanding began to develop between my dad and me. At the supper table he described life on the farm where he had lived for 90 years. Some of the stories he repeated over and over till I learned them by heart. I began to understand the pain he had endured with my mom's mental illness. Once, on the way home from church he shared how he had prayed for her healing. When God didn't answer that prayer, he simply prayed each morning for strength to bear the burden of the day. "That prayer God did answer," he said. The longer I lived with Dad, the more I admired him. He taught himself to cook when Mom got sick, and he often had meals waiting for me when I got home from teaching preschool. (He always cooked with lard, too. He jokingly said lard is what kept him living so long.) Dad loved to trim my bushes and mow the lawn, and at 95 he finally succumbed to using a riding mower. He took a daily walk around the block, and to exercise his brain, he copied the Morse code as it was broadcast on his ham radio at dictation speed. I discovered that Dad worried about me if I got home late, and he insisted on buying me a cell phone. His goal in life seemed to be to help me as much as he could without complaining. Five years passed very quickly, and my fears had turned to contentment and joy knowing Dad was with me. I felt comforted hearing his snores in the next room. In fact, when I didn't hear those snores some mornings I would peek into his bedroom to make sure he was still breathing. Dad wasn't afraid to die since he knew his real home was in heaven. But he hoped he would die in his sleep. He predicted that one morning I would find him dead in his bed. But God had other plans. For Dad became ill, and eventually, at age 96 died in a nursing home. I will always be grateful that my dad wasn't alone when he died. My oldest brother was with him. And I will always be grateful Dad lived with me. What if I hadn't welcomed him into my home and my heart? I think about what I would have missed. For Dad taught me by his example. He showed me what commitment is. He showed me how to adapt to change without complaining. He showed me what it is to work hard and never give up. He showed me what it is to trust God in the hard times. And he showed me, without ever saying the words, that he loved me. |
Dorothy Kalb Hsu Seitzinger
Writing poetry has helped me process and express my sorrows and joys, my concerns and blessings. "Life is hard, but God is good!" Archives
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