Rebecca H. Cooper's Blog, page 2

Godspeed

The eight days of last week were pretty long.  If you saw the last "Hey,God? Yes, Charles." post, you know that a dear friend, Bettye, whosefingerprints are all over the book, died Saturday a week ago. Another blogback in December describes Aunt Shirley and me in the emergency room where Iworried about her while she worried about pants. She died this pastSaturday.Each of these women, both widowed before I was, influenced my life inprofound and different ways over the years. Bettye was diagnosed with cancerabout two years ago. She fought it hard, with grace and grit all the way,providing inspiration and exhibiting courage. By all accounts, she kept thefaith, and her faith, but never gave up, never accepted the word terminal.She was ready for another day and another day.Around the time Bettye was getting her diagnosis, we learned that AuntShirley had a serious heart condition. In the past two years, new docs anddrugs invaded her life. That trip to the ER on December 9 turned out to be apoint of no return and the first of six moves over the next five weekstrying to get her in the right place for the best medical care. Finally, asher condition continued to worsen, she told us all, "I'm done." No more bagson poles. No more meds. No more procedures. So we removed the poles and themeds except for comfort drugs and we stopped all the procedures.  Thanks toa different kind of courage, she was able to rest, float in and out withoutpain, and enjoy visitors the last days of her life. At one point she lookedup and said, "I see you." Aunt Shirley lived on her own terms. Now she wasready spiritually, mentally, and physically to die on them too. And so, onSaturday, she did.We've always been taught that there is a right way to live. Two grande damesjust taught me that, for them, there is also no wrong way to die.

Permission granted

Toward the end of "Hey God? Yes, Charles." is a page of acknowledgments. In those acknowledgments is the name Bettye Morris. She's the dear friend who encouraged me a few days after Charles's service by bringing pen and paper and saying, "Write. It helped me after Chester died. Maybe it will help you."In a lot of ways, Bettye modeled for me how to be a widow. She had a 15 year head start. I watched her because she had experience but I tried to emulate her because I admired her. She didn't accept the loss of her husband any easier than I did. But neither did she curl up in a ball in the corner somewhere and feel sorry for herself forever.Bettye died this week. Tomorrow I will do my best to participate in the celebration of her wonderful life and find joy in her hereafter. But for today, I'm going to give myself permission to grieve.There are some debts you just wish you had a little more time to repay.

Hands and hope

Like many good resolution-ers, I was back at it last week on the indoor track, virtuously working on good new habits for 2017. I wasn't expecting immediate results of course, so the payoff I got upon entering the gym was precious.I hope you can see the figures in this photo. They're a little far, hopefully back enough not to invade the elderly pair's identity. But there this sweet couple was, on the track too, walking hand in hand at their own pace. I've always been a hand holder, I've missed it, and I always notice it when other people hold hands. They were talking too, and laughing, and their presence on the track made mine there so enjoyable.I lapped them many times, but I never lapped their obvious pleasure in each other's company.I hope you walk your laps of life with a fellow hand holder. If you can't, I hope you find joy in others. But if you are fortunate enough to have someone else's hand always reaching for yours, I hope you appreciate it. And I hope it's a really, really long time before you have to let go.

Of course love can hurt

For real. Love can hurt. But if it couldn't, really, why would it matter? I just discovered this sweet performance of this theme. You will see at the end that this gritty little version is from an old VHS tape. Years before Dolly did her thing for her mountain family, this tribute to Roy Orbison was raising money for another good cause. And Patrick and Larry Gatlin answered the call.Funny thing about Patrick Swayze. From way back, he was always my favorite. I loved him professionally. I loved his talented dancing. I loved how he loved his wife. I loved his good - and bad - movies. But I had no idea how this was being noticed when the kids were little until one night many years ago. Charles was traveling as he often did and we were talking after dinner as we always did. As our younger child (maybe seven?) was passing by the phone, she could hear me saying, "I love you too. Me too. Love you. You be careful. Love you a lot. Talk to you later. Love you." As I hung up the phone, she stopped in her tracks, looked at me, and said, "Who was that?" I barely could process the question and suppress the laughter at the same time and finally said, "WHO do you think that was?" Expecting a sheepish acknowledgement that of course I could only be talking to her daddy, you can imagine my astonishment at her arched reply. "Patrick Swayze?"That memory can still make me laugh. And love can still hurt. But less than these lyrics and more in a good way. And, frankly, may it always be so.

Grand traditions

In our family is a truly "grand" Christmas tradition.  Every year, some time before Christmas, two grands and I drive around Franklin and check out all the lights we can find. Then we end the evening paying homage to a special Nativity scene downtown. Their Papa and I started doing it when they were little and we've continued it over the nine years since Charles died. Course, they've outgrown their Santa pajamas and become a little too big for sippy cups with hot chocolate. So now it's Starbucks and Ug boots, but little else has changed.Except last year, we had a shock visiting our favorite Nativity scene in downtown Franklin. The three of us parked on a side street, sorta late one night, and reverently approached the Nativity.  Suddenly, I frowned and froze and I could feel both granddaughters do the same. We looked at the scene. All the animals were there, the Angel, the wise men, the shepherds, and Mary and Joseph. But the manger was empty. We're like, wait! Where is Baby Jesus? None of us had an answer. We just kept staring. Who would steal Jesus?! Finally I said, "I don't know what happened, but do you think we should go find a baby for the manger?"Their relief was palpable and they answered in unison. "Yes!"  We piled back in the car, headed toward a shopping center and drove around until we found a CVS with late hours.  Once inside, we picked out the best baby we could find.  He was cute, but not swaddled, so we added the swaddliest blanket there, paid for our purchases, and drove back to the church. We gently placed the baby in the manger, tucked him in, said our good nights, breathed a sigh of relief, and headed home.It wasn't until a few days later that a friend suggested to me that the missing baby was probably not a kidnapping but a deliberate design to wait until Christmas Eve to fill the manger. Oh duh!  Of course!  I did wonder what the good church folks thought when they discovered the premature birth. And I maybe felt a little dumb. But I wouldn't change - for all the Magi wisdom in the world - the reaction of those two kids when they thought something was wrong...and their need to set it right.I'm looking forward to our adventures this year. Starbucks. Star bright. Whatever, it'll be fine, and they'll make it right. Merry Christmas everyone. Happy Birthday Jesus.

Joy in the world

If you've read "Hey, God? Yes, Charles.", you know that, especially in the first year after Charles's death, hope, joy, and peace were in short supply. In truth, I'm not sure I ever expected real peace again. But in that second year and, in many ways, I began to get my hope legs back under me.  Wobbly for sure, and I guess I wasn't hoping for much because joy had to be faked. That reality smacked me in the face the day I met a dear friend from high school for lunch. She'll probably read this and she will recognize herself - Judy! We talked a lot, mostly about me, bless her heart. And I was giving all the answers I'd practiced so well by then. "I'm doing fine, oh you know, one day at a time, blah, blah, blah."  And then she zinged me quickly and, with her usual insight and unblinking stare, asked, "But do you have joy back in your life?" The ambush happened so fast that my response system didn't have time to filter and without hesitation I gave her my honest, unvarnished answer. "No."I don't remember how our lunch ended. But I do remember being stunned by the conversation. It started to re-crank my muscle memory of what joy felt like and how important it was to me, and how I'd pretty much lived a joyful life. The conversation jump started my determination to find joy again.And I did. It took awhile although, gratefully, it's now been awhile. Friends and family and kids all contributed, as did treasuring old memories and making new ones.  It's tough, no doubt about it. But if you are in a place where joy is elusive, I hope you can at least remember, especially this week, that He came to bring us joy.  That gives us hope. If that's all you got this year, take it. Next year maybe you can add peace.

Pants and peace

Two days ago I was sitting in a local emergency room. My elderly (don't tell her I called her that) aunt had been staying with me for a couple of days. She's very independent, but she'd been sick and since a heart condition can complicate other things, we thought it best she and I have a weekend sleepover. Plus, in so doing, her doc thought we had a shot at her heart's desire, which was to stayoutof the hospital.But it wasn't meant to be.  Infection and edema began a war with each other and that is not a war laymen can win even with the best of intentions in a good neighborhood.So late on Saturday night, she finally relented and off to the hospital we went. I felt so bad for her. Low sodium level, low blood pressure, infection, fluid buildup - all equal slow heart. Even some failure. As the hours crossed from Saturday night into Sunday morning, test after test was run. Docs were consulted, machines hooked up.Once you've experienced loss, and really, who hasn't, these are the sorts of things that tangle your nerve endings.  No matter how far you've come or how good your grief grip is, you can't help but recognize the gravity of the situation - and at least one possible outcome that, frankly, just won't do. But while I was trying to hide those thoughts under the fluorescent lighting that exposes all fears in an examining room, my sick patient motioned for me to lean in closer.She looked at me and said, "Hanging on the back of my bedroom closet door is a brand new pair of black pants. The tag is still on them and the ticket is in the pocket. If something happens to me, take those pants back to Dillard's and get you something."  Her husband, Charles's uncle, died 14 years ago and she has said a lot of funny things as we've spent more time together over the years. I'm not supposed to repeat most of them, and if she could I'd probably get gag ruled out of telling you this one. But anybody around us could have heard me just bust that night. There cannot be a better word. I busted out laughing. Laughing hard enough to cry, right in the middle of Room 7 in the ER, I finally managed to say, "I just love you!"Now I don't think she's going to die. Not this time (please not this time).  And of course, she doesn't want to die. But her faith is so strong that the truth is, she is not afraid of death. She's in such a good place spiritually that her worst fear is wasting a perfectly good pair of pants. God has got to be smiling.

"Steel" praying

Last night a dear group of friends gathered. If you've read "Hey, God? Yes, Charles.", you know that the SGIGs - the Steel Got It Girls - were one of many folks, instrumental in saving my life (i.e. sanity) after Charles died. Last night was our annual Christmas gathering.  We met at Saffire's in Franklin, then enjoyed the Christmas performance at the Jamison Theater next door.But here's the deal. One of our group, who happens to be the youngest, is experiencing serious health issues and was unable to join us. In the middle of dinner, I looked at the group and said, I'm feeling the need for all of us to pray for Carla right now, and then text her that we have done so.Without a moment's hesitation, everyone at the table grabbed hands, bowed heads, and we prayed out loud in the middle of a wonderfully noisy, busy restaurant and then we texted our friend what we had just done.You can imagine her response. It was very similar to mine as these girls lifted me up during the dark days after 2007.Pray for someone today. Be specific.  Be bold. Be loud. Be there. I promise you, it matters.

Moments in time

It was a tiny book, an ornament really, that we hung on the tree especially for our little granddaughter, and low enough for her to see.  We just assumed it would remain there among all the other decorations as we celebrated with parents, kids, and our one grand.  But on that Christmas Day - how many years ago? 15? - the two-year-old had other ideas.  She spotted the red book covers, then located her great-grandmother.  Because, you know, a book must be read.As we close in on December 25, 2016, my hope is that each of us will find a tree to explore, a child's eyes to look through, a good book to read, a curiosity to learn, a loving heart to teach, and a Christmas moment just like this one.

Let there be peace on earth

Someone who knows I love this song gave me these two favorite lines of it during our family Thanksgiving gathering. This unexpected and special gift was doubly inspiring. First, I knew right away it was the perfect backdrop for our family nativity set. Our nativity is a simple one, and I've always loved it. Charles and I bought it in Shaker Village on February 6, 1988. I know this because I wrote the date and place on the box - one of the very few times I remembered that some day I'd forget.If you've read "Hey, God? Yes, Charles." or some of my blogs or other posts, you know that peace is a meaningful word to me. I worry about peace, and am always grateful when I see any public display.  But there's a personal level too. Peace can be a hard fought victory when you achieve it again after loss.  In the last nine years, I've worked hard to get there and I know a lot of you have as well. So this song means something to me. Little did I know however what its back story was until this gift prompted my second inspiration which was to research it. I wound up shaking my head. Because "Let There Be Peace on Earth" is a song written by Jill Jackson Miller and Sy Miller, initially to be sung by the International Children's Choir in 1955.  But here's the kicker. Jackson, who had been suicidal after the failure of a marriage, said that she wrote the song after discovering the "life-saving joy of God's peace and unconditional love." Wow.The message of this song sounds global - and it is.  But when you drill down, you see the deeper, more personal, truth which inspired this songwriter. Before peace can begin with me, it gets to begin with me and God. I wasn't expecting to see it validated in Jill Jackson's story, but I've learned this up close over the years. Along with that unconditional love thing, you really cannot fully recover from grief until you are able to take each moment, and live each moment, in peace. And once you own it, you can begin to give it away.Let there be peace on earth, And let it begin with me.Let there be peace on earth, The peace that was meant to be.With God as our Father, Brothers all are we.Let me walk with my brother, In perfect harmony.Let peace begin with me, Let this be the moment now.With every step I take, Let this be my solemn vow.To take each moment, And live each momentIn peace eternally.Let there be peace on earth, And let it begin with me.I wish you peace on earth and in your heart.