the quality of mercy is not strained…

June 3, 2016June 12, 2016 / Apple Hill Cottage / 12 Comments

i have a friend who has demons in his head.

oh, you can call it whatever modern scientific terminology you want — schizophrenia, bi-polar or borderline personality disorder, or just mental illness — but the truth is, they are demons.

they came and went. when he had wrestled them down, he was a wonderful man — a loyal friend who loved to laugh, a Jesus-lover, an i’ll-do-anything-for-you type of guy. he drove a bus full of hurting kids and loved them up every day, talking, laughing, and giving them little presents…he loved life then — God, his wife, his friends, his dog…

but when those demons were legion, he did odd things: quit his long time job because he thought no one liked him; left the church where people did love him, so he could go alone to a church where no one knew him; kept busy to the frantic pace where no one could keep up with him, just so he wouldn’t have to be still and hear the voices.

we, who don’t struggle with those kind of demons, can’t begin to fathom the darkness. so we try not to think about it.

until something unspeakable happens.

and even then, we still can’t fathom it. over and over i think, what could i have done? what if we’d just called them that night not too long ago when we were thinking of asking them if they wanted to go to a concert with us….

instead, we went to the concert by ourselves. three days after her funeral.

i cry out to God. these were your beloved children… isn’t satan supposed to be defeated?

the sun is shining today and i am longing for rain. i can’t shake the grief.

even though i know there are others struggling just as much.

even though i know she is home with Jesus and at peace.

we are still here wondering what we could have done to keep this tragedy from happening. wondering why a just God allowed something so awful to happen. trying to find something that will ease the pain and make it okay to walk out in the light again.

it isn’t a matter of forgiveness. i’ve forgiven him. he’s my friend.

it isn’t a matter of always expecting blessings. i don’t. i’ve lived with sorrow, unanswered prayer, and i own plenty of sins.

aren’t we all just one cracked neuron short of big sin?

but grace…

because of grace i don’t have to worry about my own sins. for through nothing i’ve done, through grace, they’ve been wiped clean. all i had to do is believe that Jesus died for me and my record is erased. this prisoner has been set free.

so how do i pray?

the verses that usually give me comfort sound like platitudes to me.

oddly, the verses that give me the most comfort are stark:

for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God — Romans 3:23

there is no one righteous, not even one — Isaiah 59:1

the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise — Psalm 51:17.

but this one comforts me too: for I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their lawless deeds I will remember no more — Hebrews 8:12

and so i pray for mercy.

may it be so.

The title of this post is from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. I had to learn it in Miss Closser’s 9th grade English class. It didn’t mean much to me then. But it does now… in part it reads:

The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest.
It becomes the throned monarch better than
      His crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.
It is an attribute to God himself.
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.

For my friend

December 23, 2013March 23, 2016 / Apple Hill Cottage / 20 Comments

My friend Nancy died last night after a long fight with cancer. This is for you, Nance.

A blue jay came to sit on my window sill

as my friend was dying.

I thought

Do birds take our spirits to heaven?

And as I ponder this

I see

cardinals everywhere —

five of them dashing, splashing, in and out of the birdbath and the cherry tree.

The birds are full of life and chatter

though the cherries are long past.

Even leaves are gone,

fallen to the cold earth.

A gray rain falls — the first day of winter —

the whole world is crying silently dying,

I shake my fist at God.

Why now?

Why her?

I think of bright spirits and laughter and sunlight and time.

For my friend

Time gone.

and when it comes upon us all, there is never enough time.

This earth

these friends

that love

is all we had

and the future becomes the present unknown and unknowable

to us who are left with tears.

Lord, be merciful to my friend

who is journeying on a cardinal’s wing

a flash of red through a gray sky.

sycamore branches

Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. — Matthew 10: 29-31

4. Owed to Dad

June 12, 2012January 3, 2013 / Apple Hill Cottage / 4 Comments

This is a special Father’s Day post. The regular Apple Hill Cottage posts will resume next week.

Dad died in March. He was 90 and until he was about 88, he was healthy, happy, and still playing golf. The last year wasn’t so good and the last few months were bad. He had always been a handsome-looking man and never looked his age. He spent his life outdoors–owning a small natural gas company and working outside and playing golf and mowing most of the 3 acres where we lived. It’s surprising he didn’t get skin cancer earlier.

Dad had dark hair, but his skin was fair and freckly and his eyes were blue. All summer long he had either a sunburn or a farmer’s tan.

This is the first time in over 50 years that I haven’t struggled with what to get Dad for Father’s Day. It was really hard when we were kids. As we got older, it didn’t get much easier. After he retired, he started reading, so a good new novel was always appreciated. He liked those yellow golf balls–he said he could see them better–although he always shot so straight he just had to walk down the fairway to find his ball. He had lots of golf shirts and lots of sweaters and handkerchiefs in his drawer that were still in the box. If he wanted something, he just went out and bought it. Usually right before his birthday…

He was a kind and generous man. I didn’t always get the kindness part when I was younger; that came later. He was stern with his daughters, and he had a deep, scary voice. But I always knew he was generous. Every Christmas there were an amazing amount of presents, and I remember Mom saying, “It’s your Dad who buys all these presents!”

I remember Mom laughing once, saying to a friend, that as soon as she had that third daughter, she knew she would have to learn to sew. Mom made almost all our clothes, and they didn’t look homemade, either; she was good–pantsuits (they were In then), prom gowns, skirts, dresses–the only clothes we bought were sweaters, blouses, and coats. So we didn’t go shopping very often, and Dad almost never went shopping with us. But once he did. We went to South Hills Village (that was when malls were new and going was special) to get winter coats. I don’t know why Dad went along, except it was evening; it must have been Friday or Saturday night. Diane and I were in high school and maxi-coats were the big fashion rage. I found one I loved and looked at the price tag. My heart sank. Dad said, “Try it on.” It was black tweed with a black fur collar (back before PETA…) and then he said, “You can get it.” Then he looked at Diane and told her she could get one too. Hers was bright red. (Nancy, you must have gotten something; he was always careful to treat us all equally.) It might not seem like much now, but I remember being overwhelmed that he let us get these expensive, beautiful coats.

He would always pay for dinner. You couldn’t get around it, and you couldn’t ever try to treat him. Once on his birthday–Sept. 14th–Michael asked the waitress for the bill before we even sat down at the table. Dad was furious at Michael; and I think it was only a month or so after we had gotten married. Michael stood his ground; he said, “Sam, I will let you buy every meal you want, except on your birthday. I will not let you buy your own birthday dinner.” Dad was mad at him for a couple of days, but he never fought us about that again.

This picture makes me smile every time, so I just had to put it in. Look at Daniel’s expression in the background…

I won’t say we always got along. He was hard to live with sometimes, but aren’t we all? Isn’t it awful that we act the worst to those people whom we love the best? We had some rip-roaring fights back in the late sixties, early seventies when I was a hippie with radical politics (who me?) and Dad was a conservative business owner. People who knew him well, knew never to bring up the PUC (Pennsylvania Utility Commission) who made his work life miserable by regulating the little guy out of the gas business. Oh my goodness, he would rant…

Once we had an argument about vegetarianism–I was considering it and supporting it–he threw down his fork and shouted “Cows were made to be eaten. They wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t bred them for it.” His argument did make sense, and I never again brought up how much grain they ate and how we would all be better off if we ate lower on the food chain. And son Casey–a lefty–is probably permanently scarred from Grandaddy trying to teach him how to hold a fork correctly…

He mellowed as he got older. When we were kids, I only saw him cry once–at his own dad’s funeral–but as he got older, he cried all the time. At first it was disconcerting. And it might have started after Mom died; I can’t remember. Maybe he just hid it well from his kids. I DO remember that he would never watch sad movies with us. We would all be sitting down in the basement sobbing over some tear-jerker movie (Imitation of Life with Lana Turner) and he would come down for five minutes, laugh at us, tease us, and then go back upstairs. Mom said once that he just didn’t want to cry along with us. At the time I thought she was way wrong, but she knew him better than we did…

When we were growing up, Dad wasn’t around much. Mom was the glue. After I left home, when I would call, if Dad answered the phone he would say, “Hi. How are you. Here’s your Mom…” He was of that “Greatest Generation.” Quiet, stern with your children (and your nephews), the disciplinarian. I don’t remember Mom saying “Wait until your Father gets home,” but we just instinctively knew it… But we also never doubted that we were his cherished, loved daughters.

When I got older and could think about such things, I always felt bad that he had only daughters. Here he was, a man’s man, stuck with girls. I think probably he was disappointed at first, but he got over it and taught us all to play golf. He was also the one who helped us with arithmetic homework (many tears) and gave us driving lessons. (That’s another story…)

Dad liked to be in control–of his family, of his money, of his work, of his life. He certainly didn’t want to have any of his daughters taking care of him. It was an issue as he got older, and especially those last months. It was a doctor who convinced him, and I will always be grateful to Dr. Martin for that conversation. Right before he was admitted to the hospital with a broken hip, Dr. Martin asked him what his plans were. Dad shrugged, and I said, “I wish you would convince him to come to my house.” Dad did his She Has Her Own Life and I Don’t Want to Be a Bother routine. The doctor listened and then spoke passionately about family. The ties we have to each other. The love and care we give to each other. He looked right at Dad and said, “If she needed your help, wouldn’t you want her to come to you?” Dad nodded. And it wasn’t an issue again. He came and lived with us for the last three months. And now we get all his junk mail. Thanks, Dad!

When you’re sitting at your father’s bedside, and you know he’s dying, it’s important to remember those things you want to say. About three weeks before he died, his pastor visited on Wednesday, and the hospice chaplain visited on Friday. Those were important days because we reminisced with one who knew him when he had been younger, and with the other who didn’t. And suddenly in conversation it came to me what I knew–what all of us sisters knew–but I, at least, had never shared with Dad. “You know, Dad, ” I said. “When Mom died we were all angry. But I look back and now I know that God’s purpose in that was so your daughters would have a closer, better relationship with you.” He looked at me for a long time. His sight was failing pretty rapidly, but I know he was seeing me. Thoughtfully, he said, “You just might be right.” I hugged him and we cried. It was really one of the last good conversations we had. I’m thankful for it.

I spent one day, after he died, by myself at his apartment going through the little stuff–his drawers, his books, and I found a card I had made him one Father’s Day sometime in the early nineties. I had just read an Ann Landers column in the newspaper where she had encouraged everyone to write a letter to their mother and/or father and just tell them why you love them. ‘Don’t worry about fancy wording and don’t buy a card. Just write it in plain language,’ she wrote, ‘and I guarantee you’ll find it in their drawer after they are gone.’ She was right. There it was. I remembered struggling over the words. But when I read it again, so many years later (through my tears) they were true.

So thank you Dad, for the kindness and generosity and compassion and love and honesty and good values and work ethic that you always modeled for us. See ya later, alligator…

Here are some favorite pictures: