"Come"

From the book "Broken Open," by Elizabeth Lesser. 

"In our sleep, pain, which cannot forget, 

falls drop by drop upon the heart, 

until, in our own despair, against our will,

comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."

~ Aeschylus

Mary Ann "Brainerd" Held

We sent her with a secret tucked in the pocket of her jeans.  For reasons, one might never imagine.  We retold the story, over and over again.  It was fitting that it was told at her funeral, by my cousin Rob.  To me, it epitomizes who she was.

When growing up, my Mom often said Grandpa Brainerd was very strict.  At meal time, you and your 3 sisters, and 2 brothers, had better show up on time.  

It was my Mom's younger sister, given the job of going off in search of my Mom when dinner time neared.  Off she'd run, looking in all the usual places.

But then there was that one time.  When Carol ran home, having not found my Mom.  Her Dad questioned, and she had no reply.  

Where was Mary Ann?

Somewhere past the start of the meal, my Mom came running home.  Grandpa very sternly asked, "And where have you been?"  

Mary Ann, having experienced the sting of Grandpa's discipline measures more than once, knew she had to have the perfect answer.

So she carefully reached in her pocket and pulled out a dollar bill.  "I was babysitting and I got this!" She exclaimed.

"Oh, well then, sit down and eat."  

It was later that mom finally shared her secret with Carol.  Just in case, she was ever late, mom ALWAYS carried a dollar bill in her pocket. 

It was just a couple of years ago that my mom had me buy a notebook for her.  She was making her funeral arrangements.  But instead of just writing down what she wanted, she got busy on her phone.  She called each person she wanted to do something, and asked.  It was all written out in her notebook, what she did want, and what she didn't.

So she wore her favorite jeans.  Her Hershey's Kiss necklace.  Her Concordia College sweatshirt.  She encouraged us all to dress casually and wear Maroon and Gold if we chose- although we didn't spread the word on that very well.

Still, Mom's service was filled with the kinds of things, and people, and stories, that shouted "this is So Mary Ann."  

The beautiful flowers.

My hockey moms.  Nolan and Colton literally beamed when they saw so many of our hockey families showing up.

My brother, Lee, in the middle, with two of his Concordia College friends.  

"Come."

Mom's first line of her journal said, "Rob to speak."  No more needed to be said on that one.

My cousin Rob, has the gift of gab, one might say.  Not only is he a story spinner, but the humor he infuses leaves you gasping for air as your sides split, while your face floods from tears at the same time.     But he also ministers to you, because at the root of everything he does, is his faith in God, which he openly shares.  Oh how he had us on the edge of our pews, soaking in all of his funny, wise and faith-filled words.  I wish I had them to share with you.  But what I do have is the memory of being swept up in the emotion of it all, along with the sound of the distinct crinkle of the plastic kleenex wrappers,  getting a work out with all of our leaky eyes. 

Because we needed faith in unfathomable ways.  Our loss that week was double.  

Because while my Mom, Mary, hovered near Heaven's doors…surrounded by my brother, Lee, myself, and Mom's older sister, Marlene... Rob said, "God must have been whispering "come,"  and not only did Mom listen and go, but 24 hours later so did Rob's stepdad- Ernie.

Yes, our beloved Uncle Ernie, went to be with Jesus, just 24 hours after Mary Ann did.  Marlene, Mom's sister, and Rob's mother, lost her sister one day, and her husband the next day.

Ernie had sat in his recliner, watching basketball on tv, saying "this will be the last basketball game… of the season."  But when Marlene went to awaken him for bed, Ernie's spirit had gone.  And while none of us were ready for him to go, Rob's words brought comfort.  Ernie must have heard Jesus saying, "Come."  

Our family must have heard too.  They came pouring in from all over,  surrounding us with comfort and memories, and love.  Friday and Saturday for mom, and Sunday and Monday for Ernie.

Back to mom's funeral service.  Mom hadn't asked just one person to speak.  Paul was one of Mom's supervisors at Concordia, and very much a kind and loving friend of Mom's for years, was also asked to speak at her service.  Paul wove a story around the 5 things he had learned from my mother.  He also had an understanding of mom's humor,  and shared part of the retirement story they had done for her.  In a training video they interviewed my mom many times.  Then they cut the clip of the infamous words she shared over and over again…

Be busy.  

And-

Stay busy.

And-

Keep busy.

And- 

Get busy.

And-

Just stay busy.

Or something to that effect.  I forget how many times they caught her saying it- but it was many- and so typical of my Mom.

We think in honor of Mom we may have to donate a plaque to Concordia Dining Services, in her memory.  

The "Mary Ann Held- be busy- award."  

Paul went on to pay a loving tribute to Mom in the simple and yet profound way she conducted herself in life. 

After the service, as we lined up in our cars, with Mom leading the way.

We were struck by how the light lit up the beautiful flowers, and a white and warm glow hovered around Mom the entire way to the cemetery,

Then true to my Mom's heart's desire- her "boys" carried her to her eternal resting place- all wearing their Concordia colors.  The newly appointed Captain of the Cobber football team, Rob's son, Eric- wearing his jersey, #9. Nolan wearing his Dad's #26 Cobber baseball warm up, Andrew- also a Cobber football player, Duane and Emil, two co-workers of moms, and then my brother Lee, also a former Cobber football player.  

Despite our sadness, we stood as family, together, in honor of our Mom.  

Her eternal resting place is beautiful.  She is next to our Dad, and right by her Mom and Dad.  Rick's mom is just a few rows over, as well as our nephew Hunter.  

I've been rocked to the core with my Mom's loss.  I'm still in the wee-early stages of mourning.  I just know that my mom was a bridge to so many parts of my life I hadn't realized.  And now its just me.  And the loneliness that sneaks in, when you feel that abrupt disconnection, is truly the journey through "the awful grace of God."  I am convinced- through- is the only way back to the light.

"This much I know is true…"

April 15, Jesus Calling, Sarah Young

"Trust Me, and don't be afraid.  Many things feel out of control.  Your routines are not running smoothly.  You tend to feel more secure when your life is predictable.  Let Me Lead you to the rock that is higher than you and your circumstances.  Take refuge in the shelter of My wings, where you are absolutely secure…"

My phone lays quietly, often in some remote spot I left it in.  No need to hover anymore for her call.  Mom's call.  It would come at 10, then 3, and then 9 pm when I was readying for bed.  I startle now, when the phone rings.  My heart leaps for a brief instant, and then I pause, realizing I no longer have any idea who it might be.  

Its so quiet.  How do you fill the silence? And that space.  That "Mary Ann," shaped space in my life that refuses to fill right now, with anything else.  

I numbly stumble my way into Dr. Panwalkar's exam room on Tuesday.  When he asks how I am, I blankly answer, "Okay, I'm okay."  

He pauses, searching my face for clues.  "Why just okay?"

The tears rimming my eyes, threaten to slip, as my voice hushes and I barely squeak out a reply "My mom died a week ago."  

We sit in silence a moment or two.

Dr. P's face registers compassion, and understanding.  As usual, his understatement speaks volumes to me.

"I'm sorry."  

But I already feel it, hovering in the space between us.  

And really?  I'm still in that haze of grief and loss and what just happened to us?  

Suddenly, I see we've moved on as I shift my focus again.

But when we go over the PET scan?  And he shows the 3 tumors that have grown?  

"Oh well,"  I think.  Because I can't multiply sadness any longer.  I just can't add more + more + more.

The news barely registers.

At the end of our conversation, I remind Dr. Panwalkar its been 4 years.  He smiles, in acknowledgement.  

Then says, "You are a trooper," while shaking his head.

And I tell him, I am lucky, and beyond grateful, and have a deep desire to keep going on.

He walks me to infusion and as he reaches over to side hug me- I reach my arm back around his side and hug him right back.  

Even though I have no earthly idea how I am going to do this.

This much I know is true.

I deeply desire moving forward.

Today, I am going to have my brain MRI with sedation.  I am bringing you all with, to pray over.  

I'll be back with results soon.

I also long to come back and share about my mom's funeral.  

Her dollar story.

The word "come," and my Uncle Ernie.

And the gem of a quote my mother wrote on a small square of paper she carried with her.

It lightens my heart to come here and share.  This is one way, I know, will help me find my way back from the grief filled haze that obscures my days right now.

Remembering Carole

My father-in-law asks for a little help- Can I please look in Carole's purse and find her lipstick for the funeral home?  I will of course do whatever I can to help.  But its such a private act, an intimate representation of her, and I fight the feelings that I don't belong looking through her things.  Everything has changed.

My sister-in-law and I rummage through jewelry, clothes, make up.  We know how she'd want to look. At least we hope we are getting it right.  We ask that they put pink socks on her feet, because she never likes to have her feet bare.  And I find one of my gold rings to fit on her hand, not wanting her fingers to lie bare either.  Its for her our comfort as its the last things we feel we can do for her.

I go to put extra water in the coffee maker and just stop myself before dumping it in... I always make a little extra when Carole is staying with us.  There is no more need for extra.  The normal amount of water in the coffee maker now looks stark, and extremely inadequate.  Our cups feel so barren, so empty.

When we struggle with the spelling of her mother's name it seems we should just turn around and ask her... but we can't.  We eventually figure it out.  But the reminders of her not being here with us come at us faster than we can absorb sometimes.

Plus, how can it really be that she is gone?


Our house floods with food, family, friends, tears and laughter.  Everyone wants to know, "How can this be?  What happened?" We shake our heads from side to side, no words adequate to express what we simply don't know.  She was with us one day and gone the next.  And what remains is forever without her and trying to find ourselves again as the waves continue to crash over us.



These are a selection of the photos we used at the memorial service and I thought I'd share for the ones not able to attend the services.

Jim and Carole with Rick and Missy... the birth of Matt would follow a few years later.

Gunnar, Missy's son was the first grandchild. 

Carole with Gunnar and Hunter.  Hunter passed away at the age of 4 months in 2001.  

Carole with Nolan

Carole with Nolan and Colton

Carole with Matt's oldest, Mackenzie.

Jim and Carole with Matt and Julie, Mackenzie and Ethan.

****************************************************************************

On a complete whim, the week before last, I walked into a salon and asked for all of my chemo-curls to be taken off. I feel naked and free all at the same time.

My mother to your left and her two sisters on the outside.  When I was growing up they so often were told they looked like Carol Burnett.  At the visitation, with my newly shorn hair, someone told me I looked like Carol Burnett...  hmmmm... I'll have to practice my ear tug perhaps? 

When we discovered where Carole was going to be buried it was a full circle moment for us.  She was laid to rest next to her grandson Hunter.  And just a few yards away?  Is my Dad, and both my grandparents.  

This heart-on-his-sleeve boy of mine wears his sadness.  As we prepared to leave the visitation Thursday night, he went to Carole with his Grandpa.  He walked away, alone, with huge crocodile tears sliding down his cheeks.  I asked if he was okay and he nodded... 

"Just saying goodbye," he said. I broke wide open right there. 

The story of a girl...

This is the story of a girl...

who woke up on a Sunday missing her Dad.  Not just any Sunday, but his birthday when he would have turned 81.  And she was sad... and the skies were mottled and gray, dripping with her grief...

Until she noticed the pink around the edges of the grey, or what some would call the silver lining.

And so she started to think of happier times.  The crazy, goofy, silly times they had shared.

And how last year a great, big, huge, gathering of people squeezed themselves together in 1 tiny house to celebrate eighty years of a life well lived.  And the girl smiled, knowing exactly what she would do.

So she gathered up her family and went back to that tiny house.

And even though her father's shoes and his hat with the big cow on it were exactly where he had left them, she smiled.  With her family at her side she packed left behind belongings, cleaned up the yard, and sat wrapped in her memories.

Then the family loaded up the car and visited the Dad in his final resting place.

And when they tired of swatting at mosquitoes they left and enjoyed one last stop.

A little ice cream...

And a little cake to celebrate as the girl knew her daddy loved to do.  And even though she still missed him, her sky that day, was no longer dripping with grief.