A Love that Never Died

Thanksgiving is about love—love of God, family, country, and for some, just love of food. I’m thankful for much, but especially for family, particularly my Aunt Jeanette, above with her grandson, Rod McCoy. By the grace of God, she is still with us, miraculously. Hope you enjoy this story I chose for Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! kcs

She had searched under her bed, through her closet, behind the dresser, and throughout her bathroom. Nothing. Maybe she was wrong; maybe she hadn’t smelled something burning after all. Things had started to change as she aged, her 84 year old brain worked fairly well, but maybe her sniffer wasn’t quite up to par. Still, my Aunt Jeanette checked the room several times that balmy June morning in 2010.

My brain doesn’t work as well as my Aunt Jeanette’s, and even if it did, I couldn’t remember back to when Jeanette met her future husband, Paul McCoy. Or even back to 1949, when diapers were my underwear of choice.

Back then, I was the first grandchild to debut. As such, my aunts, uncles, and parents often sat me in their midst where I mesmerized them with baby gibberish as I tried to eat my toes or yank on one of my fourteen hair strands. They would make faces and ridiculous goo-goo sounds as they coaxed me to their laps. Like other oft-told stories from my childhood, this one seems like a memory, but I was much too young to remember.

Paul McCoy wasn’t my blood uncle, but I didn’t understand what that meant until I was too old to care. By then, blood, coca cola, or whiskey couldn’t have kept me from my fun-loving uncle. He was a big man, tall, with brute strength, always teasing or pranking, scrubbing your head with his knuckles, and telling you the latest and best of the dozen or so jokes he’d just learned. He was always happy to see every person who walked through his front door.

Jeanette feigned exasperation at Paul’s jokes and stories, but exposed her affection by repeating them often. They were quite the pair; Paul was an early bird, Jeanette was a night owl. She’d often cajole her nocturnal kin to drive around our small town, looking for neither mischief nor mayhem in the early hours, just laughter and crazy fun. I’ve made that circuit with Jeanette, my mother, and Jeanette’s daughter, Cheryl, more times than I can say.

The years passed; Jeanette and Paul grew older and we children grew up. In 1997, Paul succumbed to diabetes and passed into heaven. Jeanette’s friskiness was understandably curtailed. Her heart and humor were forever intertwined with her husband, and his death, she often stated, was the worst thing that ever happened to her.

Make no mistake, the myriad surgeries and ailments she had suffered were major calamities in their own right—hip replacement, knee replacement, even breast cancer. All told, nine operations. And although she was grateful for the years she’d survived since Paul’s death, not having her best friend and soul mate to share it with still brought tears to her eyes.

And that morning in 2010, she was acutely aware that there was no one to confirm or deny the burning smell that may or may not have been. And, so, she went about her day, making the trek from her bedroom to the kitchen, and passing, as she always did, the photograph of the man she couldn’t remember not loving, which hung prominently on the living room wall.

In the New Testament book of 1 Corinthians, the eloquent St. Paul writes: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” Jeanette knew the quote, but her husband was gone, and in her twilight years, when her senses weren’t what they once were, when her confidence waned, she needed him more than ever.

That evening in 2010, around eight o’clock, Jeanette did something uncommon; she fell asleep on the family room sofa. It was early for her, but it had been a long, busy Friday—cleaning day—and she’d worked harder than usual. Fatigue swept over her, driving her into a deep slumber.

How long did she sleep? She couldn’t quite say, but something in her subconscious was nudging her to awaken. A noise . . . buzzing. What? Finally, groggily, she realized the phone was ringing and reached to pick it up.

“Hello.”

“Grandma, I knocked and knocked and you didn’t answer,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m outside.”

Jeanette quickly arose and opened the door to her grandson, Rod.

“I have the keys to Chad’s truck,” he said, referring to his cousin, another of Jeanette’s grandsons, and laid the keys on the kitchen table next to her purse. It was an odd time for him to come by. Odd that he had Chad’s keys.

She shook off her sleepiness and walked outside to say goodbye, where they chatted, as they often did.

Just minutes had passed when Rod glanced up, startled. “Grandma, look!” he said, pointing to the left side of the house.

She turned to see an alarming gray haze rising like a storm cloud from the living room. They rushed inside to find every crevice of her one-story home filled with smoke.

“My purse!” Jeanette, near hysterics, covered her mouth. “I have to get my purse.”

Rod jockeyed to move from the hallway into the kitchen, but the dense fog blocked his vision and choked him. He retreated. “Can’t do it,” he said, and led his grandmother outside. It was not only an impossible feat, but surprising, given the short time they’d been outside.

When the fire truck arrived, a fireman retrieved her purse, but the house was a loss.

It seemed a blur, this finite period of time that had assaulted and then plundered her. That had brought her from a groggy awakening to now standing in the dark with flashing red lights and puddles of water and meandering hoses. Without a fresh set of clothes or a place to sleep. Without a safe harbor. Tears covered her cheeks. Except for Paul’s death, nothing had ever compared to this.

The next day she and her children made their way through the charred remains of a life well lived, now mounds of soot and ash. The furniture, pictures, clothing, books, shoes, linens, eye glasses, and vast array of Christmas ornaments—everything was ruined. Glass shards littered the sooty floor beneath the blackened lop-sided picture frame that had held Paul’s photograph, now missing from the frame. Once again, Jeanette couldn’t contain her tears.

Her daughter, Cheryl, noticed what must have looked like the tip of an angel wing peeking through the midst of the dismal gray floor residue. She bent down to investigate and pulled the whiteness up and out of the ashes like the Phoenix arising. After blowing the soot off, she gasped, “This is impossible!” Then she turned the photograph so her mother could see the familiar head shot of her husband Paul.

They were speechless. (The second miracle of that day!)

Though her home and her valuables had burned, Jeanette understood—the love that burned in her heart lived forever. Forever. And it had just been confirmed, miraculously, unbelievably. As she stared at the perfectly intact photograph, she knew it was a gift. Paul McCoy, by God’s Grace, had made an appearance on the second worst day of her life, an appearance she desperately needed. Love had reached out of heaven and shown its face, healing some of the heartbreak.

The Psalmist writes, “For He will give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways.” And so He had. From Rod waking her unexpectedly from what could have been, to Paul’s coveted picture escaping the blaze. Miracles existed in her world.

One day she’d be reunited with the man she loved, because love, as St. Paul promised, never fails. And Paul and Jeanette’s love surely never died. xxx

Below left is the recovered picture of Paul. Right, is a rare picture of them dancing. Today, Jeanette is 89. She has survived the odds, many of her friends, her seven siblings, and her husband. She still lives alone, cleans her own house, and goes to every home basketball game her high school alma mater plays.

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The Forever Season

Yellow, brown, scarlet, and orange—the brushstrokes of angels bring autumn’s beauty to life. Instead of enjoying the pageantry, I busy myself lamenting the stark wintry weather that will soon ravage fallen leaves, old bones, and the landscape. Those merry folks who embrace winter’s bite make me grumpy, honestly. Vapor rises from their breath, liberating squeals of joy, as tongues escape to catch snowflakes. Bliss for them, despair for me.

I scold myself: Do not despise what hasn’t yet come!

Still, winter arises for me each year like the wilderness trip for the Israelites. It seems to last forever and I yearn for it to be over. It feels longer than other seasons, meaner. But in the valleys of our lives, when we face dragons and demons and worries and winter, we are empowered to survive, to rise above whatever metamorphosis, whatever pit of despair or anguish, winter brings.

As leaves flutter in the breezy wind that will soon make me gasp, I ponder the philosopher’s question: Could I truly appreciate summer had I never known winter? In this body that feels every nuance of cold, I scream “Absolutely!” Just as I know right from wrong, though the boundaries challenge many in the 21st Century, “Yes!” I don’t need a comparison to cherish the difference.

But then I laugh. Taking things for granted is a human condition I can scarcely escape.

When I am still unbundled and carefree, I enjoy watching cascading leaves on that perfect autumn Wednesday or Sunday when the day can’t decide if it should be hot or cold and so it climbs up and back down that Fahrenheit scale until my closet is a mishmash of sandals and boots, sleeveless dresses and coats, sweaters and shorts.

In autumn, I like the way the glass catches the sun at my window, it’s feigning-friendly ray sneaking into the warm indoors, until its untimely eventide turns—into a blistering chill against my unsuspecting window pane. I even like it though spiders trail the sun into the nice, warm shadows of my home and spin dusty looking webs.

Autumn is that compromise between extremes, a lesson perhaps, bestowing a leafy, cool reception for winter’s gray and white affliction. It doesn’t sadden me like winter. It just disappears much too quickly.

Nowadays, seasons seem to depart faster than they come, faster than the weather that defines them. Reformed of centuries-old lore: Sun scorches. Leaves fall. Snow pelts. Rain pours. Quoth God’s seasons, “nevermore.”

This prose, these lyrical phrases I’ve written with the vain imagination of emulating my poetic friends, evokes a smile and a recollection of the romantic John Keats. His lusty spring, summer nearer heaven, autumn of contentedness, and winter of pale misfeature.

Seasons are the song of the poets. For Keats and his kin, they are metaphors for life. However, seasons, like their defining weather, cycle endlessly. Human seasons are finite. Once we reach what Keats called the pale misfeature of life—brought on, not by sunless days, but by maturity—the spring in our footstep lessens and we move closer to winter’s finale.

Manes and whiskers turn bristly and white, and eyes dim, as the autumn years become wonderful, long-ago memories. Soon, the effortless, anticipated wounds of winter will linger once too long and the curtain on our final encore falls. Goodbye, we say, to loved ones and planet earth.

It makes me sigh and smile. This juncture in my life is not fearful.

I anticipate it!

If we know Christ, we must never fear seasons of change. Even as breath becomes a whisper that fades into the universe, we are still merely evolving. We get to (yes, it’s a privilege) escape our earthly bodies and embrace a heavenly spirit. At least that’s what I believe.

Like the butterfly fleeing it’s cocoon, untouched as it makes its debut, so God’s grace, that Holy miracle we can scant understand transforms and welcomes earth’s pilgrims as we discard our fleshly cocoon and encounter our eternal home. And like the butterfly, we are liberated, declared by a Holy God to be, not sinless, but guiltless before the Creator who loved us enough to undergo the earthly metamorphosis of seasons for Himself.

In the summer of His life, He died on a cross, ensuring that when our winter expires, it will mark a new and amazing beginning—a heavenly eternity—rather than the end.

Quoth God’s seasons, “Evermore.”

 

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