The Angel and the Drummer

Christmas came and went my love, but you weren’t here. 

It wasn’t the first one I’ve spent without you. Remember how you flew home to be with your family in Florida the year we began to date? We bought ornaments together before you left—a little angel in a blue dress for me and a gold-edged drum for you. You put the angel on your parents’ tree as you spent Christmas with them, and the drum stayed here on the tree in my family’s house. So we could think of each other while we were apart. Then you brought the drum back and left it with me while you did that tour in Germany with the Air Force. That was the first year the angel and the drum were on the same tree, but your Angel and my Drummer were apart at Christmas for the second year in a row. I began to wonder when we would ever celebrate this holiday together.

This afternoon, the day after my first Christmas since you went home to be with Jesus, I bought a sandwich from Firehouse Subs. I always think of you when I walk through their doors and see all the firefighter décor everywhere. They’ve become my favorite sub place ever since they kept me alive while I was in the hospital in Show Low. I think that medical facility is misnamed. When it comes to hospital food, "Summit" has reached a whole new low. I brought my Hook and Ladder Sandwich back here and found a post-Christmas Hallmark movie to watch. It wasn’t a comedy like I usually prefer. It felt a bit like a mystery, and I got sucked into it on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Everything was fine and semi-predictable right up until the cheesy ending. That’s what always happens, Baby. I let my guard down, I think I’m doing pretty good especially on the day after my first Christmas as your widow, and then out of the blue something triggers me and I’m flat on my face, sobbing again. After the typical crisis at the end of the movie where the two lovers misunderstand each other and one of them says, “I think you should leave now,” somehow they figure out where they went wrong, prove they can weather that storm and all the others ahead, and reunite so they can live happily ever after.

The woman saw her love coming toward her, took off running in his direction and, as the credits rolled, he caught her up in his arms and love conquered all again. Except that a forty-five-year-old memory flooded my heart, my breath caught, and I began to drown again in sorrow.

I’ve had a hard time remembering all the things that made up our life together, honey. I think because it hurts so much to realize how fast it went and recall all that I’ve lost in losing you. So, maybe I can thank Hallmark for these tears. Maybe with every painful memory of how happy we were I can reclaim the beautiful life we shared and find comfort in the remembering instead of fearing it.

When the Air Force gave you your discharge, and once you got that job in Florida, you flew back here to Phoenix. We hadn’t been together in sixteen months. I stood in the old terminal two at Sky Harbor Airport, anxiously scanning the crowd of passengers as they walked down the plane’s stairs and out onto the tarmac. And then there you were. Walking steadily toward me. I waited as long as I could and then I ran to you. I nearly knocked you over as we collided, but you wrapped your arms around me and gave me the first kiss I’d had from you in a year and a half. After that, the longest time we ever spent apart were two weeks stints when you had conferences to attend.

I never wanted to be away from you again. And we almost pulled it off. But now look at me. Look at us. The angel and the drummer aren’t even on my little tabletop tree this year the way they’ve always been every Christmas tree since 1975. Now they’re packed away in a storage shed with our furniture and all the rest of the ornaments we gathered as mementos of a life together well loved. I guess that’s appropriate, isn’t it, Baby? I loved all those memories represented by each ornament. Pulling them out of hibernation and hanging each one on just the right branch was a walk down memory lane together. From now on, I’ll walk that lane alone.

I can't handle that yet.

But I made it through yesterday, Rob. I felt your presence a couple of times. For that, I am grateful. In a strange way, I’m glad this sweet memory of our young love resurfaced even though it was carried by another tsunami of tears.

Still, I’m starting to think Hallmark movies are a little rough on a shattered heart like mine.

Maybe that's why you always preferred sci-fi and shoot 'em up films. No cheesy endings. Nothing to trigger a bittersweet memory and leave you sobbing in your sub sandwich.

Just a straight-forward flick where good conquers evil and nothing except giant fake gorillas can tug at your heart strings. I'll admit, watching Mighty Joe Young fall from that burning ferris wheel was sobering, but I'd have never cried over it the way you did, Rob. After all, I have my pride to think about.

I only cry at Hallmark movies that talk about angels.

And drummers.

More Than Just A Woman

Bent over, she sobbed at his feet, listening to the labored breathing of the man she loved more than life itself. He was dying and she was helpless to stop it. How did it come to this, she questioned, as confusion put her faith in jeopardy. What could she have done differently? What had she missed? Worse, what had he done to deserve this? He was the first to love her purely. The strongest man she’d ever known. The kindest heart ever born – everyone said so.

Now she was losing him, and with that loss, “a sword pierced her own soul.” His mother. A peasant woman without acclaim or influence, she was brushed aside by the political machine intent on killing her son. Helpless as she watched him die.

I thought about her this morning as I awoke to another day of my own brokenness, the tears from my face soaking into my pillow. Did she blame herself like I did? Wonder if somehow it was her fault that his life ended like that? Ridiculous, of course. Completely normal, though. “If only,” is the hallmark of every shattered heart, including mine. I sobbed at the side of my beloved, too, wondering what I could have done differently to prevent his death.

I had no influence, either, as I faced the political machine in charge of a pandemic. But since second guessing is the twin of 20/20 hindsight, I wonder if things would have turned out differently if I’d been a man. A man can command attention where a woman cannot. Maybe I’d have been consulted more often if I weren’t just the wife. Or, at the least, perhaps I’d have been treated with more respect by the hospital staff in Rob’s final moments if I'd been more than just a woman.

There is a frustrating, insulting imbalance when you’re a woman. I’m not a feminist, but I have no problem standing on the same ground where the apostle Paul stood when he wrote that “in Christ there is no longer male or female.” In the world, though, and even in the church, it is often a different story.

I’m not comparing myself to the mother of Jesus here. I’m relating to her as a woman. In her culture and time, women were less than second-class citizens—property, really—and openly treated that way. Except by Jesus, which shocked everyone. But Jesus made it clear, “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father.” Both he and his Father gave women equal value with men. It didn’t exactly make him popular with the religious culture of his time, though. So, why did he do it?

Because God created humanity in His own image—male and female created He them. This may surprise you, but God is neither male nor female. He encompasses in His wholeness all the qualities and uniqueness of both male and female. Neither is more significant than the other in the Godhead. And He calls His Church “the Bride of Christ.” A bride made up of both men and women. Yet, across the globe women are still disregarded, enslaved, impoverished, abused—and worse—simply because of their gender. A gender which is a reflection of God.

As someone who’s spent her entire life as a girl, I’m here to affirm that there is still a bias against women even here in the land of the free. I experience it often. Ask any woman you know, and she can give you any number of examples of disrespect that have come her way simply because she’s not a man. I guarantee it.

If women are created in the image of God, why are we so often pushed aside and treated as inferior? More than that, why are we the focus of hostility and suppression as seen throughout all of history?

Because of a promise. A promise made to the first woman at the moment of her worst defeat.

We are a unique prey, hunted by the adversary of God. The promise God made to Eve, after she was targeted by the snake in the Garden, was that the offspring of another woman would one day crush the evil viper’s head. Mary’s son did just that. And while the devil considers God his enemy, he knows he’s out of his league trying to compete with Him. There’s no way he can overpower his own Creator. Instead, in his hatred, he turns against those for whom Christ died—us. The sons and daughters of God, but especially God’s daughters.

It makes sense. If I were an enraged tyrant determined to use oppression as a weapon of mass destruction, I’d take aim on the vulnerable, too. Let’s face it. The enemy of our souls hates us. Here’s the twist—the devil bullies us to get at God.

The evil one who so hates God knows that the way to wound our Champion is to target us. Especially women. To make them feel less than. Defenseless. Insignificant. Worthless.

But we aren’t. We are daughters of the King.

We are warriors. It was not the strong, muscular body of a man which was chosen to protect and provide for new, innocent life and then endure excruciating pain, even potential death, to give birth. That endowment was entrusted to a woman. Entrusted to every daughter of Eve and of Mary, subjected to abuse and scorn they are the chosen vessels from which life springs. The mama bears who would sacrifice their own lives to protect their families. A dear friend of mine has a tiny tattoo on her wrist that says it all: Fierce. When it comes to defending their loved ones, women are fierce.

It was a woman who gave birth to the Savior, risking her life and protecting his. It was a woman who poured expensive perfume on his feet, foretelling his death. Women who wept at the foot of the cross while Jesus’ disciples scattered to parts unknown. Women who went to the tomb first, only to discover he was no longer dead. Women, with their intuitive natures and fearless devotion, recognized Jesus as the Messiah long before most of the men around them did.

And, as the psalmist states, “the women who proclaim the Good News are a great army.”

Maybe that’s the answer to the question on my mind. The reason the enemy of God hunts down and mistreats His daughters is because he can read. He knows we are a great army. And he’s panicking.

The Good News that has him running scared is this ~ God is for us. The King of the universe, Ruler of heaven and earth, all powerful, all knowing, the only eternal God Who is the embodiment of love, this is God and He is for us. All of us. Each of us. Every man, woman and child. Just as He was for Mary, holding her in the worst hours of her life, He is also for me, carrying me while I journey a long road of grief, looking for relief in this season of hope.

God is for us. The surprise of Christmas is Emmanuel—that God is with us. God became one of us. He’s with us in our heartbreaks. Our suffering. Our confusion. Mistreatment. Even in a loss like mine, God is with me every painful step of the way. I can’t see where I’m going, but I feel His arms around me.

The surprise of Christmas. The surprise in our sorrow. The promise that Jesus personally gave us in His birth and death and resurrection, “I Am with you always ~ even unto the end of the world.” Even unto the end of my world in that hospital room. For “if God is for us, who can be against us? Who can be our foe if God is on our side?”

Merry Christmas once again. Whatever the new year brings, I hope you face it knowing you are not alone. Emmanuel has come. And He is for you.

Joy To The World

Maybe I can blame it on low blood sugar. Or high blood sugar. I get those two mixed up. Does eating too much chocolate make you cry or does crying make you eat too much chocolate? This is as philosophical as it gets, I know.

Clearly, there’s too little clarity here. Just a lot of crying.

And that’s not right. It’s the wrong time of year for crying. This is the “hap - happiest season of all.” “The most wonderful time of the year.” I used to keep myself insulated from pain this time of year. Once Hallmark and Hobby Lobby opened their Pandora boxes of Christmas ribbon and fake snow, I put on my red and green blinders and refused to look at anything that didn’t scream “Happy Holidays!” I wanted my Christmas, and I wouldn’t let anything ruin it for me.

You know my family has suffered a tremendous loss this year. In February, my Rob succumbed to covid and Jesus gathered him into His arms. We let him go. We had to. In a few days it will be ten months since I last held Rob’s hand. I’ve been making my way through all the “firsts” ever since. The first Valentine’s Day without my true love. The first Easter. All our birthdays. Our anniversary. Last month was Thanksgiving. In less than two weeks, Christmas. None of them have felt the same without Rob.

We’re not alone in our loss. In fact, we are surrounded by so much suffering I’ve begun to wonder if we have any right to celebrate anything anymore. A friend lost her son soon after Rob died. Several firefighters have lost their cancer battles this year, men my son-in-law worked with. Another friend’s son, a father with young children, has a terminal diagnosis. More friends of Rob’s parents have passed this fall. Multiple friends of mine have endured their own covid crises, some of them hospitalized, most surviving after strenuous battles, while others still fight in ICU. And that doesn’t take into account the wearying state of the world as we each determine how best to navigate an abnormal normal. Always, as Jesus foretold, there are wars and rumors of wars. Weather peculiarities have been so frequent, they’re becoming the norm. Yesterday the worst tornado on record scoured America’s heartland and tonight close to one hundred families are grieving the loss of people they loved. Our son and his family in Kentucky were spared. Others were not. At Christmas.

How, under the low hanging clouds of sorrow, can we dare allow joy in any measure to invade our lives? How dare we sing of Joy To The World?

I took my daughter and her family to see a play this afternoon. My son loves this story, too, and quotes the unexpected heroine on social media every Christmas morn. Katy read “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” to her children (and me) a couple of weeks ago, so when we found out a local children’s theater group was performing a musical rendition of it today, I bought tickets. We needed some laughter and hope in a season that has arrived with heartbreak. The story of a rowdy group of outcast siblings who invade the sanctimonious performance of a local church’s annual Christmas play is hilarious on its own. But when the new arrivals steal the show with their own startling realization that the baby in the manger is just like them, tradition and ego are tossed out like discarded wrapping paper and the ground beneath the cradle proves level. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

“Hey!” Imogene Herdman yelled with genuine enthusiasm, her halo askew and her face smattered with dirt. “Unto you a Child is born!” She wasn’t your ordinary, everyday angel. But it wasn’t an ordinary, everyday newborn either. Babies arrive wrapped in hope, little miracles that remind us not to give up.

Here on the mini-farm where two sheep, two dogs, one tortoise, and multiple chickens reside, there are also three little pigs. Appropriate, right? One male and two females: Boris, Natasha, and Maggie. Boris and Natasha became parents early this morning. The timing was incredible. After weeks of speculation about whether Natasha was eating like a pig or just eating for two (or ten), close inspection yesterday revealed that the little lady was about to become a mother. Boris and Maggie were ousted from their family’s enclosure, the pig pen was mucked out, fresh hay brought in, a heat lamp set up, and though no one knew the timing, everyone prepared and waited. For a minute.

This morning I wandered out to see the little ones after reading the proclamation of their birth in an excited text message. There inside a small stable, surrounded by warm hay, Natasha lay resting while the newborns, Dasher and Dancer (well, it is Christmas), brother and sister, enjoyed their first ever breakfast. Baby pigs are almost as cute as baby goats. The Brady Farm has birthed quite a number of animals over the years, but this is the first time I’ve been here to witness such fresh arrivals.

Last night, surprised as we all were by the delightful news that baby animals would soon be born, I told Katy, “New life is always wonderful.”  Death has paid too many visits to us and our family, our friends, and our world this year. Though my shattered heart recovers slowly, even I felt it—a tiny sparkle of joy at the news that soon we would have a reason to celebrate the miracle of life again. I was caught off-guard by the thrill I felt. I guess even in frightening, uncertain times, Carl Sandburg continues to be right. “A baby is God’s opinion that the world should go on.” Even if the baby belongs to a pig named Natasha.

While the world, whether corporately or personally, may appear to have plunged into total darkness, it has not. Because unto us a Child was born—the Life, the apostle John said, that is the Light of men. And the Light shines on in the darkness, for the darkness has never overpowered it.

And it never will. Finally, after a year of horror, a sparkle of hope invades my heart, and I remember again that love always wins.

Hey! Unto you a Child is born!

Love Letters

I see you crying. Leaning against that bookcase in your temporary home, head on your hands beneath your favorite picture of me. I’m here, Babe. I hear you. I love you. 

Reaching for me when the lights go out in your heart, I heard you say you’ve got an investment in heaven because I’m here. I’m watching and praying for you where I stand in the presence of Father. We see you. You’re not alone even though I know you feel like you are.

I’m here. He’s here. Fighting for you.

The hummingbirds that hover outside your window—they’re a reminder from me. Remember how I took care of them? Now they help care for you, reminding you I’m near, that the veil is thin. I’m praying for you to hold fast, Overcomer. This isn’t forever, this separation. We will be together again. You know that’s the truth.

That day in Montana when you stood in the cedar forest and had to lean against the tree for support. I was there, too. I saw you. I heard you. You said against the rough bark of that tree, “I wish I could show all of this to you, Rob.” We both enjoyed being in the woods together. I answered you there. “Wait til I can show you everything that I see here.” Remember? I watched your face. I know you heard me. Of course, we can still hear each other. We’re both in Christ and He’s in us.

That paper you framed and hung on the wall near the table in your room? The one Allie found after I left? It was a love letter from me. I want you to always know. Always remember. I know you—that broken heart of yours, wounded since you were a kid. Remember this always—you are “my love, my life, my all!” You’re still my Sanserai.

Watching you cry beside the rose bush today. The replacement for the one I bought you when you were the one who was sick. My name below it. I know that’s hard—to see my name and not see me. The feather dropped there beside it was for you. I’m so close and you don’t even know it.

Another tear. You can cry with me.

Baby, it’s going to be okay! We’ll be together again. Count on it. Face to face, in each other’s arms. Wait until you see what I can see, Babe. I’m still here. I’m more alive than I ever was. I know you hate to wait. I know how much you miss having me there. I’m so proud of you. I’ve always been proud to have you for my wife.

Hold on, My Love. Remember, this is temporary. Hold fast, Overcomer, hold fast. Hang on! I’m here. I’m waiting for you.

I love you, darlin’.

 

I re-read your letter tonight, honey. I've gathered up some of the things you’ve shared with my spirit in the last nine months and put them down on paper. Today was a day of sadness and delights. My first Thanksgiving without you, Rob.

There have been others, of course, when you were on duty and we visited you at the fire station. There’s no way to visit you now, but I felt your presence tonight as we all sat down at Katy’s dinner table—the one you grew up sitting around in your mother’s dining room. We bowed our heads and while Dan prayed thanksgiving, I felt you. I knew you were standing beside me, present with us. I prayed you were felt at Lee and Jess’s Thanksgiving today, too. Sometimes I just know when you’re near. Like tonight.

Katy and I talked at her counter while she pulled food from the fridge hours earlier. “I miss him today,” she said suddenly, and I nodded. “There’s such an empty space here that he used to fill.” She’s right. I felt it, too. I’ve felt it all day, trying to put on a brave face, throwing a spin on my perspective. “It’s just an American holiday,” I tell myself. “There’s no reason to cry. I’ve never even met a pilgrim.” It doesn’t work, though. It’s tradition. You loved Thanksgiving. Now we all celebrate the day that rings of paradox—thankful for God’s care. Brokenhearted that you’re gone.

I’ve tried to explain what this emptiness, this void without you, feels like. The closest I can come is to describe it like an amputation. You’ve been beside me for forty-four years. The vacancy is massive. It’s like I walk around in an empty stadium, looking for you, listening to the echo of my own voice, my arms swinging through oceans of air but feeling nothing. No one.

We miss you, Baby. I hear it in our son’s voice when we talk. I see it in our daughter’s eyes every day. I guess none of us knows what an impact is left by our wake when we set sail for the other side. Only those left behind see and feel its effects.

How I wish we saw and held you instead.

I am grateful, though, that you continue to make your presence known. Thankful for the reminders of your continuing love. Thankful that we can commune in spirit even if separated physically right now. I’m grateful for the signs you send my way that reinforce the burgeoning recognition that you and Father see our sorrow and provide comfort. Like the feather I picked up this evening near the pasture gate, to remind me you are near and I am held.

Happy Thanksgiving, Baby. I love you.

With gratefulness to Liz West for permission to use her photo above. The original can be viewed at the following link:

letters | I bought this packet of letters at an auction; it … | Flickr