March, 2009
Do you ever wonder if all we remember is what we’ve been verbally reminded of or what we’ve seen in old snapshots?
We take pictures of the happy moments in our lives. Shutters click, the flash goes off and we stop time, just for the blink of an eye. It is a moment of joy, something we want to hold onto . . . and remember. It is the kind of world we want to remember living in. It is what we wish every day of our lives would always hold and helps to create the picture that everyone wants . . . a happy life, a happy family, an incredible moment. It is only as we grow up that we realize not all memories are happy ones.
I’ve known that I want to write another "installment" in my Daddy/Family files. Then, when I try to settle on a story or memory, the floodgates open and I find myself struggling to narrow it down to just one. Here is my attempt to remember one of the snapshots I don't like. My Daddy was hurting!
I don’t know the year or how old I was. I’m not even sure of the time of day but I believe it was early morning, and that I was young and struggling to understand the sounds of my daddy in pain. Mama was doing her best to keep us quiet and out of the room. Maybe we were waiting for a babysitter to arrive so they could be on their way to the hospital or doctor, but we were instructed to be in our rooms, quiet. The stairway to our bedrooms was right near there and I believe we were getting ready to go to school. As I started to obey the directive to go upstairs, I caught a glimpse of my strong, capable and energetic daddy, looking totally helpless, in pain, lying in the living room on the pull out couch.
As I try to put myself back in the moment, I can remember my little girl mind asking the questions. What’s wrong? Can’t we stop this? I could not accept that my Mama couldn’t fix it. She was a nurse after all and had always “fixed” all of us numerous times. I felt scared, sad and helpless, my heart was breaking with his every sound, but I KNEW if only Mama would let me in there I could help him and I could make him feel better. I’m not sure what I thought I could do, I only knew that when I was near, he smiled and laughed.
Later we learned it was appendicitis. Daddy got better and our lives continued as usual. It was a scary painful time, but in the end…pretty uneventful. Today, as I look back I try to understand why it was so defining for me.
Very seldom do we take a photograph of something unpleasant, but sometimes they are the most remarkable. They serve as the memories/stories that make us aware. They help us discover important lessons. This one built empathy in my heart, a desire to help others and take away another’s pain, and a realization that when people get sick, they often get better.
Today, I see the shadow of a little girl dancing in and out of the weave of my life who still struggles to understand or accept that kind of pain or illness in the lives of those she loves . . .
A daughter who wants to help and make the pain go away . . .
She still wishes she could.
The one who could make him smile and laugh.
She still does.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Gentle Giant
Merry Christmas Daddy! Christmas: 2008
I’m hoping that this will be the first of many installments of stories that chronicle the lives of the rambunctious, happy and affectionate Bedgood Family that I grew up in. I’m not sure many people would consider this a “Christmas gift” as such, but I know you well enough to know what’s important to you, and “stuff” isn’t. Words are. Thoughts are. Your children and family are, and hearing our perceptions of our lives as children make you smile. Do you know that is one of the things I love about you? You have an amazing capacity for love and giving attention to the details of our lives, each of us, individually without exception.
Now, let me move on to the first story. I think this may be my first memory, but I may recant that later as I write and other memories come to mind.
One morning as I got up from my warm, messy bed, (which was really more of a cocoon to hear Mama talk.) and came into the activity of our morning, I felt uneasy. I could tell by looking at your faces that you were upset and crying. Soon, you said you had something important to say to us and you asked us to sit quietly and listen. There is a picture forever embedded in my mind. It is a picture of Mama sitting on the seat of the chair with you sitting on the arm, your arm around her shoulders. I remember the moment. I remember where we were sitting in the living room on Rich Road. I remember the floor feeling cold under me, and I remember how the girls sat. Suzie, Lynnie, Laurie, in that order. I remember the words that were spoken as you told us gently that Grandpa Snuffer had gone to Heaven. I remember watching you cry as you spoke and feeling more afraid and upset by your tears then the news about Grandpa. In my little girl mind I was certain that if Grandpa went to Heaven, he would be back very soon and Mama and Daddy would quit crying. It wasn’t until some time past that I realized that Heaven was a place that people didn’t come back from.
When I was the age of that little girl, the idea of loss wasn’t a fear and never even came to mind. Unpleasant events were often kept away from a child who is well loved, sheltered and protected by her parents. As I reflect back on that day, I know I was definitely one of those children. I thank God everyday as I’m sure it is part of what gives me the sense of well being and balance I have today in my adult life.
Daddy, you are the first picture I had of my heavenly Father, and I thank Him for the sweet example he created in you. I love the way you loved my Mama that day. I love the way you placed your protective arm around her. I love looking back and remembering the gentle side of my Daddy that I learned about on that day.
I love that man. He cries, comforts, protects and loves in such an amazing way. Little did you know that the picture you painted for me that day gave me the very picture I needed, to know that my God was an approachable and gentle giant, just like my Daddy.
I’m hoping that this will be the first of many installments of stories that chronicle the lives of the rambunctious, happy and affectionate Bedgood Family that I grew up in. I’m not sure many people would consider this a “Christmas gift” as such, but I know you well enough to know what’s important to you, and “stuff” isn’t. Words are. Thoughts are. Your children and family are, and hearing our perceptions of our lives as children make you smile. Do you know that is one of the things I love about you? You have an amazing capacity for love and giving attention to the details of our lives, each of us, individually without exception.
Now, let me move on to the first story. I think this may be my first memory, but I may recant that later as I write and other memories come to mind.
One morning as I got up from my warm, messy bed, (which was really more of a cocoon to hear Mama talk.) and came into the activity of our morning, I felt uneasy. I could tell by looking at your faces that you were upset and crying. Soon, you said you had something important to say to us and you asked us to sit quietly and listen. There is a picture forever embedded in my mind. It is a picture of Mama sitting on the seat of the chair with you sitting on the arm, your arm around her shoulders. I remember the moment. I remember where we were sitting in the living room on Rich Road. I remember the floor feeling cold under me, and I remember how the girls sat. Suzie, Lynnie, Laurie, in that order. I remember the words that were spoken as you told us gently that Grandpa Snuffer had gone to Heaven. I remember watching you cry as you spoke and feeling more afraid and upset by your tears then the news about Grandpa. In my little girl mind I was certain that if Grandpa went to Heaven, he would be back very soon and Mama and Daddy would quit crying. It wasn’t until some time past that I realized that Heaven was a place that people didn’t come back from.
When I was the age of that little girl, the idea of loss wasn’t a fear and never even came to mind. Unpleasant events were often kept away from a child who is well loved, sheltered and protected by her parents. As I reflect back on that day, I know I was definitely one of those children. I thank God everyday as I’m sure it is part of what gives me the sense of well being and balance I have today in my adult life.
Daddy, you are the first picture I had of my heavenly Father, and I thank Him for the sweet example he created in you. I love the way you loved my Mama that day. I love the way you placed your protective arm around her. I love looking back and remembering the gentle side of my Daddy that I learned about on that day.
I love that man. He cries, comforts, protects and loves in such an amazing way. Little did you know that the picture you painted for me that day gave me the very picture I needed, to know that my God was an approachable and gentle giant, just like my Daddy.
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