Love Prevails

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(Remembering Mary Ellen Townsend Harris, 1911-2016)

[NOTE:  This is the draft of the final chapter in the book I have been writing about my mother’s life.  Previously I had titled it, “Dairyman’s Daughter.”  As I concluded this chapter I realized that was an inadequate title.  So, I have retitled the book, “When Love Prevails.]

Though she had learned how to function in spite of grief and loss, Mary was not insulated from its impact.  Sometimes an emotional trough of emptiness engulfed her between swells of spiritual assurance.  Most days she tackled the situation by putting on a cheerful “face,” as she called it.  Just as she put on cosmetic make-up each morning, so she dressed her mind with prayer and assurance.  It was all a matter of framing reality in a faith perspective.

This was a process Mary developed years earlier when Hugh’s cognitive decline began to worsen.  Until the later stages of Alzheimer’s set in, he appeared normal–but his words and attitude indicated he was not himself.  The impact for Mary was a deep sadness she wished she could cover up or bypass.  As she often expressed it, ‘I lost my husband while he was still living.”  Coping required a daily faith-building routine.

Hugh was undeniably dead, yet very much still alive, and present, in her mind.  She took meditative jaunts through her memory closet, recalling warm moments when their souls had intertwined.  The bond they shared was deeper than even the worst situations they faced.  Recalling her wedding vows, Mary mused, we had poor times when things seemed the worst they could get, and times of great joy and fulfillment.  We went through sickness as well as miraculous healing.  Despite obstacles and opposition, we were rich in spirit, abounding in joyful celebrations that overshadowed difficult things.

While browsing through picture albums Mary sniffed back a gush of empathic yearning, wiping away oozing tears that threatened to drain her inner reservoir.  Until deaith parts us, we promised.  Death!  It’s already here…so suddenly!  I should have been ready, but I wasn’t…I’m not!  Help me Lord.  You lost your Son on the cross.  I know you feel this pain inside me…I know you are here for me now.

“By God’s grace,” Mary often commented to her closest friends, “I get through the lonely times.  Every morning the sun brings light, beauty, and promise–an opportunity to get a fresh grip on my life.”

Volunteer activities helped fill her days with energy, insight, and purpose.  She increased her quilting activities, drawing inner strength with each stitch, remembering her days learning to sew with her Grandma Mary.  Sometimes she went shopping with friends or family members.  Before Hugh’s disabilities set in she had bought a used car.  As Hugh became unable to drive, she was able to transport him wherever he needed to go.  After he died, she became a source of transportation for others in the retirement community–the “old folks,” as she referred to them.

Ironically, it was this very activity that signaled a turn in her own life.  One day she drove three friends to town for a shopping trip.  Pulling up in front of the store, Mary stayed in the car while the other two women helped a third who used a walker get out of the back seat on the driver’s side.  Mary realized she had pulled up so close to the car in front of her she would have to back up before she could pull away from the curb.

Hearing the doors shut, she put the car in reverse and began backing up.  Suddenly there was a noise behind her, and people on the sidewalk were yelling.  Her heart skipped a beat as she hit the brake and looked in the rearview mirror.  She saw nothing, but one of her friends opened the passenger door and said, “Stop!  Don’t back up any more!”

Mary got out and saw people helping her friend with the walker get to her feet behind the car.  She gripped the fender and sucked in her breath as her knees weakened.  “Oh, my gosh!  I thought you were on the sidewalk.”  The woman was not injured, but had fallen when Mary’s bumper hit her walker.  That was the last time Mary drove.  There were no charges against her, no injuries, and neither the car nor walker were damaged.

Telling her sons about the incident later she said, “I could have run over her.  I don’t think I can see well enough to drive anymore.”

Mary had been having some eyesight issues.  A few years earlier she was diagnosed with macular degeneration (AMD) following an eye exam.  She remembered her response.  “I’ve known people who had that, but I thought it was a side-effect of diabetes, which I don’t have.  I was borderline at one time, but it cleared up through changing my diet…and exercise.”

“This has nothing to do with diabetes,” the doctor replied.  “There are two forms of AMD…’wet’ and ‘dry.’  You have the dry form, which involves deterioration of light-sensing cells on the back of your retina called the macula.  It causes blurred sight and with time, can cause vision loss.  You won’t become completely blind, but you will lose sight in your central area of vision.”

Mary remembered her shock.  “What can I do about it?  Is there something I can take?”

“Unfortunately, this isn’t something we can cure.”  He let that sink in for a moment.  They were sitting in his examining room where he pointed to a diagram of the eye and explained what he was talking about.  “There are some things, however, that can help, such as vitamins, laser therapy, medications, vision aids.  We’ll work with you.”      

When she got back to the Home, Mary shared what was happening with some close friends.  Knowing what an avid reader she was, someone asked what she was going to do without being able to read as much.

“I’m going to do what I always do.  I’ll just find a way around the problem.  I have a magnifying glass if I need it and, besides, publishers do make large print editions for people with vision problems, and I have a large-print Bible.”

Mary was not about to give in to AMD.  She’d face a lot of challenges in her life, but she never thought of herself as a victim.  To do so would only give the disease power over her.  She signed on to receive services from the “Talking Book” program offered by the Virginia Department for the Blind and Visually Disabled.  A magnifying lamp in her sewing room became valuable for more tasks than threading needles.  She continued quilting, learning to work by touch, not just sight.  Her peripheral vision was still present, and miraculously she retained some central vision in her left eye due to what the doctor called an unusual hole in the macula.

Keeping house, cooking, doing her laundry–everyday tasks she had taken for granted in younger years now became ways to maintain normalcy.  On holidays and other occasions her sons and their families, her daughter’s family, and her grandchildren and their families visited.  Supper around the kitchen table felt as natural as ever, although her loved ones saw signs that she wasn’t as sure of herself as time went along.  On occasions like birthdays and key holidays they would reminisce and try to look ahead.

“So, let’s see, you’re 97 now, is that right, Mom?”

“I guess it is.  Doesn’t seem like it.  I never thought I’d live this long.”

“How does it feel to be this age?”   

Mary faked a look of surprise at the question.  “Why, it just feels normal.  I feel just about the same as I always have.  A few more wrinkles, and of course, my eyesight’s not as good, but I don’t feel any different.”

Some time later things changed.  There was no disaster or anythig, just an admission that she was feeling tired trying to keep up.  Her eyesight was getting worse and she feared making a mistake while cooking.  I never wanted to go to Assisted Living, she mused.  Once you go over there, you never come back.  I’ve never felt ready for that…until now.  Maybe the time has come.  It would be nice to have somebody else keeping things clean and cooking.  Hmmmm!

She prayed about it and called one of the staff members she had known for years who was always there for her.  They discussed it, and Mary decided it was time to go.  She called her family and talked it over.  They made the formal arrangements, then set a date when everybody who could helped her sort through things, decide what to give away or sell, and what she could use living in one room instead of three.  She had long ago negotiated with her children and grandchildren about what things would go to whom, and now they were being distributed.  It was a stressful time, but everyone knew it was the right move.

In the midst of it all Mary remembered her mother and dad moving from Keezletown to the Masonic Home in Ohio.  It feels so strange…so uprooting.  I guess they felt the same way, although they never expressed it.  She had visited them there and remembered how well her dad had made the transition.  “I can do this,” she told herself, “the Lord being my helper.”

Once the furniture was in her room, it seemed much smaller than it had looked when empty.  Mary closed her eyes tightly and squeezed her palms.  I can do this!  She looked at her bed with one of her quilts on it, tucked up against the same bookcase headboard Hugh had made for her decades ago…but it felt different. A small closet was filled with her clothing.  I’ll have to figure out a better way to organize that!  There was a separate bathroom, but the washstand was in the room with her.  That won’t do!  I’ll get a screen to hide it.

She had a small TV set, two dressers, and a bookshelf that also contained her tapes, radio and tape player.  A secretary desk she’d had in the apartment stood flush to the wall beside the window looking out upon a tall tree, and the courtyard below.  She arranged a half-dozen small plants on the window sill.  They’ll love it there…put some life in the room.  Under the window sill she had a small desk with her sewing lamp, and a chair.  The Home provided a recliner which completed the setting.

When it seemed things were in order, her family members left.  Mary was touched by all the attention and help she’d received.  A few friends had tried to poke their heads in the door to welcome her, and she knew they’d be back.  She sat in the recliner and looked it all over.  Suddenly fatigue set in and she closed her eyes. Lord, I’m here.  I’m thankful to have this place.  Help me learn how to live with all the changes.’

She opened her eyes at the sound of a knock on the open door to the hallway.  It was the head nurse and one of her assistants who introduced themselves, then went over rules and procedures.  Mary clarified that she wanted the door closed at night, then a thought struck her.

“What time will you come in to check on me in the morning?”  When the nurse replied, Mary said, “Just one thing…don’t be alarmed if you come in and see me on the floor.  I’ll be doing my exercises.”  She explained about having done Paul’s exercises for him every morning for decades, and having adapted them for herself. “In fact, if I’m not on the floor, that’s the time to be concerned!”  They said they understood.

Mary ate most of her meals in the dining room, assigned to a table with three other residents who became a kind of “family” to each other.  Eating institutional food became a difficult adjustment.  She was eating many of the same things she’d had at home, but it felt different.  One day Jim dropped by at lunch time.  Mary was sitting there poking at her food with a fork, but not eating.  She looked up at Jim,

“Do you see this?  Do you see what they want us to eat here?  I don’t know what this is, and I won’t eat it!”

Jim said, “Let’s see what we have here.”  He took her knife and fork and cut into the meat.  “Mom, that’s grilled chicken.  It seems to be tender.  What don’t you like about it?”

Mary gave him a look of distrust.  “I don’t believe you.  Here’s what it says on the menu.”  She held up a sheet of paper with a list of food choices.  “I can’t even pronounce what this is.”

“I see what’s going on, Mom.  I think they’re trying to make your meals more exotic, so they’ve given things some new names.”

“Well, they can keep their names.  If I order chicken, that’s what I want…not some exotic thing.”

It took time, but she adjusted to the food and the “new culture” plan the Home was using with its menus.  Sometimes she skipped means in the dining room, substituting Ensure or other snacks she kept in a fridge down the hall.  Every two or three weeks she had Jim take her to the grocery where she stocked up on items that helped her maintain some sense of independence.  Whenever she missed a meal her table “family” inquired about her.  Sometimes she said there just wasn’t any privacy at all in such a setting.

There was a table in the hallway near her room where people worked on puzzles, which she sometimes enjoyed.  There were various planned activities, programs put on by visiting choirs or other groups, chapel services and daily devotions.  It wasn’t all so bad, she sometimes admitted secretly.  One good feature was the quilting room where she’d been working for several years, located outside her room and down the hall.  When family members came to visit there was a large community room they could use by arrangement…which was great for birthdays and at Christmas.

During one of his and Sharon’s visits, after she’d been settled for quite a while, Hugh T said he had been re-reading the memoirs she had written in 1989.  “Mom, have you ever thought about writing an addendum to that?”  She had ended it with Merle’s death.

“Well, I guess I could.  I’m glad you still have it.  I’ll have to give that some thought.”

A short time later she tackled the task.  Despite her macular degeneration, Mary had maintained legible handwriting over the years.  She found herself expressing her grief over Hugh’s death and how it had affected her.  She surprised herself since much of this was repetitive from her memoir, then she realized what she’d been doing.  Her grief was still alive, and she’d been getting back in touch with it consciously.  Deep inside she knew this was therapeutic.  She wrote:

“So, now I’m here living in Asst. Living at the Home because of my health problem, Macular Degeneration.  I can’t say that I’m always happy living here.  I’m used to being able to be more active physically and going and coming as I want.  Also, I miss a larger space, to ‘keep house’ and cook my own meals; not to mention driving myself where and when I want to go.  But, I realize due to the sight problem and my age I need to be in a care-giving situation.  At times I get very lonely and want to pack up and go ‘home.’  Then I remember ‘why’ I am here.  I’ve been blessed with a caring family all my life and I still am!”

She went on to address many ways different family members had blessed her. Setting her writing aside, she felt afresh the warmth their love brought her.  Hugh T and Sharon lived in Richmond, so their visits were scattered, but they kept in touch by phone nearly every week.  At Christmas, and one week in early summer, Mary continued a practice she’d developed a few years earlier of traveling to Richmond where she enjoyed staying with them in their two-story house on a wooded lot.  A large deck extended out from the great room, two stories above a slanting yard that ran down to a small creek.  She loved to sit there under an umbrella and listen to the birds and other sounds of nature.  Mary always called this her “bird’s nest.”

Her greatest blessing, however, was having Jim close by so he could look in on her and participate with her in different activities, take her shopping, to doctor visits, and to see some of her friends.  Jim and his wife, Debbie, lived in Staunton.  He was retired, serving as associate pastor for the Bridgewater United Methodist Church.  Some of his pastoral visitation always involved the Home, so looking in on his mom was easy.  With Debbie’s help Mary got to church each Sunday.  After worship they would often go out to eat.  

Another blessing was Jim’s daughter, Debbie, who lived with her husband in Alabama.  About once a quarter she would drive up to Virginia to spend time with her grandma. As great-grandchildren came along, she and her husband Kyle brought them, too.  Another granddaughter, Hugh T’s daughter Diane, visited frequently from Northern Virginia, and later from the town of Strasburg farther up in the Shenandoah Valley.  A network of love prevailed through all the changes in Mary’s life, wrapping her in comfort and peace.

At the same time, there were some discordant notes during those years.  When Mary’s family threw a large 100th Birthday party for her on May 21, 2011, it was a celebration of more than her age.  The previous fall she had been through a medical crisis that put her in the hospital for a few weeks, and involved a stint of temporary dialysis to restart her kidneys that had been affected by an infection.  She had recovered well.  At her party no one would ever have guessed what she’d been through.

As a centenarian Mary became more vulnerable to illness.  She suffered a heart attack during a Bible study at the Home, and Jim was there to see her through the ordeal.  It was not severe, and she recovered quickly.  Another time she developed a MRSA infection that caused her to have a toe amputated.  She did well through that ordeal, too.

In 2015 she remembered she had not finished the update to her memoirs that Hugh T had requested, so she got back into it, recalling Hugh’s journey through Alzheimer’s and its impact on her.  She wrote:

“One of the hardest things to cope with was the fact that he really did not recognize me anymore.  He asked me continually many times a day, Where was his wife?  Where was Mary?”

Here was that trough of grief between the swells of spiritual assurance, surging again in her spirit.  She talked about working with the Alzheimer’s group in Harrisonburg, then went on:

“Because Hugh didn’t know me (as his wife) I told myself ‘I can handle this–the person I know and love is gone, so I’ll take the best care of the person in his body.’

I think I must have succeeded because he asked me to marry him, as he said, ‘When I get out of this place.’  At 103 years of age I’m still trying to deal with each day as it comes, because that I can do–we really have only ‘One Day at a Time’ anyway.”

Here, fourteen years after they were parted by death, the love Mary and Hugh shared was still alive.  In her mind, Mary was still married to him, and she would be for all eternity.  That became clear to most who knew her at the Home when a widower who lived down the hall from her room became attracted to her.  Time and again he would come calling, bringing flowers or gifts.  She told him she was not interested in a relationship…she was married to her Hubert.  He would leave and she would discard the gifts.  He would come back and try again with the same result.  Mary felt sorry for him, but her love for her husband prevailed.  Death had not parted them.

On May 21, 2016, Mary’s family gathered again to celebrate her birthday, this time 105 years.  Jim’s daughter, Debbie, a professional hairdresser, spent time with Mary, cutting and styling her hair, and making her up so her inner beauty shone through her face.  It was another great celebration.

Two months later Mary experienced a medical downturn.  Jim called Hugh T on Monday morning.  “Mom’s in the ambulance and we’re headed for the hospital.”

“What’s going on?  How serious is it>”

“We don’t know, but….”

“Okay, I’m leaving as quickly as I can.  I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Mary was talking to the angels when Hugh T arrived.  Jim and Debbie had been waiting with her for hours and he took over to give them a break.  Mary knew her family was there, and it was comforting, but she also knew she was finally going “home.”  God was calling her.  Weakened by IV’s that bruised her arms, she lay in the ER cubicle with her eyes closed, sheets pulled up around her neck.  From time to time over several months she’d had a vision of Hugh standing in her room, dressed in the maroon shirt he often wore.  He looked at her, urgency in his face.  “Mary…come on!  Why are you taking so long?”

It’s time, she whispered in her spirit.  Mary felt the guerney move as hospital attendants rolled her to the elevator and up to a room.  The angels were still there, comforting, encouraging, reassuring.  Hugh T was in the room as she opened her eyes.  The IV in her arm burned and she wanted relief.  She tried to pull out the lines, but her son stopped her.  “Its stinging me,” she said, looking at him pleadingly, wishing this was all over.

“I know!”  His voice was thick with emotion.  “It’s feeding you.  It won’t be long.”

It seemed long.  She closed her eyes and felt the angels with her.  She was aware as Hugh T kissed her forehead before he left to return home at midnight.  A slight smile curled her lips.  Thanks.  I love you.  She couldn’t arouse to the point of words, but she new he heard her thoughts.

Mary drifted through the night, in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware Jim and Debbie were sitting with her.  The bedside phone rang.  Debbie answered, then held it up to her.  Granddaughter Debbie’s voice fell lovingly on her ear.  “Nan Nan, I love you.  We all love you, and it’s okay.  We’ll miss you, but you can go now.  It’s time.”

And love prevailed as Mary Ellen Townsend Harris left this life where she’d spent a hundred-and-five years, her spirit rejoicing as she entered the radiance of God’s blessed eternity.

(Excerpt from “When Love Prevails,” by Hugh Harris, based on “Remembering!” by Mary Ellen Townsend Harris)

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A Fresh Start

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On July 23, 1982, Sharon and I were married at Mechanicsville United Methodist Church where I was serving as pastor.  We had met a year earlier at Woody’s Funeral Home when I did her grandmother’s funeral.  Having each been divorced, our marriage was a fresh start for us, and for the children we each brought into the blending of a new family.

Having failed at marriage, starting over was a giant step of faith.  We needed, and received, the support of our families, both church and biological, and our friends.  More than that, we needed God’s grace and guidance, which we received in abundance.

Our district superintendent told us about a group called the Association for Couples in Marriage Enrichment (ACME).  We became involved, learning new skills in communication, dealing with our emotional “baggage,” and relationship-building that gave us a strong foundation.  In time we attended leadership training with David and Vera Mace, ACME founders.   We led marriage enrichment retreats, and even served a term as leader couple for the Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia Region of ACME.  

We soon discovered a realty we hadn’t weighed.  When Sharon and I married each other, that didn’t mean our kids automatically fit together as a family unit.  Some people thought calling a step-family a “blended” family, would “fix” the issue by changing the focus. In reality, what was needed was “bonding” with each other, respecting each other’s separate identities, and intentionally working at identifying and building a common bond.  Couples facing these tasks needed a supportive network.  To address this, Sharon and I formed The Stepfamily Connection.   Under the umbrella of Mechanicsville UM Church, we held monthly meetings with other stepfamilies, sharing experiences, skills and resources.  The group existed until I was transferred to a different church.

Stepping into the role of a pastor’s wife at “mid-stream” brought challenges of its own for Sharon.  It also brought new spiritual growth and a deeper sense of God’s love, strength and redirection.  A full-time secondary teacher, she soon found building a new family unit required primary attention.  She moved to part-time teaching.  

“Fresh starts” continued to occur.  Spiritual growth  opened new vistas of God’s call in Sharon’s life.  After a few years she went back to graduate school for a Master’s Degree in Counseling, then went through the steps to become a licensed professional counselor and marriage and family therapist.  She spent fifteen years helping other’s find their own fresh starts.

Today, Sharon and I are celebrating thirty-five years of marriage.  We could never have become the persons we are today without the bonding God has given us in our life together.  When she went through a neurological crisis, we wrote a book about the experience in order to help others.  I have continued a life-long artistic expression through painting, drawing, and writing.  We’ve had struggles and triumphs, and most of all, no matter what, we’ve had each other.

We’ve also learned that around each corner, if we keep faith with God and each other, there is the promise of yet another life-enhancing “fresh start.”

 

Abiding Peace

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(Remembering Mary Ellen Townsend Harris, 1911-2016)

After Hugh’s death, Mary felt like a ship adrift on a windless sea.  Having been through the long struggle with his neurological decline, she knew in her heart that his death was actually his healing–but that didn’t replace the empty feeling that gnawed at her spirit. During their long life-journey they had forged a spiritual bond so deep that it was unbreakable, even by death.  In Mary’s mind, Hugh was an indelible part of her own being, and he would remain so until she joined him in eternity.

That’s not to say she was shallow on grief.  Mary felt her loss with every breath she drew. Her response was to lift it all to God.  She found comfort and strength through inspirational readings, and thoughts she wrote in her journal each day.

Especially helpful was an exercise she had used just a year before…

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Abiding Peace

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(Remembering Mary Ellen Townsend Harris, 1911-2016)

After Hugh’s death, Mary felt like a ship adrift on a windless sea.  Having been through the long struggle with his neurological decline, she knew in her heart that his death was actually his healing–but that didn’t replace the empty feeling that gnawed at her spirit. During their long life-journey they had forged a spiritual bond so deep that it was unbreakable, even by death.  In Mary’s mind, Hugh was an indelible part of her own being, and he would remain so until she joined him in eternity.

That’s not to say she was shallow on grief.  Mary felt her loss with every breath she drew. Her response was to lift it all to God.  She found comfort and strength through inspirational readings, and thoughts she wrote in her journal each day.

Especially helpful was an exercise she had used just a year before Hugh’s death, when faced with his increased withdrawal into the Alzheimer’s world.  It was titled, “Count Your Blessings, Name Them One by One.”  In the still hours before she turned out the light at night, Mary would read again the list of “blessings” she had discovered.  She read aloud:

  • “I’m alive.
  • I have a good, safe place to live.’
  • I have enough food.
  • I have a caring family and good neighbors.”

She paused.  All of these things were still true, part of the glue holding her soul together. She read on:

  • “I had many happy, fulfilling years of marriage to Hugh.
  • I am able to physically care for myself.
  • I am able to help others.
  • I have nice furnishings, many of them Hugh or his father made, and it is comforting to have them about the apartment.
  • I have suitable clothing–and can still sew for myself and others.
  • I can read, and I enjoy a great variety of books. 
  • I can think positively, and try to remember to do it.
  • I have many good friends who care about me, and I them.
  • I have many acquaintances from long years ago.
  • I attend an active Bible-centered church and participate in the United Methodist Women.
  • I still enjoy God’s beautiful outdoors and still raise a few flowers.
  • I have no enemies of which I am aware.
  • I have the HOPE of eternal life.
  • I have sufficient income to live comfortably (if I am careful of my choices).
  • I have lived eighty-eight years and am in reasonably good health.”

 Mary paused again, taking a deep breath.  It’s so easy to lose sight of your blessings amidst your trials, she pondered.  It helps to remember!  A tear of sorrow mingled with spiritual joy made its way down her cheek.  She brushed it away, sniffled, and went back to reading:

  • “I had the love and companionship of a good, caring husband for almost 64 years.
  • I have had the privilege and joy of giving birth to four beautiful babies, loving them, raising them, and seeing three of them marry and start families of their own–and of caring for, and enjoying, Paul’s special personality and companionship for forty-five years.”

Mary opened the photo album she kept in her bedside drawer.  There was Hugh next to her, dressed in his light blue seersucker suit, wearing a smile that bespoke deep inner satisfaction.  She closed her eyes for a moment, skipping back to the fiftieth anniversary celebration where that was taken…and then turned more pages.  Pictures of Paul at various stages of his life…and her other children…and grandchildren.  She shuffled through them, embracing each page and the life it represented with a tender touch. Then she set the album aside and read on:

  •  I have grandchildren and great-grandchildren to love and pray for as they grow.
  • I am able to volunteer at the Bridgewater Home in the laundry, at the help desk, and at the Village Gift Shop.  For the past seven or eight years I’ve been volunteering my time and talent in quilting at the Bridgewater Nursing Home. I enjoy this activity and it gives me an opportunity to help raise money for needs of the Home, as quilts are auctioned at the Fall Festival each year–or when doing quilts for an individual, the money going for this cause.”

Setting the photos and papers aside, Mary shivered.  She reached for a quilt made up of rectangular pieces of cloth she had cut from Paul’s old pajamas and other garments that would have otherwise become rags.  She pulled it around herself, leaned back on the bed, and closed her eyes.  The years seemed to dissolve and she pictured herself with her Grandma Mary in the Big House, helping with housework, learning to sew and quilt.  Truly the greatest treasures are things of the soul, not possessions.  She meandered through snapshot memories of the times in her life when she’d found strength in her Lord, despite suffering, uncertainty, or fear.  It helped to live with a sense of blessings, rather than loss.  Settled in her spirit, she turned out the light and slumbered in peace.

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Mary could have moved after Hugh’s death, but she chose to stay in the apartment they had shared.  She enjoyed housekeeping and cooking.  Tending her African violets contributed a sense of normalcy to her routines.  She wrote letters to friends and family, and turned a portion of her bedroom into a sewing area where she laid out quilt designs. Outside she tended her marigolds and geraniums in the planting area between the front porch and sidewalk.   On pleasant evenings she sat out there, enjoyed the breeze, chatted with neighbors, and nurtured peace in her soul.

Writing became therapeutic as she picked up a project she had begun after Paul’s death in 1989.  Initially she saw it as a way to give her children and grandchildren a record of their heritage.  She titled it, “Remembering!”  Picking up where she’d left off, however, Mary soon realized she was doing more that writing a memoir–she was engaged in a healing process.

She penned, “In writing this, I am also realizing how good God has been to me to have seen me through thus far on my journey through life.  He has been a steady ‘rock’ to lean on in times of uncertainty and stress.”  She paraphrased a portion of Psalm 107, “Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the children of men.”  She reflected how central this passage had been when facing her many challenges–especially in her efforts to give Paul a meaningful life in spite of his handicaps.

Sunday afternoons were the hardest part of the week.  She went to Sunday school and church in the morning, but the afternoons were often long and empty.  These had usually been joyful times of family togetherness.  Sometimes her children or grandchildren visited, kindling afresh the flame of familial warmth.  Mary knew she had to keep busy and focused beyond herself.

When an opportunity arose to volunteer at the North River Library, she plunged right in. She continued the volunteer work she’d begun with the local Alzheimer’s group back when Hugh had gone into the skill care unit of the Home.  This group had just gotten started, working in a building adjacent to the Muhlenberg Lutheran Church in Harrisonburg where she had once been the secretary.  This had given her access to books and articles that had helped her understand what Hugh was going through, and how she could avoid irritating him.  Continuing to help with this group now gave her a way to be present for others facing similar situations.

It seemed like God opened doors just when Mary needed them.  She got involved more intensely with the “Quilters” group at the Home.  This was an informal group where women came and went on their own time tables, helping each other piece and sew quilts that were auctioned off each September to support the work of the Bridgewater Home Auxiliary.

One morning each week Mary went over to the laundry where she folded towels and bibs.  She watered flowers throughout the nursing home for a year.  As she came to know more employees, she discovered more avenues for volunteer work.  She worked in the gift shop for several years.  Remembering that she chuckled to herself.  I worked there until I couldn’t always identify the difference between quarters and nickels!  It was an undeniable sign of aging and she took it in stride. When something didn’t work, she shifted gears.  Two mornings each week she worked at the lobby desk in the Maple Terrace building which was a primary gathering place for residents and guests, and the site of the cafeteria, coffee shop, and activity room, among other things.

Mary thrived through all these things, but her losses didn’t stop when Hugh died. On April 12, 2000, her daughter, Merle, died in the hospital in Winchester.  Merle had been a special source of strength to her mother, calling her every week, and taking an interest in her activities.

Mary had seen her daughter through the childhood years of heart murmur, and then the surgical healing of her heart.  She had rejoiced when Merle became a licensed nurse, dedicating her life to helping and healing others.  Along with that, Merle had raised three foster children as well as her own two kids.  She had been active in her church in Winchester where she earned the affectionate respect of many for her love of children, and her commitment to faith and service.

Merle had suffered with diabetes for years, and her death came when she experienced a seizure and fell, striking her head on the floor.  Her death was a harsh blow for Mary, but she had learned to walk with God’s Spirit through the dark valleys life sometimes involved.  At the time of Merle’s death, Mary had just finished her “Remembering!” manuscript, and was getting copies printed and bound for distribution to the family.  She had shared the journey of writing with Merle and had anticipated giving her a copy.   Sadly, that would never happen.

Almost on the heels of Merle’s death came the loss of Mary’s dear friend, Peggy.  She and Peggy had “been there” for each other supportively through thick and thin over the year since Hugh’s death.  It was another deep loss.

But loss was never the bottom line for Mary.  She always turned to her Lord, and found the joy of God’s Spirit that gave her enduring strength, and abiding peace. She knew peace not as an absence of pain or suffering, but as an inner spiritual presence that enabled her to thrive amidst circumstances which could have destroyed her.  Looking back, the Dairyman’s Daughter knew she had first encountered this peace at her daddy’s side in the old Quaker meeting house, and from her grandma on the farm.  Through her faith in God, she’d been able to keep it alive.

(Excerpt from “Dairyman’s Daughter,” by Hugh Townsend Harris, based on “Remembering!” by Mary Ellen Townsend Harris)

 

 

Through Dark Valleys

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(Remembering Mary Ellen Townsend Harris, 1911-2016)

The ancient psalmist wrote, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil:  for you are with me; your rod and your staff–they comfort me.”  (Psalm 23:4 NRSV)

Paul’s death was the darkest valley Mary had been through.  Her grandma’s death had been a deep loss, but it also felt normal.  She’d lost her parents, two brothers and her sister.  Each of these brought a brief period of grief, but with Paul it was different.  Losing him felt like losing part of herself.  He was her son, flesh of her flesh, whom she had nurtured in her own body…then continued to nurture in the face of his disabilities.  She had centered much of her life around him.  His death hurt.

Loss, however, was mingled with joy.  Paul was now free from the limitations that had bound his body, but not his spirit.  She knew lingering in sadness  would be self-focused and debilitating.  Adept at trusting God in the face of mountainous challenges, she plunged her grief into the flow of God’s grace, emerging quickly with a soothed mind and settled soul.

A memorial service was held at Paul’s church on March 7, two days after he died. Mary and Hugh felt overwhelmed when over a hundred people attended, flooding them with with words of consolation, and personal testimonies.

“I loved Paul’s book,” someone said.  “It was so inspiring to read his words, knowing what it took for him to express himself.  I know how hard it must be for you now, but I’m sure God has him in his arms.”  Someone else added, “Paul always had such a bright spirit.  He was an inspiration.”

Over and over, Mary heard similar comments as people offered her and Hugh their condolences.  Later she wrote in her journal:  “Today at Grace Covenant Church we said our goodbyes to Paul with a Praise and Worship Service, in his honor, to the Glory of God.  It was so good to be in the House of the Lord.  My heart is at peace.

Life went on at COHOPE, and so did Mary.  She developed a practice of reading Bible passages and devotional writings every day, selecting words that spoke to her soul, and hand-writing them in a journal she began keeping the day of Paul’s memorial service.   Her process of spiritual discipline enabled Mary to function productively each day, investing herself in caring for other people with whom she shared a bond of love.  

In the dark valley of Paul’s death she tapped into a level of God’s presence and strength that can only come through grief.  She soon found this process helpful as she rounded another bend in her life journey, encountering another dark valley. She began to realize that her companion and soulmate for over fifty years was not “himself.”  He had always been a clear-headed, hard-working pillar to whom she felt anchored.  Even before Paul’s death, she realized, there had been signs her husband was losing these very qualities.  She had pushed this aside then, but now had to face it squarely.

Sipping a cup of tea at the kitchen table where she’d been journaling, Mary remembered a morning when Hugh had driven five miles to Harrisonburg on some errands.  She recalled a phone call from him.  “Mary,” he said with an uncustomary panic in his  voice, “where am I?  I’m lost.  They changed the road.”

She remembered the shock she felt.  This isn’t like Hugh!  What’s he talking about? He didn’t tell me where he was going.  After retiring, Hugh had taken up woodworking and carving, which had led to an interest in creating and repairing clocks.  I wonder if he got lost taking a clock to someone?  Often he would walk at the mall, then add in another errand or two.  Mary, keep calm!

“What do you see around you?” she asked.

“I’m at a gas station, but I don’t know which way to turn.  There’s a barn in a field that I’ve never seen before.”

“Can you ask someone in the station to help you?”  

“I don’t know any of these people.”

“Okay…well, perhaps you made a wrong turn someplace.  Can you go back where you started?  Maybe that will help you find something you recognize.”

After more discussion, Hugh agreed.  Mary prayed for him, but felt uneasy for a couple of hours.  Finally she heard his van come up the driveway.  She wanted to act calm, yet stay alert to whatever was going on.  He came into the house.

“Well, I see you figured out where you were,” she said, looking up from the roast she was preparing for the crock pot.  

“What are you talking about?  I’ve just been to the mall to walk.  I do that all the time.”

“I just wondered because you called me and said you were lost.”

“Me?  Lost?  Don’t be ridiculous.  I never get lost!”  His voice was harsh, then softened as he seemed to change moods, pulling her to himself and kissing her.  “So, what’s for supper?”

Pondering this now, Mary realized she had missed the emotional roller coaster her husband was experiencing because she’d been so immersed in Paul and COHOPE. In this new dark valley she would have to assume more responsibility and control.  Hugh continued to look normal, but often functioned in a confused state.  Digging into things he had primarily handled, she became aware of just how tenuous COHOPE’s finances had become.

Times were changing from when they started out.  A key ingredient Hugh always used in his promotional literature was a lengthy statement he had devised.  “We are a private, non-profit, charitable boarding and day school, whose purpose is to bring a more meaningful life to those who have not been able physically to attend school at the normal age, but still desire to learn and become better able to accept their limitations, feeling that life is good, and so are they, in spite of those limitations.  We do not accept any state or federal monies.”

It was a noble undertaking, but new state and federal resources began to put COHOPE at a distinct disadvantage.  Hugh didn’t know how to adjust to that.  There was more competition now.  Financial needs increased, but private contributions began to fall short.  To meet this, Hugh invested his entire inheritance in the organization.  He made adjustments that hurt rather than helped, such as narrowing the monthly Newsy Letter outreach only to active contributors, which hindered growth.  By 1990 Mary realized COHOPE would have to close.  The Board of Directors, whom Hugh had consulted less frequently in recent years, came together and the decision was made.  

Mary felt relief, tempered by an enormous work load.  Hugh could no longer sign his name or write checks.  He became increasingly confused about money.  Her first task was to get out a letter to all contributors, thanking them for their support, and explaining the closure.  Next came finding placements for three remaining residents.  With the help of one long-term employee, Mary dug into bookkeeping tasks.  There were procedures to follow in everything.  She knew tackling it all at once would be overpowering, so she learned to categorize her tasks, taking them on individually as far as possible.

Journaling enabled her to keep a healthy perspective.  Along with all of it, she had to care for Hugh.  He wasn’t on the sidelines, but enmeshed in the whole process of selling the land, building, furnishings and other property.  His condition continued to worsen, which involved constant doctor visits, and changes in medication.  During the sale of the building and land, he became unable to grasp what was going on.  He couldn’t eat, became bloated, and was in a lot of pain.  The doctors decided on a dual diagnosis.  Mentally he showed signs of dementia, but his pain was due to diverticulitis.  

One day his oldest granddaughter, Diane, came to visit.  He welcomed her and seemed to enjoy the visit.  After she left, he turned to Mary and asked, “Who was that pretty young lady?”

“That was our granddaughter, Diane…you remember her?”

“Oh, yes.  Diane.  I’m glad she came.”

That ended the conversation.  An hour later, however, he remembered her visit and asked Mary again who she was.  Sometimes it was more than Mary could handle.  “It seems like I’ve been a caretaker all my life,” she told a friend.  “My mother had TB when I was little, then I looked after my youngest brother.  Next came Sis with her heart murmur, and then Paul.  Now it looks like I’ll be caring for Hugh through whatever lies ahead.”

What lay ahead was rapid decline for him.  The purchaser of  the COHOPE property planned to open a facility for addicts who were in a stage of recovery where they needed a supportive community as they prepared to get jobs and move back into society.  He had not purchased the house, so Mary and Hugh continued to live there.  Finally Mary realized they needed to move into a retirement facility where they would have trained caretakers, and less stress for both of them.

Before they could move, however, big changes occurred.  It was New Year’s Day, 1993. Hugh was bloated and in severe pain.  He stood off in a corner, fear and distrust in his eyes, refusing to eat.  Hugh T and Sharon came to visit from Tidewater, where they were now living.

“How long has he been this way?” Hugh T asked.

“About a week,” Mary replied.  “I’ve tried to get him to see the doctor, but he won’t go.”

Hugh T turned to his father.  “Dad, we need to go see about this, don’t you think?”

“No!  I don’t want to see a doctor.”

“I know you don’t want to do that.  I understand, but sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.  You can’t go on like this.  Come on.”

Gradually Hugh gave in and they took him to the emergency room at Rockingham Memorial Hospital.  Mary, Hugh T and Sharon watched as the medical staff assessed his situation.  Hugh was resistant.  They gave him a sedative and said he should be admitted overnight for observation.  Mary felt relief…yet was anxious at the same time.  The next morning they returned to the hospital.

“Mr. Harris had a rough night,” they were told.  “He was belligerent and we had to restrain him in order to keep him in bed.”  The doctors explained that unless he was admitted to the hospital, there was nothing more they could do.  Mary had always deferred to her husband when he became resistant.   Knowing he didn’t want to be in the hospital, she decided to take him  home.  Three weeks later he experienced an attack of severe abdominal pain and was vomiting blood.  After the last emergency room experience, she knew she had to do something in spite of his objections.  

She called an ambulance and he was taken to the hospital and admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.  About midnight her son, Jim, arrived from Portsmouth, where he was now serving a church.  Soon one of the doctors came to them.  “Your husband is sedated now.  There’s nothing more you can do here tonight.  In the morning we’ve scheduled him for a CT scan.”

Jim took Mary home and the next day they learned the scan showed atrophy of brain cells indicating the early stages of Alzheimer’s Disease.  A few days later he was moved to a room on the second floor.  In between hospital visits, Mary began the difficult task of sorting through things they’d accumulated across forty-two years since their move from Cincinnati.

One of the doctors came to her a few days later.  “Mrs. Harris, we’ve given your husband some tests that reveal he has colon cancer, which is what’s been causing his pain and distention.  We’ve scheduled him for immediate surgery.”  Mary felt overwhelmed on the one hand, yet relieve on the other that something was being done.

Following surgery the doctor said they were unable to get all of the cancer, and had removed a section of the large intestine.  “It was necessary to do an irreversible colostomy,” he said.  “We placed a stoma, or opening, into his remaining intestine through which waste material can be eliminated using a colostomy bag.”  He went on to explain how that would work, assuring her that many people lived normal lives once they made the adjustment.

Mary had no doubt this was true, but she had reservations about her husband’s adaptation.  Her concerns proved to be right on track.  While in the hospital Hugh couldn’t understand what the colostomy bag was, or why he had to either stay in bed, or be restrained in a chair.  After a few weeks he was discharged to the Bridgewater Nursing Home where he remained for about ten months.

This became another stressful time as Mary, continuing to live at Keezletown, shuttled back and forth to Bridgewater.  She developed a routine, leaving the house at 10:30 each morning, fixing a sandwich that she ate along the way, then spending the day with Hugh.  They walked around the grounds, sometimes sitting under the oak trees that lined the driveway.  These were days Mary treasured in her heart.  Hugh seemed to recover some of his physical strength, but remained disoriented as to time, place, people and events.

One day while walking he said, “I want to ask you a question–if you say ‘no,’ I’ll understand, but I hope you’ll say ‘yes.’  When I get out of here, will you marry me?”

Mary was stunned.  She’d read about this kind of scenario in Alzheimer’s patients, but now, for the first time, she realized he really wasn’t sure who she was.  She choked back a tear as they stopped walking.  She looked him in the eye.  “We’re already married.  Did you forget that?  I’m Mary, your wife.”

“Oh,” he said with a confused expression on his face.  “Well, I’m glad.”  This seemed to please him, and he remembered–for a while.

In Keezletown, neighbors pitched in to help Mary.  During the cold months, someone sealed off the upstairs and other parts of the house she didn’t use.  Hugh’s shop demanded attention.  She spent countless hours going through things, locating owners of clocks he had taken in for repair, and finding people who could take his tools.  As Hugh’s discharge from the nursing home drew near, it became obvious she couldn’t handle him at home.  She had to sell the house.

Hugh T met with the people who had purchased the rest of the property and arranged for them to buy it.  The proceeds enabled payng off the nursing home bill and purchasing a unit at the Bridgewater Retirement Home.  It was a studio apartment with a kitchen, living room, bath and a room large enough for her bed and dresser.  

Hugh was discharged from the nursing home on December 15, nearly a year after his New Year’s trip to the ER.  At first he was happy to be living, as he said, in a “house” again.  The apartment was small, but she thought she could adjust, plus, they were together.  It soon proved to be too small, however, and she arranged to move across the courtyard to a larger one-bedroom unit.

Frequently Hugh would go out and walk around the courtyard.  She felt comfortable with this since he never left the immediate area.  There was a small covered porch with flowers she had planted along the sidewalk, and chairs where they sometimes sat in the evening. 

One day she was busy inside and Hugh was out walking.  The doorbell rang.  It was a policeman with Hugh, who had wandered from the property and across a busy street to the campus of Bridgewater College.  Seeing that he appeared confused, the policeman stopped to check on him.  Hugh always carried a card with his name and address, so he was easily returned home.  He never again wandered away from the courtyard area.

In addition to taking walks, Hugh helped Mary with the laundry and household chores.  Eventually he became bored with this and grew restless.  Mary talked with Hugh T and devised a “chore” for him where he would assemble a box of nuts, bolts and washers Hugh T would bring him every couple of weeks.  This worked out for about a year, then he grew restless again.

Mary suggested getting small pieces of wood from a local cabinet shop for him to sand into smooth building blocks for the great-grandchildren.  She made cloth bags for the blocks, and this seemed to satisfy Hugh for some time–until he announced suddenly that he was going to get a job.  He needed to make money.

The subject of money, or the lack of it, came up often.  On this particular morning Hugh stood in the living room, pointed his finger and announced, “Today I’m going to take my money out of that bank over there!”  Then he pointed in another direction, saying, “I’m going to put in this bank over here.”

As always when confronted with his unexpected behavior, Mary played along.  “You know, this is Saturday and the bans close at noon.  It’s three o’clock now.”

He looked confused for a moment, then replied, “Well, I’ll do on Monday morning.”

Monday he was up early, ready to go to the bank.  He was quite agitated and Mary tried to calm him, to no avail.  He felt scared.  “Let’s talk to Hugh T about it,” she suggested.

By the time she had him on the phone, Hugh had become enraged, yelling and unwilling to listen to anyone.  Both her sons were now living in the Valley, Hugh T in Staunton, and Jim in Fishersville.  They both came to help her.  The stress caused her to have a headache and someone took her to the doctor’s office in Dayton.

While she was there, Hugh locked himself in the basement under the apartments.  Several staff members from the Home became involved, and finally they talked Hugh into going with them to the skill care center.  He would never return to the apartment.

As Mary adjusted to more changes in her life, she found her daily journaling and prayer time an essential resource for comfort and guidance.  She would visit Hugh in the nursing home several times each week.  Those were hard times.  He would remember his parents and brother, and talk a lot about his high school days, but did not seem to relate to her on a personal level.

One day he fell asleep while she gave him a manicure.  When she finished, he awoke and said, “What are you doing?”

“I just finished trimming your nails.”

“Well, whoever you are, an wherever you came from, take your junk and go back there!”

During these years Mary took Paul’s advice from his book, taking “one day at a time.”  She reduced the amount of time she spent with Hugh,  got involved with volunteer work at the Home, and joined an Alzheimer’s support group, where she also did volunteer work.  Expanding her world became a healthy alternative.

Several weeks before Christmas in 1998 the nursing staff told her Hugh wasn’t eating much, and was sleeping most of the time.  She had seen this herself, but hearing it officially gave her the freedom to spend Christmas with Hugh T and Sharon, who were now back in Richmond.  She also attended her stepson’s wedding. It was a joyful, relaxing break from stress.

On New Year’s Day 1999, Diane came to visit from Alexandria.  She stopped by Mary’s apartment, then they walked to the nursing home to visit Hugh.  He wasn’t in his room, so they decided he must be in the dining hall and went back to Mary’s for supper.  As they returned later, there was commotion down the hall toward his room.  Two nurses passed them pushing a recliner like Hugh used.  Just as they reached the room, the nurses came out.  Mary knew what they were about to tell her.  Hugh had died!

Diane sucked in her breath.  “Oh!  Thank you, Lord.”  She put her hand to her mouth, turning to Mary.   “That’s an answer to prayer.  When we were in Texas, going through those really rough years, it sometimes felt like I’d never get back home.  I prayed that God would let me be here when Poppi died.”

She and Mary waited until the room was ready, then went in where an aura of wholeness filled the space surrounding his lifeless body.  Hugh’s face bore an expression of calmness and peace.  It felt as though his presence oscillated around them.  Mary closed her eyes, and held onto Diane.  She understood what Diane was feeling.  As for herself, she’d been expecting his death.  It had always been just a question of time.  

She and Diane each had some private time with him.  Mary took his cold hand, brushed his forehead, then sat silently with watering eyes.  Thanks for being the best part of me all these years, honey.  Thanks for helping me through the hard things, and for building up my courage and confidence.  You and Paul are together now.  Be at peace.  Rising to leave, she leaned over and kissed him.

Diane stayed with her NanNan for the next few days.  She accompanied her to the memorial service at Bridgewater United Methodist Church on January 4.  It was a heartwarming celebration honoring Hugh’s life and all he had given to others. They sang hymns he loved, and used to sing in church.

When Mary went home that night, God sent comfort through the words of Psalm 30, verse 5:  “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”  

Mary prayed, Thank you, God, for the life you gave us together.  Please take care of my husband!

(Excerpt from “Dairyman’s Daughter,” by Hugh Townsend Harris, based on “Remembering!” by Mary Ellen Townsend Harris.)

Lost and Found!

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After retiring from the ministry, I continued a habit I had relied on for decades.  I kept a calendar/workbook to organize my activities, and compile important records I would need at the end of the year.  

During the first eleven years of retirement, I traveled as an artist.  I also worked on staff in several churches, or served part-time pastoral appointments.  In my calendar/workbook, I recorded meetings, visits, events, attendance, and even honorariums.  I also had a contact list of key people.

The next stage of retirement involved becoming a caretaker for my wife as she dealt with a severe neurological condition.  My notebook came to contain an elaborate network of medical information, providers, and related material.   

During this time I also began writing.  My calendar/notebook, became the repository for pertinent information and contacts related to publishing.  

So, when a question arose Easter Sunday about scheduling something, I reached for my calendar/workbook…

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Lost and Found!

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After retiring from the ministry, I continued a habit I had relied on for decades.  I kept a calendar/workbook to organize my activities, and compile important records I would need at the end of the year.  

During the first eleven years of retirement, I traveled as an artist.  I also worked on staff in several churches, or served part-time pastoral appointments.  In my calendar/workbook, I recorded meetings, visits, events, attendance, and even honorariums.  I also had a contact list of key people.

The next stage of retirement involved becoming a caretaker for my wife as she dealt with a severe neurological condition.  My notebook came to contain an elaborate network of medical information, providers, and related material.   

During this time I also began writing.  My calendar/notebook, became the repository for pertinent information and contacts related to publishing.  

So, when a question arose Easter Sunday about scheduling something, I reached for my calendar/workbook.  It wasn’t on my desk, or in my car.  I practically turned the house inside-out trying to find it, to no avail.  It was gone!   

I tried to remember where I might have put it down away from home, and made some phone calls, with no success.  When I prayed about this, I felt an assurance that it would turn up.  I even had an intuitive picture in my mind of my workbook lying on a paved surface somewhere.  I called places I’d been, but no one had seen it.  No one had turned it in.

On Tuesday, I decided it was simply lost, so I bought a new one.  My wife and I called places to recover appointments we knew were scheduled in coming weeks.  Many clues were in my computer, but not a duplicate of the workbook.  

Tuesday evening I noticed my cell phone was turned off.  I found a missed call with a message from a man I’d never met, who lives near our home.  He had found a calendar/notebook along the heavily-traveled highway in front of our subdivision.  Seeing information inside that looked important, he started to look for the owner, ultimately calling me.

I called him back and we met a few minutes later.  I thanked him and gave him a copy of one of my Dinkel Island novels.  I also thanked God.  The book was in rough condition, having been through a deluge of two severe thunderstorms, and there were tire tread marks on it, so it had been run over.  Most entries are still legible.

Finally, I realized what had happened.  I had loaded some things in the back of my car on Saturday.  The calendar/notebook in my hand made it difficult to do this, so I put it on the roof of the car, intending to move it inside.  Then I went into the house for something before backing out of the garage and driving away–forgetting I’d left the notebook on the roof.

We have a low speed limit in our subdivision, so it rode on the roof until I stopped, then accelerated, pulling into traffic.  That’s when it came off the car.   Remembering this, I could identify the pavement I’d seen in my prayer/vision.  

The lost was found!  It was never lost to God, but it was to me.  When I prayed, but didn’t understand the answer, God sent someone else to recover it for me.  Thanks be to God!

In our bustling world of emotional frenzy and surface interactions, we sometimes miss the honest goodness that resides within most people.  I thank God for one good man’s efforts.  I hope I am as diligent for others.