Cathartic
Cathartic. That is what the daffodils in the vase are to my inner child, cathartic.
This morning, while sitting in one of the patient rooms of my dermatologist, when asked by the doctor if there was anything she needed to know, without a whole lot of forethought I expressed our family's gratitude for the care she had exercised in tending to my Dad for the last couple of years. You see, throughout his later years, Dad had been treated quite often for a variety of skin cancers and, in the course of time, had undergone somewhere around twenty-five or six different surgeries, not to mention the numerous skin spots the doctors had frozen on his skin. If that seems like a unusually high number of procedures, just remember that Dad lived to 97 years of age - and had spent most of his life working the land in the sun. Long before the idea of skin cancers and other sun-related skin issues, Dad had worked in the sun, first behind horses and mules, then on tractors which had no cabs and, in his later years, whenever possible he would pass on the jobs which required the cab tractors and opt for the ones which allowed him on an open tractor. Dad just enjoyed being in the out-of-doors, talking with God and singing his way through the fields and his work.
It was because of his vocation and his choices Dad found himself on the business end of many a skin surgeon's scalpel and most of his doctors were at some distance from his home. Dad nearly always drove himself to his doctor's appointments, so as he aged Dad expressed an interest in finding a dermatologist nearer his home. Nancy and I connected Dad with the dermatologists with which we trust our care and, shortly thereafter, Dad started seeing my dermatologist - and she loved him.
In thanking her for her care for Dad, the doctor stopped her work and just stood there, struck. It was clear she had not heard of his passing, though I had personally notified her office to cancel Dad's upcoming appointments. Smiling, she said, "Your Dad was always such a nice man with an easy laugh. He rarely complained, no matter what I had to do and he always told me how much he appreciated my care - just as you are doing."
Sitting there in the chair prepared for her annual examination, as I was, tears just started building behind my eyelids. Her words brought back so much of the struggle of the last months, the hope for which he had held out in facing pancreatic cancer and, ultimately, the faith, strength and resolve he expressed as he made his final rounds in the fields of this earth. My emotions were on the edge of my heart and my eyes were dripping the tears which could not be dammed off. Seeing my reaction, my doctor very quietly said, "My grandmother was 92. We have been very lucky to have had them so long." I could not have agreed more.
Driving home, I thought a lot about Dad and knew that I needed to have some time to ponder things for a while, so later this afternoon I slipped out to our son's new home project and spent some time running the chainsaw, cutting up firewood from some downed trees which need to be removed. As the day wore on and my chainsaw developed a glitch, which is a very technical term for 'needed a new part', I worked my way home.
Pulling into our driveway I saw that Nancy had covered the daffodils, which are in front of our red shed, in the hope of staving off the predicted freeze for tonight. Then, heading into the house, I saw the vase of daffodils on the table. "Better in the vase on our table, then frozen by the cold!", Nancy said, and I agreed. Yet, she knew it was more than that . . . .
The vase those daffodils are in is one of my Mom's vases, newly arrived in our home as we sorted out Dad's things after he died. This was one of the vases Mom would use to hold her daffodils, lilacs, hydrangeas, and lilies. This is one of Mom's favorites with which she would regularly brighten up the inside of our childhood home. When I see the vase, I think of Mom. When I think of Mom, I think of Dad. When I think of both of them - my heart grows full, full of love, of laughter, of song, of hard work, of time off, of two amazing parents, of good days. In moments like these, the hard things fade away, not as though they had not happened, but the good of our memory overflows such hard things with the peace that passes all understanding. God's Spirit breaks in and Comfort is found and Hope for better days takes root.
To me, this vase full of daffodils is cathartic - and Peace, the Peace of Christ, wraps itself around my soul, drying my tears, holding me close and quieting the sobbing, shaking little boy who now, once again, becomes the man who holds his Dad's hand in his crossing over the Bridge in the confidence that all is well. God is making Dad Well, Whole, Healed . . . and he is at Home with Mom, swinging back and forth on the old glider as they sing to one another, enjoying the daffodils blooming in the front yard, a new Springtime emerging.
I think 'cathartic' is a very good word - and all that from a vase full of daffodils. Thank you, Nancy, for remembering . . . and setting them where my tear-filled eyes could not miss them. They have made all the difference.
May it be so for you all, as well.
Something to ponder on the journey.
It was because of his vocation and his choices Dad found himself on the business end of many a skin surgeon's scalpel and most of his doctors were at some distance from his home. Dad nearly always drove himself to his doctor's appointments, so as he aged Dad expressed an interest in finding a dermatologist nearer his home. Nancy and I connected Dad with the dermatologists with which we trust our care and, shortly thereafter, Dad started seeing my dermatologist - and she loved him.
In thanking her for her care for Dad, the doctor stopped her work and just stood there, struck. It was clear she had not heard of his passing, though I had personally notified her office to cancel Dad's upcoming appointments. Smiling, she said, "Your Dad was always such a nice man with an easy laugh. He rarely complained, no matter what I had to do and he always told me how much he appreciated my care - just as you are doing."
Sitting there in the chair prepared for her annual examination, as I was, tears just started building behind my eyelids. Her words brought back so much of the struggle of the last months, the hope for which he had held out in facing pancreatic cancer and, ultimately, the faith, strength and resolve he expressed as he made his final rounds in the fields of this earth. My emotions were on the edge of my heart and my eyes were dripping the tears which could not be dammed off. Seeing my reaction, my doctor very quietly said, "My grandmother was 92. We have been very lucky to have had them so long." I could not have agreed more.
Driving home, I thought a lot about Dad and knew that I needed to have some time to ponder things for a while, so later this afternoon I slipped out to our son's new home project and spent some time running the chainsaw, cutting up firewood from some downed trees which need to be removed. As the day wore on and my chainsaw developed a glitch, which is a very technical term for 'needed a new part', I worked my way home.
Pulling into our driveway I saw that Nancy had covered the daffodils, which are in front of our red shed, in the hope of staving off the predicted freeze for tonight. Then, heading into the house, I saw the vase of daffodils on the table. "Better in the vase on our table, then frozen by the cold!", Nancy said, and I agreed. Yet, she knew it was more than that . . . .
The vase those daffodils are in is one of my Mom's vases, newly arrived in our home as we sorted out Dad's things after he died. This was one of the vases Mom would use to hold her daffodils, lilacs, hydrangeas, and lilies. This is one of Mom's favorites with which she would regularly brighten up the inside of our childhood home. When I see the vase, I think of Mom. When I think of Mom, I think of Dad. When I think of both of them - my heart grows full, full of love, of laughter, of song, of hard work, of time off, of two amazing parents, of good days. In moments like these, the hard things fade away, not as though they had not happened, but the good of our memory overflows such hard things with the peace that passes all understanding. God's Spirit breaks in and Comfort is found and Hope for better days takes root.
To me, this vase full of daffodils is cathartic - and Peace, the Peace of Christ, wraps itself around my soul, drying my tears, holding me close and quieting the sobbing, shaking little boy who now, once again, becomes the man who holds his Dad's hand in his crossing over the Bridge in the confidence that all is well. God is making Dad Well, Whole, Healed . . . and he is at Home with Mom, swinging back and forth on the old glider as they sing to one another, enjoying the daffodils blooming in the front yard, a new Springtime emerging.
I think 'cathartic' is a very good word - and all that from a vase full of daffodils. Thank you, Nancy, for remembering . . . and setting them where my tear-filled eyes could not miss them. They have made all the difference.
May it be so for you all, as well.
Something to ponder on the journey.
