The Happy Cardinal

I put off dealing with stonecutters.  Just could not find anything that seemed right. Well, I knew what I wanted: a cardinal, some dogwood blossoms, and a cross. These had come to represent the full circle of Heidi’s life for us, so I searched. But I could not find a pattern that included all three. I couldn’t even find individual patterns that I liked.

Especially for the cardinal. All the cardinals the various stonecutters had to offer were either grim or prim. Not Heidi cardinals at all. Even in the worst of times, she was never grim-faced. And the only time you got prim from her was if you crossed her sense of right and wrong in just the wrong way. With a quick glance at you, she would stick her nose up and turn away with a, “Hmmmff…” Then stalk off.

Add stiff to that. All those cardinals were so stiff. Their cardinals stood paralyzed on dead branches, no movement in a single line. They evoked the opposite of Heidi’s buoyant personality. I wanted a happy cardinal. One filled with joy because he had finally landed home. Scouring the Internet, I could not find one anywhere.

 I figured I would have to create my own. So, I began to collect photos of cardinals in action that even approached what I envisioned.

But it had been a long time since I had put pencil to paper. Plus I rarely succeeded at drawing in the coloring book style required for cutting granite.

At the start of each day I would pick a pencil up, stare at the pictures on my screen, and overcome with self-doubt, let it drop back to my desk. Eventually I figured out what parts of which photos I wanted to use. In fits and starts, I drew the kind of cardinal I had searched for.

If you look closely, you will see he is smiling.

___________________________________________________________________________

The stonecutter was excited when I handed him my home-drawn bird. He loved its joy and the movement, and said, “I can tell you what. I will certainly be using this again!”

I felt a little disheartened as I had drawn it for Heidi and liked the idea it would be unique, but also took joy in knowing my attempt would bring comfort to other families.

Out of the Ashes - June 05, 2010

Families move on. Much like time, even great loss cannot force them to stand still. Often the wake from the loss surges forward and carries them to paces they do not want to go. Perhaps less frequently, it merely becomes a challenge one needs to tame.

But at no time, does it ever just go away.

Sometimes I wish it would. Then guilt pushes up through the choppy surface. And stares.

Yet to avoid celebrating new milestones in the wake of grief is to refuse the gifts from the Creator’s hand. While I am grateful that our initial heartbreak is a few years passed, I cringe thinking of a friend’ whose celebration comes while throes of unknowing grip her family.

Two families. Two weddings on the same day. One family where the loss of a child creates a persistent drone in the under currents. The other family living the nightmare of a son they cannot find.

We have moved on in a sort of a way, although often I feel tethered to something submerged just enough I cannot see its form. But I feel its weight as we drag it behind.

For the other family, at this point there is no place to move to because they do not yet know what they will move from – or whether they will have to move at all. Hope gives strength. But it can also be the knife that keeps the wound raw. Then again, when finality has torched one’s dreams, the acrid taste of the ashes left behind never quite goes away.

As I look and listen to our daughter-in-law to be, feelings of pride and tenderness fill my heart. Yet sorrow also resides there.

Mike will never walk his daughter down the aisle and place her hand into the hand of the young man God has chosen for her, knowing their Creator will watch over their life together. I will never joyously plan alongside of my daughter for that transitioning day when she steps into her new life.

We will never know the assurance of frequent time together a married daughter commonly retains. It seems that sons leave more firmly than daughters do.

And so I look forward with a mixture of pride and joy, and a sense of loss.

The Two Trees: Dogwood and Christmas

The limbs of the dogwood tree meander gracefully outside our kitchen window. In the spring, flowers festoon its branches in clusters like puffs of pink snow. Heidi loved that tree.

And she loved the birds that sang from those branches. Her Nana gave her a birdfeeder one birthday. I hung it under the porch roof, right outside the kitchen’s window. Season after season, Heidi watched the birds in the dogwood tree as they waited their turn at the feeder.

One Sunday morning in January, as she sat confined to the wheelchair necessitated by a stroke, she said, “Mom – look! Look at the pretty bird!”

I glanced at the pile of equipment that overflowed the foyer, waiting to be loaded for the morning service. But a still, small voice said, “Sit. Have breakfast with your daughter.”

So I put the chore off and sat with her a few moments.

Church was glorious that morning. I could sense God’s presence permeating the worship in a sweet way that often eludes the one serving as the worship leader due to the nature of the work. But that morning, His nearness almost overwhelmed me, yet somehow I managed to keep leading and not turn into a voiceless puddle. The afterglow stayed with me the whole day.

After lunch, I asked Heidi if she wanted to take a nap or help me takedown the Christmas tree. Twelfth Night had passed, and now for our family Christmas was over. Normally Heidi would jump at the chance to help with the tree. Long-term radiation damage had become increasingly compromised her ability to do much with the ornaments. Still, she found a way to cradle one between her paralyzed left hand and her body, and use the functioning right hand to deal with the hook. Her chatter made for good company, and we both looked forward to these times together.

So I asked her, fully expecting her to opt for the tree. But she looked at me a long moment. Time seemed to suspend. Then she said, “Mom? I’m tired, now. I would like to go to sleep.”

Those were the last words I ever heard her speak…

Christmas 2004 – And then there were four

Dearest Family and Friends,

Thank you for all that you have been to us this past year, for all the support you have given to us. Sometimes it has been through ways large and obvious and sometimes in ways hidden enough that you might not even have recognized it as support, but in each act, we have felt your kindness pour healing into our lives. Facing this first Christmas without Heidi has been difficult. While out shopping for gifts some little thing will catch my eye and I’ll move towards it thinking, “Oh, Heidi would love that!”

Then I remember... and pray for the grace not to cry.

As I sit out here, in the woods behind our house, I am amazed at how bright and clear this day has dawned. In our part of Virginia grey clouds often obscure December skies. But today the sky holds the intense blue of the long gone summer days of my childhood, only this is not summer and the crisp cold wind both cuts through my coat and exhilarates. I would have thought its fierceness would send the songbirds into hiding, but I watch them wing straight through the gusts, singing for all they are worth.

I wish it were as easy for us humans to wing so above the winds.

Still, like the songbirds, I find I sing. Although the sorrow of loss may come crushing in and turn the notes to more of a minor key, I sing.

Some days that song may be quieter or less frequent than in years past, but it is not silenced. Always it waits there at the turn of a corner, at the end of a tear. I am not sure if the song is joy or if it is hope, but I have found both can live in a heart along with the deepest of sorrow. All three co-mingle until it becomes impossible to tell where one ends and another begins.

I thank the Lord that for our final Christmas with Heidi He gave us a particularly special time with our larger family. And when fatigue nearly overtook me and I considered not having our Twelfth Night dinner and communion, He prompted me to go ahead with it. Heidi always enjoyed this celebration. I would have been saddened if she missed out on one last time.

And I am forever grateful, that even in death, the Lord protected Heidi.

Just a mere half week after our Twelfth Night celebration and after an especially lovely time of worship in church, I asked Heidi if she would like to help me take down the tree or would she rather take a nap. Christmas was over for our household and Heidi was the only one who would try to help me with the decorations. Yet although always helpful, Heidi said, “I’m tired, Mom. I would like to go to sleep now.”

And while she slept, she slipped quietly into unconsciousness.

God’s mercy in action. It was nobody’s fault. No one lost a hold of her while they were walking her. It was not a medication error. She did not try to stand when my back was turned, and fall.

And more than all this, the relief to my mother’s heart is that she never had a chance to be afraid.

Three days later, while we stood at her bedside, she found her wings and took flight. Now like the cardinals we both loved to watch from our kitchen window, she flies high above the winds with their biting cold: her mouth full of song and her heart full of joy.

Heidi is no longer bound by a wheelchair; no longer bound by loneliness and desires that could never be fulfilled.

Instead, she dances with freedom in the presence of the almighty King whose name is Love. And she wears the beautiful gown all covered with jewels that many years ago one man had dreamed about. He had not known what the dream meant, but I did. The white ball room gown symbolized Heidi someday dancing in the presence of God, and the jewels were His promise to her, and to me as her mother, that all her suffering would not be wasted and that He saw her steadfastness and faithfulness in that suffering, and He would reward her when that day came.

One of the miracles that happened in Heidi’s long journey was that at her death, she was cancer free. The child who had been given a death sentence through a highly malignant, inoperable, incurable brain tumor had grown into a young woman who was able to serve one last time: as an organ donor. Through Heidi’s final gift, three men’s lives were spared and they were returned to their waiting families.

Our prayer for you this year is that you will know fully the One who came, and that in His presence you will find peace and joy, and a deep abiding sense of wonder. No matter what happens or how hard life becomes or what sorrows it may bring, we pray that you will know that He loves you and that He is faithful. He will be with you always and hold you close to His heart if you but ask Him to, for He is the One whose name is Love.

Merry Christmas – with all our love,

Patty, Michael, and Galen Christopher Kashtock

Dancing Feet (from the Upper Room)

 

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Dancing Feet

Read Psalm 34:1-18

[The Lord] will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces.

-Isaiah 25:8 (NIV)

TODAY dawns bright and cold, and I think of my daughter who died not long ago. Heidi leapt, jumped, and danced her way through life. The Christmas before her eighth birthday, she performed the whole Nutcracker Suite for us, complete with a paper crown and wearing my too-long nightgown, which tripped her feet. Before her next birthday arrived, doctors found a tumor in her brain. She never danced again.

But the story does not end there. For nearly 19 years, Heidi lived with the cancer. Although she could not dance, she always smiled and said, "I know that when I get to heaven, I will be able to dance."

Now, her new, strong feet move gracefully in the warmth of God's presence. In heaven, my daughter dances with joy again, without fear or pain, in light that will never fade. She is with God who is love and who will not let her go. Her joy will never end.

Patricia Hammell Kashtock (Virginia, USA)

Thank you, God, that even in grief you can remind us of the joy we will have with you forever. Amen.

Those we love are always held within God's love.

Parents whose child has died

| November 17, 2008 | November 18, 2008 | November 19, 2008 |

| Upper Room Home | Devotional Home | Subscribe |
| El Aposento Alto | Non-English Editions |
| E-mail Devotional |

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day

Posies by a gravestone peeking from its side

Tiny dots of blue with yellow deep inside

Little band of color stands in shades of green

Planted by a Hand that for now remains unseen

And on this day the bright sun barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven

Where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

The bright sun could not warm Your broken heart

I stand here by the graveside, a mother lost in pain

Yearning to see her child dance lightly once again

Longings fill this place with empty solitude

Where hope is whispered silently through periwinkle blue

Forget-me-not the flowers whisper, as if I could forget

Your love and lilting laugh echo in my spirit, yet.

Forget-me-not, they whisper as the breeze begins to blow

Stirring up the memories that will not let me go

And on this day the bright sun barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven

Where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

The bright sun could not warm Your broken heart

“Remember Me,” You cry through flowers like the star

That hung once in the night for another mother’s child

That child, You were also born to die too soon

While a sword pierced her heart with an empty solitude

And on this day the bright sun barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven

Where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

No, it could not warm Your heart

Oh, the bright sun did not warm Your broken heart

Your broken heart

Lyrics by Pat Kashtock

Music by Jean Watson

To hear Jean sing Mother's Day click here: Mother's Day