Through 47 years of wedded bliss, we’ve belonged to some amazing church congregations. The first was a Reformed church in Sioux City. It was the one dating back the farthest, yet I remember the pastor’s name. Something I can’t seem to retrieve of very many preachers after him. Perhaps because Shannon was instrumental into getting our name well known to the rest of the congregation. She was a little stinker who loved attention, and was not shy how she got it.

 

You can just see the mischief in her beautiful little mug. Shannon, 1973…

His name was Rev. Wallinga. He had an unusual voice and red hair. I remember very clearly the Sunday morning when our precocious 2 year old Shannon did not return from the children’s sermon. We fretted in our seats as Rev. Wallinga prepared us for a spiritual experience, only to have him bend over, reach under his pulpit and come up holding our toddler. Embarrassed beyond words, I shoved Hubs in the general direction to claim her. A couple weeks later, she would bypass her hiding place under the pulpit, instead stopping at the piano and plunked out a few bars. This time it was me who had to go get her. She was having a good time because folks were laughing at her shenanigans. Everybody but mommy and daddy.

 

Ready for church with Shannon, 1973…

 

A few years later, we were part of a fantastic church in Spencer, Iowa. We had some great friends and connections, and were sorry when we had to move to eastern Iowa. Again. Finding a church in a new city was not easy. And this move was very different for us. Not a town like Spencer with 10,000 people, but a humongous, bustling city of Davenport with 100,000 folks. The search was on. I’m surprised we even tried this church the first time.

 

Hope Reformed in Spencer, Iowa…

 

 

It was a seed church. Helped or sponsored by the Reformed Church of America. Started in 1978, we missed being charter members by a few years. We started attending in 1982 or ’83. Right off the bat, it was established by the small congregation that John & Denise were an oddity in Christ’s Family Church. Why? Because we were still married. To each other. With 3 children who all claimed both of us as parents. And we were just starting our 14th year together. Most of the members were singles or divorced. Wow, this was a huge change from small town Reformed churches we were used to. Welcome to a big city congregation.

 

Joshua 9, Shannon 14, Bix & Adam 5, 1985…

 

Christ’s Family didn’t have a building yet. Every Sunday morning we met in the conference room of the Holiday Inn in Bettendorf, just a couple miles from where we lived. Although the location was unusual to the young couple from Rock Valley, who had always worshipped in very traditional sanctuaries, we adapted. I honestly can’t remember what they did for Sunday school. We only used one big conference room that I recall. The floor was covered with very loud carpet of browns and oranges. No pews of course, but black straight chairs set up in rows.

 

Christ’s Family Church had purchased land out in the boonies. The sign announcing the building site could be seen from the interstate. But it was out in the middle of nowhere. We broke ground and a new church facility was under way. As it got closer to completion, there were concerns about how to furnish the insides with all the necessary furniture because we were very short on funds.

 

We attended through most of their early days…

 

My Dad actually came to the rescue. I mentioned to my folks we had nothing for the sanctuary. Dad remembered hearing about a church remodel going on in Orange City, about 30 miles from Rock Valley. (Another very Dutch community). He did the leg work, found the church which indeed was getting new pulpit furniture. I don’t know if there’s a term for this stuff or not, so it’s just pulpit furniture to me. He looked at the pieces and called me back. They were all in decent shape, but old, and needed some work. The best part. They were free. John and I talked to our minister. I believe his name was Al, asking if he was interested? To sweeten the deal, Hubs and I offered to drive across Iowa, pick up the pieces, and drag them back to Davenport. Then refinish them. What were we thinking? We might have been a little crazy back then. The answer from Al was a resounding “yes, can you have them back here, completely redone in time for the building dedication?” “Umm, sure we can,” we managed weakly. Gulp.

 

Christ’s Family with large addition on right…

 

This is about our trip from hell for the heavenly furniture. We were a family of 5, going back home as usual for Christmas. John had a brand new 1984 Chevy S-10 pickup to carry the furniture. But the 5 of us did not fit in his single cab. My set of wheels at the time were dicey at best. John’s best friend Ron, owned a Japanese Mitsubishi Sapporo which had a blown engine. Hubs, being very handy, bought the car for a few bucks and installed a different engine. By himself. Which didn’t quite fit. But it got me and the kids to all the activities they needed to be driven to and fro around Davenport. This trip we needed to have both vehicles. Our drive to northwest Iowa would prove to be a game changer in our marriage. The weather was absolutely horrible. Frigid temps, snow, howling winds and white outs. And this was BC. Before cellphones. John had Joshua, 9 with him in the truck in the lead. I was lagging behind with Shannon 14 and Adam 5. The Sapporo’s defroster was on full blast trying to keep the windshield clear. The wind gusts were nearly successful in blowing us in the ditch on the 2 lane road. My knuckles were white, and I was shaking like a leaf. I kept reminding God we were doing this for Him and the church. It really was a terrible mistake to endanger our family driving in this kind of weather. I prayed most of the way home that we would arrive safe and sound. Instead of the usual 55 mph, we were putzing along about 40. The trip seemed to take forever. It was Christmas Eve Day.

 

Just like our ’78 Sapporo. It had some issues…

 

God saw fit to keep the Van Berkum family, the dicey car and spiffy new truck safe that day. The closer we got to Rock Valley, the easier it was to breathe. We pulled into Jim and Mag’s driveway with time to spare. (My parents didn’t really celebrate Christmas since Larry died, though I did buy them a small artificial tree that Mom put up for several years since our kids were small. Ever since I was a teen dating John, it was always his family who had the big celebration on Christmas Eve). Relaxed while the kids snooped through the presents, shaking this one or guessing what was in that one. Devouring some of grandma Mag’s Christmas goodies as they waited impatiently for all their cousins to arrive. Didn’t happen. One of the brothers called saying the roads were too bad to drive 35 miles. This is a joke, right? We drove through hell for 350 miles, but 35 miles were just too much. I was angry and hurt. We never seemed to be worth the effort sometimes. I looked at Hubs. He looked at me, and in that instant we both knew this was the last year we would be driving home for Christmas. No more trips over ice covered roads. A change was in store. We needed to start our own tradition. When the kids were grown, it was unlikely both sets of grands would still be around. We needed to start our own quirky way of doing Christmas. This was all decided with one phone call, and a look between a husband and wife after 16 years.

 

The weather was perfect as we headed to Orange City to pick up Christ’s Family’s new, old pulpit furniture. The church’s new furniture had been installed, and their cast offs were waiting for us, neatly stored by the door. We were dumbfounded. By the old and the new. The new stuff was awful. What were they thinking? Sharp curves, ultra modern. It honestly looked like laminate glued to particle board. Didn’t fit or look very good in their very traditional sanctuary. The old furniture was a surprise too. Wow. Solid oak, full of curlicues appliqués. Stunning. Whispered to John we’d better get the good stuff out before they came to their senses and changed their minds. Loaded it up, covered it with tarps and we headed back to eastern Iowa.

 

It would be a few months before our church was dedicated, but by the looks of things, this was gonna take us awhile. John and I had refinished many antiques by this time. But it’s always different doing a piece that’s NOT going in your own home. Let’s say a lot less motivational than when I’d find a bargain at a garage sale, then drive Hubs insane until we got it refinished. We had our own method. He’s always been the stripper (don’t go there). His hands never seem to be bothered by that caustic crap. He’s also the repair guru, and the stain guy. But wait. I do have a little part in this assembly line of refinishing antiques. I’m the varnish, tung oil, polyurethane gal. Patience is a virtue during this procedure. John goes too fast and ends up with runs. He just wants to be done.

 

We start on the furniture. No one has seen it but us. I know patina is sacred in the world of antiques, never to be messed with, but that’s never been the way we roll. I’m not bothered if the value is a bit less because it’s been stripped. I want to see the grain POP. And the pulpit furniture had no POP left. Too dark and foreboding. We stripped it and discovered the beautiful oak grain again. Holy Hanna. Just a quick swipe of walnut stain for 3 seconds, then wipe it off and let it dry. Then my job of giving 2 or 3 coats of preservative. The biggest obstacle? Well there were really 2. First the exquisite Communion table. Inscribed on the front, This Do In Remembrance Of Me. About a half an inch deep in the wood. Which needed to be painted in red. Hubs must have bought 5 different reds. Couldn’t find the right color he wanted. I believe he ended up mixing several shades himself to find the perfect oxblood shade. Which was painstakingly applied with a tiny paintbrush. By John with his big hands. He refused to let me help with the painting part. The other problem was were the 2 pulpit chairs, which needed to be recovered. The leather was worn and cracked. And we didn’t know how to reupholster furniture. We asked around and a member of the church said she could do it when we were done refinishing the wood.

 

The pulpit that we refinished in 1985…

 

The congregation was amazed at how beautiful the furniture looked on the stage (is it called a stage in church situations? Maybe holy stage). But from the get-go of this little project, the consensus of the whole congregation was this old furniture would only be used until funds were saved and new furniture could be bought. Fine by us. What’s a couple months work for the Lord anyway?

 

The pulpit chairs, 2016…

 

We just returned home from a trip to Iowa. John had his class reunion and we had lots of relatives to visit. Trying to fit everything in, scheduling before hand was part of the planning. Since I started blogging, this reminiscing thing has hit me hard and often. I think about something in my past, and write a story about it. Sometimes it’s easily forgotten, sometimes I dwell on certain stories. I told Hubs I wanted to take a little nostalgic trip on the way to northwest Iowa. We were stopping in Davenport anyway because I stop and play double deck euchre with my good friends.

 

Basilica St. Francis Xavier, Dyersville, Iowa…

 

I wanted to stop in Dyersville where Joshua was born, and check out the movie set from Field of Dreams, and go through the Basilica of St. Francis Xavier again. A magnificent Catholic Church. Trot to New Vienna where we were the only non Catholics living in the whole town. On to Worthington, the rental house where all the floors were a bit askew. And then one of my favorite stories called The Farm, outside of Cascade. We could not locate the farm house which was a disappointment. The house in Worthington was almost unrecognizable, but we definitely still saw a slight slant. The hospital where Josh came into the world was very new in 1975. Now it’s had about 3 additions. The little yellow ranch in New Vienna now has a brick front, and we only knew it was the right house, by the home that sits behind it.

 

How did I not trip on those bell bottoms? The Cascade farm, 1976…

 

Both of us wanted to drive past Christ’s Family Church. Which is now smack dab in the middle of part residential, part retail area. No longer out in the sticks. The church too has had a big addition. It was early evening, and there were a few cars in the parking lot. A young man got out of his car, so we parked and followed him to the front doors. Which were locked. He was trying to find the gym to play basketball, so we walked along to the side door which was also locked, but there were lights on and activity inside. We knocked. A lady came to the door somewhat warily and asked what we wanted. The ball player was given directions to the other side of the building. We politely ask if we might look inside the sanctuary for a minute. She said, “wait here,” and closed the door. A minute later a guy about our age let us in. We said we had attended in the early days before and while they were building the church. The fond memories we had worshipping with the congregation. And our small part in landing the free pulpit furniture to be used on a temporary basis. He asked where we lived now while he led us up a couple stairways. Walked through the back door of the sanctuary, and flipped on the lights. Holy smoke, this is gonna sound biblical. Not gonna lie, I just stood there and wept. Our beautiful pulpit furniture. Looking exactly like the day we helped haul each piece into the new building, over 30 years ago. I just can’t remember when something like that has affected me so. Maybe the chairs have been reupholstered again, but the pulpit and the Communion Table have not been touched. I ran my hand over all the gorgeous curlicues. John touched the oxblood paint in the lettering. I was literally overcome with emotion. About furniture. Silly. We had often wondered what would have become of the furniture when they were finished with it, and had hoped another seed church would have been the lucky recipient for a spell. We decided those precious pieces couldn’t or shouldn’t ever be cast aside. “This Do In Remebrance Of Me” should always have a church home and never be retired…

 

It was this piece which brought all the tears, 2016…

 

 

 

 

I would say the first 18 years of my life were very sheltered. I was raised in a small, Dutch community in northwest Iowa. Probably calling the whole town of Rock Valley-Dutch-isn’t fair. But a very large percentage of that small town was of Dutch descent. The town boasted a beautiful Catholic Church, and 2 Lutheran churches, but were highly outnumbered by the amount of Reformed churches. From what I remember, a Calvin, Christian, First, and a Netherlands for sure. So the Dutch outnumbered all the other nationalities by a long ways.

 

After Sunday night RCYF, the teens marched up to this addition to hear the sermon, mid-1960’s…

I never thought about it when I was young. Kids don’t think like that. It’s just the way I was raised. You don’t wonder, why isn’t there a Synagogue, or a Mosque? But as I got older, I did wonder why all the different versions of Reformed? Was it like 15 Christians fighting with the other 75 in their congregation years ago, getting fed up with some minor detail of their bylaws, then breaking off and starting over with their own little set of rules and beliefs? A couple of the ‘Reformed’ churches pushed their agenda of Christian School education when I was a kid. I don’t know why Mom and Dad didn’t start me off in the local Christian school. They joined the Calvin Christain Reformed when I was about 3. Larry would have been 7, Mona 11. It could have been about money. The folks simply couldn’t afford tuition for 3 kids. Maybe Mona, being the oldest and already attending public school for several years, raised a fuss. But within a few short years of joining Calvin, Larry was dead, Mona was out of school and married. Leaving little Neese the only kid in the church attending public school. Outsider for ever. Had to go to catechism on Tuesday’s after school. Church kids, all from Christian school teased and called me Dennis. Wasn’t very Christian. Begged my folks to switch to a bigger church in town where all my friends went to public school. Mom and Dad caved. I was a brat. Sometimes I feel guilty about this. Calvin was a much smaller, intimate congregation and supported our family with kindness, visits, and food after we lost Larry. Still I was utterly unhappy there. So rather than fight with me, they switched. I was happy. I think they were ok with it too. Dad became very involved, Mom, more of a loner did not. I was part of a huge group of youth and loved it.

 

Calvin Christian Reformed Church, 1950’s…

 

So, this Dutchy little town with all the churches. Each sanctuary filled on Sunday mornings, and most again on Sunday nights. With white folks. No African Americans, no Asians, no Jews, no Muslims. Just white Dutch, white Germans, white English, white Scandinavians. Solid white. Hubs folks got in a fight with Refomed church when he was a baby. John was a surprise to his folks, their 5th child. Money was tight for them and the church wanted more. In the Van Berkum house, there was no more. So they stopped going and changed to the United Methodist who didn’t insist on a set amount each week. Just like my folks but for different reasons. Round robin churches, although some were more strict and their congregants were more loyal. The Netherland’s Reformed Church comes to mind. I viewed them from afar in case their loyalty might be catching. Yikes. They allowed no make up, no TV’s, no car insurance. Double yikes. And 3-a-days on Sunday. One service in Dutch! Didn’t want to get too close to that.

To say my life, my church, my town was somewhat sheltered, isolated, filled with idiosyncrasies. This is not a stretch from my point of view looking back. When John was in junior high, his Sunday school class invited a black pastor to visit from Sioux City, because the kids had never seen a black person. Unbelievable. John remembers asking why the insides of his hands were so light? Yup, we were sheltered. Probably not very healthy.

 

Adore these 2! Tracey and Landon, 2002…

 

A couple of weeks ago something happened to upset this Dutch grandma. Can’t get this conversation out of my head. It’s on a loop and keeps replaying. Did I handle it well? No, I rarely do. One of my good friends just remarked how much she enjoys a good debate on almost any subject. Geez, not me. I don’t want to confront, argue, debate ANYTHING controversial. Totally not me. No matter how strongly I feel about something, I’m just out of my league. Inept, can’t find the right words to justify my feelings. Not something I was born with. I’m better if I can type it out, but after proofreading and changing words around 15 times, I’m still out of my comfort zone. Usually the knowledge I have on the subject in not kept where I can easily retrieve it either. I know how I believe and feel, and am comfortable in my beliefs, but rarely express it.

So I was invited to a potluck picnic. I was kind of excited about going. It was a reunion with the group I went to Italy with this summer. Yeah, yeah, my story is still in the works about Italy. When I try and piece that one together, it still seems surreal and disjointed. It was an over load of constant 2000 year old architecture that’s simply mind boggling. And art. Art up the wazoo. Just can’t wrap my head around it yet. It’s coming. Anyway, Shannon had declined, but I was up for bringing a bowl of potato salad and cupcakes.

I was the first to arrive. The daughter of the hostess came out to greet me and help carry in my food contributions. First, the house. Not too pretentious. A long rambling brick ranch on beautifully manicured grounds. Over looking a small lake. Winding drive with measured street lamps leading up to the house. A long wing off the house looked like a big mess hall of a campground. It held their indoor pool. As I entered the front door, just to the right was a lighted cabinet filled with Lladro statutes. Stunning. I have a half dozen and still feel guilty about their cost. She led me to a 3-season room that faced the lake. A lone gentleman stood as we were introduced. He shook my hand and motioned for me to sit. Asked me where I was from, where I lived, and mentioned he was supposed to be on our trip, but was recovering from recent surgery.

I went through a bit of Neese history. Blah, blah, we moved to Jackson from Iowa in 1987, then North Muskegon in 1994 for 21 years. Had just moved back to Jackson to be closer to all our children and grandchildren. Being polite, he asked where our kids lived? Things went south. It’s easier if I repeat the conversation from here on out. I’ll be me, and we’ll call him: A Pillar of The Community, or A Racist, Bigoted Bastard. Your choice.

 

Shannon & Tracey at Hoover Dam, 2015…

 

Me: “Our oldest daughter, Shannon is a clinical psychologist in Jackson. You might know her or her husband, who’s lived in Jackson most of his life. He graduated and got his master’s degree from the local college.” (Where ARBB donates)

ARBB: “Oh really? Now who is he?”

Me: “Tracey Lowder.”

ARBB: “Tracey Lowder, Tracey Lowder. Did he go to Jackson? Was he an extraordinary basketball player?”

Me: “Yup that’s Tracey. He’s now a principal in Ann Arbor.”

ARBB: “Did you adopt him?”

Me: (trying to not look totally confused) “um no, he’s my son-in-law. Married to my daughter, Shannon.”

ARBB: “Does your daughter look like you?” (His less than tactful way of inquiring if Shannon was white, black or mixed).

Me: (flushed and getting ticked) “Yes she looks like me. She’s married to a black man, Tracey, whom we love dearly. They have children. Who are mixed. I have mixed grandchildren.”

ARBB: (nonplussed) “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going on all over these days.”

I got up from the couch, marched downstairs (ok limped, one step at a time. Damn leg can’t even support me when I’m thoroughly disgusted). Felt sick for the rest of the night. Ate, gathered my stuff, went out to the car and bawled my eyes out. Called Shannon, who was not surprised at all. She caught some racist remarks from his wife on our trip, which I totally missed. Deafness does have it privileges. Who knew? I never even got to our sons Joshua & Adam. ARBB was so hung up envisioning my life with Shannon and Tracey.

 

3 of my 4 exquisite grands. Ariana, Landon & Peyton, 2004…

 

I think this couple feed and nurture each other’s bigotry. What I should have said or done in the moment, I honestly think would have been completely lost on him anyway. But that hasn’t stopped me from feeling like a complete ass and loser over not defending my beloved family better. I suck at picnics. And dealing with racist, bigoted bastards…

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m relatively new to Facebook. I freely admit, I didn’t know what a meme was. And was never interested enough to look it up. Until this week. Meme definition: An image, video, piece of text that is copied, (often with slight variations) and spread rapidly by Internet users. I knew there are sites my friends follow, then pick and share on their home page. That’s the stuff I see on my newsfeed. What they currently find interesting, newsworthy, thought provoking, or hilarious on Facebook. I don’t do that.

 

Recently, this one really cracked me up…

Some people follow folksy humor, inspirational quotes or pictures. Animals are very popular with the meme sharing masses. Cute little goats jumping sky high, or an orca whale flying out of the water, narrowly missing someone in a kayak. Yikes. Some friends lean very far left or right and assume their friend’s opinion can be swayed if they put up enough political poop about leftie’s or righty’s. These are my least favorite memes.

 

I keep this meme for Landon. Don’t want the weight of the world on his handsome shoulders during basketball…

 

I do follow several people whom I do not know at all, but very rarely share. I’m possessive like that. A sarcastic humorist named Tracy Lorenz. TC writes hilarious stuff while being a top notch cop for the city of Bangor, Maine. I think that’s Stephen King territory. Watch out TC. Nothing in King’s little kingdom ever sleeps at night. And I follow a lot of photographers. I’m hopeless when it comes to taking pictures, so I really appreciate their level of expertise and admire their work. Clark Little, Jeremy Church, William Reek, Dave Sandford, Jennifer Green, Joe Gee (he-he) to name a few.

 

Nobody does water and waves like Clark Little…

 

So when I rise, while I’m waiting for my coffee and night to become day, I peruse what my Facebook friends have deemed worthy to share on my newsfeed. I absolutely love it when something makes me laugh out loud. Almost as intriguing is something that really makes me think. Or cry. But not gross medical stuff. I have trouble stomaching that stuff and usually whip past those pictures quickly. Sometimes I save funny photos, or thought provoking quotes. Which leads me to one I saw this week. It hit me like I had been punched in the gut. And I felt Cindy’s deep pain.

 

This meme that Cindy posted hit me so painfully hard…

 

My friend Cindy has had a very full plate of late. Diagnosed with breast cancer last December, she’s had surgery and chemo and is doing very well. Just a couple months after she started this journey, her husband Dennis was diagnosed with cancer. When it rains, it pours. I believe he too is doing alright for now. But both their illnesses had nothing to do with the simple meme Cindy shared on her newsfeed. Cindy’s mom, Jean has Alzheimer’s. Up until a couple years ago, Jean was living on her own, in my home town of Rock Valley, Iowa. That proved to be worrisome for Cindy as her mom was getting forgetful and Cindy wasn’t nearby. After weighing their options, Cindy helped get her mom’s house spiffied up, put it on the market, sold it and moved Jean to a care facility near her in South Dakota. Occasionally Cindy posts what’s going on in her mom’s life, pictures of her with the great grandkids, or visiting her sister. I know that Jean’s health has deteriorated and she suffered a broken hip last year. But this simple morning meme on my newsfeed let me know that Cindy is losing her mom.

 

Jeremy Church photo of Lake Michigan in North Muskegon…

 

I saw this when I was a Parish Visitor. I’ll share 2 painful experiences. Funny, this gal’s name was Jean too. She had been happily married well over 50 years. They were an outgoing couple who belonged to a square dance group for decades. But Jean’s husband, Dick was quite confused. They went out less and less. Dick couldn’t really be trusted not to wander off anymore, even at the grocery store. Dick didn’t join Jean and I in the living room while we visited anymore. He might recognize my face from month to month, but as his current memories grew dim, he was unsure of himself and rarely said a word, though he walked through the room now and then. It was really Jean who needed my visit, encouragement and empathy. A caregiver is one of the toughest jobs you’ll ever have. You forsake friends, your health, sleep, social events or having any time to yourself. Whatsoever. Because you’re always on duty. Jean and I often discussed she needed to prepare herself for the day when Dick no longer recognized her. She thought she was ready. She was not. Thanks God, for sending me to their house that day. I knocked, Jean answered and as I stepped inside, she wrapped me in a bear hug and started to cry. I lead her to the couch where we sat side by side, holding hands. She said Dick had gone to bed the night before and she was watching TV in the family room. She had the family room door partially closed so she wouldn’t wake him. He was easily confused, and often got his days and nights mixed up. And he hadn’t been sleeping very well. It wasn’t very late when he put his head through the doorway and asked, “have you seen my wife? I can’t find her.” Even though she knew that day was coming, Jean was devastated. And rightly so. Dick was eating, sleeping, and looked like the guy she knew and loved. But he wasn’t really THERE anymore either.

 

Awesome photographer Dave Sandford catching a wicked wave on Lake Superior, 2015…

 

Gordy and Barb were another long married couple. Raised 4 daughters, worked hard all their lives, and had been retired for years. You knew something was a little off as they walked into church. Gordon, leading Barb, with her beautiful snow white hair by the hand to their usual pew. As her memory issues got worse, they stopped coming together. He was her primary caregiver but had lots of help from their girls. Still when it got to be too much, Gordon placed Barb in a nearby long term care facility. Gordy went to visit Barb daily, but their life and marriage as they knew it had changed dramatically.

 

Gordon and Barb, around 2000…

 

John and I attended the first church service many Sunday’s. This service had perks and flaws about it. It started early, a perk, but the service included no choir, solos, bells, prelude or postlude. A flaw if you love music. The first service pretty much consisted of a couple of hymns, the same scripture and sermon as the late service. Just without all the frills. If we attended the second service, went out to eat afterward, honestly half the day was gone by the time we got home. I know what you’re thinking. Gee, God gives her a whole week, she can’t give Him a half day? True enough. A lame excuse for the early service, but it’s the one we both preferred. Why did I even venture on this long, drawn out sidebar? Probably to delay the sad conversation Gordon and I had together.

 

Still love anything with a clutch…

 

Getting back to Gordy’s story. It’s the middle of summer and a beautiful Sunday morning. John and I are walking out of first service, headed somewhere for an omelette before going home. Gordon is walking out behind me and taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and give him a hug. Here’s what he said. “I’m going to stop at the gas station and pick up a Sunday Chronicle. Then head to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee and and sausage, egg McMuffin to go. I’m heading down to Lake Michigan (about 5 miles away) and sit on one of the benches along the Channel (deep water channel that often saw 1,000 footers glide through). Read my paper and hope a big ship comes through! Then I’ll go visit Barb and feed her lunch.” I couldn’t help it, my lip quivered and tears filled my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bad for someone as I did for Gordy that Sunday morning. He immediately understood the full meaning of those simple sentences, and why I felt so bad for him. Gordy and Barb should have been going out to eat together after church like Hubs and I. Gordy was a devoted husband, married to the love of his life, but really he was already a widower. His wonderful wife Barb was still alive, but not THERE anymore.

 

Muskegon’s deep channel with 1000 footer almost to Lake Michigan here, 2014…

 

 

And that’s the same stab of pain I felt when I saw the meme from Cindy. She’s grieving for her mom, but her mom is still here. But only physically. My parents had a lot of health issues as they started failing. But I didn’t have to experience what Jean, Gordy, Cindy and thousands of others have. It’s painful just to think about. But this meme wasn’t necessarily just about losing a loved one to Alzheimer’s. To countless others, it might be about a losing a true love, or angry, spiteful, words thrown out during an argument in which neither party will ever recover. I’ve experienced that. But when I read this meme, it was Gordy & Barb, Jean & Dick and Cindy’s acute pain on slowly losing her mom which came to mind…

 

Always a good reminder God is taking care of me…