by Amy Newmark
My husband embraced me. “What happened?”
“God told me I’ll be okay,” I answered. “I’m going to get well now.”
The morning I went to the hospital for surgery, Chris woke up early and surprised his dad with a breakfast omelet prepared in the microwave. “I’m taking care of him,” he said proudly.
That day I felt serene and hopeful. When I said goodbye to him at the door, he gave me a gigantic hug. “I’ll see you soon, Momma.”
I was so proud of my little man, and I was no longer fearful of leaving him. “I’ll call you tonight, son, when I wake up,” I promised.
And I did.
~Claudia McCants
A Feather from Heaven
Death is not extinguishing the light; it is putting out the lamp because dawn has come.
~Rabindranath Tagore
After I got the call from my sister in Florida that our mother was in intensive care, I was on a plane within the week. I knew she was very ill—double pneumonia, congestive heart failure and anemia due to internal bleeding some-where —but Mom had battled most of these health issues before and had triumphed. Nearly eighty-one, she was our family’s indomitable Energizer Bunny. So when the pulmonologist broke the news that our mother was not going to make it, my brother, sister and I were stunned and heartbroken.
I looked down at my vibrant, funny, bossy, inexpressibly lovable mom and wondered how anyone so alive could be terminally ill. There she was, hooked up to beeping machines and wearing a CPAP with the highest saturation rate of oxygen available. But unlike the other patients in ICU, she was her usual silly self, making faces, teasing the nurses, joking and laughing.
Even after the doctor had explained the dire prognosis to her, her irrepressible attitude didn’t falter. “You know,” she told us, “I would’ve thought that hearing I was going to die would make me a basket case, but strange as it seems, I’m really at peace about this.” We, her children, of course, were not. “Don’t cry,” she said, wiping our tears. “I know where I’m going after all. Heaven’s going to be wonderful.” We did our best, but heaven seemed so far away.
Throughout her days in the hospital, Mom had a positive spirit that became infectious. She entertained and inspired family, friends, neighbors and beloved members of her church; each visitor was treated to her off-the-wall sense of humor and uplifting faith. As long as her pain was kept under control, she was the sassy, often hilarious life of the party. The rules in the intensive care unit limited callers to two at a time, but there were rarely less than six in Mom’s room. The wonderful staff, captivated by this high-spirited, anything-but-ordinary patient, smiled and looked the other way.
One afternoon, Mom’s best friend and longtime comrade-in-shenanigans, Janet, came for her daily visit. She brought her twelve-year-old granddaughter, Kimberly. Janet and Mom tossed insults and droll comments back and forth as Kimberly and I alternately laughed and rolled our eyes. After a few minutes of this though, Janet grew serious and handed Mom an envelope. “Here, I brought you something,” she said. “Open it and read the note.”
Mom smiled, drawing out the folded sheet of paper, and began to read out loud a lovely little poem about angels. “Oh, that’s sweet,” she said, when she finished.
“Now, look in the envelope,” Janet instructed. Pulling it open, Mom peeked inside and chuckled. “It’s a feather!” She held the tiny white plume up for us to see. “Must have been a small angel, huh?”
Kimberly and I laughed.
Janet, smiling through suddenly teary eyes, leaned forward and grabbed Mom’s hand. “Listen, you—this feather is important. When you get to heaven, I want you to send it to me to let me know you got there.”
Mom laughed. “You don’t want much, do you? Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
During the week to come, our family and Mom’s dearest friends stayed close by her side, treasuring every second, cherishing every wisecrack, every laugh, every tender, reassuring hug. Each of us was imprinting on our hearts the moments spent with her.
Much too soon, however, the day came when I had to return to Portland. Saying goodbye was agonizing. How could I leave knowing I wouldn’t see her again? Mom though, with her unshakable faith, hugged me and whispered, “I love you. This isn’t goodbye, sweetheart, it’s see you later.” My last memory of my mother is of her grinning her irresistible grin and blowing me kisses through her oxygen mask.
Early the following Monday morning, I got the call: surrounded by her children, grandchildren and dearest sister and brother, Mom had slipped gently from their arms into God’s.
On Tuesday afternoon, my phone rang; it was Janet. We had been checking in with one another throughout the weeks leading up to Mom’s death, so I assumed she was calling to see how I was doing. Instead, her voice brimmed with excitement. “I have something to tell you,” she said. Intrigued by her unexpected tone, I asked, “What’s up?”
“My granddaughter, Kimberly, stayed with me last night,” she said. “We finished watching a movie and were just sitting there on the sofa, when I looked over and saw Kimberly’s arm go up in the air. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked her. She turned to me and held out her hand, ‘Grandma, look!’ ”
Janet’s voice dropped to an awed whisper. “It was a little white feather, Tina. Right out of thin air!”
My arms broke out in goose bumps and I smiled as I pictured my mother entering Heaven, pointing to the nearest angel’s wings and saying, “Hey, I need to borrow one of those feathers!”
“Oh Janet,” I said with a lump in my throat. “She made it! I never doubted that she would, but what a sweet miracle you’ve been given—we’ve all been given. Thank you, Lord.”
Janet sniffled back, “Amen Tina, Amen.”
~Tina Wagner Mattern
Find Your Rainbows
God puts rainbows in the clouds so that each of us—in the dreariest and most dreaded moments—can see a possibility of hope.
~Maya Angelou
I always enjoyed the magic of seeing a rainbow. I was mesmerized by the vibrant colours and the allure of the promised pot of gold at the end of it. Truth be told, I never realized there was much more to rainbows than what meets the eye.
But rainbows can also be a sign. They have the ability to be a sign of hope as well as a gateway connecting us with our precious loved ones who have passed.
My difficult journey of loss started when my beautiful daughter Maddie was diagnosed with bone cancer when she was only twelve. She began the greatest battle of her life. With incredible courage she fought as hard as she possibly could, but after three years, her warrior body was ravaged beyond repair. Knowing she would soon die, Maddie’s mission became to take care of us as we dealt with her impending death. She used her precious energy to ensure we would not suffer after she was gone. Her father, my husband, had lost his battle to ALS when she was only six. Although only a child then, she was like an old soul, sensitive to the grief and struggle Stephen’s death had brought to our family.
At age fifteen, she courageously proclaimed her gratitude for the life that she had. She told us she was not afraid to die. Her final message to us was, “I love you but you must promise me you won’t be sad when I’m gone. I will be okay.” She truly became our hero. Soon after that brave conversation, Maddie passed away in my arms.
I didn’t believe I had the strength to go on, but I had to for the sake of my eleven-year-old son. I searched in vain for answers. Why Maddie? She was so young and so kind. I was debilitated by grief and I needed some kind of continuing connection with my daughter. I begged her to send me a sign, to assure me she was okay.
The messages started to come right away, first to Vicki, Maddie’s best friend. Vicki kept all her friends’ phone numbers on little sticky heart notes on her bedroom wall. The day after Maddie passed away Vicki entered her room and found a sticky heart note that had fallen off the wall and was lying by the bed. She flipped it over and her heart skipped a beat when she saw Maddie�
��s name and number on the note! She couldn’t believe it. Maddie was saying goodbye to her. The next day she put the heart in Maddie’s casket, her way of letting Maddie know that she understood; they would stay connected.
Then one day my niece Teela sent me this e-mail: “After Maddie left us I had a dream. I saw her in a rocking chair. I asked her what she was doing here; she was supposed to be dead. She told me it was a mistake! She hadn’t gone anywhere and was still with us. I sat down and put my head in her lap and cried. She just repeated over and over that everything was going to be all right, that it was a mistake, she was still with us! She sent this message to help me stop being so sad.”
Although I tried my best to be positive, I had a few emotional meltdowns where I would question myself and my decisions. What if I could I have done something different to save Maddie? On one particular occasion I came across an old homemade Mother’s Day card from Maddie. It read, “Mommy, I can’t think of anything you could have done better. You are the world’s greatest mom!” It was as if she somehow knew these words would one day heal my wounds.
On the first anniversary of Maddie’s death, our family and friends gathered around her grave to celebrate her life. We released 100 coloured balloons into the sky. Laughter and small talk filled the air till we heard a gasp, then more gasps. Someone pointed upward; we looked up and followed the balloons’ path in the sky. We were stunned to see two beautiful rainbows above us. It was a cloudless sunny day, so where did those rainbows come from? We watched the balloons dance up and through the rainbow archway. It was as if heaven opened its gates to receive them. After all, the cemetery was called Gates of Heaven. I knew Maddie was sending me a sign and I could hear her voice whispering in the wind, “It’s okay Mommy, I’m okay.”
We have received many letters and stories from people about dreams and signs they’ve received over the years from Maddie. She is still held close in all their hearts. We lovingly named this phenomenon “The Magic of Maddie.”
Recently, Maddie’s beloved dog Winston, a neurotic roly-poly Pug, passed away. He was old, diabetic, and had been having seizures. He was in distress so my son Derek and I took him to the veterinarian’s clinic and were with him when he took his last breath.
I couldn’t bear going straight home without Winston so I asked Derek to take a walk with me. It was a hot summer’s day so we headed to the beach. I kept telling Derek, “I need a sign.” I needed some comfort.
Derek consoled me, “Mom, it’s alright. Don’t worry. Maddie will take care of Winston.”
I was too upset to listen. “Derek, we need a sign, I wish Maddie would send us a sign, like she did last time!” I looked up in the sky, expecting to see a rainbow, but all I saw was the bright afternoon sun.
Derek was patient but hungry and went to a kiosk to buy French fries for lunch. Then we sat on a blanket by the water. I lay back on the blanket and looked up at the sky. My heart raced at what I saw. I tapped my son frantically on the shoulder. “Do you see what I see?” I exclaimed in shock.
Derek’s head followed my gaze, his French fry frozen in mid-air. “You mean that big rainbow above us?” he said. He saw it too. Thank God! I was not losing my mind! I stared at the rainbow for the longest time, wanting to memorize every detail. Without a doubt it was a sign from Maddie. She was saying, “Got him, Mom. Winston is okay too!”
I’ll never look at a rainbow the same way again. They are powerful symbols that affirm our bonds cannot be broken, not even in death. The universe is always sending us signs. No matter how difficult life gets, these signs, like rainbows, are gifts that remind us we never lose our connections to the people we love. Keep your faith, open your heart and look up, way up. Find your rainbows!
~Sharon Babineau
The Last Dance
You can dance anywhere, even if only in your heart.
~Author Unknown
My parents married on June 27, 1942 in a beautiful stone church in upstate New York. The bride was seventeen, the groom twenty. After promising to love and to cherish until parted by death, they danced at the reception. They kept these promises and continued to dance for seventy years.
During their courtship and their entire married life they enjoyed big band music. They were beautiful dancers, commandeering a dance floor with style and grace. We kids grew to love the sound of Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey, conjuring up images of our parents gazing into each other’s eyes as they glided across the floor.
I was the oldest, followed by my brother Terry and three sisters Judy, Gail, and Joni. We grew up in a house filled with love and a strong sense of family. The radio was always playing music and at the first strains of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” or “Sentimental Journey” our parents rolled the living room rug back and we sat cross-legged on the sofa to watch the magic happen. The hardwood floors of the farmhouse became a grand ballroom as we watched them move as one. Each of us grew up loving music of all types and dancing of all styles.
Tragedy struck in 1976 when our brother Terry was killed in a horrible accident. He was thirty and left behind a young wife and three-year-old daughter.
Having suffered rheumatic fever and subsequent heart damage as a child, Mom was beginning to have cardiac problems. Three months after Terry’s death, our mother had her first open heart surgery at age fifty. She recovered from surgery without a single complication in spite of grieving the loss of her only son.
She had heart surgeries again in 1992 and 2002, and Dad was her devoted caregiver. By her side day and night, he was her dance partner and referred to her as his Princess.
In spite of health issues, Mom and Dad’s dancing days weren’t over. Their love for big band music continued, but they could only hold each other and sway in time to the music. They both longed to twirl around the floor as in earlier years, but settled for the gentle swing and sway.
When my father, who had always been the hearty one, got sick, we steeled ourselves. The doctors at Duke Medical Center diagnosed aortic stenosis and at the age of ninety, Dad had open-heart surgery. For two days, Mom didn’t leave his side. She looked drawn and pale. We knew Mom was tired, but we didn’t know she was starting to have kidney failure.
On the third day of Dad’s post-op recovery, eighty-seven-year-old Mom was hospitalized. Our hearts were heavy. It was the end of an era. Despite the seriousness of each of their conditions, the Lord was not done with them. Their love and devotion would show the rest of the family the meaning of the words “for better, for worse, in sickness and in health.”
A week later, both parents, weak and tired, were discharged to my sister Judy’s home. Timing was critical for the surprise we planned. I had arrived with Mom and gotten her settled in bed when Judy came through the door with Dad. With her assistance, he headed for the bedroom.
Judy steadied Dad as he paused, gazing at Mom in their bed. He bent over and kissed Mom on the cheek. “Is it really you, Princess?”
She reached up with her hand and cupped it around his head. “Yes, it’s me. Are you really here?”
He answered by getting in bed with her. They nestled into each other’s arms as Judy and I stood in the doorway crying. We didn’t know how long we’d have either of them, but we knew we’d do our best to keep them together.
Six weeks later, Mom had a setback and died after a few days in the hospital. The family was devastated. It was as if we had the wind knocked out of us.
Living without her was a struggle for Dad. They had been married seventy years. A year after Mom’s death, Dad fell ill and began his downward spiral. Two months later, as he lay dying, he turned to me and announced in a weak voice, “I’m going to be with your mother for our anniversary on June 27th. We are going on a cruise and we’ll dance to big band music.”
It was one of the last conversations we had. He passed peacefully the evening of June 26th, right on schedule for their anniversary the next day.
Mom and Dad were both cremated. They requested that their ashes be combined and spre
ad on my brother’s grave and then be committed to the waters in front of our summer vacation house. We honored their request, but added touches we thought they would both love.
For the entire four-day weekend we honored their memory. We gathered as sisters and our husbands along with Terry’s widow, experiencing the closeness that our parents had instilled in us.
Having combined Mom and Dad’s cremated remains, we returned them to a heart-shaped biodegradable box provided by the funeral home. We sealed it shut with superglue, as directed, preparing for a water burial.
On a beautiful sunny day in early September, we left the dock in two kayaks and a fishing boat, slowly moving into the deeper water of the Bay. Our youngest sister Joni paddled one of the kayaks, our brother-in-law Jeff accompanied her in the other. The rest of us were in the boat. Mark turned the stereo system on and big band music played. Strains of “Moonlight Serenade” followed by “Sentimental Journey” wafted across the water.
Gently resting the container on the gunwale of the boat, each sister placed a hand on the heart-shaped box for the last time. We said a prayer as we prepared to commit our parents’ ashes to the body of water that they loved so dearly.
Joni, sitting low in her kayak, received the box and reverently placed it in the water. It began to sink in exactly four minutes, as the directions said it would. We watched until it sank out of sight. “Sentimental Journey” was into the chorus.
Suddenly, two identical whirlpools rose to the surface side by side and moved in perfect syncopation across the surface of the water toward the main house. All of us watched in stunned silence as tears streamed down our faces. We looked at each other and said, “Did you see that?”
Dad had told me they were going on a cruise and would be dancing to big band music. He was absolutely right. At that moment, each one of us knew it was a sign from our beloved parents, a joyous sign of a couple in love gliding across the surface of a new dance floor in their last dance.
