Everything changes. Seasons Change. Circumstances Change. People Change….Why are we surprised when our “Perspective” changes also? What was half full, is now just half empty. We see the dark, but fail to notice the stars.

Sometimes we have to adjust our sails, storms come in many different shapes and sizes. Some storms we can see coming on the horizon, others blind side us so fiercely that we never knew what hit us, only leaving destruction in its wake.

Changing our perspective is not always easy. It is the way that we regard situations, judge their importance. Since all of the above have the potential for change? It is no wonder that we end up changing our perspective as needed. It’s how we manage to survive, process, and work towards a new outlook on the things that are important to us.

I have had to adjust my perspective on several different levels in the last few months. I don’t like it. I am a planner. If I go on vacation? I make a list. If I go shopping? I make a list. If I say I am going somewhere on a specific day? I usually stick with the plan. Life doesn’t always adjust for my lists. Impromptu sicknesses, injuries, accidents and just bands of things not going my way. Sometimes, life just happens differently than you plan.

I have often been told that I have a disorder called SAD…Seasonal Affective Disorder (the weather determines my mood) Okay, so I whine a lot about rainy/gloomy days. I just do. I am translucent sometimes. In other words… I let light pass through but sometimes manage to “diffuse” it. Sometimes I just don’t see the silver lining, or the light at the end of the tunnel. It does not, however, prevent me from continuing my search for it. Perspective goes hand in hand of one of my favorite words – “Hope” and.. it’s just easier for me to see it when the sun is peeking out.

My mother used to say that I was “annoying”…not nice coming from your Momma I know. What? It hurt my feelings. I asked her to explain to me what she meant by that.. Her replies went something like this…. “You always have something to say!” If I say it’s cold outside, you say well at least it’s warm on the inside” If I say “life isn’t fair, you say – no, but it can still be good..” If I say that “you don’t understand what I am going through, you say, help me to understand.”  In other words, she sometimes didn’t want me to encourage her.  She didn’t want me to give her a reason or tell her it would be better. Her perspective and mine were often times different. Don’t get me wrong, I never had regrets about encouraging her. Sometimes she just wanted me to say “I’m sorry” or “Oh wow, that is terrible.”

Perspective changes for me. I learn from it. Often, my outlook on things will do a 360 without thinking twice about it.  I have to encourage myself some days. The hardest perspective I have had to change, have been the stories that I had already written the endings. Things that I mapped out, made  my life lists, and waited for them to come my way.

I still have dreams that will never change. They will always be for the same things. The perspective may change more than once, sort of like a detour, my destination is still the same. It’s my perspective only that changes and adjust on how I will get there.

Life is definitely not always fair, as my momma reminded me often, but it is still worth it. Every hurdle, roadblock or traffic jam we encounter has a reason behind it. Sometimes it’s hard to see the forest for the trees..You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. (pooh)

I took the above photos of the same object/tireswing…Although the swing doesn’t change..everything around it seems to do so. It’s a cold place sometimes while we are waiting for warmer days.. It is a stormy place at times, so much that we long for some kind of peace…and lastly….

Often, it’s a little hazy and humid….stiffling the air we need to breathe. It can be confusing at times… but Perspective has a lot to do with what we focus on. Who cares if you have to adjust it often? As long as you are willing to make it work. Press on toward something better, keep looking for the good stuff.

I have realized that you can never really be “lost” as long as someone is looking for you and  you can never be forgotten, as long as someone knows you exist. So begins this story.

Coming from divorced parents, things are always different. Separated. Distanced. Disconnected. No matter how much parents try to keep the gap from developing, it usually happens. I had a relationship with my Daddy. I saw him more than most divorced kids had the opportunity. My mother and her sister married brothers. Our lives were forever intertwined. It helped that I had an understanding stepdad. He never denied us that opportunity, I was always thankful for that.

At the age of eight, I knew that my parents were not reconciling. I had known it for a very long time. I also knew that he had moved on as much as an eight year old could understand. The apparent evidence was not in what he told me..but what he showed me.

A white bassinett, a small bundle, wrapped in blankets. I remember it very well. I played with my cousins the entire day, but was always aware of the baby boy sleeping amongst the noise we created. I knew who he was. I knew he belonged to my Daddy. For an eight year old, I understood only that and happily resumed my much cherished time with my cousins. It would be the last time I would see the baby boy, but far from the last time I would think about him. You can’t be lost… when someone knows you exist.

My Daddy, at the young age of 3o, passed away when I was only ten years old, and my younger brother was only six. A tragic automobile accident that would widen the gap for an eternity. The comfort of knowing he was always there when I visited, was now severed. It was a huge loss for me, the life changing kind.

Years would pass, developing our family reunion during the Memorial Weekend Holiday.  I could always count on my Grandpa Kelly to ask me the same question year after year. He would ask me, “Have you found your brother yet?” It was a haunting question, because he knew that I had started looking ten years later after my Daddy had died. This time, I was 20 years old. My answer was always the same, a quiet “no” I haven’t had any luck. The only thing I really ever knew was his mothers’ name, and the fact that he lived in Maryland. It was not much to go on, but it was all I had. I would love to say that everyone encouraged me to look, however, it was not the case. It’s a little scary looking for someone you know nothing about. What if he was not a nice person? What if he was dangerous? But my answer was, “What if he is the opposite?” So I held onto my optimism.

I started my search with the vital records department. I had his birth certificate mailed to my address. It was a start. I ended up filing a “missing persons” report with a service through the Salvation Army. The letter was returned, with an “apology” that the search was uneventful. Although I hadn’t forgotten about him, it would be my last attempt in closing the gap. Dead end.

In the meantime, other family members would pass on, links to Johnny and his whereabouts – My grandpa, my Daddy’s last living brother. The gap seemed to only get wider and the hope of finding Johnny was even more hopeless – or so I had thought.

Fast forward to the year 2004. It had been 15 years since my search had ended. I received a phone call from my Aunt saying that I was getting ready to get a phone call from someone I wanted to talk to? Who? I will never forget her words, “He found us” I don’t know the whole story, but her words echoed.

I hung up the phone and waited. Amazing how many thoughts can swirl through your mind in 15 minutes. I was extremely nervous. I could hardly explain to my husband what the phone call was about. It was a long wait… He was almost 30 years old now. What if he was disappointed in what he found? How can you make a good first impression over the phone? What kind of questions would he have. Would I have the answers he was looking for? It was a whirlwind of emotions. What would he look like? Like me? Like my younger brother? So many questions I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to overwhelm him. I can only imagine how difficult it was on his part.

I can’t tell you what we discussed that day. I really can’t remember the details. Only that it was awkward for us both. There were 30 years of the unknown hovering in the air between us. It was the start for us both to closing the gap.

He was able to meet the family that lived in Kentucky first. They gave him an awesome homecoming. Next, would be my turn for us to meet.

This would be the most emotional weekend I would ever experience. It is hard to put into words, without sounding just plain “weird” but that’s the only description I could use.

How do you meet your brother for the first (technically) time? How much is too much information? Keeping in mind that he was only three when Daddy died. Both of my brothers have next to zero memories of him. It would be a huge responsibility for me to close these gaps. I only hoped that I could offer something he could hold onto. Something that could come from my memories of who my Daddy was, what kind of person he was. What if I couldn’t convey that. What if I failed in attempting to closing the gap? The day came, I would meet Johnny for the first time.

As far as physical appearance? The first thing I notice is that he was extremely tall! Six- foot seven, compared to my five-foot three? He was a giant. He was very polite, and well-mannered, not that I didn’t know this from our phone conversations. The hardest thing about our first visit? He looked so much like my Daddy, but more than I had expected him to. I had the overwhelming feeling that I was staring at his ghost- present in front of me. My Daddy’s dimple was the first thing I noticed..since my daughter has it also. Both of my brothers look like him. I am thankful for this. It keeps his memory well for me. I only wish they were able to have my memories also.

When the weekend was over, I think it took me a few days for it all to sink in. I was on an emotional rollercoaster. If he only knew how much it was like having a part of my Daddy back in my life. It was not only appearance, but actions and parts of his personality that were parallel. How do you explain that to someone who has few memories. I hope I relayed that in a healing sort of way.

We have had other visits since then, and Johnny has since married and I have a beautiful niece (who happens to have inherited her grandfathers dimple!)  We have continued to have a relationship as brother and sister. I like to think of me and my brothers’ as being the best parts of our Daddy. I am blessed with two awesome brothers. They are my heart, I hope they know this. We continue our efforts in closing the gap, visiting when we can.

A couple of years ago, I had a wish come true….. I had both of my brothers here at the same time. All three of us. They have no idea what this meant to me. For that particular day.. the gap was closed. Daddy’s circle was complete for once. The best parts of him in one place. They never noticed how I would find myself staring at them both. My heart was full – because I could sense that my Daddy smiling at the three of us. No longer lost, but finding each other. I know it was a great moment for him also.

Every year since May 1978, the Mills’ Family reunion has been held during Memorial Weekend. It came about after my Daddy was killed in an automobile accident this same weekend in 1977. I would turn ten years old that following July, as my brother would turn six. It was a harsh way for a family get together to come about, but years later…it is still being held on the same date, year after year.

My Daddy was the first person buried here. I couldn’t tell you how many countless times since I was ten, that me and my cousin would make the walk over the hill to the cemetery. We would pick flowers along the path. Sometimes I would feel like crying my heart out, sometimes I just felt lost.  Other times, I was unsure what I actually felt. My mother never went there. Ever. Not until she was buried there also in 2006. The Mills’ cemetery holds my beginnings, my middle and the end of my days having both of my parents, along with Aunts and Uncles that were very much a part of my circle growing up.

I would love to say that I make it every year? Fact is, I seldom go. Instead, I am down the entire weekend, anxiously awaiting everyone’s photos. I call my cousin usually just to hear the noises of my family in the background.

If I were to create a to-do list for next year, it would be on the very top of that list.

There is something about gathering with your family. So many things change during the years, people change, and if you are not careful you will miss the important parts of catching up. We miss so much living away from family. Time can never be recaptured. When you do get the opportunity to be with those in your “Circle of Love” it seems to fly by.. and you cherish it all the more.

I guess it is one of the major reasons I love my Facebook so much? It at least gives me a fighting chance to keep up with everyone. We share stories, photos and enjoy occasional chats. It’s a major improvement from the days of paying for a long distance call.

Every year I promise to make it the following year. I hope someone holds me accountable to it, remind me of my words. There are so many family members that I missed the chance to visit. Some are gone from this earth forever, some just aren’t capable of making it every year. So again, I glance through the photos taken, feeling my heart sink a little more, wishing I had been there.

Next year……my calendar will be rearranged…and although it is a busily traveled weekend, I will make the drive. It has already been too long. There is no doubt that the time will zoom by and I will never feel like I have enough time to visit, but I am looking forward to cherishing some much-needed family time.

 

As long as I can remember, I have enjoyed a tea party. My Momma made sure that we had one and often. My granny used to sneak tea to me when I was four years old. It was just something we did together. Hot tea, with cream and sugar cubes, will always hold a special place in my little world.

We continued our tea parties even when I was a teenager. Using her silver polished set, we would watch our favorite soap opera, General Hospital, and yes, we giggled at ourselves for enjoying it so much.

The first tea party Hannah enjoyed with her grandmother was also one that would be forever cherished. Momma asked her to help set the table, and seat the “guests”.  Dolls. If you know my daughter? She has never been much into playing with dolls. My mother improvised by asking her who would be attending the tea party? Instead, it was stuffed horses, bears, dogs and other animals. It would be a first for my Momma and we chuckled about it for a few years afterward.

Since 2006, Hannah and I have kept up our tradition of the tea party. We do it in memory of her as a way to celebrate her time with us. We carefully remove the China tea set that she left to Hannah, set our table with a photo and some daisies.

Our celebration takes place every year on May 17th, for her birthday. We say a prayer of thanks for the time we shared and the tea party begins. Balloons are released up into the heavens, always containing her favorite color of red. I have no idea if she actually sees them, it doesn’t really matter, only that we continue to remember her. We miss her, and it still breaks my heart that she is not here to share our lives with us.

Happy Birthday in Heaven Momma.. I know the celebration is an eternal one. We didn’t really say “goodbye” only that we will “See you Later” until then… enjoy the balloons…and your  Royal tea party. We celebrate you and the unconditional love you gave, and we were so blessed to have you in our lives.

Many years ago I had a conversation with an elderly saint of God that started over looking at a crack in the pavement. She must have realized that I, too, am a visual learner. If I see it, I am more likely to commit it to memory.

“Look at that blade of grass” she had said. As weak as a little piece of grass would have to be? it still had enough determination to keep pressing through the hard places to survive.” What a defeated little seed it must have started out being? No hope in sight, only determination to keep trying, to keep pressing through the harsh stone and gravel. Pressing through the ugliness to reach upward, knowing that it was the best chance to eventually feel the warmth of the sun.

She went on to tell me that we are to press on just as diligently. Regardless of those that kick dirt over you, step on you bending your most tender places. Keep climbing upward with faith that the climb will bring forth a much better place.

We have all been here, the place where your good has been spoken evil of. Your intentions were tarnished by someone else’s pain. You became their “scapegoat”. How much easier is it to collect stones to throw than focusing on the bag of rocks that weigh down your own pockets. The end result is the same – burning bridges that  you will no doubt have to cross again. We all have been guilty, eating “crow” that tastes bad no matter how you make excuses to season it. It is still the same, no matter how it is served. I’ve had my share.

I am still learning to press through the hard places. It’s difficult. I have to admit that I am incapable of doing it on my own. I’m sure God must roll his eyes at me frequently. It’s okay if you laugh at that statement. He knows me better than anyone, including myself. I am so thankful that I don’t have to defend myself to Him, or prove to Him who I am. He knows me. He knows my heart. Yes, I have to do a lot of repenting at times.

I have to learn to be “still”- I am still learning to let Him steady my heart. Let Him do the work. I have a habit of saying under my breath… God you see. God you know. You defend me when I am incapable of defending myself. I can depend on family and friends to rally around me, but there comes those times that they are not physically or emotionally available. It is during these times that I have to silence the clowns in my circus (my inner thoughts) and let him take over.

Why am I surprised when He comes to my rescue? I have no clue. I just know that he continues to do so, and I continue to be amazed how masterfully he accomplishes it every time. Help me Lord, my unbelief. You hold me in the palm of Your hand.

I am thankful for the word that was sent my direction by not one.. but two friends..same scripture..that’s how God works. Always on time, a God that sees.. I am fortunate to have friends that are willing to be vessels – used at some of my most desperate moments. You know who you are – 🙂

When you are pressing through the hard places, remember He is there….encouraging you to press on.. push through…until you can feel the warmth He has waiting on you. Rest in Him, your perfect defender.

Exodus 14:14      “The LORD will fight for you while you keep still.”

Thank you, Lord… for allowing me to feel your warmth….during some really cold places.

 

Precious finds from the beach….I think I could walk until dark, just looking for shells, stones, broken pieces of anything returned by the salty water. I think my earliest search began when I was a 16-year-old, enjoying the beach for the first time.  Did I mention this was over a ten-hour drive for us? Most people’s first reaction is disbelief that I was that old before seeing the ocean. I have many family members that have still never experienced its awesomeness. For an entire week,  I scoured every shell that could be found. I was fascinated by the ability to find a whole shell, as well as scooping up shards of worn stones that once resembled a seashell. That summer, I toted a mega load back to West Virginia.

I currently live within a two-hour drive to the sandy strands of Carolina Beaches. Some days, I can almost smell the salt air, and feel the continual winds that blow on the East coast. Is that possible? probably not, but in my mind I am close enough to feel it. Every year my goal is to spend more time there than the year before. This year, the goal will remain the same.

Searching for shells is just something I love to do. They are not hard to find unless you are on one of the beaches that are cleaned every day (I hate that!!!) shhhh.. to all the Myrtle Beach diehard fans. It has only been within the last few years that I discovered an additional pleasure to shells….SeaGlass.

So many different types, colors, shapes and sizes – Each one different and unique. Where did it come from? I was determined to find out its story. I knew that I had to own at least one piece and focus later on finding my very own. My first stop was Ebay – they have everything right? It didn’t really matter to me where it came from, but I knew it was something I had to have. I knew that ultimately, it came from something I love, the sea.

So here it is.. my first “set” of seaglass jewelry. Inexpensive and easy to purchase, I wear it often. It doesn’t matter if these are manmade, it represents something that I love. I did search to find out how it came to be. There were the logical explanations of glass items that were once dumped into the oceans either on purpose or accidental – medicine bottles, soda bottles, even red pieces of glass tailights torn from cars that were lost off of barges in vast open waters. That’s interesting but not quite as intriguing found in the myth of the tumbled pieces of glass.

It was said to be “Mermaid Tears”. It was said that every time a sailor drowned at sea, the Mermaids would cry and the sea glass was their tears washing up on the shore.

Okay so maybe I don’t believe so much in the whole Mermaid story, but here are a few things that I do love about Seaglass….

The way nature takes something mundane… and turns it into something beautiful.

The immediate association with the salty smell of brine, the waves of the ocean and unstoppable time.

It has a distinct connection to the past that is as unique as a single fingerprint.

Time has to be used as a tool to smooth the sharp edges…making it delicate but strong.

SeaGlass is much like art. It is appreciated more inwardly by the person beholding it. I would love to tell you that “I” found these three pieces in my photo? I haven’t found one on my own yet… yet. As a matter of fact my eyesight is not what it used to be…the special part about these three pieces?  My daughter spotted them… but we searched for them together. We have them in a special container, referred to as “our” seaglass. She’s just like that and I love her for it!

A funny thing about our little collection, I was so excited to show it off, until one of my friends brought out her huge jar of every sized piece you could imagine!!! Where did you find that much seaglass I asked? She shared her secret….. did I covet her amazing jar of stones? No, it let me know that I have more than a good chance to find my own treasures, one piece at a time, and each containing my own magical memories.. Just like the shooting star I often say I have never seen? (There’s a chance for that too!)

This season of summer I will continue my search for the glass from the sea…..anticipating the memories that will attach themselves to it… timeless and each one cherished….just like each piece of awesome seaglass.

Rain. I don’t have to remind anyone that I do not like it.

Today is different.

Today, the world is almost silent except for the sound of the raindrops hitting the window pane. Yesterday my thoughts were overcrowded and noisy, bombarding me with things beyond my control. Places I would rather forget and places I’d rather be. I’m still waiting on the invention of time travel. Oh, the places I would go, if only for a few hours.

For now, I listen to the rain. It is only overpowered by the sounds of the mighty N&S trains hustling through this mountain town. It is quiet in the place that matters most – my soul – it seems to have an inner hush this morning. Although I am fully aware of my surroundings, the very reason for this particular visit…. I am thankful, just for this moment of peace. I will hold onto it for as long as I can.

I refer often to the “peace that passes all understanding” from Phil. 4:7…and it is just that. I don’t understand it, but I embrace it. I have learned to let it wash over me like rain in a barren place. It is a very different kind of rain, one that I thirst for when my soul feels like dust.

The rain is not forceful here this morning, it is gentle and soothing. This rain I love, only because I know that today there is more to the rain than just water.  A fresh rain that is indescribable in my hometown today… It is a gift for this day.

God has a way of washing away the dusty places with His rain, His Spirit….comfort that only comes from the master rainmaker. Saturate our souls today, Lord. Our needs are great.

Hide and Seek was often a favorite game of mine during childhood. We had an entire alley to roam at night, never fearing anyone kidnapping us. The only sound we perked our ears for, was the sound of our parents calling us when it was time to come home. Hiding was fun, not being found was a great accomplishment. When you were “it”- it was sometimes exhausting trying to find someone in such a broad area. I was much better at hiding.

Apparently, I am still quite good at hiding as an adult. Jokingly, a friend and I once referred to it as “Operation Ostrich” ~ when things were a little more than we could endure? In the mental sand pit our heads would go. It worked, if only temporary.

I am still trying to keep my head out of the sand. To be honest? I like it there. I see nothing, I feel nothing, and I say nothing. Like the Ostrich, I think I am invisible. No matter what danger or turmoil surrounds me, I attempt to be oblivious. A temporary fix, until I am able to breathe again.

Researching the Ostrich, I find that sticking his head in the sand is actually a myth. When he is threatened, he runs with all of his might – climbing to speeds up to 70  mph. I am not a runner physically, but mentally I can make long strides seem effortless. It’s like running in your dreams, and then you realize that no matter how fast your legs are moving, you can’t seem to gain any distance.

I’ve looked for a place to hide all week, too many tragedies in the lives of the people who are part of my corner of the world. I feel the guilt for wanting to displace myself from the place they are-knowing their hurts. They don’t have the choice to remove themselves from their circumstances, having no place to hide.

I am a coward. I say this because I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to revisit the place I strive everyday to leave, knowing that no matter what I say to encourage? it is still a place that no one wants to be. I don’t want my friends to be here. I don’t want my immediate family to be here. It is a desolate place that brings sadness, frustration, and the overwhelming need to find a place to hide.

Learning more about the characteristics of the Ostrich, I find that he doesn’t hide forever. He faces the enemy at times head on. It is during this time that he uses every resource available to him. His legs are powerful, and strangely enough they can only kick “forward” So that’s what we do, we kick forward when we can no longer hide. Sometimes we can’t even feel our legs kicking or running, we just know they are from the evidence that another day has passed.

My prayer is that you find rest in your hiding place, strength to continue to kick forward. I pray that you find the peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4:7)…especially when nothing makes sense. I often saturate myself with one of my favorite songs…I hope you find the words as a beacon of light, shining through your darkest hours, abiding quietly and safely in your very own hiding place…Under His Wings.

Under His Wings

night-time came, the shadows fell

I could not find my way

the terrors of the night took hold

how I yearned for break of day

then He saw my plight and out in the night

He shined his light…and called me to His side.

………and I ran, Under His Wings

there He covered me and now I can see…

The enemy still looks for me, but what he can’t see

is that I’m under my Lord’s wings.

What a strange-looking creature he was… Ultraman. Honestly, I don’t remember him looking so strange. I do, however, remember calling for him quite often.

As much as I can gather, Ultraman was a chinese based cartoon. He was the infamous hero of a village of children in China. Plagued by godzilla-type villains, the children could always call on their hero, and voila! Down would come Ultraman, battling the monsters to become the hero once again.

My Momma would tell the story that when I was in dire straights with her, I would yell as loud as I could for “Ultraman”.  I don’t have to tell you that he never came, but it didn’t stop me from believing that he would.

The fact is, everyone needs a hero…someone to believe in. For my brother, it was probably more along the lines of The Lone Ranger, the ultimate superhero for little boys. He was pretty fond of the Comic Super Heroes also aka -Superman, Batman, etc.

I also had an imaginary friend. Most of our family related it to me being an only child for the four years before my brother was born, but the friend caused my Momma to get a lot of looks and advice from those around her.  Apparently, the imaginary one was a good friend, because I had him/her for quite some time. As I recall, my Daddy sat on him/her and I remember letting him know that he had “killed” my friend. RIP Imaginary friend.. making room for the baby brother I suppose.

A hero and their identity changes throughout our lives. Most often they are replaced with that of real people. Each one as important as the one before, serving a purpose for that chapter in our lives.  My Stepdad and my mother of course, filled those shoes for many years, after they were gone, the role shifted many times to my brother who stayed by my side throughout my Momma’s illness, then to my husband who held me through every step of her funeral. Many times my close friends have been my hero, unaware of the strength I gained through their kindness. Often times, my daughter fills those shoes, being the constant reminder of my purpose here.

Everyone needs a hero. I also believe it is just as important  to be one to someone when given the chance. Never miss the opportunity to be something good for someone when they are incapable of doing it themselves, be their song, when they have forgotten the words. I sometimes find myself wanting to call for Ultraman again…such a crazy thought, it’s the idea of a hero, someone to rescue me…protect me…make me feel worth the risk, or sometimes just to make the monsters go away. It is then that I remind myself that they are here, disguised as regular people, with invisible capes and superpowers to be used when I need them the most.

March always seems to creep up on me. I’m almost to the end of the month, and I still get that lost feeling. I then realize that it seems to be a pattern each year. Counting the years since my Momma has been gone. We are almost at year seven, and some days it seems like she was just here yesterday…and others seem like she has been gone so much longer.  Regardless, I feel the void…and I attempt to surround myself with her memories.

Daisies……and lots of them.

I have a newfound fascination with these flowers that began almost seven years ago. One of the many memories she left for me. I felt compelled to share the daisy story since it has been a comfort throughout my grieving process. (did I mention that grief is a process, it has no time limit?)

It is amazing how being in a hospice center can change your outlook, for the patient and also for the family. It is a transition from living to dying, which is an entire blog subject on its own. I wouldn’t have traded anything for the amazing people who cared for our family. On occasion, different groups come to the center for visits. Sometimes they were children’s choirs, youth groups with a special song to share, or just some of the  many wonderful hospice volunteers.  This particular visit was from a musical group of youth, ministering in song.

My mother enjoyed the many groups that came around, especially the music. She was well ready for some rest after having a busy afternoon. She drifted in and out the remainder of the afternoon, but felt she had to share her story of where she had been. She began to tell me how she was in a large field with more flowers than she could count. She told how they were fragrant and plentiful and how they almost seemed to smile. “What kind of flowers? What color?” I had asked her.

She continued on to tell me that the petals were white.. and the centers were yellow. The only thing is? She said that the centers were more like golden crowns that glistened in the sun. She said she was engulfed in them, fanning her hands through the petals. I asked her if she thought they were Daisies? “Yes, that is exactly what they were” she said. She also said how wonderfully peaceful it was there and how she looked to her right and saw her sister who had passed away just one month prior. She was gathering flowers in a basket she was carrying. They waved at one another before she left the field of flowers.

I can tell you that I loved this story….but then the day came when I actually “cherished” the glimpse and it brought on a whole new meaning.

Approximately two years later.. I stumbled upon a book someone had suggested was a good read. Hinds Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard. I can show you the tear-stained pages where I “cherished” the words that were written my confirmation and comfort that my Momma was indeed sharing something precious.

(excerpt from Hinds’ Feet in High Places by Hannah Hurnard)

All around her, in every direction, were the snowy peaks of the High Places.  She could see that the bases of all these mountains were extremely precipitous and that the higher up they were all clothed with forests, then the green slopes of the higher alps and then the snow. Wherever she looked, the slopes at that season were covered with pure white flowers through whose half-transparent petals the sun shone, turning them into bright whiteness.  In the heart of each flower was a crown of pure gold.  These white-robed hosts scented the slopes of the High Places with a perfume sweeter than any she had ever breathed before. All had their faces and golden crowns turned down the mountains as if looking at the valleys, multitudes upon multitudes of them, which no man could number. Wherever the King and his companion walked, these white-robed flowers bowed beneath their feet and rose again, buoyant and unsullied, but exuding a perfume richer and sweeter than before.

I can tell you in all honesty, She never read this book.

I continue to gaze at daisies in amazement, and I have some “daisy” mementos that I keep close.  They are such special flowers for me.

Yes, it is that time of the year again. I will be pre-occupied somewhat, my grieving process continues and I will have some sad moments…but I will look forward to cherishing the daisies in the upcoming months ahead.

Thank you Momma for the comfort of Daisies.