Monthly Archives: June 2010

A word from Linnea

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June was a great month for me, mainly because I spent over half of it at my mom’s house. Though I live in Florida with my husband and two kids, my heart and mind are often at my mom’s place in Michigan these days.

I hadn’t been back since I left last November after my dad’s funeral. On my first afternoon back I sat in a chair and looked at the living room. In my mind I saw my brothers and sisters sitting in our nightly circle, eating dinner together the way we did during the weeks before my dad’s death. Nelson would be carrying wood in from outside to keep the fire going. Nicholas and Skylar, the only two grandchildren at that time, would be eating and chattering, making plenty of noise and a total mess. There’d be a lot of laughing and talking, though we’d all be thinking of Papa with sadness at the same time. And my mom would be serving my dad faithfully, getting his pills and ice packs, and encouraging him to eat something.

The house feels different now. It’s my mom’s house instead of my parents’. My dad’s chair is empty and there are no newspapers scattered on the floor next to it. It’s summertime, so instead of chilly fall winds and orange leaves on the ground, everything outside is bright green and the air is thick and humid. During my last visit I was pregnant; this time I spent hours walking outside with baby Micah in my arms. Being outside calms him down when he’s fussy, so we’d go for slow walks down the road, just the way my dad did during his final weeks.

Each day as I traced my dad’s steps, I’d think about the end of his life. I hate that he had to die and I hate that my mom is now a widow. But as I’d stare up at the tall trees lining the road, their leaves making a shady covering for Micah and me, I couldn’t help but remember God’s faithfulness and goodness to my family, even as He took my dad away. I’ll never forget the moment my dad died—the way my mom sat and held his hand, and how all of us kids were right there in the house when it happened. After he was gone, we stood around his bed, said our goodbyes to him, and cried. If any of us had been missing—out running an errand or walking the dog—it would have been different. God arranged the timing perfectly and that was a gift. One of many.

It’s scary to think that death can reach out and touch us without much warning, without our permission. We are not in control of our lives the way we like to think. In the end, all that matters is our faith in God. Do I belong to Him? If my answer is yes, then I don’t have to live in fear—not of cancer, not of being alone, and not even of death. God has promised to work everything together for my good. Watching my dad die was awful. I don’t think I’ll understand in this lifetime why it had to happen the way it did. But God has left the evidence of His love for my family all over our memories, and when He says someday He’ll wipe away our tears for good, I believe Him.

“Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.” (Revelation 1:17b-18)

Back to the Hospital

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Today I met with one of my friends in the Chicago area, Dr. Ross Abrams. Although Nate has been gone nearly eight months, my occasional conversations with his doctor have continued to be a blessing to me.

Dr. Abrams is a very busy guy, the number one man in radiation oncology at Rush University Medical Center, yet he graciously gave me a chunk of his day in an unhurried manner. This was a valuable gift.

We talked about how Nate fought with cancer but not against it, how he accepted his terminal diagnosis with remarkable calm. Dr. Abrams has watched every one of his pancreatic cancer patients die of this fatal disease, noting how some accept their “fate” early-on while others never do. We wondered aloud what happens within a person to make them ready to die, to be so sure of it they confidently refuse further treatment. He’s observed that a personal faith in God is usually present when someone peacefully accepts death’s imminence, saying, “I believe Nate was a man of strong faith.”

We also talked about our marriages and their great worth, mentioning the importance of this institution. We agreed that one of the keys to a long marriage is to determine up front that neither will look for an escape hatch when rough patches come but will work to resolve the problem. Sweet rewards await those who remain committed.

As Dr. Abrams put it, “Once we make any commitment, obligations quickly follow, but we learn there is great satisfaction in fulfilling our obligations to each other.” Amen to that.

He asked about our children, wondering how they were coping with losing their father, which led to a discussion of the differences between suffering and sadness. We decided suffering involved coping with continual pain or damage, enduring ongoing loss. Sadness, although just as real, is more about mood and is prone to improvement as emotional healing takes place. Dr. Abrams is an expert on both, having witnessed much of it in his patients and their families.

We talked of our grandchildren, his seven and my five, acknowledging the pleasure of this season, and he showed me a new family photo in which all 17 wore black and white. I called it “a treasure” because they were all there with no one missing. The last Nyman family photo didn’t include Micah, Thomas or Evelyn, yet unborn. Our next picture will include them but not Nate. Dr. Abrams nodded knowingly.

We continued our conversation, talking about trusting a God who sees our lives from beginning to end, all at once, desiring to bring good to each person. Because we as humans see only the past and the present, it’s difficult to trust there will be good in the future when “bad” (as in cancer) dominates the now. Dr. Abrams referenced an Old Testament verse and I quoted from the New Testament, but we agreed that this one God has said the same thing to both of us.

When it was time for the doctor to move back into his medical day, we left the office with a handshake and a promise to share another conversation down the road. Here’s a quote from the blog post he wrote for this site on April 19, 2010: “My internal definition of ‘being a doctor’ require(s) being regularly involved in caring for other human beings” (as opposed to lab work).

Today I was the recipient of some of that care and as a result have moved forward one more step in the healing process. Thank you, Dr. Abrams.

“Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you.” (James 1:27)

Sticky Fingers

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It’s been a day of changing the cottage from a toddler environment back to that of a single adult. As I took the junior chair, bathtub toys and rattles back to the basement, my thoughts were with my daughter’s family while they winged their way back to Florida. Putting baby shampoo, the bottle brush and bottles back in their storage bins, I could almost hear Skylar’s encouraging voice: “Good cleaning up, Midgee!”

I thought back to my own days of young motherhood when I would visit Mom, kids in tow, at her orderly home set up for two adults. When she first found out she was going to be a grandma, she emptied a large cabinet and went garage-sale-ing for toys to fill it. “I want my grandkids to have fun when they come to see me,” she said.

Her wish came true. Our children and everyone else’s had a blast at Grandma Johnson’s. She encouraged all of us young moms to attend the Bible study at the church across the street, offering to babysit for our mob of little ones. We took her up on it, and when we’d return several hours later, worrying that she might be exhausted, we’d hear her say, “Back already?”

Time flew, because she was having fun.

After our kids had pulled every toy out of her cabinet, Mary and I would always stay to pick them up, encouraging our kids to help. But Mom would take them from our hands and plead, “Oh, let me do this after you leave. I have such a good time thinking back on the morning.”

“But it’s such a mess!” we’d say.

“But it’s a happy mess,” she would counter, “and I love it.”

I remember one morning when Mom took care of several of our kids and made chocolate chip cookies with them. Two year old Klaus had deposited a smudgy chocolate hand print on her white door at toddler height. Before we left I reached for a soapy rag to wipe it clean, but she stopped me. “Don’t touch that. It’s just darling.”

The next time I visited, she had drawn a square frame around the messy hand print and written “By Klaus,” along with the date. Another “happy mess.” I’ll be glad if I can be half the grandma Mom was.

Today I found some precious art-prints of my own. Four month old Micah had loved sitting on the kitchen counter in a blue Bumbo while he was here, watching us prepare meals. Yesterday I had set the Bumbo (with him in it) on the counter next to the glass cake dome, and he’d gently thumped it with his hand, the way every uncoordinated baby does. This afternoon when the sun hit that glass, half of the dome was covered with tiny prints this little guy had left with his dimpled, drool-soaked fingers, and I experienced the same rush of grandma-love Mom must have felt when she’d seen  Klaus’ chocolate hand print.

I confess to washing Micah’s art work off my cake dome today, but not before I mentally “framed” his creation in my memory. Maybe when he visits next, we’ll try to bake chocolate chip cookies together.

“Children’s children are a crown to the aged.” (Proverbs 17:6a)