Into every life …
I feel exceptionally blessed since little rain has fallen in my life, although there have been some storms.
Sitting here with Elvis's 1987 Memphis album blaring (the year Suspicious Minds hit the top of the chart), I am pondering life as it is at nearly 74 years of age, on the cutting cusp of retirement.
Mostly my life has been in the sun. I think the only real hits have been with our children in terms of divorces. They have been wrenching, watching our children cry. But now most of the tears have dried, and they have gotten on with better lives.
This year we have had a couple of additional harsh developments with our children: one tells us the marriage also is not working; another faced alcoholism.
The good news is that although I was poised to run off to California to play a role in helping with these heartaches, they were taken care of by the people themselves with lots of help from those near them. Today, the situation is definitely sunnier, with one child accepting the marital challenges, and the other putting himself into a clinic.
Praise them, pray for them, hope they'll meet their demons head on: that's all you can ask for in children.
As Sally says, they always remain our babies.
Always family playing along the little street near the house within calling distance.
Worrying about them will only end in heaven, when we're assigned to be their guardian angels.
Real true heartbreak in my life peaked with the loss of parents, two brothers, a niece (so young), a classmate, and some really great doggies.
Such is it, eternally, for us all.
"All that wealth, all that beauty e're offered await alike the inevitable hour."
Perhaps I am waxing a bit depressing as I think about final sunrises and golden harvest moons as big as all outdoors. Actually, I remain filled with optimism and the lust for tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
A word I learned to spell with the help of Cathy McAuley in the 6th grade. I was sitting at my desk going over the 20 words that would be on the test. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, I struggled with spelling.
Cathy, a girl as smart as her skin was milky white, bent near me as she walked down the aisles helping we problem pupils learn.
"Break it down," she told me. "Tom or row. Just three little words easy to spell.
It worked! I learned to follow her advice and soared to become an "S" student!
And then, one day the teacher stood in front of the class and told us that Cathy had died.
Leukemia.
Lovely dark-haired, tall Cathy with the completion of new Michigan snow.
Watching that little white casket lower into the ground on the hillside near the lake was to become my most significant memory.
Now that I am retiring I feel particularly lucky to have reached this milestone, for some of us were left behind.
Cathy gave me tomorrow.
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