I believe I mentioned earlier that Kel had a difficult time with my dad being diagnosed with lung cancer—he’d lost a treasured uncle to the same illness many years before. It was so difficult for him that he chose to let me make the trip home alone to care for my dad, and while I was there, we hardly ever spoke over the telephone. I felt pretty much on my own, in that sense.
And while my poor little human ego said that was “wrong for him to do to me”--the truth is, he gave me the gift of honoring me with the opportunity to take a journey that helped me get really clear about myself. If I’d had a husband holding my hand, giving me a shoulder to cry on over every little thing, I’d never have discovered the amazing things that were in me, waiting for the chance to express. He literally took himself out of my way.
So I write this story, in honor of Kelly—my beloved partner in my journey of journeys of all time.
The last weekend before Dad died, Kel and my nephew drove from Minneapolis to see him. In spite of Laurie’s and my own agreed-upon efforts to make sure we took care of ourselves in order to take care of Dad, I had managed to get run down enough to get sick. Laurie and Terry’s sons had a football game that Friday night so our brother, Tim, came to spend the night with Dad in Laurie and Terry’s camper.
I’m not even sure how it happened anymore, but somehow Dad had agreed to try the camper one more time. He’d tried it a night or so early on and it didn’t feel right for him at the time—but he was in there alone. I’m thinking he probably agreed to try it again so anyone spending the night with him would have a place to sleep, rather than on the floor of his van.
Plus, our brother, Jerry and his wife gave us an intercom to use from the camper to the house. Dad’s anxiety was getting steadily worse, and he wanted someone nearby, in sight most of the time. I remember once not hearing him call us on the intercom, and getting a look from him only a few short minutes later that spoke of having seriously betrayed him by not being there the moment he buzzed me.
He was scared, that’s all—and didn’t want to leave before he was ready and didn’t want to be alone in the process. It’s an honor and a blessing that we mattered so much to him that he wanted us there beside him to the very end. Through my experience with him, though, I discovered that we leave our bodies when we’re ready—we have that choice. We just didn’t know it.
Some believe that they don’t have that choice, that some God out there is making all their important decisions and/or they’re stuck to playing out a destiny set in stone, so one’s free will to make that suggested belief his truth prevails--and they die before they’re ready to go.
Kelly and my nephew were only at Laurie’s one day, and I hardly saw him. He called me when they got back to Minneapolis Sunday night and told me excitedly of the conversation he’d had with my dad. I honestly admit, that at the time, I judged Kel as being selfish—putting his own wants before my dad’s. I didn’t say it out loud to him at the time, but I was thinking, Kel—how could you?
He had asked Dad that when he made it to the other side of the veil, if he would give him a sign that he’d made it. Dad’s answer had been, “I’m not sure if I can, but I’ll sure try.” I can still hear my dad saying those exact words.
Shortly after my mom died, Kelly and I started watching the show Crossing Over—a program where the psychic John Edwards would connect people on this side of the veil with loved ones who had died. I personally liked the messages he shared—they were comforting and they encouraged the continuation of relationships with those who had died, if only to heal, empower and see the gift of the relationship for the parties involved. And it was also filled with the message of unconditional love and gratitude. It was a show that helped me to shift my perspective and consider things from different points of view—to see this life as having more meaning than the things taking place outwardly on the surface.
I know there are those who judge all psychics as being charlatans—but every set of people has those who are legit and those who are out to swindle. It happens in science and it happens in religions and in governments, to name a few. As far as I’m concerned, life is full of challenges for each of us humans, and I’d rather get up each morning believing in something deeper, more loving and meaningful than what we’ve been taught. Survival of the fittest, that someone needs to lose in order for the other to win, that we’re just a bunch of disappointments to our Creator/Source, and that this life is about proving one’s worthiness so we don’t go to hell—well, those ideas simply don’t work for me. Something deep inside me says we’re so much more than that—and don’t settle or compromise for any less.
Dad died just a few short days after Kelly’s visit. Kel was in the midst of taking some college courses, so he didn’t come home again until the day before Dad’s funeral—he didn’t participate in the arrangements.
Right as the minister began the service a sparrow flew into the Ludlow community hall—and flew among the flowers, landing on the baskets of potatoes and vegetables gathered from Dad’s garden. And it made its way circling over the family. Now the minister, not knowing Dad all that well, didn’t get it, and actually glared disgustedly at the bird. But Dad’s closest family and friends knew its presence had meaning. No one else knew what Kel had asked of Dad, but my brothers and sisters and the grandkids recognized that bird as somehow being connected to Dad and possibly Mom. We have pictures of it.
After the service in the hall, we all drove up to our family farm just across the border in North Dakota to bury Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s on the Big Hill. The flowers Dad, Laurie, Kelly, Dave, Bonnie and I had planted the previous Memorial Day around the grave site for Mom were still thriving, even through all the dry heat and winds of July and August.
Before Dad’s diagnosis, he’d call me in Minneapolis from the top of the hill to let me know that all the flowers we’d planted (many of which I hadn’t expected to live up there) were growing. He had to have been hauling water—but no water was hauled the entire month of August. We’d even had a prairie fire that month in a field across the road.
On the drive to bury the ashes, I asked Kel if he thought the bird was his sign. He replied, “Yeah. At one point I almost expected it to land on my shoulder.”
When we returned to the hall for lunch served by an amazing community of people from around Ludlow, our little sparrow was still there, hanging out around the baskets. And it stayed with us until some time around 2:00 PM. As we were leaving, the bird left the building, too.
Kel left right after the lunch to return to Minneapolis. I stayed a couple extra weeks to finalize a few things with my sister. Even though my beloved cats were there, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to return to my old life in Minneapolis. I had a feeling of no longer belonging anywhere—all I wanted was to be left quietly to myself in order to come to terms with all that had happened. I felt just lost—everything that seemed to have mattered before didn’t matter at all. I seemingly had no desires or passions or ideas of a possible future. And I wanted to separate myself from people, especially those who seemed to want something from me.
Laurie and I stopped at Dad and Mom’s mobile home to sort through a few of Dad’s things before I left. We found an obituary from Dad’s mother’s funeral. Dad and Grandma Pearl were very close—she died September 4, 1983; and her devoted son died September 4, 2003--exactly 20 years later.
I remember walking into my kitchen in Minneapolis six weeks after I had left. Kel was welcoming, and our cats were there to greet me, but I felt like I was in some type of time warp, or other dimension—I was unsure about whether I wanted to be there. Neighbors wanted to see me to pass on their condolences and I just wanted to be left completely alone. I was so empty feeling that I didn’t feel I had any kind of reserve left inside of me for myself, much less another person.
I had felt pretty much torn apart trying to see others’ needs and wants were met while looking after Dad, and then the funeral meant, for me, just another something I had to do to fulfill still more wants, traditions, beliefs that weren’t my own. I didn’t want nor need a funeral service—others did, so it was done. I wanted to make sure no one felt left out or unheard. I just remember the sense of putting my nose to the grindstone to get it all done, so I could be done.
A couple of weeks after my return to The Cities, Kel told me there was more to the sparrow story. When he asked Dad for a sign, his intention was to ask him to give him a sign at a specific time and date—around 11:00 AM, five days after he died—but at the last minute, decided not to voice that part of his request. Dad died September 4, and we had his funeral September 9, beginning somewhere around 10:30 AM.
I never quite understood how a minister could miss so entirely the significance of the sparrow’s presence. The words--“Not a sparrow falls that God doesn’t know of”--continually flow across my mind. I don’t know where I got them—I thought I read it in The Bible, but I can’t seem to find it there now. Regardless—it makes me feel like I have compassionate company, that I’m not as alone or as worthless as I once believed myself to be. And that’s comforting. And that is how I felt in Dad’s company—and how, I believed, a lot of people of all walks of life felt in his company.
Thank you, Kelly—thanks for giving Dad a reason to focus on getting to the other side quickly. You asked him to do something great—a way to be of service after his life as Dean was gone--with the belief in him that he could do it.
And he did it…he reminded us we’re listened to and we’re so NOT alone…no matter how small or insignificant we think we are...that our lives are valuable—even if we’re perceived by others as being “a dirty bird.”
Beautiful Story
ReplyDeleteThank you, my dear! Love you!
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