FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

My son surprised me with this cell phone photo in a text message. He told me he was going to visit my sister. I wasn't expecting the photo. It made me emotional, of course, and it took me down memory lane. The day we buried her was a complex mix of unbelief, sorrow, and grief.

My son was eleven when his aunt, my sister Lois, passed away. Now, a quarter century later, he is back at the hillside cemetery in Stayton, Oregon. His first time revisiting the very spot where she is at rest. It took him about an hour to locate her marker. Then he sent me this photo and told me he said "hi" to her for me.

I wonder what emotion he feels, and his thoughts. The two--his wanting to pay his respects and the memory of her--warm my heart.

We never stop loving. Those we have lost continue to be a part of us.

In life, our lives intersect, and we may experience an everlasting bond. Our connections with family, siblings, parents, mates, and children and even those who are like family to us, have many differing threads. These may be sweet or not so much. Our lives are influenced by the intricate web these threads weave that make up the tapestry of our lives.

Sometimes these change the trajectory of our lives. I spend a few to many hours a week fulfilling a promise I made after losing my sister. She had been troubled, depressed, and had lost her way. When our family got the call, it was already to late.

We all grieve differently. I promised myself and God that I would learn more and be more available to those who struggle with life. I also have become more sensitive to the actual struggle. Life IS hard. There's no denying it. Words are not enough. I believe caring with feet on it is part of the answer.

I see life and my part in it differently than I used to. I want to love people without bias, judgment, or categorizing; that's the desire. Is it easy? No. I've had to change my way of thinking and become more flexible.

I think Lois was part of that. Her loss was part of an awakening in me, to do more, to be kind, to validate what I can validate, to speak truth in love, to abandon what gets in the way of these.

I miss my sister and always will. She was a beautiful person. I'm glad my son wanted to validate her memory. That means something to me. She would have been pleased with the man he has become. I know it in my heart.

Life is too short. Love well. Be good.

Thank you, my son.

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ONE SWEET STORY

An Afternoon Visit 

And One Hidden Sorrow

My mother gave a copy of my book to friends of theirs who were in their 90s. The woman is losing her sight to macular degeneration. Every night the woman's husband would read to her from my book. How precious is that? He read to her, chapter by chapter, until they came to the end, so it took a while. 

After they finished the book, I was invited over to their home for a visit. There were a few questions she wanted to ask me from things I had mentioned in the book. She's a petite woman with gracious ways. We sat in their living room and the lovely conversation began.

Since she isn't able to see well anymore, she told me how she delighted in the details about nature I had described in my book. She said she could see Lookout Point through my eyes. I was asked about my family, my work as a teacher, and some about how I'd worked through troubles in my life. She told me about her family history and her life.

She and I had the most lovely visit. Her husband had baked homemade oatmeal cookies with raisins for us which he offered to us. Later he sent the leftover cookies home with me, and I offered them to the kids who carpooled with me that same afternoon. 

Her husband left us to let us do girl-talk. Over the course of a couple of hours, this elderly couple treated me like royalty. Their smiles were genuine. They were glad to meet me. Beautiful people make you feel welcome. And they did that and more. 

Long into the conversation, the woman shared how she'd also lost a brother the very same way I had lost my sister, to suicide. The subject turned to suicide: what happened, suicide's aftermath, and how you make sense of it. I wondered at the time if that was the real reason I'd been invited. 

I am approached in private when someone has lost a loved one to suicide. Usually it is a hush-hush subject, for good reason. Suicide is difficult to talk about, even after decades. People want answers, but there are no adequate answers. But we can sorrow, and we can hope together. I hope I brought her some measure of comfort.

I left their house with a song in my heart. It had been time well spent. I would meet them a few more times. Every time we would connect in a sweet way. The last time was at his memorial service. I learned a lot more about their life together. I'm so glad I got to meet them in their home. It was a highlight. Again, after the service, she and I talked for awhile, and we both were blessed.

IN REMEMBRANCE: Lois Faith Brumbaugh

My Little Sis: Lois Faith Brumbaugh 1960 - 1993

A bright light went out the night we lost Lois. 
She was my little sister. I can remember staying with my Cripe cousins during the time she was being born. My father came over and the adults were having a discussion of what my baby sister's name was going to be. Later, I remember going to my Grandma Weigold's and seeing my mother with the baby next to her in the bassinet. Lois was a beautiful baby. She had dark hair and large brown-black expressive eyes. 

I always felt protective of Lois. Although I was five years older than she was, we would talk about life and things. She seemed to have the ability to attain what she wanted, even with my parents. I would be in awe. I was always proud of her many accomplishments and abilities. I liked her sense of style, humor, piano playing, intelligence, and innate sensitivities. We weren't very much alike but enough alike to "get life" in a similar way.

The five of us. Lois. Lois and me (bottom).

Let me tell you some about Lois. God gifted her with a sharp mind, natural musical ability. She had perfect pitch and musical intelligence. If she could hear it, she could play it. Lois was quick with her wit making come-backs at just the right time. She also had a sensitivity toward people, noticing their moods or struggles. 

Her giftedness was appreciated by her colleagues, former college friends, close friends and acquaintances. Many shared with my family the ways she touched their lives, going the extra mile, or sharing a cup of coffee at the right time when they needed it. Her bosses told us how Lois would be in the same interview as them, but she could see something that was under the surface that nobody else noticed. She would pick up on the little things that matter. 

She was a fun-to-be-around co-worker. Lois liked fashion. She made her own jewelry, wore dangling earrings, could put clothing together in a way that set the outfit off, sometimes sewing her own clothes. I liked watching her become a woman who overcame her shyness and learned to present herself well.

Lois was beautiful. We shared the brown eyes, they run in the family. Hers flashed brightly. I loved Lois. The night I got the news that she had left us, it felt like I was walking in shock, like the world would never be quite the same. Similar to the way people felt when Princes Di's crash was broadcast, interrupting the evening's programming, Dan Rather's voice quivering with uncharacteristic emotion. Lois moved people that way. A person wanted her to succeed and do well, but we could see her vulnerabilities as well. 

I wanted my sister back, to talk to her again. She had been my encourager, calling me up once in awhile and saying things that made me feel appreciated. Lois noticed those small things that others never commented on. She wanted to help my husband and me because she knew my family was going through a lot. My children, and the other nieces and nephews, thought she was the greatest. She always gave the "fun" quirky gifts at Christmas. They called her "Aunt Lou." My oldest two remember her best. They were nine and eleven when she passed on.

The Brumbaugh Sisters - Norma, Marilyn, Juanita, Lois. 
1983

The day we drove to Oregon to say our goodbye, was a long day. There were several vehicles with family members, cousins, my grandma and others. While stopping at a rest area and viewing the river as it flowed, my young daughter, LaVonne, said to me, "I wish Aunt Lou was Sleeping Beauty and a handsome prince would kiss her and she would wake up." 

We arrived in Stayton, Oregon at my sister, Marilyn's, house. Soon it was overflowing with people. Everyone was in disbelief and shock. We were devastated. My oldest son, Joshua, arranged the alphabet magnets on the refrigerator to read, "Aunt Lou still loves us." It was hard for my family to say good-bye to her. She was too young. Her death had come too soon and not in a natural way. 

The memorial service was full of tears and sadness. When my brother, Paul, spoke he said, "It's not right that we're here today." My sister Juanita read the Word.

I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.  Ephesians 3:16-19. NIV

Mrs. Odell, a former pastor's wife, spoke of Lois in children's church as a little girl, making eyes at Richey S.. We all laughed, imagining her as a little girl. At the end of her speaking. Mrs. Odell paused. Her eyes scanned the room, then she said with a confident voice, "God is still in control." So much we needed to hear those words that day. The service concluded with all the verses of Amazing Grace being sung as we stood together. The voices raised loudly as one. There was energy in the air and power in the words. It felt as if we were claiming a victory over the darkness that had snatched my sister away.

One scene from that day is etched in my mind. We are standing next to her fresh dug grave that is now her final resting place. The sod and dirt are slightly damp. We are on a hill there in Stayton, Oregon. Most of the mourners have left, but we remain. My siblings, Paul, Juanita, Marilyn, and me, are standing next to my father. We are all alone for a few minutes. My father's long arms enclose us as we huddle close together, heads bowed, unable to speak, sorrowing in solidarity through our broken hearts and flowing tears. It is just the four of us and Dad. He shakes his head and says he never thought something like this would happen. We find ourselves agreeing, shaking our heads, overcome with a grief that takes your breath away and penetrates the inner core. 

Then some of us wander over to where baby Sharon Elisabeth Brammer's marker tells of another sorrow, when the family grieved a few years before in 1982, when we lost my sister's eleven month old to leukemia, the firstborn grandchild of my parents. I see the marker with her name. Fresh tears flow, and I feel the loss afresh.  I am glad my sister is laid to rest near her niece. It seems right and fitting.

Here is our last family picture with Lois. I am at the bottom left, Lois at the top to the right of Dad. 1991

I write this today because this week it will be twenty years since we lost Lois. I have never liked September since. I still miss her and wish she was here. Every once in a great while, I will have a dream with her in it. She is vivacious and charming. I will ask her, "Why did you have to leave us?" and she will smile at me and then fade away. Then I wake up. It always makes me sad and happy mixed together. For those of you who knew her, I want you to remember her smile and the gift she was to us. That is what we should think about at this time. The happy memories of Lois Faith Brumbaugh, beloved daughter, sister and friend.