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You're a Keeper

10/4/2014

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Picture
© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
This is a great story that many of us who grew up before the disposable era can easily relate to:

I grew up in the 40s/50s with practical parents. A mother, God love her, who washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, then reused it. She was the original recycle queen, before they had a name for it . . . A father who was happier getting old shoes fixed than buying new ones.


Their marriage was good, their dreams focused. Their best friends lived barely a wave away. I can see them now, Dad in trousers, tee shirt and a hat and Mom in pedal pushers, lawn mower in one hand, and dishtowel in the other. It was the time for fixing things. A curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress. Things we keep.


It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that fixing, re-heating, renewing − I wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste meant affluence. Throwing things away meant you knew there'd always be more. 

 
But then my mother died, and on that clear summer's night, in the warmth of the hospital room, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't any more.



Sometimes, what we care about most gets all used up and goes away...never to return.  So... while we have it . . . it's best we love it . . . and care for it . . . and fix it when it's broken . . . and heal it when it's sick.  This is true for marriage . . . and old cars . . . and children with bad report cards . . . and dogs with bad hips . . . and aging parents . . . and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it. Some things we keep. Like a best friend that moved away or a classmate we grew up with.
There are just some things that make life important, like people we know who are special . . . and, so, we keep them close.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 7 (2009).

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The Flutterby

7/18/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
When I was a young girl, my father and I would spend hours talking about nature, space, and all things possible. He was my best bud. One day we were outside talking about UFOs, heaven, space, and what happens when we die.

About that time a butterfly went by us, and Dad said, “Look, sweetie, a flutterby!” Being the argumentative kid I was, I said, “No, Daddy (giggle), that’s a butterfly!” He said, “No, it’s a flutterby – see, it flutters by,” and we both laughed. From that day on we called them flutterbys.

About 18 years later, my dear Daddy died while I was out of town with my new family. I had a very hard time with his death; I went into a deep depression.

A short time after my father died, I was out in Dad’s backyard, crying and thinking about him when a flutterby fluttered by. The flutterby went all around me, then stopped, very close. I watched it for a long time. A great feeling of peace spread over me, and a smile came to my face. It was like a message from Daddy that everything would be okay.

And to this day, when things get tough for me, I see a flutterby.

Reprinted with permission from the book, Afterglow: Signs of Continued Love. 
© 2002, Karla Wheeler. Quality of Life Publishing Co, Naples, FL.  www.QoLpublishing.com


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A Dog's Purpose

7/12/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. Upon examination, I found he was dying of cancer. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for four-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker's death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, "I know why."

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life – like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?

Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn stuff like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.

Take naps. Lots of them.

Be loyal. Never pretend to be something you're not.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle them gently.

Being always grateful for each new day and for the blessing of you.

ENJOY EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY!



Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 6 (2008).



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Taps

3/27/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
The following is reportedly the story of the origin of “Taps,” played at military funerals.

Reportedly, it all began in 1862 during the Civil War, when Union Army Captain Robert Ellicombe was with his men near Harrison's Landing in Virginia. The Confederate Army was on the other side of the narrow strip of land. During the night, Captain Ellicombe heard the moans of a soldier who lay severely wounded on the field. Not knowing if it was a Union or Confederate soldier, the Captain decided to risk his life and bring the stricken man back for medical attention. Crawling on his stomach through the gunfire, the Captain reached the stricken soldier and began pulling him toward his encampment.

When the Captain finally reached his own lines, he discovered it was actually a Confederate soldier, but the soldier was dead. The Captain lit a lantern and suddenly caught his breath and went numb with shock. In the dim light, he saw the face of the soldier. It was his own son. The boy had been studying music in the South when the war broke out. Without telling his father, the boy enlisted in the Confederate Army. The following morning, heartbroken, the father asked permission of his superiors to give his son a full military burial, despite his enemy status. His request was only partially granted.


The Captain had asked if he could have a group of Army band members play a funeral dirge for his son at the funeral. The request was turned down since the soldier was a Confederate. But, out of respect for the father, they did say they could give him only one musician.


The Captain chose a bugler. He asked the bugler to play a series of musical notes he had found on a piece of paper in the pocket of the dead youth's uniform. This wish was granted. The haunting melody, we now know as "Taps" – used at military funerals – was born. The words are:
 
 Day is done.. Gone the sun.
 From the lakes. From the hills. From the sky.
 All is well. Safely rest. God is nigh.
  
 Fading light. Dims the sight.
 And a star. Gems the sky. Gleaming bright.
 From afar. Drawing nigh. Falls the night.
 
 Thanks and praise. For our days.
 Neath the sun. Neath the stars. Neath the sky
 As we go. This we know. God is nigh.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 5 (2007).


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Ode to a Grandma

10/6/2013

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
One night a few weeks ago, with family and a few friends gathered around her, my mother peacefully went to sleep for the final time. During the last twenty-four hours there was not a moment without someone at her bedside. Songs were sung, passages of Scripture read, memories were shared, and prayers were offered to bring comfort to all.

During the time of preparation for a celebration of her life’s journey, my daughter, inspired by one of the stories that was read to her Grandmother, wrote this poem:

Once there was a Grandma.
and she loved her grandchildren.
And whenever they could, they would come to visit her
and they would run in her back yard to watch the train
and roll down her front yard into piles of leaves and
catch fireflies in the summer evenings.
They would eat her home cooked fried chicken, pound cake and strawberry jam.
And when they were tired, she would rub their backs and sing "Go Tell Aunt
Tabby."

And the children loved their grandmother . . . very much.
And Grandma was happy.

© 2006, John C. Fitts, III.  All Rights Reserved.  Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 4 (2006).


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Death and the Land of Oz

1/3/2013

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Picture
© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
I first saw the movie, The Wizard of Oz when I was six years old. Later, as my own children grew up, we enjoyed watching the same movie together as it inaugurated the beginning of each tornado season. For us, as for many others, it became a springtime tradition. The movie begins with a dark and gloomy mood, reinforced by being filmed in black and white. As a fierce storm approaches, Dorothy and her dog, Toto, are being harassed by the scary school teacher. The farm that Dorothy calls home seems to be the target of a menacing tornado. As Auntie Em and the others take shelter in the storm cellar, the audience is practically cheering Dorothy and Toto on as they race home to safety. But they are too late. As the shelter door closes just ahead of them, Dorothy bangs in vain, but the noise of the storm is too great. Dorothy and Toto run to the house for a safe haven, but as the bedroom furniture is tossed around, Dorothy is knocked unconscious and the house is lifted off its foundation and begins to twirl through space.            

With a thud, the house finally lands in one piece. Even after the house lands and Dorothy awakens from unconsciousness, the depressing black and white remains. Rubbing her head, Dorothy walks to the door and steps outside, hoping to find Auntie Em and the farm, but instead she gazes on the land of Oz. Suddenly the screen is filled with the most glorious colors imaginable. We gasp along with Dorothy as her eyes take in the reds, greens, yellows and blues that seem more vivid than life. (Color film at that time was developed by a special process that produced rich and vivid colors, but that process was soon abandoned as too costly, and replaced by another method that was less expensive, but also produced less vibrant colors.) Soon, Dorothy and Toto were following the beautiful "yellow brick road," on their way to the "Emerald City." By the end of the movie I had completely forgotten that the movie began in black and white.

I have often used this illustration of The Wizard of Oz in talking with patients about the two subjects that they fear most, death and dying. Death, I explain to them, seems like the door of that house. As when Dorothy opened that door and stepped into a land of glorious beauty, we too, in death, pass into a new and glorious kingdom, one filled with light and love. From a land torn by strife, we enter a kingdom of peace, illumined not by the sun and moon, but by the glory of God himself. But the journey must proceed through that door, and we must walk that journey by faith.       

© 2000, John C. Fitts, III and Bereavement Magazine.  All Rights Reserved. 


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    Author

    John Fitts is a retired hospital chaplain and a contributor & publisher of Grace Drops. John lives in Palm Harbor, Florida with his artist wife, Patty. 
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