Category: Family - Grace Drops

You're a Keeper

10/4/2014

© 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).

Heirloom

9/24/2014

© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.

It had belonged to Great-Grandmother and he knew he must be very careful. The vase was one of mother's dearest treasures. She had told him so.

The vase placed high on the mantle, was out of reach of little hands, but somehow he managed. He just wanted to see if the tiny rosebud border went all around the back. He didn't realize that a boy's five-year-old hands are sometimes clumsy and not meant to hold delicate porcelain treasures. It shattered when it hit the floor, and he began to cry. That cry soon became a sobbing wail, growing louder and louder. From the kitchen, his mother heard her son crying and came around the corner. She stopped then, looked at him, and saw what he had done.

Between his sobs, he could hardly speak the words, "I broke.... the vase."

And then his mother gave him a gift. With a look of relief, his mother said "Oh, thank heavens, I thought you were hurt!" And she held him tenderly until his sobbing stopped.

She made it very clear... he was the treasure. Though now a grown man, it is a gift he still carries in his heart.

Original Story by Ann Weems, retold by Alice Gray in Stories for the Heart.

You Are My Sunshine

8/15/2014

© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.

Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way, she did what she could to help her 3-year-old son, Michael, prepare for a new sibling. They found out that the new baby was going be a girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael sang to his sister in mommy's tummy. He was building a bond of love with his little sister before he even met her. The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen, and, in time, the labor pains came and it was time for delivery. But serious complications arose and Karen had to have a C-section. Finally, after a long struggle, Michael's little sister was born. But she was in very serious condition. With a siren howling in the night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit at a larger hospital.

The days inched by. The little girl got worse. The pediatrician had to tell the parents to be prepared for the worst. Karen and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a burial plot. They had fixed up a special room in their house for their new baby but now they found themselves having to plan for a funeral. Michael, however, kept begging his parents to let him see his sister. I want to sing to her, he kept saying. Week two in intensive care looked as if a funeral would come before the week was over.

Michael kept nagging about singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care. Karen decided to take Michael whether they liked it or not. If he didn't see his sister right then, he may never see her alive. She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and marched him into ICU. He looked like a walking laundry basket. The head nurse recognized him as a child and bellowed, "Get that kid out of here now. No children are allowed." The mother rose up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady glared steel-eyed right into the head nurse's face, her lips a firm line. "He is not leaving until he sings to his sister" she stated.

Then Karen towed Michael to his sister's bedside. He gazed at the tiny infant losing the battle to live. After a moment, he began to sing. In the pure-hearted voice of a 3-year-old, Michael sang: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine you make me happy when skies are gray." Instantly the baby girl seemed to respond. The pulse rate began to calm down and become steady. "Keep on singing, Michael," encouraged Karen with tears in her eyes. "You never know, dear, how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away." As Michael sang to his sister, the baby's ragged, strained breathing became as smooth as a kittens purr. "Keep on singing, sweetheart." "The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms." Michael's little sister began to relax as rest, healing rest, seemed to sweep over her. "Keep on singing, Michael."

Tears had now conquered the face of the bossy head nurse. Karen glowed. The next day...the very next day...the little girl was well enough to go home. Woman's Day Magazine called it The Miracle of a Brother's Song. The medical staff just called it a miracle. Karen called it a miracle of God’s love.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 6 (2008).

The Flutterby

7/18/2014

© 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

The "Grand" Mother

6/23/2014

© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.

In the past I have been called upon to conduct funeral services for total strangers. Once I was asked to fill in for another chaplain at the last minute, who provided me with the necessary details and a thumbnail sketch of her life.

Arriving early at the funeral home the next day, I began speaking with various members of the family. As a rule, the time before a service is helpful for listening to stories, gathering details that help make the service more personal. Fortunately, three members of the family volunteered to speak and share their memories about Bette, a beloved mother, grandmother, and aunt. I learned that Bette had been a military wife, the U.S. Air Force, with all the rigors of constant relocation and travel. She held a family together during those years and still found time to volunteer with several organizations. She was very prim and proper, maintaining an immaculate house, but always made visitors feel welcome, and, as her nieces stated, “we knew that when visiting Aunt Bette, we could “eat, drink, and be merry.” She loved reading and was especially proud of her collection of Hummels. I began to relax and concentrate on the message of comfort from the Scriptures.

Standing near a table of pictures of Bette, and mementos provided by the family, was her son, Lee. Pointing to a very beautiful and intricate figurine, he told me the story of this Hummel, called the “Ark.”

Lee had also been a member of the Air Force, and being separated from his parents, had made a habit of calling each Sunday afternoon to check on them. One Sunday he called and noticed that his mother was not her usual self, but curt and abrupt. He didn’t think much about it, but the next Sunday she acted the same. When his father got on the phone he asked his dad if there was a problem, that his mother seemed angry with him.

“Son,” his dad said, “you forgot your mother’s birthday.”

“Oh no,” Lee had said. “Do you know of anything I can do to get back in her good graces?” His dad had said one word.

“Hummel.”

And so Lee asked his mother to pick out a Hummel she wanted and let him know. The next week he received in the mail a page torn from a catalog with a picture of a Hummel circled. He got out the order form and began filling it in. When he looked at the price his eyes dilated. It was $999.00. Here on the table sat that very figurine.

I looked at him and said, “No wonder they called her “grand-mother!”

© 2008, John C. Fitts, III. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 6 (2008).

When You Thought I Wasn't Looking

5/11/2014

© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you hang my first painting on the refrigerator, and I immediately wanted to paint another one.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you feed a stray cat, and I learned that it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you make my favorite cake for me and I learned that the little things can be the special things in life.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I heard you say a prayer and I knew there is a God I could always talk to and I learned to trust in God.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you make a meal and take it to a friend who was sick, and I learned that we all have to help take care of each other.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you give of your time and money to help people who had nothing, and I learned that those who have something should give to those who don't.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you take care of our house and everyone in it, and I learned we have to take care of what we are given.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw how you handled your responsibilities, even when you didn't feel good and I learned that I would have to be responsible when I grow up.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw tears come from your eyes, and I learned that sometimes things hurt, but it's all right to cry.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw that you cared, and I wanted to be everything that I could be.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I learned most of life's lessons that I need to know to be a good and productive person when I grow up.

When you thought I wasn't looking, I looked at you and wanted to say, "THANKS FOR ALL THE THINGS I SAW WHEN YOU THOUGHT I WASN'T LOOKING."

Happy Mother’s Day!

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 5 (2007).

Taps

3/27/2014

© 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).

A Great Dog Story

2/11/2014

© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.

Anyone who has pets will really like this. You'll like it even if you don't and you may even decide you need one!

Mary and her husband Jim had a dog named 'Lucky.' Lucky was a real character. Whenever Mary and Jim had company come for a weekend visit they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy. Inevitably, someone would forget and something would come up missing.

Mary or Jim would go to Lucky's toy box in the basement and there the treasure would be, amid all of Lucky's other favorite toys. Lucky always stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys stay in the box.

It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer. Something told her she was going to die of this disease....in fact, she was just sure it was fatal. She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders.

The night before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky. A thought struck her...what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old dog liked Jim, he was Mary's dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought. He won't understand that I didn't want to leave him. The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own death.

The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks. Jim took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully, but the little dog just drooped, whining and miserable.

Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn't even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap.

Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn't come to her when she called. It made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed. When Mary woke for a second she couldn't understand what was wrong. She couldn't move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon gave way to laughter when Mary realized the problem. She was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned! While she had slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement bringing his beloved mistress all his favorite things in life. He had covered her with his love.

Mary forgot about dying. Instead she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further together every day. It's been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free. Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his greatest treasure.

Remember...the people who make a difference in our lives are not the ones with the most credentials, most money, or most awards. They are the ones who care for us.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 5 (2007).

And After That?

1/14/2014

© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.

A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village. An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.

"Not very long," answered the Mexican.

"But then, why didn't you stay out longer and catch more?" asked the American.

The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family. The American asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"

"I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, play the guitar, and sing a few songs... I have a full life."

The American interrupted, "I have an MBA from Harvard, and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat."

"And after that?" asked the Mexican.

"With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. Instead of selling your fish to a middle man, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise."

"How long would that take?" asked the Mexican.

"Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years," replied the American.

"And after that?"

"Afterwards? Well my Friend, That's when it gets really interesting," answered the American, laughing. "When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!"

"Millions? Really? And after that?" said the Mexican.

"After that you'll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your grandchildren, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife and spend your evenings doing what you like and enjoying your friends."

And the moral is: Know where you're going in life... you may already be there.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 5 (2007).

Ode to a Grandma

10/6/2013

© 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).