Blog Posts - Grace Drops

Sunday at the Beach by Patty Fitts

11/25/2017

Living Our Faith
Origin Unknown

Years ago,many years now, a 10-year-old boy approached the counter of a soda shop and climbed on to a stool.
"What does an ice cream sundae cost?" he asked the waitress.
"Fifty cents," she answered.
The youngster reached deep in his pockets and pulled out an assortment of change, counting it carefully as the waitress grew impatient. She had "bigger" customers to wait on.
"Well, how much would just plain ice cream be?" the boy asked.
The waitress responded with noticeable irritation in her voice. "Thirty-five cents."
Again, the boy slowly counted his money. "May I have some plain ice cream in a dish then, please?" He gave the waitress the correct amount, and she brought him the ice cream. Later, the waitress returned to clear the boy's dish and when she picked it up, she felt a lump in her throat. There on the counter the boy had left two nickels and five pennies. She realized that he had had enough money for the sundae, but sacrificed it so that he could leave her a tip.
We need this faith today, now more than ever.

Blossoming in the Storm by Patty Fitts

11/19/2017

Grace Amidst the Storm
By John C. Fitts

Monday morning, September 18, the storm had passed leaving behind the lingering effects of strong winds, scattered showers and power outages everywhere. We were fortunate to miss the brunt of the storm, but that did not mean there was not a lot of work to do all week. We would be out of power for five days, as were thousands of others. Everywhere you went there were tall trees blown over by the winds with roots showing. These weren’t just tall, they were also huge in girth. Others were simply snapped in half. Our rather small Dwarf Poinciana tree was bent over and almost level to the ground. Then, in the back, a couple of Birds of Paradise trees had snapped and fallen on the fence and pushed it outward. The back yard was knee high with limbs and debris.
It took all week to clean up the debris, working a few hours a day in what became a very hot sun. With some help from the family, we had taken most of the fragile garden pots and other decor inside where it filled two rooms. There were many large, expensive items that took more than one person. Anything that didn’t look fragile or in bloom we left outside. There was nothing blooming in the pots under the pergola.
A week after the storm, we were finishing up the cleaning the debris in the back yard. With backs aching and sweat pouring down, Patty took me over to some pots and plants that were left outside. None were damaged, but one she held up to me captured our attention. It was an orchid, in full bloom. It was left outside because it was not blooming. Not only had it survived the heavy winds and rain and darkness, but it was in full bloom with beautiful blossoms.
Patty and I looked at it in wonder and thought of the myriads of acts of kindness during the storm. We had seen a video or cars snd trucks all pulling boats on the way to Houston to help with flood victims. On a local internet site scores of people were offering all kinds of help. One man who owned a truck offered to come pick up trash for free. There were others who said if you are hungry come by and eat. Another who had power offered to be a charging station for any phones, iPads, or other devices.
It was amazing to see all the love and caring during this time of heartbreak and tragedy for so many. We found that people, like the orchid, also blossom during times of crisis.

From Trash to Treasure Olivia's Flower Shop by Patty Fitts

11/13/2017

From Trash to Treasure
John C. Fitts

Patty and I were surprised when the doorbell rang about three o’clock last Saturday afternoon and Danny McCain announced that he was here for our Fantasy Football draft. I laughed and said, “You are right on time, but a week early. So we invited him to sit down and chat.
We love Danny because he had worked on the house when we did some remodeling a few years ago and had over the years become a friend of the family. He had done such a good job on the fireplace that we often took pictures of it, truly a work of art.
As we talked and caught up, he showed us some pictures of a door that was being thrown away and how he had transformed it into a bench with a seat and hooks to hang keys, coats, etc. that would sit in an entry way. He showed more items saved from the trash piles along the road, at construction sites, and by dumpsters. He would take them home and make them into something with a new life and purpose.
Now and then someone finds themselves broken and feeling tossed aside of no use to anyone, with no hope or purpose in their lives. Then someone comes along and sees value in what some would call “human wreckage.” They are taken and given new hope and see new possibilities. They are “re-purposed.”
Some see it as a work of fate. Others call it “redemption.” Whatever you call it, Danny’s old things that others see as trash, he sees as treasure.

Miraculous Sunset by Patty Fitts

10/14/2017

Miraculous Sunset
By John C. Fitts

   Last Saturday evening I saw the most miraculous sunset. Now, living on the Gulf on the west coast of Florida, Patty and I have been to the beach many times and have seen some remarkable sunsets. This one was not as spectacular as some of them, but it was far more special. Let me tell you why.
  It began two weeks previously when I met with Denise. She was planning a memorial service for her husband, Bruce, who had recently passed away from ALS. His wishes were for his ashes to be sprinkled in the waters at the beach where he grew up. She asked for my help with officiating and coordinating. I listened to her tell about the man she married and loved deeply. She helped me understand this tall, handsome, successful businessman, adventurer, traveler, athlete and how they had been all over the world and even run triathlons together. She wanted a sunset service and for it to be a very special time.
As the next two weeks came and went and the day drew near, the weather became more unpredictable than usual at this time of year. Saturday morning, the day of the service did not begin well. The sky was dark and it rained off and on continuing throughout day. I began to wonder if the service would have to be moved indoors to the room reserved across the street at the Yacht Club where his family were member since he was a child. There was to be a reception afterwards, so I imagined that the entire evening would be spent there.
The service was scheduled for seven thirty, about sunset, As I headed down to the beach at about six fifteen, the sky was leaden gray everywhere, except toward the western horizon. There appeared to be a break beginning with a band of light. I thought, surely not. I arrived early along with others and we began introductions and soon went inside to wait for others to arrive. On the way in I had seen above the horizon a bright light just behind the lower edge of the clouds. I began to meet family and friends who had known Bruce. The word got out that the service would be held at the beach. At least is wasn’t raining.
At seven thirty we all began moving out and across the street and a walkway that headed to the beach with me bringing up the rear. I looked up and at the horizon and saw the most unbelievable sight. The golden globe mixed in with the band of orange with purple edges painted a beautiful backdrop.It made a perfect setting for a perfect service.
   The miracle isn’t always in the act, but in the timing.

Worth Keeping Plant Odyssey by Patty Fitts

9/6/2017

Sent in by Betty Gaspar

I grew up 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, old shirt and a hat and Mom in a house dress, ladle 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 re-fixing, eating, 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 are worth keeping. Like family, 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!

Grace Drops The Entrance by Patty Fitts

2/12/2017

Have you ever felt a single drop of rain? You may not even notice it. Certainly it is no cause to run for shelter. Often that single drop is the precursor to an eventual downpour, or, it may be just the teasing of a small rogue cloud on an otherwise sunny day. While one drop by itself is harmless, before long those single drops begin to soak anyone and anything left uncovered. The collection of those drops eventually becomes a puddle. Enough rain causes puddles to overflow and become a small flood. And you know, it doesn’t take all that long.
Grace drops are like that single drop of rain. Standing alone, they may seem insignificant, and may even be overlooked. Gradually, though, they may become puddles of grace and even result in a flood that can change the landscape.
What are “grace drops?” Grace is anything that empowers, uplifts, or encourages another. A smile has power. When your manager or supervisor walks into the room, doesn’t it make a difference when you see a smile. Whether it is a fellow team member, a visitor, or a patient, remember the power of a smile. Words are also “grace drops.” Familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and we often forget that “please” and “thank you” are mood altering words.
Most “grace drops” are simple things that by themselves may seem too small to matter. But collectively they can change a prison into a palace. Who’s first? Where do they begin? They begin with you.

Arrggh! They Did It Again Inviting Chairs by Patty

2/4/2017

I thought they had forgotten. I know I had. The two weeks before Christmas were so busy. Our son, Tim, and his wife, Mi-Kyoung, and their two girls, Olivia, 9, and Seoha, 5, had arrived on Tuesday. It had been a crazy last few days before Christmas, with meals being shared between the three homes including our son, David, and our daughter, Jennifer, and their collective eight children. So a cousin “reunion” made things a madhouse no matter where we were.
     David’s wife, Keron, had just undergone surgery the first of that week and caused us all concern. We ate most meals with them because their church and friends were so generous with food there was more than enough for the crowd. She wanted to be a part of the festivities as she lay in the recliner recuperating. So our minds were preoccupied with her recovery and plans for the future treatments.
     Christmas morning came and we slept late. The kids were so tired that Olivia and Seoha did not greet the dawn, even on this special day. We opened presents focusing on the presents that magically arrived from Amazon in the nick of time and others found at the last minute. All was going so well. Then, Olivia, normally so precious, with a devious look on her face, handed me the box. As soon as I saw it I knew. I had to only pretend to be horrified at it. I opened it in the presence of those who were already beginning to laugh.
     There it was. The jigsaw puzzle. This time a picture of colorful hot air balloons in the clear sky. Big and small, overlapping, was the picture of a 1500 piece puzzle.
     They had done it again. They just couldn’t resist. I knew what this meant. I would delay it as long as I could, until Patty would open it on the table, challenging me, taunting me. I knew that I would give in and all protests and threats to quit would be smothered by my obsession with finishing it. I was had.

The Dreaded Family Tradition Joanie's Porch by Patty

1/10/2017

   I have been plagued by a family tradition that I never started, never encouraged, and that always brought cries of complaint. Every Christmas since my kids were small they took great delight in giving me a “jigsaw puzzle.” It was usually hidden and brought out at the last as a “surprise.” I often thought they had forgotten and that I had gotten away without it, but one of them would disappear for a few minutes and then return with it and a big smile. I would be handed the beautifully wrapped box, but it was easily given away after the first shake.
   I would usually put off assembling it for a week or so, but found I couldn’t resist the challenge. Over the years they became increasingly more difficult. Only a couple of times over the decades have I just thrown up my hands and given up.
   I never read the official rules to assembling a jigsaw puzzle, if any exist, but my method was to use the picture of the completed puzzle on the box cover as a guide. After first finding the four corner pieces, and then all the straight edges forming the border, I would pour over the picture until I found the location of the tiny piece I held in my hand. It was tedious work at first and I would become extremely frustrated, but gradually the shape began to take place and the picture began to form. At the end things went fairly quickly due to the smaller number of options left.
   Then, at last, it would be complete, producing a mixture of exhilaration and emptiness. I could see the replica of the box cover, except for the little lines that formed each individual piece. I sometimes took a picture of it, though I rarely could find those after a few days. I felt like framing it, but it doesn’t impress hanging on a wall. Any adulation or compliments were soon over.
   The feeling of emptiness remained. What should I do with it? It pained me to simply break it up and put it in the box after all that effort. Yet that is where it belongs, soon to be forgotten. Should I get another now and begin? That didn’t seem to fill the void. I didn’t think I could summon the emotional energy again, and besides, it wasn’t the same.
   So, I waited. I knew this would be repeated, and in spite of pretended agony and protestations, I knew that this ritual was building a closeness and sense of tradition within the family. Each year I wondered, when, from whom, and how hard!

The Gaggle with a Giggle

10/29/2016

This article first appeared in Bereavement Magazine in 2001.
As a chaplain with hospice, bereavement counseling was a significant part of my job.
As of this posting, this incredible group of ladies has been continuing to meet monthly for over thirteen years. Their friendships have lasted with one another and with me.
They have been a special blessing to me.

Dianne and Bill had been inseparable, either when they had worked together in their store, or, in later years, enjoying their retirement. They had passed on certain traditions to their children. Upon entering their home, one could not help but notice a familiar theme. Everywhere you looked, objects were arranged in threes. On a shelf in the living room was a grouping of three angels. On the wall in the hallway were hanging three hearts. Whenever a member of the family drove away in a car, they would sound the horn. Everyone in the family knew that the “threes” stood for “I love you.”

The children and grandchildren were distraught when Bill died, but Dianne was inconsolable. In spite of Bill’s lengthy illness and the presence of hospice, denial had been strong. Having been long time residents of the area, and owners of a store out at St. Petersburg Beach, the funeral service brought together a standing room only crowd. The pain of Dianne’s grief isolated her as surely as if iron bars surrounded every opening of the house. Apart from family and my regular visits for grief counseling, there was little contact with the world.

One day, as I was leaving Dianne’s house, I drove to my appointment with Alice, whose husband had recently died of cancer. The next hour would be different, for Alice’s husband had gradually slipped away three years before to the dreaded scourge of Alzheimer’s disease. Though sad, there were few tears left. I wondered which situation was to be preferred.

Bereavement counseling is an integral part of my work as a hospice chaplain, satisfying because of the sense of closure and completion. Rarely intense and dramatic, most survivors slowly emerge from the shadows of grief, often tentative about the light that healing brings. As a chaplain, my task is to companion them on the journey into a new life – a kind of bereavement midwifery. There are no shortcuts, no pat answers, no passes on the pain.

After four years, with a burgeoning caseload, I felt a growing sense of frustration. Individual sessions addressed deeply personal issues, and support groups allowed them to give voice to their pain in the presence of sympathetic peers, yet something was missing. There came a point when these ladies needed the cushion of friendship.

My heart went out to the new widows with whom I met, each facing their own fear and future. Driving from one appointment to another, nearly weekly, I thought how well we connected. The intimacy of grief and the healing of laughter had produced a number of growing friendships. Then it hit me. If they enjoyed our sessions and had so much in common, why wouldn’t they enjoy each other’s company? Why not have a luncheon once a month and just get out and have a good time? There would be no agenda and no set goals. My excitement grew as I shared the idea with a few of the ladies and saw their enthusiasm.

Seventeen ladies received an invitation reading, “You are invited to a ‘Gaggle with a Giggle.’” On that first Tuesday, nine ladies showed up at a local buffet. Following introductions and handing out name tags, we went to the food line. At that point, getting the food created activity and conversation that helped break the ice. One lady offered to host the next meeting, but I vetoed that suggestion. “It is very generous of you, and I’m sure we would enjoy your hospitality, but let’s continue to meet at a restaurant and prevent a sense of obligation that might inhibit attendance. This is a time for you to relax and get out, not to slave over a hot stove.”

During the meal I listened to the very satisfying hubbub at the other end of the table. The gathering was an unqualified success. When we agreed to meet again in November, one of the ladies asked me to bring Joshua, my eleven month old grandson. He was at the right age to be very sociable, and he behaved beautifully as they passed him around the table for oohs and aahs. He continued to be a guest with us until he started walking and I had to spend half the time chasing him around the restaurant. By that time the group had bonded, and the need for a conversation piece had passed.

The number in attendance varied but was consistently between six and ten. At Christmas four of the ladies attended the holiday services of a local pastor they met in a support group. From time to time someone would shed tears at the lunch table and, before I could respond, there would be a comforting arm around a shoulder. New members and visitors were always welcome. My presence was always anticipated and appreciated, but not necessary. In my absence the group met without me.

The “Gaggle” has become a fixture. This past summer, hospice reorganized and changed my location to another part of the county. The ladies were concerned that I would not be able to attend, so they chose a restaurant closer to my new territory to make it easier for me.

There is a genuine caring for each other. Just over a year after the death of her husband, Anne discovered a lump in her breast and underwent surgery. Around her gathered a cadre of friends who would not let her suffer alone. Cards, visits and phone calls lessened the fear that accompanies words like cancer and malignancy. When she called to tell me of her plans, she emphasized her determination to be recovered from surgery in time for the next “Gaggle.”

Now into its second year, the “Gaggle” faced a test this month. Beverly lost her husband in June. She did not drive, and she rarely left home. I knew that in time she would be a candidate for the “Gaggle,” but though she expressed interest, she had conflicts for two months. The third month I wrote a note to Norine, asking her to make arrangements to bring Beverly. I was delighted to see them walk in together. Though shy and quiet at lunch, Beverly gradually became comfortable. As I left, they began talking about meeting at another location, especially since it would be approaching Christmas. I said, “Talk it over and let me know what you decide. I have to get back to work.”

The next day, Shirley called me at the office and told me of their plans. It seems that after lunch they had all gone to Shirley’s house and spend the afternoon together. Shirley said that Beverly emerged from her shell that day and enjoyed herself. It was her first social event since her husband died. They made special plans for the December luncheon at a steak house and then invited me to a “Christmas Open House” at Norine’s the following week.

The “Gaggle’ is well into its second year. Rather than becoming complacent and ingrown, the group has remained active and aggressive in reaching out to others. Recently the ladies reached a new level of maturity. Previously members of the “Gaggle” had identified with either me or another member of the group. A social worker on my team suggested the name of a survivor who would benefit from the support. I agreed but reminded her that with my new territory, I would not have time to develop a relationship as I had with the others. I mentioned this predicament at lunch to measure the response. One of the ladies spoke right up and requested the name and telephone number, and assured me that the potential new member would be invited and assisted if needed.

The roots of friendship have taken hold to provide necessary support. For my part, the survival and success of the “Gaggle” has been not only gratifying, but an example of the potential in the bereavement process.

© John C. Fitts, III and Bereavement Publications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This story first appeared in 2001 in Bereavement Magazine (now Living With Loss Magazine). It is reprinted here with permission of the publisher.

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Don't Limit Your Dreams by Gary Barnes

9/25/2016

Once upon a time, there was a large mountainside, where an eagle's nest rested. The eagle's nest contained four large eagle eggs. One day an earthquake rocked the mountain, causing one of the eggs to roll down the mountain to a chicken farm located in the valley below. The chickens knew that they must protect and care for the eagle's egg, so an old hen volunteered to nurture and raise the large egg.
One day, the egg hatched and a beautiful eagle was born. Sadly, however, the eagle was raised to be a chicken. Soon, the eagle believed he was nothing more than a chicken. The eagle loved his home and family, but his spirit cried out for more. While playing a game on the farm one day, the eagle looked to the skies above and noticed a group of mighty eagles soaring in the skies. "Oh," the eagle cried, "I wish I could like those birds.
The chickens roared with laughter, "You cannot soar with those birds. You are a chicken and chickens do not soar.”
The eagle continued staring at his real family up above, dreaming that he could be with them. Each time the eagle would let his dreams be known, he was told it couldn't be done. That is what the eagle learned to believe. The eagle, after time, stopped dreaming and continued to live his life like a chicken. Finally, after a long life as a chicken, the eagle passed away.
The moral of the story: You become what you believe you are. So, if you ever dream of becoming an eagle, follow your dreams . . . not the words of a chicken.