Category: Passages - trish hermanson

Pat Showed Me How to Live and How to Die

10/28/2019

My friend Pat showed me how to live and how to die. I met her in a women’s study group, where Pat impressed me that she was committed to BE INVOLVED all her life. She dressed smartly, completed her assignments, and was always the first to answer questions.
     Then the cancers she’d fought for fifteen years caught up with her. When doctors told her she had three months to live, Pat kept her PRIORITIES. A friend asked her how her life would change. “Why should it? I’m still listening to God and loving people.”
     She kept her PERSPECTIVE. A pharmacist asked Pat how she was doing, and she answered, “Great. I have three months.” The pharmacist gasped and said, “I’m sorry.” Pat replied, “Don’t be. I’m going home.”
     Pat kept her HUMOR. She called the OxyContin she took “oxymoron,” and on an ambulance run, she asked the two good looking paramedics, “Do you have to be handsome to get your job?”
     When Pat was released to be home, we moved our study group to her living room where she mentioned she wanted the song “I’ll Fly Away” sung at her memorial service. After our study finished, we wheeled her to her bedroom and tucked her in.
      The next day Pat suffered a stroke. No more smile dancing on her face. No more quick quips. Paralyzed on one side. But Pat remembered her DESTINY. At her bedside I read the scripture that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted her right arm heavenward and flapped it, ready to fly away home. Four days later she flew away.
     There’s an art to living and dying. Pat taught me both.
***
The song "I'll Fly Away" is here.

How to Fall Forward Like My Friend Victoria

6/7/2019

My friend Victoria showed me that when we fall, whether from our failures or things others inflict upon us, we don’t have to fall back. We can fall forward.
     Even through tough times, Victoria’s stock response was “it could be worse.” And she endured tough times: hiding under the kitchen table when Nazi bombs rained upon England during World War II, a hardscrabble upbringing in Liverpool, the death of a husband, raising kids on her own, a foreclosure, and a brain injury when a truck hit her.
  Her attitude that life is an adventure kept her moving forward as she threw herself into various careers. Some brought in bread, some busted. At one point, Victoria was so broke she lived off of canned tuna and “gutter apples” she scrounged. But she heeded the words of her hero Winston Churchill to “never give up.”
     When her hip went bad, she moved in with us, crawling up the stairs until she regained her health. Yet when I was down about something, she’d brew a cup of proper tea, remind me “you gotta laugh,” and regale me with stories.
     In recent years she’d gone from surviving to thriving through her blog, Honey for Your Soul. Hundreds responded to her life-giving encouragement. Her final tweet: “Never quit! Keep asking, seeking, knocking!”
     Then a heart attack. The finish line. And this time when she fell, she landed in the arms of Jesus.
     The best fall forward. Ever.

Painting by Kerolos Safwat

The Tragedy of Losing Yourself

2/1/2019

The moment after I told my friend Jan to smile for the camera, I showed her the photo.
     “Who’s that?” she asked.
     “It’s you,” I said.
     “Really?”
     Jan didn’t know who she was anymore. I pointed to a photo on her wall. “That’s where you taught school in the Philippines.”
     “Me?”
     “Then when you returned you volunteered as a hospice chaplain.”
     “You sure?”
     I’m sure. I’ve known Jan for years, always observing her gentle ways. Once when we were out to eat, she picked up the tab for another woman who was hard-pressed for cash, while Jan wasn’t flush either.
She had wit. In her sixties, she attended a rock concert with younger women, wearing a fake nose ring just for fun. When little confusions set in, friends brought in food, made sure her bills were paid, and hired help for housework. Then that awful time came, and we cleaned out her home.
     First it was assisted living. Then memory care, a cruel name because Jan had no memory to care for. When I visited, we’d sing, but she couldn’t remember the familiar words to “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Yet I knew Jan was still there, like a fragile caterpillar trapped in a dark cocoon.
     Then it happened - the butterfly broke out of its shell and took wing. Jan slipped through the thin veil separating this world from the next. Now she knows herself better than ever and grasps what a friend she has in Jesus.
That's a great rescue to look forward to.

Finding Beauty in Brokenness

10/26/2018

Could I recover beauty in brokenness? When I first spotted these chairs, they were nothing but wobbly legs, tattered upholstery, and scarred wood. They once belonged to our retired neighbors Lyle and Nan. He was the center of attention at block parties, cracking jokes and snapping photos, while she was his grinning sidekick. But seasons passed, and Lyle and Nan’s steps faltered. They shifted to the sidelines at social events, then stopped attending. No more jokes, no more photos, but still smiles when we visited next door.
     A daughter moved in to provide care. Duane and I would get a frantic call - Lyle had fallen - and run over to help pick him up.
     Then Lyle died. Nan couldn’t connect the dots anymore and moved to assisted living. When their family began disposing of a lifetime of accumulation, I spied these two chairs and saw potential. Duane forced glue into joints, and they firmed up as though they’d had calcium injections. I applied stain to thirsty wood, and the pockmarks took on a respectable patina. We reupholstered the seats with a soft teal fabric.
     Now in our living room, these ancient chairs don’t take center stage, but from the sidelines, they radiate a tarnished beauty like elders who have earned their wrinkles and wear them with dignity.
     As Lyle and Nan did, and as I hope we radiate when we become side chairs in life.

Nan and Lyle

Dumb Things to Say to the Grieving

8/31/2018

Grief is awkward, whether we’re trying to comfort someone in the loss of a job or the loss of a loved one. I’m on the receiving end as we mourn the death of our six-year-old granddaughter Lydia. We’ve received kind expressions of love, plus some well-intentioned fumbles. With gratitude for everyone’s attempts to console, here’s what I’m learning to avoid and what really helps:
AVOID SAYING:
     * I know how you feel because my dog died recently. (That’s painful, but please don’t make comparisons to my loss.)
     * I remember when _ . (Your ten-minute grief story follows, in which your burden shifts onto my already slumping shoulders.)
     * God knew best. (So my struggles aren’t legitimate?)
     * How are you? (Please don’t ask me to describe the searing pain running through me.)
     * Have a good day. (Really?)
     * If there’s anything I can do, let me know. ( But I can’t think beyond this moment.)
     * Could this have been prevented if ? (Please don’t ask me to read something you saw online.)
     * Here’s what will help you get over your grief. (I need to travel through it, not get over it.)
BEST THINGS TO SAY:
     * It’s good to see you.
     * I’m so sorry.
     * I miss (Name), too.
BEST THINGS TO DO:
     * Give a hug and don’t try to fill the silence.
     * Drop off a meal in disposable containers.
     * Offer SPECIFIC help. “I’m going to the grocery store today; what do you need?” or “Friday is your laundry day? Can I come over to help?”
   Giving comfort isn’t comfortable, and we all stumble sometimes - me included. Perhaps the best we can do for each other is to keep our arms wide and our words few.