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Rest in hope
Tuesday, January 25, 2011 at 11:44PM 
I'm compelled to say a few more things before I lay the subject of my father-in-law's timely passing to rest.
Pun intended.
Please bear with me.
The feeling I've had since we got the call about Grandpa's stroke and the unlikelihood that he would ever recover, has been analogous to a huge splinter being driven into a particularly painful part of my hand.
Or heart.
You know how when you get a wee sliver and it hurts like the dickens and you go ow ow ow? What do you do?
You immediately do whatever is necessary to get it out. This endeavor is usually undertaken with random and varying degrees of actual success.
The biggest part of the splinter -- the part you can see with no trouble if you get into a strong enough light -- comes out pretty easily. Tweeze; pull; lick it once or twice and you're there.
For me, that was the viewing and the funeral. I've told you almost all there is to tell on that subject.
And with patience that would make Job look like a hurry-up homie, you have indulged me.
But often there is a part of the sliver left below the surface and it must work itself out in its own good time.
The affected area will be sore until the offending material is purged and healing begins.
That's what I've been experiencing for the last ten days.
So a caveat is in order: this post will be long and undoubtedly it will ramble.
You don't have to read it. With a single click you may go your merry way and I wish I were there to keep you company.
But I'm not there; I'm here and I bring you music, poetry, devotion, and deepish thoughts to ponder. If that doesn't keep you, I don't know what else to do.
It's about roses (at least in part), so ... so be it. Ramblin' Rose; get it? Cue Nat King Cole.
I've told you about the abundant beauty of the roses there were for Grandpa, but I need to tell you about one rose in particular.
In order to understand where I'm coming from, you have to know the depth of my feeling about roses.
See, I'm a romantic's romantic. I see romance everywhere; I kid you not my friends. I could see romance in a landfill.
Or at least I'd see a useful metaphor.
Please don't think I'm bragging about my stunning uniqueness; I'm not.
(I took a survey once which purported to reveal whether a person was simply average or above -- or below --average. The results for me? I am disturbingly and distinctly average. Not exactly a news flash.)
Make no mistake: I know the rose is in some respects a cliche ... a hackneyed symbol of true love and undying passion, of life's joy and pain, of its beauty, bounty, and brevity.
But for me, when it comes to flowers, although I become instantly verklempt at the sight and smell of a gardenia (second only to the rose for pure romance), if there could be only one blossom, for me it would be the reddest rose you can imagine with your heart and mind.
Photo Jennifer Weber 2010
I have loved poetry since I was old enough to read. I never approach my shelf full of poetry books, open one -- any one -- and read a few lines, but I begin to tremble. Poetry affects me that way and it always has.
For Christmas in 1975 my mother gave me a slender blue volume of poetry by Georgia poet Daniel Whitehead Hicky (1900-1976). The book contains one hundred of his works. I have not counted but I am sure roses are mentioned in at least one-fourth of the poems and sonnets.
I date my fascination with roses to the receipt of that book. There is just something about the way DWH, in his poem Silence, drops verses such as this:
Then shall we hear, with ears attuned,
The cool blue turbines of the wind,
The generators of the sea,
Their foam-white rhythms quietly
Drawing the silver of a tide,
Shaping its patterns far and wide;
Where April suddenly breaks and flows,
The scarlet diesels of the rose.
For the record, anybody who can think up scarlet diesels of the rose has got me for life.
But far from stopping his plundering of my heart there, the unapologetically emotional and outrageously sentient DWH writes in his sonnet The Last Hour:
We are no stronger than the roses are
In that last hour when the hands of Time
Measuring the blood's slow rhythms pause, and chime;
We who are brave and strong, who wear the scar
Of battles that have wrung our wits apart,
We who have breathed as pauper and as king,
Laughing at life and holding each golden thing
More precious than the beating of our heart;
With knowledge like a rudder in the brain
Only in that last hour are we wise,
Weighing each waning breath with pleading eyes,
Knowing the blood's last battle all in vain.
It will not vary under any star:
We are no stronger than the roses are.
I could go on but for the sake of time and bandwidth and the patience of whomever is still reading, I rest my case and herewith move along.
And so the roses on Grandpa's casket and the roses around the room touched me instantly and their poignant radiance lit a path for me through hard, heart-wrenching hours.
As with all creation, the roses glorified God and were in a way His manifest presence in the process. Or I should say, one of many manifestations of His presence, of which we were acutely aware and for which we were so grateful.
The roses in their nodding silence and knowing dignity were a blood-red balm.
Crimson petals against black coats and white snow lent a sweet brooding quality to the raw ache of loss.
On the morning after the funeral, TG got up very early and left with our daughter and son-in-law and the grandchildren. He drove them home to North Carolina because our son-in-law, a pastor, needed the day of travel to study for his Sunday sermons.
Audrey, Erica, Andrew, and I stayed with Grandma and my sister-in-law, Ruthie, for one more day, to lend moral support.
Around mid-morning someone looked out of a kitchen window on the side of the house that affords a view of the vacant corner lot owned by my in-laws.
(That half-acre has been the scene of many ballgames and much gardening and wood-cutting and shade-tree-sitting over the 54 years since TG's parents built -- and have lived in -- the house that occupies the adjacent lot.)
And the window-gazer-outer spotted something very fiery red against the deep snow-white expanse.
It was a single rose stuck in the snow beside the stump of a tree Grandpa cut down years ago. A rose marking practically the geographic center of the plot of ground where Stanley Weber was and walked and worked away a lifetime.
I went outside to investigate. What were obviously a grown man's footprints led from the edge of the driveway, down a little knoll and through a deep drift out to the tree stump and the rose.
We began to wonder who had put the rose there, since it hadn't been any one of us. We'd gotten home late the night before after the funeral and a meal at the home of TG's brother and his wife.
Somebody said it must've been Justin, the youngest son of TG's sister, Ruth. Justin was very close to his Grandpa because he spent more time with him than the other grands had an opportunity to do, at least in recent years.
Putting the rose in the snow was exactly the type of thing we could all imagine Justin having done.
But Justin hadn't been at Grandma and Grandpa's house the night before.
I put in a call to TG on his cellie. He was by then a little south of Cincinnati.
"Did you put your rose in the snow out by the tree stump?" I asked.
"Yes I did," he answered.
I was momentarily speechless. Don't worry! I recover quickly at such times.
"Why?" I wondered aloud, because to me it seemed like a distinctly un-TG-like thing to do. Not because he's cold or uncaring -- au contraire, mon ami -- but because he doesn't usually go in for the overtly sentimental gesture.
He told me that as he was getting ready to leave early that morning, his eye fell on the rose he'd been given from Grandpa's casket spray. It was still in our car, where he'd left it the night before.
"I knew it wouldn't make it home intact, so I stood there wondering what to do, and then I decided to put it out by the tree stump," he explained.
Well shut my mouth.
I told everyone there in the house that TG had been the one to put the rose by the stump and they couldn't believe it either. Much head-shaking ensued.
If actions can speak volumes (and they can), then words can be gifts (and they often are). Words written and read, words sung and sent.
Consider:
This morning I received a phone call from my son, Andrew. He is a senior at The Crown College in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he is studying youth ministry. He sings beautifully and so on occasion he is asked to bring the special music in church, chapel, and other services.
Because all of the services of this great church are live-streamed, Andrew always lets us know when he has been asked to sing so that if we are able, we can watch and hear him.
Today was such a day.
Pastor Clarence Sexton introduced my son by saying that he had personally asked Andrew to change the song he planned to sing. Turns out his intention had been to sing I Stand Redeemed ... a fine song. But what he actually sang was an old hymn I urged him to learn a few years ago, because I like it so well.
Copyrighted in 1923 by James Allen Crutchfield and again in 1977 by Majesty Music, the song is Zion's Hill.
There waits for me a glad tomorrow,
Where gates of pearl swing open wide,
And when I've passed this vale of sorrow,
I'll dwell upon the other side.
Someday beyond the reach of mortal ken,
Someday, God only knows just where and when
The wheels of mortal life shall all stand still
And I shall go to dwell on Zion's hill.
Someday I'll hear the angels singing,
Beyond the shadows of the tomb;
And all the bells of heaven ringing,
While saints are singing, "Home, sweet home."
Someday my labors will be ended,
And all my wand'rings will be o'er,
And all earth's broken ties be mended,
And I shall sigh and weep no more.
Someday the dark clouds will be rifted,
And all the night of gloom be past;
And all life's burdens will be lifted,
The day of rest shall dawn at last.
Someday beyond the reach of mortal ken,
Someday, God only knows just where and when
The wheels of mortal life shall all stand still
And I shall go to dwell on Zion's hill.
Andrew struggled with tears on the verse that begins Someday my labors will be ended ... but by God's grace he kept it on the rails and it didn't become a distraction.
Of course, sitting alone in my home office in Columbia, watching and listening to my beloved son, I lost all vestiges of composure.
It was wonderful.
In case you'd like to hear the beautiful haunting melody of this old hymn of the faith ... cue Don Jones.
No less inspiring (albeit in a different way) was the phone call I received late Monday evening from our daughter Audrey.
"Did you get the poem I sent you?" she wanted to know.
I told her I hadn't seen it yet.
"I sent you a poem!" she said, sending me flying to my computer. These are the words my daughter wanted me to read ... words with which I was already familiar, written many decades ago by one of my favorite poets:
:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:
AS I WALKED OUT ONE EVENING
by W.H. Auden
:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:
In my entire life I've never known a better example of actions speaking louder than words in a positive way, than my father-in-law. He was a near-ideal blend of pragmatism and the childlike wonder that makes a true pragmatist bearable.
Like me, he was a romantic dreamer; he hid it well but he couldn't fool me.
Takes one to know one.
Stanley was no one-hit wonder; in leading a simple but consistent life, he led a significant life.
Like most people, he was in constant peril of his greatest strength becoming his greatest weakness. But his strengths were so important, you were willing to overlook the weaknesses.
May the same be said of you and of me.
His appeal was that of the comfortable old-shoe variety, but he had a certain brand of corn-fed elegance uniquely his own. He was a good-looking man even into his 80s, tall and trim, an imposing figure.
We've laughed a lot (through tears, and vice versa) in recent days, recalling his many quaint (and sometimes maddening) peccadilloes. He once painted an automobile a color my nephews, who often painted houses with him, jokingly call "inner-city blue." And he painted that car with an ordinary paintbrush. True story.
As long as there was an endless supply of duct tape, you knew that no matter what broke or attempted to disintegrate, if Grandpa was around it would hold together another day.
If his Depression-era sensibilities mystified and sometimes even annoyed me, I was smart enough to know that both I and my children often reaped the benefits of that particular point of view.
I told my children while they took one long last look casket-side on the night of the viewing: There lies a bona fide card-carrying member of what has been aptly named The Greatest Generation.
By remaining steadfast and down to earth, he kept us all grounded but very much on our toes. Even so, for all his unmistakable gravitas he was never guilty of taking himself too seriously.
His excellent taste in women (make that one woman, for he loved only one) gave me a beautiful husband and, as a result, four lovely children. For that and for them, I am forever in his debt.
:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:
ENDINGS
by Daniel Whitehead Hicky
:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:
Always an ending. Shall I never see
Some glory hidden from the slow sure blade
Beneath whose sharpened edge all things are laid,
All beauty and all love? Can there not be
Some rose that blooms beyond its farthest reach,
A sun that will not leave the bright blue day,
A meadow flower that will not shatter away,
Some wave that is not lost upon the beach?
I fill my eyes with dawn; I drink it deep,
And day is lost to dusk, and dusk to night;
I watch the moon; it blinds me, and I weep
To see it waning like a weary light.
O earth, O sky, O sea! Tell me these lies:
Beauty lives always -- and love never dies!
:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:--:-:
DWH was a brilliant poet and no doubt a wise man, and I adore that poem ... but bless his heart, he got his wires momentarily crossed. Beauty may fade and the flesh surely dies, but never the soul.
And never love.
Photo Jennifer Weber 2010.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth: my flesh also shall rest in hope.
Psalms 16:9
Reader Comments (11)
Mom,
As I lay here in my bed reading your post on my phone as I always do before I go to sleep, tears are rolling down my cheeks. I can't help but think about how grateful I am that you are able to capture the thoughts of our family and put it on this website in such a special way. I don't usually comment but I just want you to know that I love you and that this post was great and perfect and wonderful and all of the above. I miss grandpa so much but I am so glad that he left us such a legacy to live up to. I hope you sleep great tonight Mom. You are wonderful. I love you.
Andrew
Well, nobody else needs to say a word, do we?
Well, you have done it again! you have such a way with words, that they just pierce my soul. I'm sitting here with tears running down my face as I feel your loss of this special man. You've spoken well.
Beautiful.
Wrapping you in gentle hugs, Dear Jenny. And with a hope, that this magnificent post, was helpful to you, with the lingering pain...
Gentle hugs..........
My Dad had that "old shoe" aire about him as Well....and duct tape??Hahahaaa....I found a roll in his housecoat pocket....Hahahaa.....
Ah Sweetie....beautiful post....Giving you a Huge Hug right now....
((((HUG))))
Beautiful! Just beautiful, the images, the poetry, your analogies, ...
Keeping you in my thoughts .
I too am sitting here weeping. What a special tribute to your father in law. I read every word, what wonderful poetry and pictures. You are most certainly a gifted writer.
@Andrew ... love you too, buddyroe.
@Hobbit ... there's probably no bandwidth left anyway!
@Mari ... I'd say sorry for making you cry dear, but I know such tears are good. Thank you for caring enough to shed them.
@Sydney ... as are you, my friend.
@AA ... keep those hugs coming! I need them more than ever!
@Donna ... sounds like your dad and TG's dad were cut from a bit of the same cloth! Life is less colorful without them.
@Debbie ... thanks for taking the time to read and comment, dear friend.
@Irene ... I know that took some time and I thank you for it. Sorry to've made you cry but I deeply appreciate each tear, dear Irene!
This post has bags of charm and charisma. It also has bags of sentiment which you have expressed for us perfectly.
I'm sorry that I haven't been able to visit and comment lately. Too much to do with the new job and I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. I am praying for your family's healing in the days ahead.