The Epitaph

I was a Junior in High School in 1983 when our English teacher gave us an assignment to write our own epitaph.  As usual, it wasn't until the last possible minute that I got the inspiration to write mine.  I was pretty sure I did not truly satisfy the requirements of the assignment, but it was done and after I turned it in, I waited, dreading how bad my grade was going to be.  As it turns out, I received an A+ on it, which was mildly amusing to me given the fact that it wrote itself in about 15 minutes or so as I recall.  Since a good share of it is about music, I gave it to Mom to read who laughed so hard I thought she was going to fall over.  Now, I'm convinced it is not that funny and it is generally not my nature to talk about myself like this.  But since it was me who was supposed to be dead and therefore in need of an epitaph, it kind of needed to be about me.  Anyway, it is amusing enough that I would get a pretty good laugh if I were wandering around a cemetery and saw something like this on a grave marker.  On the other hand, I can't imagine the bill for putting something like this on a stone.  The reference to four part harmony alludes to the fact that Mom, Val, Mel, and I all played together quite a bit which required Mom to arrange music for three trombones and one trumpet.  Not to mention the fact that Mom was definitely the more talented player out of all of us.  In addition, it is a great stretch of the definition of "play" when I wrote that I could play the piano.  The rest of it is true though.  After all, one shouldn't be lying on their epitaph.  If you do, the relatives, you know which ones, are going to rat you out and whether or not you are dead is going to be inconsequential to them.  But, I've digressed. The truth is, I probably joke around too much and I often laugh at things that weren't meant to be funny.  Oops.  That hasn't changed much in the 36 years since I wrote this.  My kids can testify to the fact that they have heard me say, "I can't stop laughing" almost as often as I have told them that I love them.  When I was younger I used to ponder the phrase "die laughing".  I used to wonder if it was possible to actually die laughing and somewhere along the line, I decided it wouldn't be a bad way to go. Without further delay, I offer "The Epitaph".

The Epitaph
(for Junior English)

Here lies the body of TMB,
I was the best of a four part harmony.
Wherever I went people would say,
"Have you ever heard her play?"
I'd play my trumpet day and night,
playing practically every note right.
And though it was awesome
of course it was true,
that I could play the piano too.
Even while some said
it was only a rumor
most people knew it was true,
that I had a great sense of humor,
always good for a joke or two.
One day, I told a hilarious joke,
I laughed so hard I began to choke.
I never told another after that,
and that's why I needed this epitaph.
-T. Bloomer
19 December 1983

Sharps: Lessons Learned Through the Things That Hurt

"Music is the literature of the heart, it commences where speech ends." - Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869, French poet, historian, statesman)

Luke 23:33-35 (33) When they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left.  (34) But Jesus was saying, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." And they cast lots, dividing up His garments among themselves. (35) And the people stood by, looking on. And even the rulers were sneering at Him, saying, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if this is the Christ of God, His Chosen One."

Matthew 18: 21-22 (21) Then Peter came and said to him, "Lord, how often should my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Up to seven times?" (22) Jesus said to him, "I do not say to you up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven."

In music, a sharp raises the pitch of any given note by a semitone or half step. A sharp not normally noted in the key signature is referred to as an accidental.  Generally, a sharp is understood to make the composition sound brighter, and lighter in tone.  It is the accidentals in music that lend added interest to the listener.   

There are sharps in the routine of life as well.  We experience sharp pain when we stub our toe on the bed frame in the middle of the night or when chewing something causes a cracked tooth.  Sometimes the sharp pain is emotional in nature.  Relationships can be hard and often, without meaning to, we wound the ones we love the most.  When this happens, forgiveness is the remedy and when it becomes a lifestyle and we are quick to forgive, it can turn sharp pains into a brighter, lighter way of living. 

I carry with me two pictures of forgiveness; one that I witnessed first-hand and the other I read about.  I often try to imagine that second event and the circumstances that surround it, but in my humanness, I utterly fail. 

The scene that I witnessed is inextricably connected to the one I did not.  

And the situation that I did not witness made the one that I did, entirely possible.  

Sometimes life hurts.  People say and do things that cause pain to others.  Sometimes it is intentional and other times it is not.  When we find ourselves in those types of situations, there is almost always an opportunity to forgive.  Whether we are the offender or the offended, forgiveness is always the key to moving forward in any situation.  Sometimes it restores the relationship and sometimes it is simply the kindest act that you can do for yourself to regain your own peace of mind.

Forgiveness does not necessarily mean that you must restore a relationship with the offender.  Restoration of the relationship is not a requirement or even the goal of forgiveness, nor is it a sign that forgiveness has been extended to the person who wronged you.  

Extending forgiveness isn't about letting someone else off the hook for their offense either.  In fact, it has everything to do with you and almost nothing to do with the other person.  It gives the offended person peace of mind, and a clarity of conscience that allows the person to move forward without holding a grudge, entertaining thoughts of revenge, or living in a state of perpetual anger.  Still, the truth is, forgiveness isn't easy, especially when it's someone we love who did the hurting and now we are faced with the hard task of forgiving.  

The fact is forgiveness is always the right thing to do and the right thing to do is rarely the easiest thing to do.  It is, however, always worth doing the hard stuff.

We were at the hospital at the University of Michigan doing our best impression of vultures.  Not really, I suppose, but that is definitely what it seemed like.  If you have ever had the privilege of watching someone take their final breath and enter eternity, then you might be able to relate to how it felt standing around waiting for the inevitable.  I referred to it as The Vulture Syndrome.  But that sounded a little bit crass and a whole lot crazy, so I had to keep that thought mostly to myself.  Ironically, Dad would have laughed had he been able to hear me make such a ridiculous statement.  

Dad had been diagnosed with Cirrhosis of the Liver a few years before we arrived that fateful weekend at U of M.  The diagnosis was the tragic result of more than 50 years of battling against Crohn's Disease.  He also fought chronic pain due to Post-Polio Syndrome and a ride down 20 feet of scaffolding complete with resultant injuries and the long-term effects.  The meds required to treat the Crohn's helped so that he could function as best he could while living with chronic pain and illness, but over the years, those same meds became his silent killer.    

I never heard my Dad complain. 

He hid a lot.  His pain was not evident unless you were a student of people and their mannerisms.  Often, an almost imperceptible grimace would cross his face or perhaps a narrowing of his eyes accompanied by a slight wince.  More frequently in the year or so leading up to the day indelibly imprinted in my mind, he experienced muscle cramps that would last an incredibly long time and leave him with the offending muscle causing further pain for days afterward. The fact that he hid so much and had an incredibly high pain tolerance was what made the run-up to his last days seem so frighteningly quick.

He'd been in the hospital for a while and the doctors had moved him up to the highest priority for a liver transplant.  Essentially, it was a race against time.  Not to mention it was a weighty thought to know someone else had to die for Dad to get a new liver so he could live.  That knowledge was hard to reconcile.  

Had things worked differently Dad would have been the oldest liver transplant recipient at U of M at that time. Some of us had gone to the mandatory transplant classes so that we would know how Dad would need to be supported medically for at least a year after the transplant.  They covered early signs of rejection and an incredibly daunting medication schedule.  Meds would have to be taken precisely at the times prescribed with no deviations.  There was no one-hour before or one-hour after protocol for anti-rejection meds.  It was a strict and intimidating schedule with a plethora of drugs. But it was expected to give Dad at least ten more years of life so it would have been worth it by his own admission.  We had conferences with doctors who explained how things would proceed while we waited for a new liver.  It was a lot to take in but even under the circumstances, I found it quite interesting.   

Then one day, everything changed so fast that it left all of us reeling.  A meeting with doctors revealed nothing else could be done for him. Some numbers were high, others low, enzymes were doing something they weren't supposed to do, blood counts were off, doctors admitted "We don't really know what's going on", possibly underlying liver pathology they were not aware of in addition to the Cirrhosis, the list went on and on.  To me, it sounded like a whole lot of excuses and pure speculation.  They were doctors.  Weren't they supposed to be keeping up with this stuff?  What were all the tests for if not for giving the correct information to us so we could try to make the most informed decisions?  

I had the odd sensation of listening to these doctors as if they were talking underwater.  It became an annoying buzz.  While I tuned out what I knew they were about to disclose, I counted the ceiling tile and did my best to pretend I couldn't hear what they were saying.  As if I were five years old, I actually thought, "Lalala, I can't hear you." while I imagined myself with my fingers in my ears.  Then, I had to bite my cheek, so I didn't burst out in a round of inappropriately timed laughter.  I studiously avoided eye contact with everyone else in the room and idly noted that a TV was showing the Oklahoma game.  I've never been more interested in Oklahoma football than I was that day when I was trying desperately not to hear what the doctors were saying while at the same time trying not to burst out laughing inappropriately.  

In times of stress, this is often what it's like to live inside my head.  

How could Dad have possibly gone from the top of the transplant list to "if you take him home, there is a distinct possibility that he will not survive the trip"?  It is still beyond my ability to comprehend even while the desperation of the moment has been tempered over time.

Things moved even more quickly after that meeting with the doctors.  Disconnecting machines.  Changing rooms.  Morphine. Comfort care; a term that greatly annoyed me.  Yellow tears, a result of his liver's inability to filter out the impurities in his body, still haunt me. He was awake at that moment, but couldn't talk to us anymore and the sight of that last, bright yellow tear that snaked its way down his right cheek will remain with me until the day I die.

We tried to figure out who we needed to call.  How do we get the grandkids up to the hospital to see him before he dies when we want them to see him one last time, but we don't want to leave the hospital?  What about Mom?  How long does he have?  What happens now?  The questions were endless.

For me, this was way too much to process amidst all of these people.  I had to find a place to be alone and get my head straight.  I had been in the chapel several times during this last hospital stay when Dad was sleeping, but on this day, the walls were closing in on me.  It was nice outside.  Psalm 19:1 says the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament shows His handiwork.  It was early Fall; the weather was nice, and the leaves were starting to change.  Someone at U of M thoughtfully included a courtyard in the plans when they designed the hospital and that's where I wandered, alone with my Bible.  I needed to read God's promises to never leave, his offer of peace in the middle of the storm, his steadfast love for us, and His grand promise that this life isn't all there is.  I needed to write.  I desperately needed to pray.  But I didn't know what to say and on that day and for many days afterward, I was infinitely grateful for the Holy Spirit who intercedes for us with groanings that are too deep for words.

What does any of this have to do with forgiveness?

Only everything.

Mom and Dad had been divorced for over twenty-five years at the time that Dad died.  After that terrible meeting with the doctors, we called Mom and told her what was happening and she said she wanted to come and see Dad but did not think it was a good idea for her to drive herself.  She wondered if someone could come and get her, but she didn't want us to leave in case something happened to Dad while we were gone.  I told her I would come and get her.  I had already said everything I needed and wanted to say to him a few days prior to this and if he died while I was gone, I felt like I would be all right.  Mom was wrung out.  Dad's impending death impacted her life in ways that I could not then and cannot now, even begin to comprehend.  While we tried to figure out what to do, Keith said he would be happy to go get Mom so that we didn't have to leave the hospital.

Eventually after their divorce, Mom and Dad got along quite well.  We were all adults by the time they separated, so they did not need to communicate about visitation or other things that divorced people find themselves having to discuss when there are kids involved. Early on, they didn't have much to talk about and there was a decent amount of animosity towards each other.  Understandably, hurt feelings were rampant between them and really amongst all five of us.  There were frequent misunderstandings coupled with very little grace from any of us.  Everyone needed time to figure out how this new and horrifically awkward family dynamic was going to function.  Over time tensions eased, communication became less awkward, and eventually, they were able to occasionally communicate with each other.  This led to sporadic casual conversations and in time, culminated in us spending holidays together.

Weird?  Maybe.  But by the time the grandkids started arriving on the scene, it surely simplified the Great Holiday Division of Time.  It was so much easier to be able to go to one place and have everyone there than having to spend an abbreviated period of time at two or more places on the same day.  I appreciated that.

I worked with Dad, so I saw him regularly and he often inquired as to how Mom was, and Mom often asked about his well-being.  If a holiday was on the horizon, he would ask if I knew if Mom had a concert and if she didn't, he would invite her to his house for a cook-out or dinner.  Sometimes, we all just got together for dinner and there wasn't a holiday involved at all.  It was nice to see them get along with each other and for me, it went a long way towards reconciling their divorce.  

In conversations that I had with him during the last month or so that he was alive, I had the distinct impression that he regretted some of the decisions that he made in his life.  But I will never forget telling him that if things had been different for them, I may not have learned how to forgive the hard stuff in my own life.  Because in watching Mom and Dad learn to forgive each other, I also learned valuable lessons on forgiveness myself.  He got really quiet and still, the small hospital room walls started closing in on us and suddenly we were both compelled to count the tiles on the ceiling and make a joke or two until the mist cleared out of our eyes.    

The sharp stuff that hurts the heart is hard to talk about.  We like to temper it with humor.  Hospitalization was not an exception to this unwritten family rule.

But now, the end was near.  The specter of death seemed to hover just out of sight, a vague, nebulous, and unseen dark cloud just upon the horizon.  It was never out of mind as it stealthily crept through the hallways.  But even while I knew it was there, I also knew that death would not have its temporary victory over my Dad's earthly body, until the days that God had numbered for him had expired.  

There was an odd comfort in knowing this.  

Mom had made it to the hospital to visit Dad one last time.  We were all in the room together, Mom, Val, Mel, Keith, and Mike.  Dad was in a coma by then, his last yellow tear shed hours before and we had entered some kind of macabre waiting game, the Vulture Syndrome.  We were all just talking and laughing as usual.  Doctors say the last sense to go is hearing.  I don't know if this is true or not, but if it is, then I know Dad would have been happy and laughing right along with us.  The clock kept moving forward, minute by painstaking minute even while we wished we could stop time.  Everyone had trickled out of the room for one reason or another and it was just Mom and I left alone with Dad.  She sat quietly staring at something down through the years that I was not privy to see.  Pensive.  No doubt reliving their relationship.  I felt like an intruder and made a move to leave, but she told me I should stay.  So, I did.

And that's when I witnessed the culmination of one of the most riveting acts of forgiveness, I've ever been part of in my life.  

Mom got up from the chair she had been sitting in and made her way to the bed.  She placed her hand on his left shoulder and stood looking at Dad for a bit as tears slid down her cheeks.  She was quiet, but the silence in the room was deafening.  A cacophony of memories littered the silence.  What do you say to someone you shared close to thirty years with who is now dying?  I wouldn't know, but Mom knew exactly what to say.  She always knew what to say in hard situations.  

I watched Mom compose herself.  She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and with resolve etched in her face, she reached out to touch Dad's shoulder.  She said, "Hi, Bob, it's Arlene.  I don't know if you can hear me, but I hope you can.  I'm sorry you got so sick.  You've had so much pain and sickness in your life.  I just wanted to say that we had a good life together and I want you to know that I forgave you years ago. I love you and I'll see you in Heaven."  She patted his shoulder a few more times and then leaned over the bed rail to kiss his cheek. Every molecule of air left that room which didn't seem to matter much since I don't think I was breathing at this point anyway.  Surely, the Earth stopped its slow rotation and time stopped.  

This snapshot in time is seared into my mind: Dad in a coma, a day away from death, Mom standing by his bedside telling him she had forgiven him and reminding him of a good life they once shared. 

The intensity of that moment cloaked in the utter simplicity of it was heart-wrenching.  The sad, serene look on Mom's face, underscored the truth of her statements and belied years of hurt that had been resolved with her decision to choose forgiveness.  To me, she had never seemed more beautiful.

I was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, eyes burning with tears that threatened to spill over at any moment.  There was no counting ceiling tile this time.  There wouldn't have been enough to distract me anyway.  I fervently prayed no one would walk into the room because I believed there was something extremely important going on that I didn't fully understand but I didn't want it to be interrupted.  I didn't move.  

There was reverence in that moment.  Amid heartbreaking circumstances, God the Holy Spirit was tangibly present in that hospital room and I knew that even though everything was about to change for all of us, He was going to be with us every step of the way.  Immanuel, God with us, wasn't about to leave us in the middle of this storm.

Eventually, Mom left the room, so I was alone with Dad for a few minutes.  Trying to process what I had just seen, I was thinking of Jesus when he was being nailed to the cross and how He asked God the Father to forgive the people because they didn't know what they were doing.  It seems incomprehensible that someone amid such agonizing pain could ask such a thing.  I cannot comprehend the deep love it would require to utter such words.  Yet, Jesus spoke to them.  He loves us all with a love so limitless that when he was beaten beyond recognition, He asked His heavenly Father to forgive.  

Us. 

Sinners.  All of us. 

And because of His extreme example of forgiveness, I had just witnessed my Mom speak words of forgiveness to my Dad.  Forgiveness was something that she had resolved to do long ago, but today she spoke aloud to Dad.  They were words that he already knew in his heart that had been backed up by the actions Mom had exhibited towards him over the years.  

It was incredibly unbelievable.  

Earlier, when Jesus was teaching His disciples, they asked how often they needed to forgive someone of an offense.  They were stunned when the answer Jesus gave was 70x7.  This is not to say that at the 491st offense, we are somehow off the hook and no longer must forgive.  It is 70x7, for the same offense, by the same person, every single day, along with every other offense that same person commits against you, every single day.  This stunning statement by Jesus points out the idea that forgiveness should be a lifestyle.

Because when we model forgiveness, it shows others Christ's love and draws others to Him.  

Mom exercised this forgiveness and lived it out as an example to me and to the rest of our family.  She may not always have gotten it exactly right, but she did her best to model active forgiveness and the resultant lifestyle of it every day of her life. 

The picture that I have of forgiveness is multifaceted.  It is the face of my beloved Mother standing at my Dad's hospital bed long after their divorce and hearing her tell him that she had forgiven him years ago.

And their journey toward forgiveness was made possible by Jesus who extends mercy, grace, and forgiveness to all who call on His name. 

Grace Greater Than Our Sin 

Marvelous grace of our loving Lord,
grace that exceeds our sin and our guilt!
Yonder on Calvary’s mount outpoured,
there where the blood of the Lamb was spilled.

Sin and despair, like the sea waves cold,
threaten the soul with infinite loss;
grace that is greater, yes, grace untold,
points to the refuge, the mighty cross.

Dark is the stain that we cannot hide;
what can we do to wash it away?
Look! There is flowing a crimson tide,
brighter than snow you may be today.

Marvelous, infinite, matchless grace,
freely bestowed, on all who believe!
You that are longing to see His face,
will you this moment, His grace receive?

Refrain:
Grace, grace, God’s grace
grace that will pardon and cleanse within;
grace, grace, God’s grace,
grace that is greater than all our sin!

- Julia H. Johnston 1911

 

Mother's Day 2020

How I'm Glad You're My Mother
(with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

How I'm glad you're my Mom
let me count the ways,
your laughter, encouragement
through childhood days.
You taught me times tables
and my ABCs
and made time to read me 
Bible stories.
You took me to church
and you sewed me some clothes,
and (gross!) you wiped my runny nose.
You cared when my throat
hurt too much to talk,
you took me to Oak Openings
for long winter walks.
You laughed at mistakes
instead of making a big deal
and made my childhood dreams
become real.
You fixed me my supper 
and washed all of my clothes,
there were times you encouraged me
when you didn't even know.
You did your best 
when life handed you a snag
and you were never
a teenager's parental nag.
And when there were times 
that you didn't understand,
you shook your head
and tried again.
You were always around
for me to talk to
and you could always think 
of fun things to do.
We colored and cut,
we threw and scored,
we even owned
an entire bookstore.
You could make me believe
my sandwich was a boat,
orange slices you used for a sail,
and when I was older
and moved away,
your letters were my only mail.
Down through the years
through the good, bad, and indifferent,
I've grown to know this much,
I wouldn't be who I am today
without my Mother's touch.
So for every night you worried for me
and every night you prayed,
for all of the meals you cooked for me
and all of the clothes that you made,
the thing I cherish most about us
is the relationship we enjoy today.
Mom, thanks for never
giving up on me and
Happy Mother's Day!
-T. Bent
(12 May 1996, Mother's Day)

A Tribute to Grandma Bower

Grandma Bower was the best Grandma in the world. As He did with Mom, God knew exactly the type of Grandma I needed and I was blessed to have her in my life for 16 years. She played all kinds of games with us, took us to the park, took us on walks, laughed at our ridiculous antics, ate Spaghettios with us and the white cherries she canned every year from the tree in her yard, baked the best molasses, chocolate chip, and sugar cookies, listened to us read, called me out when I exaggerated stories, and told me that I "made her tired" on more than one occasion. That usually meant that whatever I was doing needed to end pretty quickly.
We picked her up for church every Sunday and I used to sit in the service and poke at her spidery veins that stuck out on her hands and wrist. I have no idea why she allowed me to do such a thing, but she did, and so I took advantage of that. After church, she came home with us for Sunday dinner, spent the afternoon with us cleaning up after dinner, playing games, and then we took her back home after church on Sunday night. She made the best desserts to share with us at those dinners. She used to make a white or yellow cake with chocolate frosting. If you were careful, you could peel the frosting off the cake and have two desserts. The frosting was almost like fudge and usually came off in one piece. It was good!

One time when Mom was working on her masters degree in education, Val and I were supposed to walk to Grandma's house after school. I was in kindergarten and Val was in third grade. It just so happened that it rained that day which obviously meant we should stomp in every mud puddle we could find between the school and Grandma's house. There were a lot of mud puddles and sometimes we were required to cross the street so we could stomp in some of the ones over there. We were soaked to the skin by the time we got to Grandma's house. I don't remember her being too mad about it though. If she was, she didn't show it. She had these cool robes that she made out of bath towels that she made us put on while she washed and dried our clothes.

Grandma had to say "I'm going to tell your Mother just how you act." to us a lot! Sometimes this made us straighten up but most of the time it didn't do much to curtail our behavior because we would beg her not to tell so she wouldn't. I have no idea why she didn't. I certainly would have if I had been her.

As I got older, things got harder for Grandma. She had Parkinson's Disease and she came to live with us for awhile. That was the best time! She was there when we got home from school and would encourage us to get our homework done before Mom got home from school. I'm sure we were compliant. Eventually, she needed more care and ended up in a nursing home. The day she left made me sad. I missed her being at our house. I would ride my bike over to see her on Saturdays. One day, I was going to go see her but Mom said she was going to go later that day so I made plans to go with Mom and I rode over to my friend's house instead. As I was nearing home, I realized my uncle's car was in the driveway and somehow I knew Grandma was gone. I fooled around outside for awhile before I had the courage to go inside and hear the news that I dreaded.

I was 16 when she died and I've often wondered what it would have been like to have had her around when I was older. She was a wise woman of faith. Hers was a deep and abiding, quiet faith, the depths of which can only be taught through the hard trials of life. She lost a baby to premature birth before Mom was born. She carefully recorded in her Bible, that Harlan was a blue baby and lived for eight days before he died. Mom said she always heard the adults refer to blue babies, which meant immature lungs.


Back then, you stayed in bed for a long time after having a baby, so Grandma was unable to go to Harlan's funeral. I remember the first time Mom told me that. It made my heart ache for Grandma, but it wasn't until I had my own children that a began to understand how truly awful it would be not to be able to attend your child's funeral.


Mom recalled going to the cemetery with Grandma who always knew where to find the tiny marker from the funeral home because they didn't have the money to purchase a headstone. Mom said she always wondered how Grandma knew where the grave was since it was flush to the ground and there weren't really any other markers around then. Today, there is a large maple tree nearby, but that wasn't there 85 years ago.


Later, Grandma's oldest son, Richard died from head injuries he sustained in a motor scooter accident when he was 19 years old. Mom was married by then, but Uncle Bob and Uncle Harold were in high school and still at home when Richard died. In fact, they had gone to the new municipal swimming pool in Delta that day, and my paternal Grandmother drove up there to get them and tell them what happened. It was a very dark time for the family as is understandable.


A few years after that, Grandpa died from complications of a stroke. I was about four when he died, so I don't remember a lot about him. He loved gardening and had prize rose bushes. His rhubarb plants have been transplanted, thinned out, and relocated many times over the years and bring our family great joy. There's nothing like Mom's rhubarb pie, upside down cake, or Dad's rhubarb sauce made from Grandpa Bower's old rhubarb plants. He played trombone and was an ametuer musician. He taught Mom to play and instilled a love for music in her life. I am sure I heard him play when I was a kid, but unfortunately, I don't remember it and have often wished I could hear him play.

Grandma knew loss. Immense loss. The type that drives you to your knees in agony and sorrow, while you desperately seek solace from the only One who understands and can offer His peace that transcends our understanding. She knew great heartache and pain. But she also knew the Lord was with her in those dark days of grief and missing those people she loved. Grandma was not bitter because she knew the comfort of the Savior who loved her with an everlasting love. I miss her greatly and look forward to reuniting with her in heaven someday.

I wrote this poem about Grandma about three months after she died. I kept it a secret until I needed a poem for an English assignment and didn't feel like writing one, so I turned it in for a grade. Then, I returned it to its secret place where I would get it out and read it during the times when I missed Grandma the most. Eventually, I showed it to Mom several years later. Though everything in this poem is accurate, I'm not sure it's how I would write about her today, but when I was 16 and her loss was heavy, this was my heart poured out on paper.

"A Tribute to Grandma"
(for Dorothy Louise Bower)
I looked at you with tears in my eyes
and wondered silently why you died.
I knew you were old
your health was failing
but you were my Grandma
who would always be there
to wipe away my tears
and chase away my fears.
I couldn't believe it was you laying there
and as I cried, I continued to stare
at the person who was my Grandma.
Who a few days before and been so full of life
in spite of all the pain and strife
you dealt with in the past few months.
You said you wouldn't always be near
and not to approach death with fear,
but rather as an extension of life.
The past few months have been really hard
my thoughts always focus on you
and though we didn't say it often,
I hope you knew it's true:
you were one of the biggest
influences in my life
and Grandma, I'll always love you.
-Teresa Bloomer
November 1983

A Second Honeymoon (to my wife)

I was out upon the ocean

on those waters deep and wide

watching pretty pearly ripples

as they seemed to pass me by.

I was sitting there reflecting

on the mystery of the sea

above bright stars were shining

to complete the lovely scene.

Close beside me sat my sweetheart

in my arms I held her tight

‘tis a rendezvous we’re keeping

for all those years of wedded life.

Her hair has turned to silver

like the silver of the sea

her voice is more melodious

as she softly speaks to me.

Soon this life will be completed

and in heaven we will be

we will always be just sweethearts

in that realm beyond the sea.

-Gordon Bower

October 01, 1961

A Prayer Acrostic

                                     Pray without ceasing, press on towards the goal
                                 in Reverence to God, He cares for your soul 

             Believe he will Answer the desires of your heart
                                     Yearn to be closer, never to part
                                     Expect Him to answer your prayers in His time
                              and Rest in Him always, He grants peace sublime.


- T. Deffely 
01 February 2010

The Music in You

The music in you

is the music in me

a lullaby learned

when I sat at your knee.

Imparted to you 

by the Father above

God's ballad spoke 

of His redeeming love.

The music in you

is the music in me

the message you taught us

would set my life free.
Measures of mercy 
march forth towards forgiveness
while His melody soars on 
the wings of grace
the refrain of which ends
with our Savior's embrace. 

-T. Deffely

March 2015