The Unpatchable Hole....

I think the hardest thing I've ever had to sew on a garment was a hole that was not in a seam. A hole in the middle of ,say a blanket, can be patched. It can be darned, but either way, you can see that there was a hole. The blanket will never be good as new. It is still useful, you can still live with it, and find warmth in it.But, never the less, it has been damaged, and sometimes that damage cannot be fixed without careful time and a serious amount of effort.
This is so true of motherhood when you lose a child. Tim and I and our beautiful family came to a crawling halt just nineteen months ago when our oldest son Jeffrey chose to take his own life. To say that we were and are still shattered is an understatement. Our lives have totally changed. The way we love has changed. Even the way we view God and life has changed. It changed our friendships. It changed our extended family. It even changed our family dynamics. Our lives are ripped apart. The is no seam. There is no sense. There is just a hole buried deep within our hearts that will never fully heal. It is horrid. It is painful. But mostly, it just is.
Everyday, no matter how hard I try, the wound is still there. I have written about him. I have sought help.I have eaten my way through many days. But I still cannot get over this huge hole in my heart. I cannot get over the loss of my son.
My son was always hard to handle. He was moody. He was angry. He was sometimes downright unbearable. But he was also beautiful. He was humorous . He was fun. He was kind. He was giving. He was the silver lining in his own little cloud. And I miss him. I miss him every day. I miss his friends. I miss his athletic events. I miss his smell. I miss his smile. But mostly I miss his voice. I miss him laughing with Katce. I miss him telling me he loves me. I miss hearing him cry. Yes cry, getting out the pain that he so often kept bottled up.
I cannot bring him back. I cannot heal this hole. People say time will heal this wound. But I do not believe it. I do not believe this wound will ever heal. Sure, it will get bandaged. I will nurse it , and put many different salves on it, but basically there will always be a hole in my heart that not even God can fill. You see the loss of a child is every mother's worst nightmare.
I have come to the conclusion that when you lose a child, especially by his own hand, that a piece of you dies with him. Suddenly, he is gone. His body is put beneath the cold, lonely earth , and you are left with an empty grave and an empty heart. But when you bury your child, you do not bury your hopes, your dreams, your memories. You only bury his lifeless body. And so, as life moves on for everyone else, you are left with these burdens, these struggles, these successes, and even these needs. I cannot just stand by while his friends go to college, get married, and start families and not be physically affected. And while I am more than thrilled that they are moving on, there is still a piece of me that aches for his diploma, his career, his marriage, his wife, his children, and his life.
You see, I spent many long days and nights dreaming dreams for this son, for this child who was always so much work. I put a lot of mothering and friendship hours developing a relationship deemed by professionals as impossible bonding. I cried many tears over choices I had to make to help a child whom no one wanted to commit to and adopt. But I did it, and I'd do it all again if I could. His body is gone, but his life is not. It is still here with me, with my husband, with our children. It is here with Melissa, Makenzi, Cody, Jesse, Sarah, with John, with Olivia,...Jeff will always be here. And when they live, he lives. When they hurt, he hurts, at least for me.
I know that I have changed. I know that I am callous to important drama, to current events, and even to some people's needs. How could I not be changed. I am a Momma Kitty who had lost her kitten.I searched for him and what I found was my son's blood splattered all over his clothes. The clothes that  I had washed, the clothes I had dried, the clothes I had folded, and the clothes I had carefully mended so the patch over his tiny hurts wouldn't show. I have a memory of a little lost boy in a man's body begging me to never leave him, begging me for help. I have a memory of him crawling up on my lap that last day, laying his head on my lap , and placing my hand on his fuzzy head and stroking his head with more love than I thought I could ever feel for him again. Then I have a memory of stroking that same precious head as it laid on a pillow in a casket, and pretending that I wasn't dieing inside when they pulled me away from him for the last time. I am changed. How could I not be. I have a hole. A hole that was once filled with challenge, with hopes, with dreams, for a life so precious that I couldn't live without it and now I must.
I guess I write this today because I feel different. I do not fit anymore. I am no longer the mother of all the adopted "Burd" children. I am the mother of the boy who committed suicide. I am not normal. I am crazy. Crazy with grief everyday your child does something that my child never will. Crazy because I cannot support gun control or care who you vote for or even care if the ozone layer burns up. I now care about today. I care about the little faces who call me Momma and Grammie. I care whether they are happy and safe and loved and feel needed. I care where they are at and if they are healthy. I care so much that I am obsessed. I care because I have lost my kitten. I am patching my hole. I will not survive another hole this deep and so I must protect my other kittens from the bad world. It is my job. It is all I know.
So next time you see a Momma who has buried her child. Know that she always needs a hug, that she isn't crazy, that today she may be smiling, but tomorrow she may be putting flowers on her child's grave. But mostly, just mostly, have some compassion for her as she watches your child grow up and live, because you , my mothering friend, are blessed beyond measure ...and may you never, ever, have to patch a hole this big within your blanket of motherhood....

Finishing the Garments...Flying Like a Burd

I remember when I saw him coming towards me that day, I knew he was up to no good. He had his little swimming goggles on, winter gloves, an old camo shirt, and his mud stomping boots. But the best part of this "boy fashioned" outfit was the triangular shaped vinyl siding roped to each arm. His boyish grin was approaching me fast. I knew I had to be on my toes for this one. "Momma? Do you got a ladder?"
Now I chose not to laugh and looking my serious six year old son straight in the eye, I carefully replied. "James, you're gonna try to fly aren't you..." He shook his head in affirmation. Tim looked up from his paper now, quite amused that his young son had the same initiative that he too had as a child.
"I'm gonna get on the roof Momma, and jump. Mara tied this real tight and if I calculated my figures right, I can fly!" James explained with sheer joy oozing from his new found career. First of all, I was pretty sure that James didn't know what calculate even meant and second of all, it was a true miracle that he hadn't been killed in any of the other "career moves" that he'd calculated in the past.
I looked at him and started to speak, but Tim, trying to serious and contain his laughter advised James, "Now, James, I think if we cut that triangle right up the middle and when you get up there, you start running and flapping real hard, well, I think you'll fly!" I looked at my husband who was now peeling in laughter and his son was about to go and find something to cut his wings.
"Tim, are you crazy?" a phrase I uttered to him almost on a daily basis since I married him. "James, you are not, I repeat, not getting a ladder and jumping off to fly. You'll break every bone in your body and I am not in the mood to take you to the hospital. Daddy is being silly. Now, give Momma a kiss and go play..." James looked at his Daddy, who nodded and laughed as he headed for the door.
"Bye, Momma!" he yelled after my hug and kiss, "I'm gonna go and..." his voice trailed off as he headed to Grandma's next door.
I raced to the phone and called Virginia, "Look out your window. He's gonna ask for a ladder..."
Virginia started to chuckle, "Gonna try to fly today huh? Well, I'll feed him some ice cream and send him home!" I could hear her laughing as she hung up explaining to Gramps what his youngest grandson was up to today.
Kids. Kids learning to do the impossible. Kids learning to fly. I think that for me, that is the hardest part of motherhood; letting them go and letting them learn to fly. We parent our kids and we nurture them. We teach them how to eventually leave our nest and become wonderful, thriving adults. We want them to grow up and be an inaugural, life changing part of our community- "make the world a better place so to speak". But what I failed to realize is that with each life lesson, I am actually pushing my children out of the nest. Slowly, carefully nudging them towards the edge so that they will one day fly out on their own. At first, it wasn't too hard to send them off into adulthood and college. After all, our nest was pretty full and having a little more room to spread our wings felt good.
But now, as I am faced with three children graduating this year and leaving our nest left with just one Baby Burd, I realize I don't want to nudge anymore. I don't want to teach them life lessons. I don't want them to be prepared to live without me. I just want to love them. I want to love their lives. I want to watch every sporting event in slow motion. Laugh at every joke they say. Praise every moment they choose to grace me with their presence. Listen as they babble on and on about insignificant issues that will be forgotten tomorrow. I breath in every moment of everyday. I am exhausted. But I savor every moment because I know, once they fly away, they will be different. They will be grown. And my position in their lives will be changed forever. I will become more of a friend and less of a boss. I will be "Mom", and "Momma" will be a person in their childhood memories. But I know this year will pass. They will grow up. They will graduate, at least that's the plan. They will fly away. I know I must nudge because like it or not, it's coming.

 And so I teach. I weep. I pray. I watch. I nudge. But there is still, in the back of my mind, the knowledge that a moment is coming when I will be standing  with the scissors and ladder and looking up and quietly whispering, "I love you James, fly like a Burd, baby, fly like a Burd!"

Following the Pattern...Trusting the Maker

I think as a parent, the scariest moments in my life have been when my children were ill and I couldn't nurse them back to health on my own. Having to seek medical treatment for an unknown ailment and not being in total control of your child or the situation is a helpless feeling that few of us, thank God, have ever had to experience....
Katie-Grace was  weeks when she began to fuss for no apparent reason. We were enjoying a leisurely afternoon at the track field watching our children compete, when for no reason at all, she began to whimper and cry. Since all of the new sounds and sights were unfamiliar, Tierney and I took her to the van to watch from there and see if she would settle down. But after a few minutes, she quickly grew worse, and her whimpers turned into screams. I stared at my little girl and looked deep into her pleading eyes, "Tierney, somethings wrong with this baby. Honey, somethings really wrong. We need to go home and take her temperature." Tierney nodded on agreement and we raced home.
"Her temp is over 101degrees Momma- I've taken it twice," my daughter looked at me worried. Katce was still crying. "I think you're right Momma, we gotta take her now. Let's just go and I'll call Daddy." Tierney called her dad and within minutes, we were packed up and in the car with my scared little baby girl in the back crying.
"You're sure she had a temp, she registers fine now," the attending physicians assured me. She kept checking katce over and looking at every part of her. Tierney and I both nodded. "Then by law, I have to do a spinal tap. It's standard procedure. But you're sure?" she explained. I looked at my small, precious baby, our gift from God. Tears ran down my cheeks as I nodded again. My baby just stared at me, her bug eyes seemed to be begging for help.
We could hear her screaming when Tim arrived. He looked harried and overwhelmed. I updated him and the doctor came out and said that she couldn't get into Katce's spine. "I want to admit her," she said matter of factly. "We'll keep her here for now, but we may have to transfer her- at this point, I just don't know..."
It had been two days, two days and no improvement. I was staying with her around the clock and a different child came from home to help me. Tim came every chance he could. It was late the second night, Katce was screaming again. She just wouldn't stop. I began to cry as I rubbed her frail, little body. I could tell she was in pain. I could tell she needed help and we were just not finding the answer to her ailment. We were talking with the doctor and it looked like we were going to be sent to a larger hospital for children. they were so concerned because her fever would not break. It was always at least 101 degrees, but had went as high as 103 degrees. I was in a panic. I was exhausted both physically and mentally. I started to croon to her. It was late, at least 3am, and she was still crying...I just wept softly, singing and holding her. Poor Katce. Were we going to lose her now? Was this gift only given to us for such a short time, only to be ushered from our lives forever?
I could see she was dying. The nurses were quiet and solemn. I could hear them whisper with heavy faces. I knew their comments were not good. I continued to pray and sing Bible songs to her. "Lord, I love this child. I love her more than my life. But she is suffering. She is suffering so much. I cannot help her. Please Lord, if she is going to continue to suffer and die a painful death, will you please take her from me. I want her to be happy and healthy. I want her to stop suffering so..." and I laid my head next to her and sobbed uncontrollably. All of the sudden, Katce stopped crying. The nurse came over, and checked her.... the fever had broken.
Katce stared at me and grasped my finger. She was resting. She was at peace. for the first time in three days, my sick baby girl was not screaming. Her eyes quickly drooped and she fell into a deep, deep sleep. Thank you God, thank you so much! And I knew, I knew as we transferred her to a bigger hospital- she would be okay. I knew when they told us she had meningitis and a bad kidney- she would live. I knew when we spent twenty one days in the ICU- she would come home with us one day. I knew when she wouldn't eat and we had to feed her through a tube- she was going to make it. And I knew on our way home, that I had a God who needed me to give this child back to Him one more time- that I had forever, forever had an answer to my prayer.
I guess the moral to the story is that sometimes as a parent, I do not have control. I cannot fix it all. But faith can move mountains, miracles do happen. Every single day I watch my children live a miracle life . I am thankful. I am blessed. But mostly I am grateful that I have and they have a God who loves them so much, that he will step up and take care of them when my feeble, earthly ways cannot.
Today, Katie-Grace is med free. She runs and laughs and lives. She paints the dog with yogurt, puts mozzarella string cheese in the dryer, and occasionally is known to draw on her sleeping sister's face with permanent marker. All by the grace of God.

Security Blankets...All Wrapped Up in Love...

Last night as I cuddled my little granddaughter, J'Lynnie, I realized that the first thing I do before I hoist her on my lap, is grab a "blankie". I bring her to my chest, wrap that blankie around her, and begin to softly croon lullabies while quietly rocking and rubbing her little body. She loves this, all children do. They like the hush sounds, the gentle touches; the assured security. Security. A word that, unfortunately, isn't always being considered in this day and age to be a factor in  properly caring for youngsters. And to me, that is a sad testimony to our culture and society.
I guess I didn't really grow up with a true sense of security. I was never really sure what was going to happen at home from one day to the next. Life was  chaotic. Drinking, failing marriages, and no money, were all a lot for a small child to know about. So when I entered adulthood and starting having children of my own, my whole goal in their little lives was to make sure that they had a safe and secure upbringing. To me security means a home where they can come and find refuge when life gets too tough. A place that smells like fresh baked cookies and crumbs on the floor. A place that when the lights go out at night, there are no monsters, just beautiful dimly lit rooms filled with memories made in love. Security to a child means never knowing that the bills may not be paid or that the "wolf" is at the door. It means enough food in the fridge to fill a gnawing tummy and a tall glass of fresh water in a clean glass. It means daily washed  clothes that smell of perfume. It means looking out in the stands and knowing your parents are there watching your every play of the game. It means they'll be there waiting with a smile after you've  won or  lost and never chastising you for the latter. It means a hot bath with bubbles and water all over the floor and not getting yelled at because they forgot they weren't in swimming  pool. Security means eating nightly dinners together at the table and laughing when someone farts or food shoots out their nose. It simply means putting your children first. Making sure that they have a childhood full of goofy pranks and silly dreams. It means when life knocks them down, their parent is there to pick them up, put them in their arms, and wrap a blankie around them so tight, that the world and it's ugliness goes away, at least for a little while.
Every child  or grandchild in my home has a special blankie sewn or picked out by me. Before I gave birth to my daughters, I handstiched each little girl her own special  blankie. Before we adopted our children, each one had a handmade blankie waiting on their bed for them. I did it so that  they would always know that their Momma loved and prepared a special home for them even before they came to live fwith us forever. Each child has been wrapped in their blankie, sung their own personal lullaby, and tucked in safe at night. Every night that same blankie was snuggled right up under their chin with a smooch placed firmly on their faces. My children have drug those blankies everywhere, to the grocery store, to the playground, to their forts, even to their married homes. They know that with those blankies comes a sense of home, love, safety, and more important security.
I know it sounds silly, maybe even childish, but I sleep with a blankie myself. When the long day has ended and I feel even the least little bit ill, I go to the wall hanging, pull off my blankie, and climb into bed, cuddling under it for a sense of safety. And somehow, it works. I fall right to sleep and wake up feeling refreshed and alert. What is special about my blankie is that my daughter quilted it for me. Each stitch was her attempt at making me feel loved and secure. Is it beautiful? Sure it is, but it could be the ugliest blanket in the world and I would still display it proudly because it was made in love. Even my husband Tim has a blankie given to him from Kayla,  and he too has been secretly known (when he is ill of course), to pull it off it's hanger and crawl up underneath it. Blankies are not just for kids, even we adults need them when our world becomes more than we can bear.
I guess what I'm getting at here, is that children are cute. We can dress them up. We can play with them. But if we, as parents and grandparents, don't take the time to pick out a blankie with them, and give them some nurturing and cuddling, then we are going to end up with a society filled with children who have no sense of security. A society where human life in disposable. A life where we get tired of our children and stop making them our first priority. A world full of money sucking vacuums, that exist purely to fill the hole created by a false sense of security. Is that what we as parents want? Of course not, but if we look around, that's what we have.
So today, go home to your children. Listen to their insignificant babble. Hoist them up on your lap, gently kiss their face, and tell them they matter more than your own goals. And then wrap a blankie around them and just sit quietly holding the most precious gift of all....life.

Add a Little Facing... The Coaches in our Kids' Lives

On our own we cannot make a garment strong....we need a little interfacing...
Because I have so many children, and all of them are involved in sports in one way or another, coaches play a huge role in forming my children's character and self esteem. I am not going to lie to you. We have had some tremendously "great" coaches, but we have also had the occasional "bad" coach as well.
We could sit and talk all day about the "bad" coaches and how they messed up our children or made them feel  horrible about themselves and their athletic skills. But really, sometimes it is these coaches that actually make our children stronger and more resilient as athletes as well as human beings. If we as parents, work with our children to get them through a tough season, then the damage from a "bad" coach can really be minimized. If not, pull your child from the sport, and help to get a new coach for the next season.
What I really want to address today is the "great" coaches, and believe me, there are some great coaches. Some coaches greatness comes form purely knowing their sport and teaching your child everything they know. Thus the child grows in ability and character. Some coaches are "great" because they know children and can handle a bunch of attitudes and use that knowledge to bring out your child's pure love for the game. But there are some coaches who are "great" because they have that rare combination of both. They can teach your children how to play well and they can teach them how to have good attitudes while doing it.
What I love about coaches who have the whole package, is their ability to read their team as both individuals and as a whole group. What happens is that these coaches know their team's strengths and weaknesses and are able to maximize both in order to promote change throughout the year. This permeates into a team attitude that winning may not be everything, but gaining and improving each game becomes a goal. The children are expected to do their best, and recognized by a "great" coach when they do. This makes our children want to participate in the sport for the sheer pleasure of self improvement.
A "great" coach also knows how to critique and not criticize. This is concise dealings with your child to express his athletic shortcomings without tearing into his spirit. The coach talks to the child, commanding respect instead of demanding it, which in turn leads the child to respect himself as well. Some coaches do this in private, but there are some coaches who have the unique ability to critique your child in front of his teammates. This takes special finesse involving others in this chat can enable other teammates to see that they all have some skills to work on as well.
A quality high on my list for a "great" coach, is one who can handle both the ruly and unruly parent. If a coach believes enough in his or her ability as a coach, that character trait will prove itself in the way that communicates well to parents. No cursing, throwing fits, or having bad attitudes, but speaking in a poised, patient, manner presents itself well especially to a parent who may or may not be on the war path. Children normally are who they are from their parents, and some parents radiate idiocy when talking to a coach. This parent must be handled with the idea that in order to bring out the best in the child, this parent needs to be dealt with tactfully, yet never changing who the coach is.
Finally, and probably the most important trait of a "great" coach is the ability to love your child beyond the sport and see that what your child needs to grow into a superb adult some day. A "great" coach can learn to read his/her players and know instinctively what will help mold this child. There are not many coaches who have this trait, but let me as a parent of nine athletes name a few...

Coach Pat Ventura of New Mexico: drove my child thirty miles everyday to school so that my son, Jeff, who was failing at his regular school, could get a fresh start. Worked with him personally everyday on his football skills and character. This coach loved children and is a real credit to his peers. Incidentally, when Jeff many years later committed suicide, the only letter and memento Jeff kept was one form this coach, what this says to me is that my son had enough love to think of this coach in his last days.
Coach Tony Joosteburns of Michigan: this coach took a team of giggly little girls and led them to a team championship simply by being a "great" coach. He taught them all he knew about softball and then when things got tough, had them turn their hats around backwards to play relaxed. The children got a sense that Tony didn't care if they lost, he just wanted them to have a good time. And they did...they won.
Coach Sarah Carpenter of Michigan; Sarah coaches varsity volleyball. She has coached a winning regional team and she has coached a losing team. What she has is the grace and dignity that a lot of coaches lack to see into the spirits and lives of her girls. She looks at each strength and then sees what is needed for her team. She never promotes one child, but concentrates on her team as a whole.This brings together a team that looks not at the wins, but as the gains. My daughter Timara has grown immensely as a player and a young woman.
Coach Brian Lincoln of Michigan: A controversial coach in football, he has allowed my special needs son, Arden, to be a part of his team for four years now. Arden manages and waters these boys. It has given my child identity, purpose and camaraderie amidst his peers. Coach Lincoln maintains a friendship off the field with Arden as well, and this shows my son that that there are many facets to being a coach, not just what you see on the field or in the locker room.
Dance teacher Kimberly Roderiguez: although not a "coach" per say. Kim has the ability to teach a wide range of children to dance. What Kim provides for these children is the character to build on over and ever again throughout the years. She teaches these children to see beyond their talents and body images and brings out the best dancers they can be. There is never negativity from Kim to her students, but a respect commanded, that enables her to teach these children to thrive on movement and the music. They never realize at first that those movements are "dance skills". Her happiness in her art is shown throughout the community where no one calls her "Mrs. Roderiguez", she is merely known as "Miss Kim". When my son died, she kept a careful watch on both of my daughters and allowed them to grieve and grow through dance. her love and guidance is a rare treasure that all coaches should possess.
Again, Coach Brian Lincoln of Michigan: Brian coaches track also and coached my son Jeff for three years. Jeff had no self esteem when he began running, mainly because he wanted to be instantly good. Brian taught Jeff to never give up on himself or his team. By teaching Jeff to be patient and believe in himself and his abilities, Brian lead Jeff to break seven school records. Jeff also learned to be a team player which helped him both on the track and at home. I truly believe in my heart that this coach gave my son focus throughout the final years of his life.Brian in essence gave us four more years with our son.
I believe though that my favorite coach was Coach Chris Ventura of New Mexico: I say this because Chris really new how to just have fun with his team of children in  little league co-ed softball. None of my children were on his team but what he did for the children watching his skills and team perform with love and genuine fun was a true feat to watch. Here is just one of many examples of Chris' love for children......
My son Arden can hit, and he can hit well, but he cannot run. So Arden was never able to get to home plate because he was always getting out before he hit first. We were playing Chris' team and they were up by one and  Arden was coming to bat. Everyone held their breath because they new Arden would get out and we would lose the game. The pitch was thrown, and Arden swung...missed...strike one! Another pitch was thrown...too high...ball one! The next pitch came and Arden belted it clear to the fence..a home run...but his little legs just couldn't get him to first fast enough. The ball was drilled into first, but miraculously thrown too high. Arden looked up and the crowd rared for Arden to run to second. He ran with all he had as the ball whizzed past the second baseman into center field. The crowd begged Arden again to race to third. Tears began to well in my eyes and in my heart as my son circled third base and ran to home plate. "Run, Arden, run!" the crowd on both teams rallied. Both dugouts were on the field as the ball was thrown in and the catcher caught it as Arden came up three feet short. The catcher looked at the ball, looked at Arden breathlessly racing towards him, and purposely dropped the ball just as Arden ran across home plate.  He had scored his first home run. Both teams came up and threw my son on there shoulders and carried him around the field. Everyone in the stands was bawling and hugging. I looked over through tear stained eyes at Coach Chris Ventura who looked up from hugging my son, and he just nodded and smiled, holding back tears.
"I made a homerun, Momma, did you see it..." he went on and on shrieking with excitement...
"Yes, Bubby, I saw it...you did the bestest ever!" and I clutched my son to me tight as I stared at my husband (the other coach) while he shook hands blubbering like a girl with the best coach ever!

Using a Pattern...teach your kids to drive safely...

Sometimes we just cannot get a garment to turn out right without a pattern...be a pattern for your children...
As my children enter their senior year of high school, I am sadly reminded of the recklessness of teen drivers. Statistics show that teen drivers are by far the most careless drivers of all drivers on the road. While many guidelines and laws have been put into place to protect children, tragic accidents still happen due to mere neglect from these young drivers. Because there are so many distractions for these young drivers, it is imperative that we, as parents, talk to our children each and everyday to remind them that when they are in the car, they have not only their lives at the wheel, but also the lives of other drivers and passengers as well. Texting, music, laughter, food, and drink are only a few of the distractions that must be avoided at all cost. Putting your foot down as a parent and warning, even nagging if you will, may not only save your child's life, but also the lives of countless others. So parents, let's step up, be parents, and get our kids attention to drive safely.
In 1981, when I was a senior at school, I woke up one morning to a phone call that forever changed my perception of driving and safety on the roads. Two of my friends were in a car accident. One friend lost his life as their car slammed into a tree. The other friend was driving and lost his leg as a result. I wrote a poem about this incident ....

 

 

The Memory and Love of You

 

The day began one early morn,

The news was heard,their hearts were torn,

A life was gone, a friend was lost,

Another hurt, his leg the cost.

His friends they met, they talked, they cried,

They couldn't believe that he had died.

"He was too young", that's what they said,

"Why did God call him to His bed?"

 

The night, the rain, the silent fear,

The curve, the tree, his death was near.

Just two began, but one remained,

The ride, the flash, a timeless strain.

Their voices, their hurry, their rush, and scurry,

Their prayer, their tears, within silent fury,

One silent now forevermore,

The other rests at death's still door.

 

November's bright and cheerless day,

All and all they arrived to pray.

Pallbearer's silent tears so gray,

Would nothing hush that dread away?

A Pastor's voice, a heart felt prayer,

So many stood for one not there.

A bed of death, of earth, and stone,

A bed for one to rest alone.

 

The book has closed, the storm has passed,

The day, the hour, the time doesn't last.

The future life is guidance clear,

Life goes on with cautious gear.

Remembering his smiling face,

His cheery jokes, his zest, and grace.

each one will start their day anew,

The memory and love of you.

 

Kari L. Burd

in memory of Randy Tolles and Robbie Wilson

written: December 4, 1981