Rising again from sorrow’s ashes.
Coming up from the drowning of dreams.
Grasping for the hand of God, who had never for a second,
forgotten me in my sorrow.
Clinging to God who loves me; resting in God who rescued me from the drowning of my dreams.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
Not sure how to bid you farewell.
Paths led in the damnable direction of an ending God refused to halt.
Ice cold hand in my palm; life leaving that dying man whom I loved three decades of my life.
Early Sunday morning on the first of September. Pitter patter of raindrops on the petals of the yellow marigolds planted in those blue window boxes. World outside the bedroom window, sun’s early light, birds serenade like a chorus.
Our lives together unraveling; that long road slamming to an ending neither of us wanted.
Doors closing; final curtain falling.
I place a final kiss on your forehead, remind you that I will love you whether you are here or not.
The magnitude of your life’s earthly ending swallowed me up that early September morning.
How will I face the looming darkness without you by my side?
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
Early Sunday morning I sat at my dining room table with my heart heavy with sadness. Rain clouds had cleared and the morning looked fresh as the wind gently moved yellow lantana and pink and orange zinnias around in my garden.
I looked away from the window briefly and felt my heart fill with sadness and my eyes with tears.
Then like a miracle, like a balm sent to give me comfort, I saw the fluttering of magnificent yellow and blue butterfly wings alight on the pink zinnia petals in the middle of my garden.
I just sat at my window and in amazement drank in this reminder that although the world is filled with pain, injustice, and grief, there still are those little surprises that God sends us to remind us that in the darkness there is still beauty.
This is a female Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly. She simply sat on the zinnia as I carefully approached her to snap a picture. Surprisingly, she simply fluttered her wings as if she knew that I needed to be near her, that I needed her reminder that in the ugliness of this life there is incredible beauty, and goodness.
Did God send this beautiful butterfly to remind me that I am not alone, that I can still smile despite the tears that plague me, to remind me that there is always hope and that joy is still possible?
God is God of miracles and I believe he sends us what we need at the exact right moment.
Thanks be to God, Our Father who is always with us, who always shines a light in the darkness.
Perhaps even sending a reminder on the wings of a butterfly.. . .
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
To pause means to briefly stop an action.
Before resuming it again.
On the other side of this extended pause in my grief process is the looming finality of loss that I cannot even utter.
If I don’t utter it then maybe it will just wilt like a dying flower that doesn’t get water. Maybe it will just go away. Wither like scorched leaves.
So, I am standing in the pause knowing that in the next few weeks (maybe days) that I will have to face the other side of this extended pause.
I will have no other choice but to face the darkness that is on the other side of this pause.
I will have no other choice but to accept the inevitable.
I often stand in my garden and just stare at the little statue of Mother Mary and the pink rain lilies that grow near the statue. I often read the garden stone that reminds me to walk by faith.
By faith.
God is supposed to walk beside me.
I wish Jesus would reach down here in this dark tunnel of grief and lift me up into his protecting arms and hold me and wipe my tears away.
I hunger for the peace that only God can give.
My heart is so very broken and I am lost down here in this dark tunnel. . .
I lift up my eyes unto the hills. . .just like the psalmist wrote. . .
My help comes from my Lord, maker of Heaven and Earth.
I am standing in the pause.
And I am gripped by sadness.
I am powerless to change the trajectory of all of this.
I give it over to God to comfort me and lift me out of this dark tunnel.
And to walk with me as I prepare to step into the other side of this pause.
Please pray for me and my family.
Thank you.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
The ocean is calming. It reminds me of the immensity of the earth. Tides roll in and roll out no matter what is happening in this life. Like the sun and the moon, the ocean cannot be stopped. It is an unstoppable force. When I stand on the shore, I consider my powerlessness to control the constant rhythm of what God has ordained: the unchanging nature of this earth. Forever, the tides will roll in and roll out. Forever, the moon will rise and the sun will set. And, the cycle will repeat itself into eternity. We mortals cannot change the inevitable fact that we cannot control what God has ordained.
Death is one of those facts that we cannot control. We can delay it, but truth is it is a fact. It will come for us all one day. Just like the ocean tides rolling in and rolling out, and the sun rises and the moon setting, death is an endless cycle that we can not control.
Grief at the nearing death of my husband, who has been diagnosed with cancer, has made me step back and consider just how little we can control in this life. It has made me more aware of the brevity of this life. One moment the world is our oyster and we have the bright shining future ahead of us; the next moment pain grips us and we are in the throes of illness in which our strength drains away from us.
In the past several weeks, I have struggled to make sense of all of my emotions. I have searched my heart and I have called out to God in Heaven for answers as to why this has happened to him.
Why?
I don’t know if there is any acceptable reasons that would take away the pain of impending loss.
So, I have stepped back from all my questions. I have laid my burdens at the cross and asked Jesus to carry me through the darkness, through the pain, through the future that looms lonely and unknown.
The other day I went to the waterway and walked on the shore; I thanked God for the sunshine, for the cool ocean lapping against the fallen oak trees that had been uprooted in the last hurricane in 2018.I sat on a log and studied the little sand crabs scurrying into the sand. Seagulls glided across the vibrant blue sky. A hawk alighted on the branch of a cedar tree behind me in the maritime forest.
Life will surely go on after we all have left this earth.
So, I have learned that from these past few months.
And I have learned to take a break and to enjoy the beauty of the day and the night that God has blessed us with.
Christ instructed us in Matthew 11:28-29: Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
Rest unto your souls.
That’s what I have needed in the past few days: rest unto my soul.
So, I have taken a break.
A break. And, I have turned my attention towards Our Lord and I have found rest.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
Time takes it toll.
Large families eventually downsize and not because they intend to.
Life takes its toll.
This is an old photo of my daddy’s oldest brother Willie Edward. My grandparents, Oscar and Effie, had seven sons and three daughters who had equally large families. I remember Sunday afternoons in Georgia with all my cousins. We ran down the red clay road and skipped across the railroad track in front of my parent’s small white clapboard house. Deep blue hydrangeas perfumed the sweltering Southern air. An ancient cedar of Lebanon stood sentinel at the edge of our yard. Fried chicken wafted through the open kitchen window. Voices of my favorite aunts, Myrtle and Elytrum, held a higher pitch than any of the others. My uncles gathered on the front porch and recalled the days of their youth. I would sit down on the bottom step and soak in the details of their lives. Uncle Carlton had served in the U.S. Navy in World War II and I believe the phrase “cuss like a sailor” may have been created just because of him. I loved him dearly. He passed away at the age of forty-four from a heart condition. My heart still breaks when I recall him coming in the house on Christmas mornings so long ago with a toy bubble gum machine for me. Each year it was a toy bubble game machine that was actually a piggy bank in disguise. Maybe he was trying to hint to me to save money.
Time takes it toll.
All my uncles and aunts have passed into the arms of Jesus. Their days of laughter and all their days of struggle have long since left this earthly realm.
It is often said that we live on in memory.
Yeah. My memories make me laugh, then make me cry. My heart aches to just hear Aunt Elytrum and Aunt Myrtle’s voices through the kitchen window as they drown out the voices of my other aunts. My aunt Mary lingers in my memory with her sweet raisin and cinnamon cookies.
Daddy wearing his brown fedora with the little purple feather in the hatband is a bittersweet memory. As you can see, Uncle Willie Edward is wearing a fedora. None of my uncles would have been seen without a fedora. Equally, my aunts would never have been seen without heels, gloves, and a matching handbag paired with a beautiful dress. I guess that’s where I got my fashion sense.
Oh, those delicate, precious memories they left me with.
Aunt Elytrum preaching about Jesus and his enduring love.
Daddy and Mama with their silences, their grievances, their losses, and their small victories.
Time swept them away from me with its cruel hand.
Now, I need all of them: my uncles, my aunts, my cousins, my mama and my daddy.
My sister Sara Jo died of cancer at only 49 years old. Her with those impossibly beautiful dark eyes that were as close to ebony as any shade could get. Her rich dark hair that cascaded down her shoulders and curled just a little around her high cheekbones. Painful to remember her. Oh, what I would give to just hug her again. She always smelled of warm coffee and Chanel number 5. The loss of her is unbearable, even thirty-three years later.
Time.
I need my big sister Sara Jo to go shopping with me. I need a hug from my big sister.
But, she is in the arms of Jesus now.
And I am here in this world at nearly sixty-three years old tallying up my losses.
My brother George drowned at fifteen years old the summer before I was born. I have a photo of him: a tall young man with thick curly dark hair and a hauntingly sad glimmer in his large dark eyes. Perhaps his soul knew he would not be long on this earth.
His spirit left this earth and went home to Jesus before Mama and Daddy were ready to let him go. Perhaps that explained the sadness that lingered in their eyes.
Time marches on.
Now, my husband of twenty-seven years is dying of cancer.
And, I don’t know what to do with this fact.
I comfort myself, though, by looking at family photos of the uncles and aunts whom I loved. I comfort myself by remembering Mama and Daddy. I comfort myself by remembering that Jesus stands at the end of all this with his arms wide open to receive me and to wipe away all my tears.
Once upon a time, I was a little girl with several uncles who loved me dearly and several aunts who loved me, too. I never forget that love they gave. They called me Mockingbird because I was always speaking.
I draw my strength and my faith from them.
They taught me to be strong and to be relentless in pursuit of the right things: love, honor, and faith.
Love, honor, and faith are enduring qualities that even time can never erase.
When I say “uncle,” I remember love, laughter, and joy.
When I say “aunt,” I remember happiness, fried chicken and oatmeal raisin cookies.
Funny how memories are.
We live on in memories.
I know that one day when my struggles on this earth are finished I will see them all once again.
I will have joy for all eternity.
Because Jesus is on the other side of all of this.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
Family photo is property of Jenny W. Andrews
Mindfulness.
Staying in the present moment. Breathe in, breathe out.
We’ve all heard this New Age mantra about staying in the present moment. Be mindful. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I am sure some readers will say that I have missed the point altogether, but please respect my point of view as you read. I am not trying to change your point of view if you find comfort in “being in the present moment.” I surely would never begrudge anyone if breathing in and out and staying in the present moment comforts them. Great! More power to you. Carry on!
But, what if the present moment is filled with suffering?
But, what if the present moment stings like a swarm of bees stabbing away at all that you love and hold dear?
But, what if the present moment is unbearably sorrowful?
What if you would give the universe just to escape the present moment?
What if you don’t want to be in the present moment?
Mindfulness?
I actually want to escape this present moment. I don’t want to sit on a mat, close my eyes and breathe in and out (actually I breathe in and out automatically; it’s called respiration).
I want to take action. I want to change this present moment. I want to execute strategies to tackle this sorrow. I want to be proactive. I don’t want to sit and be mindful. . .
It hurts too much to stay in this moment.
I want to act. I want to move away from this present moment. I don’t want to accept the inevitable. I want to fight until the bitter end to save this person whom I love. I refuse to concede to defeat.
Mindfulness doesn’t fit in with who I am.
I am restless. I am not good at being still. I know I should be still (as my previous post stated).
But, I simply can’t stop expecting a miracle. I believe God is God of miracles. I believe God wants me to be still, though. Be still and wait on Him. I will try. Each day I will try to be still and wait on God to do His will.
If that means sitting quietly and breathing in and out, then I will do it.
I just don’t like this moment.
It hurts too much.
It is unbearably sorrowful.
I need to catch my breath because I simply cannot breathe when my soul hurts like this.
Breathe in; breathe out.
Be mindful of the days that God has blessed me with and pray for courage to be still.
And just trust God in this present moment.
Copyright 2024 Jenny W. Andrews
Photo is original photography of Jenny W. Andrews
Being still.
Not an easy action to actually do, especially when the world as you know it is rapidly changing, and you have to accept the inevitable loss of the person you love. Not an easy action to come face to face with your loved one’s suffering; not an easy action to know the inevitable ending of a life together. Not a planned way you had intended to stroll into your golden years.
There is a phrase “life is short.” Yeah. Well, we say that, but it is shocking when you come face to face with that realization. It is a stinging, soul-shattering, slap, no, make that a rolled up fist punch that knocks the breath out of you and knocks you into the hard cold cement beneath your feet.
Be still.
Psalm 46:10 tells us “Be still and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.”
Be still.
Well, I am trembling.
And I am begging God to help me be still in this torrential rain, in this earthquake, in this cyclone of approaching, soul-shattering loss.
Matthew 14 tells of how Peter became afraid when he and the other disciples saw Jesus walking on the sea, and how when Jesus bid Peter to come to him Peter panicked because of the strong winds. Peter become afraid and began to sink. Peter cried out to Jesus to save him from sinking. Immediately Jesus reached for Peter and rescued him from sinking. Jesus said to Peter “O, thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?’ Matthew 14:30.
Jesus immediately rescued Peter. Jesus stretched out his hand and caught Peter.
I wish Jesus would catch me up in his arms right now and carry me safely to shore.
For right now all I can do right now is be still.
Be still and know that Jesus is with me forever, and that all I have to do is call on his name.
Be still. I have to focus on Jesus in this storm. His outstretched hands reach for me and I hunger for the peace that only he can give.
Please pray for me.
Thank you.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2024
Photo is the property of Jenny W. Andrews
On January 21st, my cousin Betty died of cancer. Her last days were spent with family. Hospice provided the necessary in-home care with a morphine drip. Cancer is excruciatingly painful and nasty. She was down to only fifty-nine pounds when she died.
On my cousin Libby’s last visit with Betty, she told Betty that she loved her so much; Betty, although weakened, sat up and said “I love you more” with emphasis on the word “more.”
On this cold, rainy, and dreary Saturday night in the midst of winter and sorrow I ponder the meaning of this life, of the space of years that Betty lived, that I have lived, that we all have lived. What is the sum total of our days from the hour of a birth until our final breath? What have we all done here on this earth in that space allotted to us between our first breath and our last? Did we say “I love you” enough? Did we spend enough time with those who meant the most to us? Did we share the treasures that Our Lord blessed us with? Were we petty and cruel? Were we apathetic and unforgiving? Did we waste our hours in front of a computer screen or television screen when we could have been sitting across a table drinking coffee and laughing with that person we loved most in the entire world? Did we lend a hand to the lonely and lost? Did we share? Did we love? What are the sum of our days?
I cannot go back and relive one lost second of my life. If I could, I would gather all my cousins around me and we would spend endless hours just laughing and talking and drinking sweet tea and eating pecan pie way into the late hours of the night.
It is said that time waits for nobody. This is true. You nor I can stop its passage. You nor I have the power to go back and spend one more second with those whom we loved. Once time passes, it is gone forever.
I plan to call my cousin Libby tonight and make plans to spend a week with her in the spring. This life is so precious and fragile; none of us are guaranteed tomorrow.
Libby and I talked earlier about how Betty is home with Our Lord and that she is no longer suffering. I truly believe this to be the case. God created us and we return to Him. I truly believe that one day I will have a homecoming and I will see my Lord face to face and that I will see Betty and I will see all those whom I have loved in this life.
This life is not the end; death is not the end. Our spirits are eternal.
For now, I say Good night Betty, but I know that at the end of these earthly days, I will be reunited with her and all those whom I have loved.
Good night, Betty.
Copyright 2020 Jenny W. Andrews
Jenny Grace's Poetry and Creative Writing Techniques 