Remembering Susan

In Memoriam

As I drove to the funeral home to meet Pastor Dave to arrange for my mother's funeral, the car radio sounded the alert that the space shuttle Columbia was missing as it reentered earth's atmosphere. Unusual contrails had been spotted right over Dallas, and a local newstation was speculating that a fire in Plano might have been caused by falling debris.

Thus, I will forever link in my mind these two events: the shuttle tragedy on Feb. 1, 2003 and my mother's passing on January 31, 2003.

That week a year ago had been a particularly bad one for us. After frenetic activity to get Susan into a clinical trial at M. D. Anderson, we were all set to journey to Houston. But Saturday afternoon, a day before we were to leave, Susan came down with severe abdominal pain and was admitted to Medical City with an intestinal blockage due to the return of her cancer. The surgeon decided to operate on Wednesday. I spent all my waking moments with Susan in her hospital room, and her recovery seemed to be going well. Several of us were in her room Thursday evening when I received a call on my cell phone from Appletree, where mom had recently taken up residence, saying that she was having a heart attack. Mark and I immediately drove there from Medical City and stood on the bumper of the ambulance as we peered in through the rear windows to see the paramedics working on her. Then she was taken to the ER at Richardson Medical where the doctors gave her little chance--at age 99--to pull through. After she was transferred to the ICU Paster Dave urged me to go home and get some rest while Peter stayed to watch over Grandma. She died quietly while he held her hand at 6:44 AM the next morning on the last day of January.

I came across the above photo of Mom while going through some of Susan's picture collections recently. It seems to capture her essence better than some of the more formal poses in front of a professional photographer. I'm not exactly sure the date of the photo, but she was certainly in her upper nineties when it was taken. Yet her sharp mind, her genial sense of humor, her youthful outlook on life all seem to shine through complimented by her favorite pink dress. We always marveled at how she could contort that sweet face to win the "scary face" contest. Even today Mark will bid Susanna to "make a Grandma Tex face" and Susanna will comply by puckering up her lips and dropping her chin, to look remarkably like her great-grandmother doing her scary face impression. Those Flanery genes have certainly been passed on to the latest generation!

In the previous blog about Susan's passing 6 months ago I noted Shari's observation about how Susan was a part of each one of us who knew her. The same could be said about Mom. Her warm and loving personality touched many. I'll always remember her favorite expression: "That'll be nice..." said in response to an offer to do anything for her. It was her Southern way of expressing her desires while being very careful not to be demanding or "too much trouble."

Someday when it comes my turn to "cross the Jordan," I'm sure standing next to the Lord Himself to greet me will be these two incredible women waiting to meet me. No doubt with all the time they've had to spend together on the other side, they will have something really interesting cooked up for me.

In the meantime, in memory of my wonderful and much beloved mother, Peter has restored the original links to the eulogy and sermon given at her funeral a year ago. They are on our homepage.

Six Months

By the waters of Babylon,
there we sat down and wept,
when we remembered Zion. (Psalm 137:1)

Today marks exactly six months since Susan died. However, it was Monday that Psalm 137 came true for me, I guess because Susan died on a Monday 26 weeks ago. At exactly 12:14 PM I found myself kneeling by the side of my bed, on the spot where she died, weeping. They say grief is like a wave that suddenly rises up and sweeps you away without warning. That's how it was with me. All those events of her last few days in this world came back to flood my memory, overwhelming my emotions.

Having confessed (against my macho-influenced better judgment) this “weakness” in my grieving process, I have to say I am making progress in my journey as a recovering griever. I don’t obsess over every picture of Susan that I come across anymore. I am starting to carry on a more normal life just as she would want me to. Last night, for example, I hosted my beloved grandnephew Nate (we call him “Nate-man”) and 25 of his closest friends at my house for his 4th birthday party. Kathy and Dan did all the work, I just supplied the venue. Susan would have been proud of how I scrubbed and mopped and cleaned just like (well almost) she would have done.

Saying this reminds me of the complaint of C. S. Lewis that he and others would forget his late wife, Joy. I fear this too. When I shared this fear with Shari over the Christmas holidays she said something that greatly helped me. She said that a part of Susan is built in to every one of us who knew her and loved her. We might not consciously think about her, but our thought processes and our behaviors have been changed because of her powerful influence on our lives. For instance, as a trivial example, cleaning up the house before a party would not even have registered on my “Richter scale” in my bachelor days. Or even in most of the days of our marriage until the last few years. Now I see that she so shaped my thinking about cleanliness that I can’t even allow a small drip go un-sponged. (And in fact, I then have to put the sponge in the dishwasher—incredible that I would even think of doing that.)

Beyond just the everyday matters of how she ran our household—which I now attempt to imitate—there is the more important influence on what my priorities are. She was into relationships. She knew that relationships were where “loving your neighbor as yourself” was to be found. She did that so beautifully and so quietly and impacted so many lives in her modest, yet zippy way. Now I find myself attempting to follow her in this. I stumble. I even whine at times. But her wisdom about loving others, sacrificially, engulfs me and won’t let me go.

Scripture tells us that the Holy Spirit lives in us who believe. Though He be God Almighty, His witness is a still small voice that directs our path. Part of that voice, I believe, is His reminding us of those who have gone before, and how they have run their race of sanctification.

Rejoice, my beloved! The joy of your race has infected us all and will not let us go.

The Camellia

I saw it out of the corner of my eye when I went out to tell the yard guy that he'd missed a spot with his leaf blower. I don't know exactly why my regular lawn crew was out blowing my leaves on a cold winter day, but they were, and I was particularly concerned about a patch of fallen leaves that lay on a tract of ground where my Carissa hollies were. I yelled at him over the cacophony of his gas-powered leaf blower and he heard me and turned it off. Since I don't speak Spanish and he doesn't speak English I had to motion to him as to where the spot was that he missed. And that's when I saw it, just as I turned to lead him to the unblown spot. It was pinkish red, a single bloom on a camellia bush that we'd put in that spot maybe two years back. Never before had it bloomed. But here it was, a particularly large and healthy bloom on the coldest day of our unusually mild winter.

But then I forgot about it. Until just now, this evening. As I was reading some old blogs about Susan I recalled how I no longer had rose buds to cut and place next to her photo. But just in time here was the camellia doing its thing in winter. In better times when we were both healthy and living in West Plano, our house at the time had a small patio on the north side with a camellia bush that bloomed, like this one, in winter. It was a nice touch contrasting with the otherwise brownishness of the season. And so in the pitch dark I staggered around the back yard groping for the bush until I finally found it and duly cut off the bloom, carried back to the house, placed it in an impressive sort of bowl, and placed it by Susan's photo: a new one that I just came across with a wide smile on her lips. (How I loved her smile!)

Do camellia blooms, and rosebuds, and rainbows on her birthday mean anything? The scientist in me shouts: "no, they are all coincidence. Forget about them. Don't be sentimental!" But the grieving widower in me looks for any sign that she is still alive, still somehow communicating with me. On my desk I have her photo. It's the striking one taken from the original one where she is standing with arms folded. Except I cropped this copy with just her face filling the whole frame. Those eyes! She seems so alive in that photo. As I stare at it I become almost hypnotized, and even wait for her to speak.

But the photo is silent, just like my life in this lonely house.

But I have resolved with the new year to "gird up my loins" like she would want me to. No more moping around feeling sorry for myself. No more weeping at old photos of her beaming face from her hospital face, so full of love even in the midst of her suffering and weakness. She goes on, in a life that is unimaginable in its glory. And mine does too. Even in the winter of my life a camellia can still bloom. It testifies to the glory and surprises of its Designer and Creator. I can only hope to do the same.

The Seminar

Today Peter and I are cleaning out the attic and the closets as he prepares to embark on his new life as a seminary graduate; and I prepare to embark on my new life as a single person. As I sifted through the jumbled contents of one of the many boxes that he had scattered around the upstairs gameroom, I came across a slick-covered book entitled "Quadrant II Time Management." It was the notebook from a Stephen Covey seminar that I had taken, I think around 1992. As I leafed through the pages I came to one labeled "Exercise Eight: INFLUENTIAL PERSON." Apparently the instructor had us select one individual who had been influential in our lives and then, with this person in mind, fill out several paragraphs of information to help us use what we had learned that might be useful in our own living.

As you might expect, I chose Susan. Here's what I filled out:

What meaningful experiences have you shared? What have you learned?

* Intimacy - completely in all good/bad areas of our personal lives
* Childrearing
* Serious illness - a new appreciation of enduring qualities
* Death of parents
* Blessing of children's maturity

What paradigms or characteristics does this person possess that have influenced you? What do you admire?

* Extreme sensitivity to others' needs
* Proactivity in meeting them
* Ability to listen, deeply & really, to others
* Understanding beyond mere facts--intuition--right brain
* "Doing vs Being"
* Doing the details

By following this person's example, what can you do as a friend, leader or parent to make a difference in the lives of others?

* Listen to others more effectively
* Take action, rather than procrastinating
* Take into account the total emotional package of others

These lines speak for themselves, and there is almost nothing I can add since she continued to do and be all that I sensed she was in 1992 right to the end. But I probably should elaborate on the "being vs. doing" phrase. Throughout our married life we carried on a lively discussion about lifestyles. In these discussions I was the "be-er" and she was the "do-er." I would immerse myself in theological books, or scientific papers, trying to figure out what life (or the universe) was all about. Contemplation was my hallmark. She, however, needed little in the way of such a thing. She knew intuitively what was the right course of action, and grew impatient when we had to stand around and talk about it. She was two or three moves ahead, as a chessplayer might say, while I was still setting up the pieces.

Now that she is gone, there is no do-er to get this be-er to move on. The dulcimer (that I was going to learn in retirement) lies silent with no one to play it for. The photos ready to be placed in the albums lay in jumbled heaps with no one to share their joys with. Even the bike--on which I have spent countless hours in "being"--lies unridden in the garage on a winter day too cold for this rider to venture outdoors. But someday even winter ends, and spring finally comes. How that can be possible for me I cannot see without her. But I will never forget the glorious springs, summers and autumns that marked life with the most wonderful person in the world.