"Remembering Christmas Past" by Wren-Wren, illustration by Aldwyn

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"Christmas In Western Kansas, 1937" by Aldwyn

A Christmas candle is a lovely thing: it makes no noise at all, but softly gives itself away…   -Eva Logue

The summer had been full of heat, dust clouds and wet sheets tacked over windows to keep out Western Kansas dirt.  This country was a land of extremes.  Monday could begin with a still, white, hot landscape and finish with black rolling clouds full of soil and the makings of a tornado.  Everyone talked about the weather, as rain was the difference between hunger and good times.  A lack of moisture not only brought crop failure but also a loss of income for all as well. 

We were lucky, for our father was a rural mail carrier and one of the few to receive a regular paycheck.  People would often wait at their mailbox to pass the time of day and hear local news; it might be their only entertainment of the week.   Times were hard.  I remember mother and father talking about the young family across the street who had only a pot of beans to see them through the week.  There were three children, but all appeared happy and satisfied with their lot. 

The fall had been somewhat unsettled as my older brother had entered the first grade and I was forced into the position of entertaining myself.  Utterly bored, I began to sit and talk with our jersey calf in the back pen by the garage.  I can still recall that dusty, dry coral as I lay against her ribs and listened to gentle, bovine breathing.  December turned cold, drought conditions persisted and the winds continued to blow.   

Christmas preparations began to make sense in a convoluted sort of way.  Mother had made a silhouette of three wise men, camels and the Bethlehem skyline out of blue cellophane.  She placed this on the large front window so that the light could shine through.  It was magic.  I could spend hours on my knees looking at the scene while hanging over the back of the divan. 

That year the city fathers had decided to hold a holiday festival at the public school gymnasium.  It was probably the only material part of the season that a good portion of the community experienced.  The large crowd was overpowering to this small boy not use to anything beyond the congregation at church service.  Their voices seemed a constant roar as everyone seemed to be talking at once.  A school program was then presented, proud parents exchange gossip, and I became tired and sleepy.

Suddenly there was a breeze of expectation from the back of the room.  People began to laugh and call comments to each other, moving aside to create a narrow lane toward the stage.  Being about three and one half feet tall, I could see nothing but legs and a shiny gym floor.  Then he was next to us, sporting a large cotton beard and wearing that famous red suit trimmed with white fur.  The boots resembled our father’s go-to- milk-the-cow footwear: black rubber with traces of mud on the heel. 

Everyone seemed to know this ho, ho’ing giant of the season.  He stopped next to my brother, reached into his sack and pulled out an immense bag of ribbon candy.  Some remarks were made about good and bad before handing over the riches.  He then stepped back and turned to me.  More words were spoken in loud, hearty tones, but I failed to remember much beyond a wide eyed unease.  At that point he duplicated the gift gesture, gave a hearty laugh, and disappeared into the crowd.  I could only stand and stare at that large cellophane bag of candy in my hands.  What a treasure! 

Christmas Eve could not have been more than a couple of days away as we were busy making our wish list.  Father had cut our tree on a tall bluff in the red hills.  It was decorated with shiny strips of silver, funny shaped glass ornaments, a blue reflector on the top and two strings of beautiful lights.  The bulbs were shaped to resemble objects of our seasonal world.  My favorites were Santa Claus and Snowman. 

Thirty years later I was to find that same string of lights hanging in the window of a shoeshine parlor on Main Street in Baker City, Oregon.  I stepped into the shop and shared my story with the old fellow who ran the business.  When I finished, he smiled, reached over to unscrew a snowman from the light string and handed me a piece of my past.  It was impossible to express the depths of my gratitude.  He is dead now, but every Christmas that moment of companionship is renewed as I unwrap that beloved ornament.

I have difficulty in remembering the night before Christmas except for the intense excitement of something about to happen.  Sleep was difficult to come by as I drifted in and out of consciousness.  A dark silence had begun to creep about the house after our parents put the younger brother to bed and settled into their sleep.

A short/long while later I aroused to hear a strange noise above and on the roof of the house.  It was the sound of sleigh bells and the swish of metal runners.  Glorious, glorious, glorious!  I hugged the dark in my warm cocoon and believed.  Sleep comes easily to the innocent..

Blessings to you, Aldwyn.

Sledding on Papo's Hill -- A Magical Moment in Time... by C. Burr

The year before my father-in-law, Albert, passed away, I drove him out to the farm where he grew up north of St. Francis, Kansas.  The ground upon which he lived into his teens is rolling, rocky, and not quite as promising as neighboring farms bursting with abundant wheat and corn fields. 

No stately barn rests on the Burr piece of land, which is now littered with several decaying wood frames and fence posts.  Albert pointed out where their horse was housed in a squatty, leaning, bare-bones barn.  He described fruit trees that once grew behind the boarded-up house.   As a boy, he gathered eggs in a now-roofless chicken house and eighty years later, he could still shake his head when remembering the dreaded job of cleaning the separator in the tiny cream-separating house (about twice the size of the outhouse).  In the family album, there is an old black-and-white photo of Albert with his dog, Pete, in front of this small building.  

As we drove around the yard, Albert spoke fondly of his home and the great times he had as a boy: a swimming hole, not much larger than a ditch; the sticker-laden ground near the hog pen where the Burr Boys played baseball; and a quarter-mile-long hill that sloped into the yard.   He said that the hill was perfect for sledding.  Kids would come from neighboring farms – twenty or more—and use grain scoops for sleds.  Because it was dark, their parents would line up along the snowy hill with lanterns, so their children could see the path. The scene must have been magical.  

As Albert weakened and made several trips to the hospital, I decided to paint the sledding-by-lantern-light scene that Albert had described to me almost a year earlier.   I hoped he could see the painting of “Papo’s Hill” before it was too late.   

In June,  Albert was admitted for his final stay in the hospital, where he waited to be transferred to the retirement home.  When I showed him the painting, he lacked the strength to speak, but his face glowed, almost like the lanterns on the canvas. He smiled and nodded.

Our dear father and Papo died June 16, 2014

--C. Burr

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“The Birthing of a Soul: Lessons from the Dying” by Hospice Nurse & Elder Debuli

     

“Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.” 

--Rabindranath Tagore

               My work was my passion.  I was passionate about helping people at the end of their lives.  All of them, except many of the very elderly, wanted to live, but if this was not possible, they wanted a good death, free from pain as possible, with dignity, and having their choices honored.  Yet even when a person has contemplated his own death, it comes as a surprise, even a shock to hear those words from your doctor that the time is close.  Still there is a beauty and an urgency to living the final days of one’s life.

               I have a mental picture of walking into a hospital room or a home filled with family members. Their eyes-- filled with fears, questions, and sometimes despair-- were all on me.  Trying to put all my cares of the day aside, my first job was to listen and speak as little as possible and hear deeply their stories.  There was often anger, tears, fears, and stories of the limits of modern medicine that often gave false hope to the dying and their families. Space and time needed to be created for them to tell their very personal story.  

            Everyone, including the shy and reluctant ones, needs to be heard, and most importantly the patient needs to tell her own story.   “Hurrying delays the things of God” is especially true in these moments.  

            As a hospice nurse, I also came to understand the importance of hope, since the future is unknown to us all.  Hope comes in many forms and as the dying process unfolds, it changes.  Miracles can happen but are rare; most hopes center around planning for things in the future that one wants to do—see a baby born, take a special trip, have a family gathering.  And ever so delicately this holding onto hope must be tempered with honesty about the most likely outcome of death, or trust will never be established with the hospice team.     

 

             The dying are always our teachers.  In the Middle Ages, hospices ran by religious orders were gathering places for soldiers and the wounded from the Holy Wars, including the sick and dying.  Persons gathered around the dying to learn their wisdom. They believed that as their body grew weaker, their spirit grew stronger and more luminous.  I felt this too, as each family taught me something different.  It seems persons can orchestrate their own death.  They have choices—to be alone or with a cherished person or have a whole family with them in those last days. Every person dies in their own unique way.  Still as the waning weeks turn into only days, similarities appear:  the body gets weaker, the need for food and then drink fades and most dying withdraw and want only their most cherished persons at their side.  Words become less important than touch and simple comforts. 

One veteran died on July 4^th as city fireworks illumined the sky and his whole family surrounded his bedside.  Their grief was tempered by the synchronicity apparent in that moment.  A sweet elderly woman died after her stepson finally arrived; he made a long trip to see her, then sat in his hotel room unable to take the next step.  Finally, after many urgings from hospice team and family, he came.  His frail mother in a voice barely audible said to her slightly unkempt, middle-aged stepson--“don’t ever change; we love you just the way you are.”  And then she took a breath and was gone. 

 One woman died the day her daughter returned.  As her daughter was sharing stories of her mother’s difficult life, we bathed her together, ever so gently cleansing this tired woman’s body.  We were laughing and crying with the memories of a life finally forgiven and loved in spite of the trials she had suffered.  Love was there as she quietly and peacefully took her last breath.   

Sometimes the worst wounds are not physical and these are much harder to soften.  Naturally, there is an urgency to the days at the end of life:  to gather people in, tell the stories surrounding this life, and mend the broken parts.  The mending can often be done, but sometimes the cracks are too deep.  When the healing is impossible, we as caregivers must just try to be kind, give mercy and be a presence as a counterpoint to the emotional pain that has been endured.  

 Ultimately, dying, as life itself, is a mystery.  As I told families over and over, we see through a mirror dimly on this side of life.  In the end, these five simple things are important to say:  Forgive me.  I forgive you.  Thank you.  I love you.  Goodbye.  When I started hospice work, I thought the deaths would be agonizing, terrible.  What I learned was that they were almost always peaceful.  

Dying is sacred; it is a birthing of the soul.  Yes, those around the bedside feel helpless to reverse the course of life’s end, but at the same time, their presence is sacred and affirms this precious life.

                                                   

--Elder Debuli

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