Sometimes your thoughts are wrapped around death...as my extended family surround my last dear uncle, Waldon Gwinn, in his final hours, I'm reminded of the passing of my Dad over 26 years ago. Time passes, but love only grows...won't Heaven be Glorious!! rp 11/4/11
The sunny morning in the middle of August started out as a normal day. There was a slight breeze blowing as I put my six month old baby girl in the stroller. Donuts sounded good and from our house we could follow the aroma through our neighborhood to the small shop around the corner. Mason, Tramp and I walked pushing Monica in the stroller up to the donut shop as our day began. Back home we settled into a typical summer day, consisting of playtime, naps, lunch, laundry, and all the other things that make up a normal day.
I don’t remember all the details, but I’m sure Mason and the neighborhood boys spent a great deal of time watching Granddaddy. He was in our backyard building a new playhouse. It was getting close to completion and with each passing day they were all anticipating the day it would be finished and they would able to move in. There was a gully in our back yard that was of little use, so my Dad thought it would be an ideal spot for a playhouse. He had built it up on stilts, four post set off the ground about four feet high. On top of the posts he built a 6’ x 8’ platform, which served as the floor of the playhouse. There was a narrow bridge leading from the level back yard spanning the gully to the porch of the playhouse. The bottom portion was framing and plywood and the upper portion was screened in. The roof even had real shingles and there was a miniature screen door to close it off from the flies and mosquitoes. I really don’t know who was more excited about it, Dad or Mason!
Mason and I divided our time between watching Granddaddy, playing with Baby Monica, and spending time across the street with Grandmother. She had a swing between her carport and patio where she and Mason would sit on summer afternoons and play a game guessing what color car would pass down the street next. She had recently fallen out of that swing and was nursing a fractured pelvic bone, so we would go over to help her or keep her company.
The morning passed into noon and Dad went home for lunch. We ate lunch and then settled down for naps. After lunch Dad returned to work on the playhouse and after his nap Mason went over to visit with Grandmother. We had been to Dyersburg the weekend before and had brought back a sack of peaches off of Auntie’s peach tree. They had black spots on their skin, but were very tasty and so I decided to make a cobbler for supper. I was in the kitchen talking on the phone and cutting up peaches at the kitchen sink. I always enjoyed standing at my kitchen sink and looking out onto my deck and tree-filled back yard as I washed dishes or prepared meals. As I hung up the phone and returned to my peaches I noticed something strange out my kitchen window. Dad was lying on the ground by the playhouse. He was an insulin dependent diabetic and I immediately thought his sugar had gotten low and he had passed out, so I ran to help.
That is when my normal day stopped. Completely stopped. Stopped dead in its tracks. It turned into one of those days, those few days in your life that you wish you could walk backwards away from instead of forwards into. One of those few day that you remember the rest of your life and reflect on every detail over and over again until it is embedded in your memory until you have no memory. Running out into the back yard I remember getting closer and closer and thinking that I could not see my Dad breathing. I remember my neighbors coming to help and someone saying they had called 911 and Mark. I remember that somehow my four-year-old Mason was suddenly there and I remember telling him over and over, “Pray, Pray hard for Granddaddy!” I remember running down the street to somehow make the ambulance get there faster and standing in the middle of the street and feeling like ripping my clothes, trying to breathe and not to scream--and praying and praying and praying. When the paramedics arrived, I remember them frantically working with my Dad and then following as they transported him to the hospital. At the hospital, more praying, praying and then the moment when someone came out and told us the news we were somewhat expecting. He was gone.
My Dad who had been there for me my entire life was gone. My Dad who at my birth had scrunched down in the hospital waiting room every time they came out and announce, “It’s a boy for…” and would brighten up every time they would say, “It’s a girl for…” until it was finally a girl for him. My Dad who wanted me named after him and was completely satisfied having me as an only child. My Dad, who decided to stop smoking, and was baptized when I was born, and taught me how to ride a bike. My Dad who taught me how to drive a car, going backwards over and over again down a dusty country road. My Dad who took such good care of my Mom with all of her health issues and spoiled her rotten. My Dad who watched his diet and exercised every day. My Dad who I layed carpet with and hung wall paper with, who had built my kitchen table I ate off of and even the television, cabinet and all, that my children watched every day. My Dad who completely adored my children and would come over and rock Monica any time I need him to so that I could get a shower. How could life go on without this wonderful man I called my Dad?
As I write this, the events of that day took place was over twenty years ago. Life, of course, did go on, and on. And since then there have been many other heart stopping, gut wrenching, not-normal days in my life. And when I reflect on these days it makes me so very grateful for “normal days”. The days we often take for granted. The days we often wish away for the better days around the corner and don’t take the time to cherish them for what they are. Many times I pray, “God, please let this be a normal day, a day I can praise you and see magic in the ordinary gifts that You give me.” Gifts like the sunrise, time spent with my children, good food, my husband’s smile, visiting my Mom at the nursing home, calling Aunt Ruth or a friend, telling someone how good God is, and on and on and on. Sometimes even extra-special days, like birthdays or vacation days, fail to meet up to our expectations. Help us to always realize that normal days are the best days. The Bible teaches us to say, “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.” So take any given day when you laugh a little, cry a little, work a little, play a little, eat a little, sleep a little, read a little, pray a little, walk a little, talk a little, and add it all together for a beautiful gift from God above. Never underestimate the extraordinary blessing of a normal day!
Roberta Pledge
4/20/06
