May 4

Daddy was born on May 4, 1918. He lived to be 98 years old. Last year, on May 4 – his birthday -- Mama said she thought she was getting a cold, but she didn’t seem to feel really sick until Wednesday, May 8. It wasn’t a cold – it was pneumonia. The year before, she had pneumonia at about the same time. We nursed her through then, but last year was too much. She died on May 11, 2024. She was also 98 years old. 

She was an educator for all her career. And her final act was one of teaching: She donated her body to East Carolina University for medical students to learn about anatomy. She graduated from East Carolina, as did her mother, her daughter-in-law, and her grand-daughter. What an act of generosity, and what a legacy!  

This year, on May 4 -- Daddy’s birthday -- we buried her ashes. We did everything we think she wanted us to do. She is buried in exactly the same grave where he is. After eight years of life without him, she is physically where she said she wanted to be. We wrote our messages of love on the box that held her ashes. Our brother put the box in the ground, and my sister and I helped to bury it. It was sweet and sad, and we were surrounded by so much love. 

She was known and loved for the letters she wrote. She thanked people for anything and everything – a plant, a visit, a bucket of peas, a job well done. Those letters were precious. It seemed just right to read 2 Corinthians 3:2-3: “You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by all, and you show that you are a letter of Christ, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets that are human hearts.” She did write on our hearts, inscribing our lives with her love. 

It has been a year and a bit, and I miss her every day.

 

Time

When I walk with my dog, our way passes between the fields, corn on one side and sunflowers on the other. What started as bare ground yielded to faint green as the seeds sprouted. Now the corn is knee high and the sunflowers are growing, too, except in some spots where the deer have eaten the tender stalks. In a few months, the plants will be taller than I am, and my way will be lit with golden sunflowers and tasseled corn. 

Once upon a time, my life was governed by a calendar and a clock – meetings here, meetings there, things to schedule, places to go and people to see, deadlines and timelines. Now, I find myself marking time by how much the corn has grown. It is a different rhythm, sweet and satisfying. I still have things to do, appointments to keep, a calendar, but watching the corn grow and talking to the dog fill me with peace.