PIeces of Heaven

Pieces of Heaven

by Lindsey H. 

Originally published in the Oct./Nov. 2008 issue of Country Woman Magazine

To those who have never seen a meteor shower in person, you can not comprehend the absolute wonder you have missed. As a twelve year old, I almost lost my chance to witness this surreal beauty. It was the week of Thanksgiving, an appropriate holiday for what we were to experience. My mom had heard that the Leonid shower would be displaying itself that year, stronger and more vibrant than it had in more than a hundred years. She was excited and anxious to see it. Ever the dutiful weather-watcher, she read the forecast. It dampened her spirits. Mine too. A cloudy night was predicated. And, despite our wishful thinking, a cloudy night it was. There was no way for us to see even one falling star.

I didn’t dwell on my initial disappointment. We had the usual bedtime routine and everyone hunkered down for a good night’s sleep, although there were a few extra bodies aside from our family of seven. Two of my aunts, their children and my grandmother had joined us for the holiday and were staying through the end of the week. Mom had excitedly told them about our chance to see the shower, but as I said, the excitement was short-lived.

I was sleeping peacefully, hard even, in my bedroom when sometime in the night I was awakened by a hand tapping my shoulder. “Lindsey!” Mom whispered, scattering my dreams into bits. “Lindsey, if you want to see something really neat, come downstairs!” In my half-conscious state, I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. I, with heavy eyelids, glanced at the clock. It read half past one. Grumbling to my own thoughts, I slumped out of bed, fumbled around for my flip-flops and slowly made my way down the stairs. When I had come to the end of that excursion, Mom was nowhere in sight. Grumbling more, I noticed the back door open a little. Logically, I went out of it.

On our play set, sitting on the edge of the big yellow slide, Mom sat staring up at the sky with something akin to childlike pleasure on her face. I followed her gaze and, puzzled, looked back at her again. I didn’t see anything spectacular, just a sky blanketed with unbroken, grey clouds. Pulling me over beside her, she pointed. On second glance, I understood. The sky was not completely covered. Just over our house, a gap in the clouds was positioned, like a small peephole into heaven. Through it you could see the stars trapped in their firmament, shining as brightly as ever on a mid-western summer eve. I marveled; the rest of the sky was choked with overcastting. How could that one little spot stand, strange and defiant, right above us?

Mom whispered, “I wanted to see the shower so badly, I prayed that just a little window would be opened so I could see a few of the meteors. There won’t be a shower like this again in my lifetime. I just couldn’t miss it.” She told me that she had seen a few falling stars already and described their glory to me. I wished to see them too, but it appeared the meteors were through showing themselves when I got there. Wondering whether or not the Almighty would answer two prayers that night, I silently asked in my heart to just see one meteor for myself. We waited breathlessly, searching that little corner with all the hope we had. Then, as fleeting as a firefly in flight, I saw a streak of fire cross the hole. Then we saw not only one, but several within a few minutes. It was beautiful, just as she said. My heart warmed with gratitude and pleasure. Soon we noticed our little window began to widen. By miraculous measures, it grew, dispersing the cover with unbelievable swiftness. I felt the gentle winds that were working this alteration.

I didn’t realize how cold I’d gotten, sitting there in shorts and a t-shirt, without a blanket or coat to shield me against the November cold. I told Mom I was going in to get a quilt. Grinning, she told me to help her wake the other women. They would not have forgiven us if we let them miss the experience. We got up the groggy girls and traipsed out to finish the show, this time armed with an assortment of blankets. I found a cozy perch on top of the play set, while my aunts and mother found spots on the swings or stood on the lawn. To our utter amazement, the sky had completely opened up, all the clouds gone for miles. We had full view of the meteor shower, raining at its fullest.

Bright streaks crossed the sky again and again, breaking through the darkness like fiery pieces of the heavens. I swallowed a thick lump in my throat and hid a few smiling tears, the sight’s beauty moved me so. More important than their beauty, we believed those meteors were a gift to us. For as long as any could be seen, we watched. When the steady flow had dwindled to one or two every ten minutes, we reluctantly went back inside. The next morning the men folk out on indignant looks and complained that we had not woken them too. But the truth was, we had tried to wake them but, like hibernating bears, they had been dead asleep! Remembering that Thanksgiving week, my mother and I will ever recall the gratitude we felt for the answer to a simple prayer and the chance to see what seemed an impossible, celestial sight.

The Peak

Written in Feb. 2010

Your breathing haltingly grinds as the top comes into view

Straining for the last, stifled steps of resolve, you struggle for strength

To complete the last legs of your journey’s passage

But something mocks you, knowing it is not quite enough

The slope behind was rocky and singed with ample memories

Of pieces of sweetness and harshness combined

Of strained repressions and glimpses of sanctioning power

When you were bound to steadfastness and stuck to the plan

But brief faulty moments told you to lie to the story

That you’d written yourself long ago

Pressing onward and upward, you shake off the deceit

And go for the prize at the peak

The harsh-combing winds greet you at the top and casually turn

Your hopes into confusion and regrets unbidden

For looking behind, it does not look as glorious as before

When you could see from a biased perspective

Tucking dreams and feelings around you, seems as if all was wasted

For a pithy flawed moments the pity consumes

But another response enters through and says

No experience is unnecessary for weaning you from a pale existence

Bolstered and forthright, the challenge to make the future

A sanctified one with a liberating perspective

Of how you will react when acted upon in time

Renews the ideals and heals the blows to your past

Perhaps the valley below will be the true goal you had envisioned

Perhaps the goal was not the top, but a gentle

Descent into the wizened frame of mind that comes from

The testing outlines and hastening of knowledge

Perhaps you will realize that the peace below far outweighs the view

From the top of the peak’s cold winds

And see that your past was vitally void

Of the true honors that await your receipt

Unusual Turn of Events

Unusual Turn of Events

By Lindsey H.

---

Posted on Saturday, 17 June 2006

Mary debated, narrowing her eyes. Collins or piano. Attentions split as they were she sat down and stared unhappily at the people crowded into the small room.

At her side, another person sat frowning with a crease in his brow. His eyes shifted to the woman across the room again and again, towards the one who spoke with too much gaiety to Mr. Wickham. Resentment and bitterness encroached upon his careful nature.

To his left sat another frowning creature. Small and fair, elegant in form and manner, Miss Jane Fairfax watched enviously as her fiancée flirted with Miss Woodhouse and the youngest Miss Bennets. She was as mad as a proper young lady could be, seething inside.

Together in uncanny unison they sighed. Startled, they looked at each other. 

Mr. Darcy asked, "Unhappy, ladies?" Both nodded and sighed again.

"Nobody seems to care about us." stated Jane with a glance towards her rival, looking just in time to see Frank kiss her hand again. If he did that one more time during the night, she would lose her supper.

After a few wistful moments of silence, Darcy slapped his hands upon his thighs, startling them. "Girls, I have just the thing!"

They huddled eagerly, conferring and plotting. For several minutes they bent, determining their course of action. It wouldn't be hard. After all what had they to lose, other than their dignity? Each nodded and pledged their part.

Mary stood and cantered over to Lizzy and her nauseously attentive companion and proclaimed, "Come Lizzy, Mr. Wickham, let us start up a dance. I want to play Grimstock."

The surprised couple stared at her, but readily agreed and led the way as the leading couple. The others complied. Frank and Emma, Mr. Collins and Jane (the former feeling rather pleased at having taken her up, knowing it a perfect chance to increase her affections), Mr. Bingley took up Kitty, and Lydia got Mr. Darcy, much to her utter dismay. The only two outsiders left were Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Bennet, who were content to discuss the benefits of carrot juice.

"Ah, Mr. Woodhouse, you see my youngest daughter there, Lydia with the tall gentleman. Did you know he has ten thousand a year?" Her eyes glistened gleefully in the candlelight.

"You don't say?"

"Why, yes!" she shrilled. "Now that will be a great marriage! Don't they make the handsomest couple?"

"Yes, I suppose so. It will be a most advantageous marriage as long as they abstain from serving cake at the wedding. I've observed that the cake-serving 

ones are more likely to falter."

Mary played a rousing intro and struck the first measures out in perfect tempo. The dancers began a brisk dance, one which required the alteration of partners. 

On one change, Mr. Bingley brushed hands with Miss Bennet and let out a moan. This incited a look of alarm on her face, but Mr. Collins claimed her again.

Mr. Darcy, who could hardly bare Lydia's chatter about Gretna Green any longer, gave Mary the signal. She gradually sped up the tempo. As the music increased pace, so did the dancers. Soon they were flying about in a wild manner, hardly noticing whether they had their original partners or not.

Mr. Darcy grasped Elizabeth around the waist and spun her out of Wickham's grasp. Her eyes were closed, for she felt the room spin around her at a dangerous speed. She continued to dance in spite of the confusion.

Somehow Jane Fairfax slipped into Frank's arms and socked Emma in the eye, on "accident". Soon after, the unsuspecting Frank received a searing pinch on his forearm. He stopped mid-twirl and stared at her, shocked. She dragged him out of the room to have a lover's quarrel. Poor Emma sat down, crying and holding her slightly blackened eye. A latecomer entered the room and came toward the sounds of her wails hastily. Mr. Knightley pulled her hands away to examine the injury and soon soothed her tears in a comforting embrace.

As for the remaining dancers, Mary's tune kept them twirling about. Somehow Wickham noticed his partner missing, but found Lydia willingly replace her sister. Feeling very much pleased with herself she took full advantage to say, "Mr. Wickham, you are the most dashing man in the regiment!" They stopped dancing and exited the room, passed the catfight between Frank and Jane and borrowed Mr. Bingley's carriage, setting off for an elopement.

Mr. Bingley, seeing Darcy at work, thought it an excellent idea. He promptly tripped Mr. Collins, sending the clergyman sprawling towards the pianoforte. 

Mr. Collins blinked for a minute and looked up from his bent-over position. His vision allowed the gleaming wood of the instrument and then Mary's engaging smile. Mary stopped her playing to inquire if he was alright. They sat on the divan while she sewed a rip in his sleeve cuff.

Mr. Bingley and Jane continued to dance, though they slowed to a waltz. Completely oblivious to the antics and chaos around them, they stared deeply in each others eyes.

Mary was very content in her position and almost forgot to help Mr. Darcy as they had planned. She got up with the excuse to stoke the fire. She grasped the poker and "accidentally" hauled it over her shoulder where it presently hit dear Fitzwilliam square on the side of his head.

Good thing she remembered, for Elizabeth had opened her eyes and noticed just who was dancing with. She was about ready to wrest his hands off of her, when he fell with a great anguishing cry and thud. Perplexed but also worried that he was seriously injured, Lizzy knelt at his side and fretted over the lump that was forming. She knew something of doctoring so she walked him to the kitchen to request some ice to bring down the swelling. She also gave him a bit of soothing herbal tea, for she thought him demented by the blow. He kept crying out ardent sentiments, about how he loved her passionately.

Mrs. Bennet cried out just how much this was unsettling her nerves and Mr. Woodhouse looked about ready to have a seizure. Seeing Bingley and Jane in such an enamored fashion quieted her though. She started to weep happily and chattered on about what a happy couple they were to be, even if Mr. Collins had magnificent shelves in all his closets.

And this, my friends, is a faithful narrative of an unusual turn of events.

The End

The Crusaders

Mrs. Kresal

Western Civilization I

October 30, 2009

Crusading for Christendom – The Reasons Behind the Crusades

            The Crusades marked a stressful period in Western history. Its effects spread like a plague, involving several different nations, intertwining fatal consequences for England, France, Germany, Spain, Hungary, Italy, Syria and the area around Jerusalem.  From the literary view of these battles, we are acquainted with heroic descriptions of religious zeal and courage in battle…. but as most unbiased historical research unveils, the Crusades were just as misguided, misled and inglorious as most battles.

            Reading the accounts from the people of the day, we get an understanding of who the participants were and feel of their naïve vision in the events leading up to the Crusades. Pope Urban II received an epistle from the Holy Emperor, Alexius, from Byzantine saying that a band of Turks were stealing his land and slaying his people. He knew that the Pope had more power and sway over the people than all the dignitaries in Europe, so he appealed for military aid. Also, Christian pilgrims were being attacked along the routes to the holy places along Damascus and Jerusalem.

            Pope Urban took the opportunity, stating that it was the moral and sacred duty of the followers of Christ to help protect their brethren in the East, to cut down the opposing forces of “heathens”, to “destroy that vile race from the lands of our friends.” (Account of Fultcher of Chartes)

He talked of the sins of the people, how their baseness and failure of spiritual duty made them susceptible to be overcome by their enemies. He instilled in them a fear of God’s wrath and an awareness that they needed to recommend themselves to Him for salvation. The Pope addressed the gravest problem among the European nations, internal conflict. He told them that they had fought amongst themselves for unreasonable motives, that they had been so focused on gain and power, fallen from the grace of God.

The Islamic people were not only enemies, but demons, according to his apostolic judgment, and were to be treated as such. He condemned any who was not prepared to wipe them from the earth. Urban filled his speech with grotesque imagery of the Islamic people, painting a sickening picture of fiends and mercenaries, attackers without sentiment or ethics. He called them the Antichrist (Account of Guibert de Nogent) signaling proof that a scriptural revelation was coming to pass about the last days. He charged them that they were duty bound to God, country, and Pope to wrest the Holy places out of foreign hands. In return, he assured them of their salvation and unity with heaven. With pounding hearts, they lapped up the promises of eternal riches and sanctity through valiant sacrifice and valor.

Because of their deeply-rooted customs of following the church, being dependent upon the leaders for every knowledge and interpretation of God’s will, they backed the Pope more than whole-heartedly – even over-exuberantly. Plus, everyone liked a good fight.

Looking at the ordeal hundreds of years down the road, we can see multiple flaws in the Pope’s reasoning. First of all, the Islamic nation as a whole didn’t even start the fight. The group of Seljuk Turks who attacked the Byzantine area were just converted Islamics, not the nation as a whole. And also, the attackers and murderers of the Christian pilgrims were very often bands of robbers, not whole organized armies and not affiliated with any main coalition with Islam.

Even though these were the facts, the Pope played off the misconceptions for his own reasons. He was tired of the constant battling and bickering of the nations in his jurisdiction. The constant power-fight was wracking on his nerves, and he saw this as the perfect opportunity to divert the testosterone and redirect it elsewhere. Also, by reclaiming the holy lands, it would only broaden his power-filled horizon. The idea was drenched with a surety of economic growth, as trade routes would be opened and plunder would be claimed. Many noblemen of lesser power saw it as a chance to claim a piece of earth for themselves, away from the restraints of primo geniture custom and lording eyes. Because of these motives, thousands of people marched forth with bright eyes and anxious hearts, blindly led to a death not warranted.

The eye witness accounts were taken internally, certainly painting a brilliant picture of glory and promise. It is said that an individual will conform to any thought pattern if caught up in the excitement of belonging to a group. The motivation to be a part of something more can inspire even the most unreasonable insanity or numbness of thought. Though each account has the general message and feeling to it, I’m sure different individuals took notice of different aspects of the Pope’s speech, therefore giving us a biased and sketchy viewpoint of the intentions of the Crusades.

As time has cleared the air of one-sidedness and the layout of the real events has been noted, we can see that the Crusades did not even accomplish the things the dreams that the early Christians set out to pursue. They did not return with glory, they did not gain the Holy Land, they did not conquer the Arabs; instead they returned home battered or dead, or not at all. It was a tactical error from beginning to end, but began the drive for imperial European expansion that led to countless battles as history progressed. 

The New Addition

Written in Jan. 2008 

The reverberating words of the discontented customer nudged my headache deeper. My fingers flexed against the steering wheel of my old Toyota Corolla as I tried to put the confrontation out of my head. Work was over now. I needed to leave behind the frustrations. Noticing my hands shake, I also needed to eat. My hypoglycemia was becoming master again. I cursed my stomach for growling at me too.

Pulling into the driveway felt liberating. I pulled the car into the third garage and tapped the radio off. The silence made me suddenly realize how tired I was. Moving my body parts to get out of the car required a self pep-talk. “One leg up, out. Next.” Sighing like a person four decades older than my almost eighteen years, I managed to get out of the drivers seat.

I expected a little head or two to peek out of the door that led to the house, as usual. Frowning at not having a welcoming committee, I opened the door, plopped my purse, day planner, and work uniform on the floor. All was quiet in the house and I couldn’t figure out why. Being a family of eight, our house was rarely quiet, especially since five of those eight were my little brothers. I was more accustomed to being greeted by Indian whoops and wildcat screams.

Then I remembered. I heard hushed voices in the living room. Upon entering the room I saw Mom. She looked tired but beautiful. Her eyes and smile had that soft look that I had seen five times before.

In her arms, wrapped in several layers of pastel cloth, rested the tiniest person I could remember seeing. He was so very small. Hadn’t the others been bigger? I wondered how I could have forgotten.

Gently, steadily my angry, polluted feeling flaked away. My hands reached forward to feel his skin. It was softer than a pussy-willow. His plentiful, strawberry-blond hair feathered away from my touch. As she handed him over to me, I was a little surprised that the position felt natural, again. After five years of baby-draught, I had my misgivings about how we’d handle another one, how I’d be able to help with college and work demands.

I sat down softly on the couch and tuned the others out. I watched him sleep, felt his breath come and recede. I felt something connect my heart and mind, as I held him close. This little brother was no accident. He was ours, and I knew he was meant to be in our family. His sweet warmth in my arms assured me that God was given me a particular blessing, a little one to love and comfort me in a year of stress and hardship. 

Worthy of Me

Worthy of Me

By Lindsey H.

---

Posted on Thursday, 12 June 2008

Once Upon a Quiet Evening at Mansfield Park

"Recapture my heart," she whispered, leaning closer. The floundering firelight illuminated her silky black hair.

"Insane, madam. Please leave me to my book." He shifted his weight to lean away from her and refocus his attentions.

"Edmund, look at me, please!" He stared determinedly at the pages of gentle script. The handwriting had barely started to fade. He could only guess how long ago it was penned, as there was no date affixed to any entry.

Her persistence had never before been matched in this way. Why was she suddenly feeling the pangs of defeat? What had happened to her powers, her unparalleled supremacy in the arts of persuasion?

"Why have you altered so?! Have you no heart, sir?" She clasped her hands together and placed them on his knee, passionately threatening, "Yes!" her voice rose to a hiss that harmonized with the fire's crackle. "Youhave no heart! You are just an imitation of an honorable man, hiding a brutish and selfish existence."

He moved his hand toward hers and she began to think progress was being made... That climbing hope took a plunge downhill as he only removed her hands from his knee and placed them in her own lap.

"Miss Crawford, you are in our home as a guest. I would like to treat you as such, but if you persist in carrying on in this manner, I will have to take command of finding you other arrangements until your departure."

Letting out a loud, exasperated huff, which was something Miss Crawford had never done before, she stood and glared into the fire's burning fingers. Her rage was slowly retreating and an entirely new sensation, perhaps of remorse, was eating at her senses. Somewhat humbled by the resistance to her outburst, she questioned gently. "Why have you refused me? Why will you not see that we were made for each other? I do not see what changed."

He too was now looking into the firelight. In formulating his reply, his mind began to calm at the mere thoughts of her faithful face, her gentle, yet unsteady hand writing the pages he now held. "I love her." It seemed too sacred to say above a whisper.

"Then why not marry me, if you do?" Mary Crawford's brow had never creased so hard in her life. It would likely be cemented in that formation now. Nudged out of his reverie, he said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean you. I meant Fanny." My dear Fanny.

Mary's brow creased harder and her head began to hurt. Surely he was joking... "Fanny? What on earth are you talking about?"

Wondering if there was such thing as witchcraft in Plymouth, she knelt before him again, only not in a imposing fashion but as a mentor would to a troubled child. "Edmund, be reasonable. Do come to your senses."

"I have, Mary. That is just the thing..."

She interrupted his adamant speech. "Now, I know that Fanny is dear and kind, but she is not going to be suitable for you. Nor for any man, I wager. A real woman is both angel and devil. Fanny - Why, she is simply angel. And angels, you know, are not to be wedded."

Her eyes fluttered about as if to look for a source of help. They lighted on the open book. Strangely, the script style was familiar, but was not Edmund's.

What an odd conversation this was turning out to be. How Henry would laugh and mock if he somehow caught wind of it! Well, he would not hear a word of it.

"Edmund," she tried coaxing again, only to be interrupted by the opening of the door. A shining golden head leaned in just enough to glance about the room.

"Edmund?"

"Yes, Fanny?"

"It is almost time for supper."

"Yes, dear. I am coming." Smiling, he walked passed Miss Crawford without a glance, and moved across the room to take Fanny by the arm. Mary watched in an awful, helpless confusion as he entwined her left arm in his right. The two women exchanged looks, one calm and questioning, the other simply mystified. 

Mary caught a glimpse of something shiny.

"Fanny,"

"Yes, Miss Crawford?" Fanny and Edmund had already started down the hallway. Mary leaned against the doorframe for support.

"What is on your hand?"

Fanny looked pointedly at her escort for a slip of a moment, and then turned to look back over her shoulder. She spoke no words, but a tender, contented, angelic smile replied.

The End

My Grandpa

Written Feb. 6, 2008

September 11^th will forever be a vivid memory for me, as it will be for many Americans.  I remember the images, the shock and fear. I also recall the rallying, the heartfelt prayers that ascended from our lips, the dedication of the people to help the victims. It was a sorrowful day for our country, but what followed that month was a life-changing experience for me and my family.

Just a day or two after the initial attacks at the Pentagon and the Twin Towers, we received a phone call from California. My grandfather, who had recently become ill from the aftermath of a heart bypass surgery, was diagnosed with a rapidly spreading case of lymphoma. The doctors reported that he only had a few more months to live. Our relatives told us that he grew weaker by the day, his strength seeming to fade away. It was hard for me to grasp this image in my eleven-year-old mind. 

Grandpa had always been a strong, rough man. He was a hard worker and took advantage of no one. If he’d lived in the West during its early days, I could easily envision him a mountain man, blazing tough trails and crafting a homestead out of unruly terrain. When I heard he was dying, I went to my bedroom closet, enclosed myself in it, and did what I had been taught to do since birth. I prayed long and hard, which is ever so hard for an eleven-year-old to do. I pled with God to spare his life. After some time and some tears, I felt comforted, but also recognized that God’s will might not coincide with mine. I determined to accept His will, whatever it might be.

Already planning to take our annual visit to California, we were set to leave in two weeks. Our plans were quickly adjusted as we became aware of my grandpa‘s worsened condition. In the days that followed, the doctors discovered that the lymphoma was much more advanced than they thought. Instead of months, his life expectancy was shortened to a few weeks, and then to only a few days. 

Amidst the chaos that America was experiencing, we made ready for a quick flight out of Des Moines. The airports were like ghost towns with just a few brave souls, out making their own business top priority. Despite the fear that hung over us, we were among them. It must have been an interesting sight, a family taking a red-eye flight, consisting of a father and mother with five tiny tagalongs. All of us were carrying, pulling, yanking an assortment of baggage, thrown together with little notice. As the oldest, I was in charge of  helping keep track of the little ones, which, at that time, included all five of us. The youngest was only about a year old. I remember how frustrated Mom was when the security guards asked her to open her diaper bag and take every single content for inspection. We were grateful that they were taking such precautions, but it made the trip a little difficult for our crowd. 

When we got to my grandparents’ house, everyone rushed around, as if all earthly time were going to run out. I didn’t expect the sight that greeted us. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t to see my big, brawny grandfather laying in the living room, pale and breathing laboriously. I wanted him to greet me like he had before, with a crushing hug and kiss, sweeping me off my feet into his arms. He was barely coherent, drifting in and out of a weary sleep. My aunts, uncles and cousins came to help comfort each other and consult. There seemed to be so much going on, but nothing for a little girl to do except tend the little ones. I once tried to play the piano, with permission. However, I was gently told to stop, that it was bothering Grandpa. He kept mumbling things to someone, sometimes things that our ears could not make out. 

He got worse just in the few hours that we had been there. The entire family was called and beckoned around his bedside to say a formal goodbye. I will never forget the heart-wrenching scene, my grandmother sitting beside him, whispering how much she loved him and his labored reply, calling her name, “I love you.” He couldn’t say anything else. Someone asked me if I’d like to hold his hand. I was filled with a sudden fear that I could not understand, a fear of touching a dying person. This was my grandpa, whom I loved deeply. That love overcame my fear. I held that huge, worn hand and rubbed it gently with my little fingers for a long time. I whispered too, “I love you, Grandpa.” The whole family, myself included, was there for his last breath. He smiled. Someone from the other side welcomed him, and my heart, in this strange new dimension of time between life and death, was comforted that he was not alone. 

This experience taught me so much about the sanctity of life. I learned that death can be a precious moment for one who has worked diligently to uphold good values. When he left us, I knew that I would surely see him again and this peace comforted my aches. Sometimes when I’m drifting off to sleep, I still remember his love for me, embodied in the supply of butterscotch candies in his shirt pockets, the rides he took me on at Disneyland, the storytelling of his childhood on an Indian reservation in Idaho, the quieter moments when he’d hold me on his lap and listen to my chatter. Even with many grandchildren around, I knew that he loved me. I never felt I had to compete for his love. If I can touch a life as he touched mine, I will count my existence complete.