grief

Love Like Josh

January 12, 2022 by Nancy 53 Comments

I’m not sure I can write about this but it’s become clear that until I do, I won’t be able to write much of anything. Beyond heartbreaking to us was the loss of our grandson, Joshua James Beller, on September 4^th of last year. Josh was born with cerebral palsy and lived to be almost sixteen before he simply didn’t wake up on that sunny, fall morning. It seemed as if God said, “This boy’s had enough and I’m bringing him home.” While we rejoice that Josh is with Jesus and free of his earthly body, the shock and grief of losing him continues to be a part of each day.

It’s so true that grief and relief are close companions. Some days, at unexpected times, it just washes over me that Josh is missing from our family and the tears come. Other days relief springs up, reminding me that he doesn’t have to struggle with his inability to talk or walk anymore.

Joelle and Will at the grand reopening of Wolverine Wake Up

What helped our family so much was the amazing support of the community of Parker, CO. Josh was a sophomore at Chaparral High School there and part of an inspiring group of special needs students. The day before he passed away, he applied for and got a job at the school’s Wolverine Wake Up Coffee Bar. With the help of his language therapist, Josh was able to respond to the interview questions on his computerized “talker.” Since it could also be programmed so Josh could push a button to say, “Hi, I’m Josh, welcome to Wolverine Wake Up,” Josh got the job as greeter! By all reports he came home that day so proud and excited that he had a job.

Word spread rapidly through the school that Josh had passed away. The Significant Special Needs Class decided to wear green T-shirts, the color denoting cerebral palsy, the following Thursday. Soon the whole high school decided to wear green to their ballgames that week to honor Josh. Then one of Chap’s competing high schools, Legend, heard about Josh and they all wore green to their ballgames too!

When Josh’s mom, Joelle, and his older brother, Charlie, went over to the volleyball game that Thursday night, the Chap Superfans began chanting, “Love like Josh! Love like Josh!” and friends of Josh’s twin brother, Will, wore green T-shirts with “Love like Josh” printed on the back. Later more T-shirts and wrist bands saying “Love like Josh” were created and sold in Josh’s memory to raise funds for The Cerebral Palsy Foundation.

Beyond the school, neighbors offered housing to us, brought food, and openly shared their stories of how much Josh meant to them. He inspired all who knew him to be the best they could be because he worked so hard at being the best Josh he could be each and every day. As a friend wrote to us, “Josh developed the fruit of the Spirit in everyone in his family, and that is his legacy” (Galatians 5:22-23). Clearly, that’s so true.

Our favorite photo of Josh with Charlie, taken by Will in 2017

And of course, from the first moment until now, God has been ever present, offering comfort and hope in the midst of our despair. He gifted Joelle with a beautiful vision of Josh in heaven, standing behind a bright light and pointing down while saying, “Mom! This is Him! This is Jesus! He’s right here!” He continues to comfort us every moment of this journey with the peace of God which passeth all understanding (Philippians 4:7 KJV).

I know without a doubt that when I get to heaven a handsome young man is going to walk up to me and say, “Hi, Grancy,” and I’ll know it’s Josh. I’m saving my first dance for him.

We miss you and love you, Josh. And we will do our best to “Love like Josh” the rest of our days.

My Beau

April 25, 2018 by Nancy 24 Comments

He had me at hello. From the moment I took him out of the cage at the adoption center at PetSmart and he wrapped his front paws around my neck and snuggled his head under my chin, I knew he was my cat. What I didn’t know was that he was a one-woman cat, and I would be his woman.

At PetSmart his name was Jellybean, but that just didn’t seem to fit. I had gone cat shopping because I read an article that a solo cat might become depressed. I’d looked over at our cat, Molly, and assessed she was. What she needed was a beau! So Jellybean became Beau Brummett.

As it turned out, the two cats never really bonded, and truth be told, Beau bullied Molly a bit. But for 13 years they enjoyed one another’s company from a distance, established their own rules about whose couch was whose, and had a workable détente.

We had to let go of Beau three weeks ago, and I’m just now able to write about him. It’s been a heartbreaking loss, not just because I loved him, but because he loved me so completely and so unconditionally, and there was nothing I could do to save him. The third round of cancer was too much for all of us. He was only fourteen and a half so it seemed too soon to see him go, yet it was time.

This won’t be one of those tributes touting perfection, however. Beau’s biggest character flaw was that he was afraid of small children, possibly the victim of being carried around in a neck hold by a toddler before we adopted him. As a result, he was labeled “the mean cat” by all of our grandkids because if he couldn’t avoid them, he hissed at them. I know their parents wondered why we kept him around.

We did because of who he was the rest of time. Part Maine Coon, Beau came when called, was trainable, and loyal beyond description. He was the most excellent of cats in terms of his cat-like characteristics. Curious to a fault, he got shut up in the pantry more than once while checking out the supply of cat food. He would be the first to jump into an empty box and found Christmas boxes especially fascinating.

And he was a quick learner. Just one leap off the second-story deck in an attempt to catch a hummingbird and he decided not to do that again!

He was the most affectionate animal I’ve ever been around. Often he would come up to me and put his front paws on my legs, look up at me with those big golden eyes, and want me to pick him up. I was putty in his paws, so most of the time when I was home he was in my arms, perched over my shoulder, or on my lap—even when I was at the computer.

We had two official snuggle times, right before my husband Jim and I went to sleep and first thing in the morning. He never missed one of them, and usually waited in the hallway from about 9:30 PM on to remind me it was time to go snuggle. Any wonder my arms have felt achingly empty? (Jim reminds me that he is willing to snuggle any time, but apologizes for not being fuzzy enough!)

I don’t know what else to say. I miss him. It hurts. I’ve always been sensitive to the grief people feel when losing a pet, but will be even more so now. I don’t want to compare this in any way to the deeper grief of losing a family member or close friend, but I did lose a close and loving companion. No doubt about it.

I’ve cried my way through three PetSmarts and the Humane Society where I went just to visit the cats. I don’t know why. There isn’t a cat alive who could replace Beau, and I know that. Besides it’s too soon to even try to love another cat. Somehow I just had to look.

And while Molly won’t snuggle (please! she just can’t be bothered) her “personal assistant” purr-sonality has her following me all over the house, and she is blossoming now that the whole house is hers. We love her, too, and she deserves to be queen for a while.

When I was praying over Beau for healing, and yes I did, I heard the Lord remind me, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” To comfort me in my grief, He’s whispered, “Think of what a great gift he was to you, not what a great loss you feel now.” OK, Lord, I’ll try. But he was my buddy. My Beau.

To those readers who think they don’t like cats, may I say it’s just like any other bias. Get to know just one well, and you will change your opinion.

Christmas Tears

December 19, 2014 by Nancy 20 Comments

What is it about this season that has us gazing at blurry Christmas lights as we fight back tears? Or digging through our purse for a tissue as we let them flow?

There are many reasons for the feelings that fall from our eyes this time of year. Many of them joyful. My granddaughter Amanda called to tell me, with great excitement in her voice, that she’s engaged! I’m truly happy for her, and at peace that her match with her fiancé Taylor is a God-ordained one, yet I cried off and on for about 24 hours. I can’t explain it; I just needed to cry. For the precious little girl she once was. For the beautiful, Godly woman she’s become. For the future she’s been given. For love.

To stem the tide of tears, my husband took me over to the Broadmoor Hotel, a very nice resort near us, to walk around the lake and see their Christmas decorations. That helped for a while, but we also browsed a specialty kitchen shop there and I happened to pick up a jar labeled: Southern Pecan Pie in a Jar. Jim took one look at me and knew the tears were going to flow yet again. “You can’t put Southern pecan pie in a jar!” I exclaimed, as a flood of memories of my mom’s pecan pie, served around her dining room table in Tennessee, washed over me—along with the realization that while I have her recipe, I’ll never taste her pecan pie again.

In fact, memories of loved ones who have gone before us stimulate many of the Christmas tears we shed. Last Christmas season I offered to take a dear, recently widowed woman in our church to a “remembrance service” the church held. During the service I saw her dabbing her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief and silently but foolishly gave myself a mental pat on the back for making the effort to bring her to the service. Yet afterwards, when I asked her what she thought of the experience, she said, “I think it made it worse.” So much for trying to comfort her. Sometimes we just have to cry, and for a time at least, little else helps.

Yet could it also be that our senses are more alive this time of year? Everywhere we look the world is aglow. Bright lights adorn church sanctuaries and gas stations alike. People are kinder. Faces of loved ones are dearer. Life is sweeter. It’s all just enough to make a grown woman cry. And the music! We can’t forget the music. Last Sunday our worship pastor invited a cellist to play with our praise band. The melodies of familiar carols never seemed so rich and uplifting, nor the words so meaningful. There I was, digging in my purse for that last tissue I knew was there some place.

“There is a sacredness in tears,” writes Washington Irving. “They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”

It’s the unspeakable love that has my Christmas tears flowing this year. Love for family. Love for friends. And the love that came down on Christmas. The love we read of in John 3:16: For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life. Unspeakable love indeed.

If you’re also feeling weepy this Christmas, let’s just watch Hallmark movies until we can’t cry another tear. Let the feelings flow into a sea of unspeakable love. Then our hearts and minds will be cleansed and ready for the New Year. Tissue, anyone?