A happy end to a mother's grief

 LUKY:

YEARS ago a new family moved in next door, consisting of father, mother and a little boy.

I was not working at the time and I often felt sorry for the little boy.

His father worked in another town, left early and came home late.

His mother was a quiet, gentle woman who was always busy inside the house.

Early in the morning she'd wash and dress him neatly, give him his breakfast and put him outside to play.

He'd be outside the whole day, with breaks for his meals and his nap.

Picture story

The mother would smile at me over the fence, a pale, sweet-looking woman.

We never had much to say to each other.

She never visited me but I was in her house once.

As I came in, I gasped.

All over the walls there were pictures hanging of the most beautiful little girl, there must have been about forty different photographs of the same little girl.

The lady saw me looking at the photographs and told me that this was her little daughter who had died a month before they had moved - knocked over by a car and killed instantly.

The mother had gone into a decline.
Whereas her body performed all the motions of caring for her little son, her heart simply wasn't in it.

Every moment of the day when she wasn't cleaning she must have been mourning, looking at all those pictures.

Strangely enough there were only a couple of pictures of her little boy on the walls and on one of these he appeared with his sister.

Happy ending

The story has quite a happy ending because the woman had another little son and became more lively and engaged with life again.

I think the difficulties of another pregnancy and confinement, coupled as they were with a severe case of varicose veins, together with the time she had spent in the grieving process helped her to face life again.

Miscarried

A few years later I was lying in hospital after a miscarriage.

The baby, perfectly formed at three months old, was taken away from me after I had baptised it.

"You cannot bury a foetus which is younger than six months", the doctor told me, rather bluntly, I felt.

"It will be incinerated."

All night I had lain awake, wondering if the baby was dead when I baptised it, if it hurt when it was incinerated, if perhaps they hadn't incinerated it at all but preserved it in a jar for teaching purposes.

My heart was heavy.

Beautiful

That night my campaign against abortion was born.

Having held and baptised that most innocent and beautiful little creation, I realised the horror of the violation of the rights of the unborn, and I have tried to pass on this message ever since.

A friend of mine was pregnant and received offers of counselling on how to destroy her child.

I spoke to her by the hour.

She duly brought the child into the world.

But when I saw the people who once counselled the mother to abort the child now covering it with kisses and buying dolls for her for Christmas, I was thoughtful.

A cheering sight

But where does this tie up with the mother of the little girl?

Well, as I lay in that hospital bed, unable to cry but pining within myself, I though I would never be happy again, having lost the baby.

Then Sean, who had studied psychology and who helped me greatly whenever I was in distress, walked into the ward, a child on one arm, holding a toddler by the hand and another child to each side of him.

"How ungrateful I've been", I thought.

And though my heart still wept for the little incinerated one, I managed to smile at the four others.

"What riches still belong to me.

Look at all these beautiful children.

Why begrudge the other little one its peace in heaven?"

The following Sunday, after receiving Holy Communion at Mass, I suddenly felt that someone was saying to me:

"Jouw kind is bij mij" (your child is with me).

From then on I stopped fretting.

Catherine Nicolette

My mother was having tea in the garden with a friend when she started miscarrying our little brother.

Suddenly she gasped and collapsed.

The next few hours were a whirl of activity, and at about nine years old, I was left behind in the garden terrified my mother was dying.

I was not too sure what to do after that, but I knew enough to know that we were losing the eagerly awaited new arrival to our family.

After a few moments in prayer, I made a little sacred area in the garden with a twig cross.

Years later

Years later I visited the house, long after we had left.

The current lady of the house allowed me to wander around the garden.

I stopped to pray at the little memorial to my brother, twigs long gone but memory never faded.

It's an amazing thing, but whenever I am in physical danger or troubled about a decision to be make, I pray to my little brother for protection and guidance.

And I always get it . . . 

God is rather good at caring for sick people

 Luky;

WHEN we first began to hear about the possibility of abortions - hitherto regarded as a criminal offence - being legalized, some hidden association of ideas brought to my mind the topic of euthenasia.

To my surprise I then found out that others I know feel the same way, and it frightens us.

From our point of view, legalized abortion, no matter how strongly we feel about it, is an academic issue, for no one succeeded in persuading your mother or mine to do away with us during our sojourn in their wombs.

Should euthenasia ever become legal, however, who guarantees that the powers to decide our fitness to live would cast their vote in our favour?

Euthanasia can become a most confusing issue.

There is sometimes a temptation to regard it as a good thing instead of the evil it is.

Personally I have had many a domestic animal put out of its misery by the vet, and I find human suffering as affecting as that of animals.

To see a person in pain can wring one's heart, specially if you have a more than nodding acquaintance with pain yourself.

If there were no question of a spiritual principle, something might be said in favour of mercy killing, as this evil is sometimes euphemistically called.

This is where the rub lies.

The people who advocate euthenasia clearly deny the existence of God Who gave humankind the commandment; "Thou shalt not kill."

By deciding that this disabled child or that person who lingers in agony should be destroyed, they are in effect saying that there is no God, for if there were He would not be slipping up in His job.

Such people are spiritually impoverished, and we ought to pray for them, while making sure their plans fail.

When you think about it long enough, you arrive at the conclusion that God is often able to effect an inner conversion in the hearts of His people when - together with a measure of time - He companions people in their times of psychological and physical suffering.

We all need this inner conversion, not only hardened sinners but also the little sinners.

But we seldom take the time off for it till we are forced to do so by circumstances which neither our power nor our money can control.

Illness of a loved one, a mental or physical challenge in one of our children, or personal physical pain and approaching death melt our self-importance and superficial values.

All the paltry values, once thought so important, change.

"All my children will receive higher education" becomes: 

"I wonder if my child will ever learn to talk."

And: "My husband just has to get that promotion, come what may!" changes to: 

"If only my husband's life is spared, how happy we'll be again."

Personal pain and the certainty of approaching death bring to mind the pain of Christ Who was crucified for each individual, showing how little we did in return and granting an eleventh hour opportunity of making amends.

We must make our Lord as least as sad as our more difficult children make us.

He longs to admit us to Heaven, but only our inner conversion can prepare us.

When this process seems to take a very long time, there must be a reason for it - and we must not let euthanasia destroy it.

Our Lord has not forgotten us or our patients.

He does not need us to teach Him His job.

Christmas - The time for soft answers

Luky

With Christmas around the corner and when the older generation is anxiously awaiting the arrival of their families, quarrels are easily sparked off, sometimes by minor irritations.

We long for our families to get together again - but when they do, we tend to find that the individuals concerned have gown into different directions, have different opinions and voice them, sometimes too stridently.

This may lead to dissension or even degenerate into a road show.

At the end of the Christmas holidays when you look back at the presents, so generously and self-sacificingly purchased by the siblings for each other, you may find yourself wondering what went wrong - because you know they dearly love each other.

Some people are irritable because they may have been working a great deal of overtime in order to be able to take time off for the holidays.

The younger ones amongst them are gnawing their nails wondering if they have passed their exams and if there will be a place in the job market for them now that they are of an age and sufficiently qualified to start working.

In this climate a word that offends, even unintentionally may start an acrimonious quarrel.

Years ago a much loved colleague left our newspaper office and our editor asked each of the reporters on the staff to write one sentence in her praise.

I don't remember what I said but I really agreed when a fellow-reporter commented: 

"I'll miss her most because of the way she always gave the soft answer that turneth away wrath."

No matter who you were, she gave such good example that jealousy and negativity disappeared as snow before the sun whenever you had a chat with her.

There is nothing brotherly or sisterly about being overly personal about the appearance of others. 

I shudder at the way people can be put down in front of audiences.

There are more ways than one of expressing oneself.

Christianity teaches us to be mild and gentle in our speech, unless conscience dictates otherwise.

While being terse and assertive may win you kudus in the business sphere, it will do nothing to endear you to siblings whom you may not have seen since last Christmas.

So when you meet again, don't whine, don't harp, don't carp and don't criticise.

May this Christmas season be one of serenity and peace for all our families.

May we watch our speech and take care to give our visitors the love and courtesy they all deserve and desire.

Giving the soft answer is one way of making sure we'll be seeing them again.

The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady

Catherine Nicolette
Softly brushed watercolours - glowing butterflies, flowers and plants - Greenfinches and  green-eyed dragonflies. 
This is the world which was brought to glowing life through the talented brushstrokes of artist Edith Holden, whose Diary was lovingly kept over so many years. 
Her Diary was published under the title of 'The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady', and is a perennial favourite.
Why not get a copy for yourself?
On rainy days I love to sit inside after a cup of tea or hot chocolate, and pore over her beautiful illustrations of the seasons and read the poems.

The book is always a joy.

The Diary can be obtained from
http://www.amazon.com/The-Country-Diary-Edwardian-Lady/dp/0718115813

See link The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady: Intro
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxdNEKJmazE

The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

Catherine Nicolette
The inimitable Alexander McCall-Smith has once again brushed the broad palette of Africa onto the leaves of his book.
The utterly charming Mma Ramotswe, the happy new mother Mma Makutsi of the glowing 97% Botswana Secretarial College and all the other delightful characters bring to life the vivid beauty of Botswana as masterfully as Miss Read brought Fairacre and Thrush Green to life in her pen portraits of Britain.

I could not put the latest No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency book down; the scent of rain - long awaited - in the air leapt from the pages; the long, winding roads; the ever present possibility of mambas and cobras; the innocence of children to whom we must give the greatest armour of life - love.

Why not get the 'Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon', the latest from the No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, and thrill once more to the wild beat of the heart of Africa casting her spell yet again.

You can find out more about this fourteenth wonderful adventure of Mma Ramotswe through this link
http://www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk/2013/10/03/out-now-the-minor-adjustment-beauty-salon/

The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OLENPUJ5OCU

Fancy thinking I was a grannie!

Luky
IN FRONT of the mirror years ago I was startled to discover seven gray hairs.
Under the circumstances I was grateful I would be celebrating my fortieth birthday a few months from then.
For years people had thought me older than I was.
Sometimes, when discussing ages, I mentioned mine, and that swift look of surprise followed by blank politeness forcibly reminded me of people's astonishment during my pregnancies, when I looked nine months pregnant four months before the happy event was due.

I was looking forward to my fortieth birthday because I would then be able to tell people vaguely that I was in my forties, which can mean any age up to forty-nine.
Surely I didn't look older than that!

Happiness
Every year our children went to a Christmas tree at the mine where their father worked.
The two eldest no longer qualified for presents but they came along to keep us company.
Now that my son was at boarding school I seldom got that glorious feeling I have when I see them all together.
So when we were all at the Christmas party, everybody clean and neat, I had a song in my heart.

True, my husband was still in hospital at the time, having landed back there with thrombosis the day after I was so rapturous about his return home, but the specialist had assured me that he was making good progress and that he'd certainly be home in time for Christmas.

Looking at my children, I thought of those lovely words in the wedding service: "Thy wife like a fruitful vine, thy children like olive branches around thy table", and my heart swelled with joy.
I might have known it wouldn't last long.
"Those your grandchildren, Luky?" asked a girl who worked in a different department, and therefore knew me only superficially.
"Go on", I said, "those are my children."

Instant forgiveness
Being the world's worst dropper of clangers I never get cross when anyone drops one on my own feet.
On the contrary, I immediately have a great feling of cameraderie for such a person and wonder if she will spend the next ten years lying awake nights blushing in the dark and firmly deciding never again to open her mouth, the way I would in her place.

Not so
Nos so my colleague, however.
"Ha, ha!" she hooted derisively, holding her finger to her nose and winking an eye. "Tell me another!"
I looked across at my little band, seated around a wooden table and looking slightly grimy by now after the afternoon's dissipations.
"Really, they are my children", I reiterated helplessly, feeling the more upset because I had been awfully faithful to my diet and my nightly skin care.

Were my efforts at rejuvenating my appearance doomed to failure forever?
Why for heaven's sake did she think my third youngest, for example, was my grandchild? 
He was born when I was twenty-nine.
If he were my grandson we'd have belonged in the Guinness book of records.

"All I can say, Luky, is you have a lively sense of humour", my erstwhile friend concluded appreciatively.
"Surely you're older than I"
"Why, how old are you?"

Miffed
"Forty-four."
Though it galls me to admit it, circumstances being what they were, I must say she didn't look a day over thirty-six.
I said goodbye somewhat stiffly and rejoined my olive branches gathered round about the wooden table.

It's taking me a while fully to forgive her, but I'm still working on it.
As for the seven grey hairs, they could have multiplied to seventy times seven for all I cared. 
I was casehardened by then.
There are worse things than looking older than one's age.

I'm going scarlet
In fact, I was quite looking forward to turning completely grey.
With my red hair I always felt compelled to wear only greens, blues and browns.
Once I was quite grey on top, I planned to start wearing scarlets, oranges and shocking pinks.
Mind you, with my luck, people would then call me mutton dressed up as lamb.

My mother sometimes tried to console me with a Dutch saying: "Vroeg oud, lang jong"*. What I want to know is, just how long do you have to be vroeg oud before you can start becoming lang jong?


Catherine Nicolette
I was forty-seven when I saw my first gray hair in the mirror. 
Without thinking I pulled it out. 
My normal blonde hair had come out a very odd and different colour. 
It must have been an aberrant hair, a mistake. I wasn't thinking, you see. 
Inside my head I'm still seventeen; no, maybe eighteen come to think of it.

Au naturel
After I had whipped out more over the next few weeks the penny finally dropped. Yup. No mistake. 
The years were ticking on. 
If I hadn't realised that fact and just left the graying hair brigade alone, I would have ended up bald.
I always believed I would quite happily let my hair go its joyous way when the time came. 
Au naturel and all that. Glorious hair in the mature section of the family has always been the norm.
Ouma had Iceland snow hair effortlessly twisted in a Grecian knot, upon which she would wear an elegant hat with an eye veil. 
My aunts elegantly frosted. 
Mom has eye-catching silver fox hair with a slightly soft tint to it; people still ask hairdressers to tint their hair her colour. 
The effect of my proud locks upon my appearance just prompted people to ask me if I was feeling ill. 
Eventually I had to face facts; I was not going to follow the proud family tradition of being La belle maturité.

These days
These days I quite like my frosting hair. When the henna grows out enough at the hairline for me to see them.

*Early old, long young.

HOW BOETIE GOT HIS TROUSERS

Luky
OLD MR P is a born raconteur.
The stories he relates are simple, uncomplicated incidents from the early part of the 20th century and it is his air of personal enjoyment when relating his little tales which makes everyone listen to him with profound interest.

My favourite story is the one about the family who used to order their entire wardrobe and domestic needs from the illustrated mail order catalogue of the British firm of Oxindale.
  "You know Dominee S of A?" Mr P asks, a big smile spreading across his thin but benevolent countenance.
  "You don't? Ah well, he's only a nipper in his sixties, but his older brother and I were fellow-students at Stellenbosch University.

The family attended the Dopper Church and we used to be astounded at the suits the sons wore.
  Whereas our jackets were short and our trousers long, their jackets were long and their trousers short.

'Where do you get your suits?' we asked our fellow-student once, and then he told us.
  'This is my Oxindale suit', he replied, tongue-in-cheek, and went on to give further details.

'It appears that the old Oom and Tante would take up the pen once a year and laboriously write a letter to Messrs Oxindale in England.
  Believing in the personal approach they would commence the letter with an affectionate 
"Liewe Mijnheer Oxindale."
  (They used Hoog-Hollands because they only ever read the Bible, and of course the Oxindale catalogue. 
It is anyone's guess who translated their letters far across the sea.)

"It has been a year since we last took up the pen to inquire after your health.
  We trust the year which is past has been as good to you and yours as it was to us.
  True, there was a measles epidemic and the children were very ill, but we were all were spared, thank the Lord, and everyone is doing well now.
 "Mijnheer Oxindale, here is the list of garments we require from you this year.
Firstly we need some things for Pa.
  Please note that Pa is still the same size as he was last year.
Pa's suits are still alright, but he needs three shirts, six pairs of socks and a dozen handkerchiefs.
  The hankies you sent before will do Pa very well.

"'Then there's Boetie's church suit.
Unlike Pa, Boetie has really shot up and if you could send us a suit two sizes bigger than last year's we'd be most grateful . . ." 
  On the letter went in this vein until every eventuality in the line of possible needs had been provided for.

Then with a final gentle salute and a pious wish for God's continued blessing in rest upon Mr Oxindale, the letter would end.
  Pa would enclose an amount of money, and about four months later, the parcels would arrive.
"And if Boetie's trousers were a little on the short side, no one really blamed Mr Oxindale, except, perhaps, Boetie who, having outgrown his parents' simplicity, was dying a thousand deaths at University.'

Here Mr P's story ends but there's a moral to it.
  If you happen to be a teenager and have begun feeling that your parents are out of touch with reality, think of Boetie and take heart.

He felt just as you do and he lived to be an octogenarian.