January Memories Part II, Tribute to Marian Kindsfather Rudberg, December 7, 1921 - January 24, 2016

With her baby boy and nephew

In her early twenties--wasn't she stylish?

As a thirty-something

Marian's middle years 

Four generations

One of her most difficult moments...

With two of her grand girlies

Easter dinner, 2015. Granddaughter, Erika on the left, great grandson, Caleb on the right

At our wedding, she welcomed Jim into the family

Marian at 93 1/2 years old, me in my knee scooter. July, 2015

She was the ultimate grandmother and great-grandmother. Marian would always have treats for each of them when they visited her house. It didn’t matter if she lived in her own home, an apartment in the retirement center, or even in the room at the adult foster home. There were Jelly Bellies, Hershey’s Kisses, and Werther’s butter creams. For nearly all of her life, there were home made chocolate chip cookies, and at Christmas time, Spritz, Butter Pecan Balls, Thimble Cookies, and many others. Oh, and root beer floats. She made cookies until she couldn’t see to put them together, though I’m sure she knew the recipes by heart. 

She was a wonderful mother who loved her boys fiercely. They were her life—as were her four nephews and one niece. Once her sons, Bill and Don were married, she became a mother-in-law. She was gracious and kind. That’s not to say she didn’t have her own opinions about baby care and child raising. Sometimes I thought she was right and I welcomed her advice. Other times I resisted her advice and if I did, she would not say any more. Throughout the 53 years of knowing Marian, I always felt accepted and loved by her. She didn’t have daughters and when Nancy and I became her son’s wives, she considered us “hers”. 

She was also a devoted wife to George, her husband of 59 years. He had multiple health problems and she was always by his side in sickness and in health.

It’s really hard to believe I can’t call Mom on the phone and invite her to an event at my home. It’s really hard to believe I won’t sit and visit in her home—with a cup of coffee and a cookie. 

Before she moved out of her house and into an apartment, she was the ultimate hostess. There were birthdays, barbecues, picnics at Lewisville Park, and Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners. It didn’t matter if the numbers were many, we somehow all fitted into her dining room. And her food was tasty. “Mama’s dumplings were always better than mine,” she’d say. I didn’t agree. Marian’s food was just as good. Mashed potatoes and creamy gravy, along with fried chicken, clams or fish—all fried with Crisco—and of course, pot roast with browned potatoes and carrots. There was always dessert: apple, pumpkin or my favorite, lemon meringue pie, German chocolate cake, strawberry shortcake, and many other delectable confections. 

More than an ultimate hostess though, she was a praying woman. It’s hard to believe she won’t be praying for all of her family members and her friends anymore, those prayers that were as an incense to our Savior. 

Marian had her difficult days. And during these days, she was incredibly brave. She’d said goodbye to her husband of 59 years. Her siblings and friends. Those good-byes were expected, but I think the hardest goodbye she had to endure was when her son, Bill, died. In her grief, she extended her love and sympathy to me. I won’t forget that.

When she had to move from her family home, pare down her belongings, and move to a retirement home in a smaller apartment, she did it. Without much complaint, for she knew that was the best for her. 

After she moved, she was unable to hostess those family dinners and parties, and was grateful to be included in our family activities.

What can I say about Marian Rudberg that I haven’t already said? She was a godly woman, who loved her Savior mightily. She prayed powerful prayers and memorized many Bible verses. The binding on her Bible, worn, the pages tattered, with much handling. Each year, she included in her Christmas card, a verse she selected as her yearly verse for the upcoming year. She most likely memorized it. 

Though she was challenged with dementia in her last days, she never forgot her family. Always knew me—and even Jim who’d only been in her life for two years. 

I’m going to miss Mom. It’s hard to believe she’s not on this earth anymore. But I’m so glad I have the assurance I’ll see her again when I leave my life here for heaven. Though it has been five days since she entered her eternal rest, I believe she’s still worshipping her Lord and Savior and thanking Him for what He did for her. We don’t know exactly how heaven is, but I’m pretty sure there were people waiting for her when she entered those eternal gates. Her parents, friends through the decades, her husband, her son, and the grand baby she never met. Wow. 

Good-bye Marian Rudberg, I’ll see you later for this is not the end. We love you. We’ll miss you. But we’ll see you again.

For more about Marian, see the following link:
http://myredleatherjacket.blogspot.com/2011/12/tribute-to-marian.html

January Memories, Part I

It was two years ago when my mother-in-law, Mary Mozena-Hough entered eternity. January 21. She was loved very much by her eight children— nieces, nephews, husband, and many friends. Here in the United States, but also in England and Ireland, the place of her birth. I was only able to meet her a couple of times before she died, but I could tell she was full of wit and energy when she grabbed my hand and did a jig with me the first time we met. I’m told she loved to dance and perform—and she did nearly all of her life. I didn’t know her well, but I know her children—and especially her third born, my Jim—all who are a reflection of parts of her character. Yesterday afternoon, she was remembered. There  was a church service, an English/Irish Tea afterwards where memories were recalled and toasts given in honor of her life. It’s good to remember those who are no longer with us. 

It was ten years ago when I had to face the frightful fact that my husband of forty years might not live much longer. There were neurosurgeons puzzling over his condition. I was brave and tried to be strong—at least on the outside. How would I live without the man who’s name I’d had for longer than my own family name? How would I be able to face life without him by my side? We’d married young—and grew up together, really. We had two children and raised them. There was a stillborn baby girl we mourned over together. We climbed mountains and rocks. Hiked together more miles than I can count.

Bill loved the outdoors

Bill died in the early morning hours of February 3rd. We came home and went to bed, for there was nothing else to do.  After resting in bed for a few hours, I was awakened by a robin chirping cheerfully. My first thought was delight—the robins were back! And then I remembered. My dearest was gone. 

 I knew I couldn’t do it alone and I cried out to God, my Savior, my Comforter, my All, to help me. He was there. He understood. I still grieved. But I had hope. I knew I’d see Bill again in Heaven, for he trusted Jesus as his Savior. But I missed him. My house was empty without him there. I worked through those lonely months.

One Psalm was particularly comforting to me:

For You are my hope, O Lord God;

You are my trust from my youth.

By You I have been upheld from birth;

You are He who took me out of my mother’s womb.

My praise shall be continually in You. (Psalm 71:4-5)

Those words helped me know I would get through this dark time, for my hope was in God, not my situation.

I kept busy. The long dark evenings began to stay light for longer periods of time. I found pussy willows that told me spring was coming just as the robins announced it that first morning without Bill.

I thought I’d be in that grief state forever. That I’d feel that terrible knotty, sadness for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t have believed it then, but I found love again. But that’s another story for a different blog. 

 During those early days, instead of being so desperately sad, I began to be thankful for the life Bill and I’d had together. I was thankful that our earlier struggles in our marriage were worked out. And how we learned to love and respect each other. I’m so glad we learned our lessons well and were able to emerge from the difficulties into a new and better relationship.

It’s hard to say goodbye to your soulmate, or child, or parent. It might be hard to say goodbye to something else: health, a career, a home; there’s grief and loss in many facets of our life.  

I’ve been wandering through some of the photos from ten years ago—and before that and it brought some sadness, yet I have hope and I remember that Psalm which is worth repeating: 

For You are my hope, O Lord God;

You are my trust from my youth.

By You I have been upheld from birth;

You are He who took me out of my mother's womb.

My praise shall continually be in You.

Beyond Second Chances: Heartbreak to Joy

Jim and I've been  on the road this week, sharing my story. A lot of my story takes place before Jim and I met, but our story is so spectacular that I'm beginning to think of it as our story. 

Speaking in Hoquiam

Jim is the willing captain of our SQ

My book launch took place in early December and we've been working on ways to get the word out about the book. 

Mt Rainier--alpenglo

This week, I'm going to post the book trailer we've been working on. If you like it, please share--email, Facebook, Twitter--any way you like. If you haven't ordered my book, please go to my website: www.shirleymozena.com to order a signed copy. This week, we're running a special of one book for $10.00, two books for $18.00, or three for $25.00. Perhaps you haven't read my first book, Second Chances at Life and Love, With Hope--here's your opportunity to do so. You'll need to message me in order to get this price. As always, books are available on kindle or the nook.

Enjoy the trailer and God Bless each of you!
https://vimeo.com/149855186

Sleepless Nights Turned Into Joy

I tossed and turned last night in bed. I tried several tactics that sometimes work. The tossing and turning reminded me of when I was grieving. I’d try to relax and let sleep overcome my consciousness. I quoted Bible verses I’d memorized, I’d let hymns run through my brain. I even prayed, and asked God to show me who I should pray for.

This morning I read in the Psalms. It was a familiar  one:

I am worn out from sobbing.

Every night tears drench my bed;

my pillow is wet from weeping.

My vision is blurred by grief;

(Psalm 6:6-7a)

Grief comes with different faces: loss of health, loss of a job, loss of a relationship, and most difficult for me, loss through death.

I am worn out from sobbing....

I noticed the sky was lightening and was rewarded  with another sunrise visible this week. It immediately revived my well-being. 

Don't you love how the sun shines on that yellow? My camera couldn't nearly capture the colors.

Jim and I decided to go for a walk and my heart was full of joy as we strolled along the Columbia River. I saw geese flying overhead in the clear blue sky, conversing in their goose talk. I watched the river sparkle in the sun and as I drew in a deep breath, I experienced joy and simply felt better! 

For those of you grieving, please know, it won’t last forever. Scripture promises it:

Weeping may endure for a night, 

But joy comes in the morning.

Psalm 30:5

How do I know this for sure? Because I’ve experienced it.

Grief happens to everyone at some time in their life and in the grieving, there is work. Depending on the grief, your work is different. It might be working on a resume, networking for a new job, doing some physical therapy, taking new medications. In death, there’s work, too. It helps to contemplate the memories, look at photos, write a letter to your loved one, go through their belongings. And, look to the future. The future is a guarantee, wherever we are.

If possible, take a walk today. I promise you it will lift your spirits.

Rain or snow. Sunshine or clouds, enjoy the day. 

A Bluesy, Blah-like, Sort of Day

That’s how my day was on Saturday. I planned to put my Christmas decorations away. I enjoy the clean, neat feeling that is there when all the messy branches and candle drippings are removed and I have a less crowded room. Often my decor for January is clean, white, and simple. But I digress. 

The day before I began taking things down, I sorted out decorations I didn’t need anymore. I looked at unused stockings. There was a “Mom”, “Dad” stocking, even a stocking with a pet’s name on the front. There were two very old ones with my children’s names on the stocking. The white cuffs were dingy. I looked through things my mother-in-law made and gave to me during the past fifty years. Cute wisemen with fancy felt decorated robes. Crocheted and starched angels that were hung from the tree in years past. I fingered a card board poster/hot pad my first grade son made. On the back, his name was carefully printed: Todd.  There was a brass ornament with a little girl all dressed in outdoor clothing,in front of a snowy cabin, with her name on the front: Erika. Those children are no longer children. Another reason to be sad and bluesy. Time is passing. 

When I put out my Christmas decorations, I pack items on my shelves not used during the Season away in the empty Christmas boxes. Good idea, right? Well, apparently I didn’t pack one particular vase carefully enough. After twenty-some years of treasuring it, alas, when opening the storage boxes, I found it broken! “Oh no!” I wailed. Jim didn’t quite understand why I was so upset. We could replace it, couldn’t we? Replace? Yes, but you can’t replicate that excited young man—my son—who finally had enough money to shop for gifts by himself with his own money. I remember he waited for me to open that box with a gift I was “sure to like”. I did. If you’ve been in my home, you might remember a large black ginger jar vase with thin gold stripes edging the rounded part of the vase and stripes around the neck.

In spring, I put pink dogwood in it. At Easter, lilies. In summer, soft fluffy lilacs. In fall, burnt orange leaves and near Valentine’s Day, red poppies. Now it was broken! “Maybe I can fix it,” Jim said. 

“No, it’s not the same,” I said sadly. I continued my sorting, tossing out worn out old shoeboxes I’d used to pack things. After six hours, I’d put everything away and put the room back in its original order and began putting my winter items out. Maybe I’ll have a look at that vase, I thought. I looked and yes, there was a large gash on the larger rounded part of the vase. Could I turn it around so it won’t be seen and I can still use it? 

I did just that. It is in a place where you don’t see the back, just the front. All of a sudden, my bluesy, blah day was brighter. I didn’t have to throw away that vase. Not just yet. 

I’m reminded of how our days can be like that. Sometimes they’re bright with hope and wonder, and then a bill comes in the mail you weren’t expecting. Or someone cancels out a lunch date you were looking forward to. Worse yet, you or one of your loved ones receives a call from the lab where tests have been taken and there’s not a good report. Worse yet, someone you love, dies.

I’m so glad my well being isn’t only on the temporal things in life. Like vases that break. Like Christmas stockings that are now shabby and worn and not needed anymore. Like our bodies that don’t perform like they did a few years ago. Like when you realize you’ll never accomplish that goal you’ve dreamed of, for there isn’t time. 

I’m reminded of a quote a young soldier who is a quadruple amputee—only one of five who’ve survived such an ordeal and what he said about his difficulties. Reminisce the past, look to the future. I’m going to remember that young man who has so much less now than he did before going to Iraq. 

Let’s look to the future. And yes, my bluesy, blah-like day sort of disappears as I look to the future of 2016—and beyond. Join me!