Posts Tagged ‘death’

My father was planning to help me complete a print version of my book for Amazon before he died. Therefore in his memory, I intend to complete it in the near future. I’ve been working on the third edition which includes several revisions.

At some point, I will be either removing this entire site or perhaps just the parts that will be included my Amazon book. That would allow me to make it available to more countries around the world for free or at a reasonable price, and would also let me run promotions if my book is an Amazon exclusive.

It meant a lot to me that my father wanted me to write my story because he admired my work and wanted the truth to be told. Many people would feel differently about negative press, but I think he wanted to “come clean” in some symbolic way.

He showed tremendous character in a variety of ways. Although he was not religious, he went out of his way to send me letters and videos about religious festivals in Spain. He mailed me a lovely painted tile of Santa Catalina the patron saint of Valldemossa, which I hung by my doorway. He also sent me a beautiful set of paper neules which were hand-cut by Mallorquin nuns, and I hang them with pride during every Christmas season. He called me his little snail because I move slowly and gently through life, and he sent me a blue glass snail in a satin-lined little box. These loving and respectful gestures tenderized my heart towards him over the past several years, and changed our relationship in meaningful ways.

We communicated about recipes and cooking and sent photographs of our meals to each other, because we both loved to try new dishes. I bought an English version of his pasta cookbook, so that we could literally cook from the same page. Although he loved Mediterranean food, he missed things like cornbread and Thanksgiving turkey.

I miss his little gestures very much, and this Father’s Day will be especially painful for me. This little snail may be in her shell for awhile, but after the rains are over I may reappear as a little delicacy with a tiny fork on someone’s plate.

Please pray for me.

Peace be unto you,

~Olive~

 

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“Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. As long as it stays I am alive, if it is pulled out I shall die.” –Søren Kierkegaard

I received a phone call on my son’s birthday that a lady who had been helping my father during his illness arrived at his apartment and found his walker in the garage and his car gone. She knew this did not bode well because he was not supposed to drive with his poor eyesight, and he had been in terrible pain for a few months. She frantically drove out in her car, weeping and calling out his name as she searched up and down the highways and around the villages. In desperation, she drove to the police and reported him missing. They tracked his phone and found him dead in his car. He had driven to a secluded area and taken a handful of pills, and ended his suffering there alone.

I did not learn until later that various people had been aware that he planned to end his life, and that he had asked them not to tell me because I would try to talk him out of it. He said he did not want to hurt me anymore than I’d already been hurt. He had surgery only a few days before his death, and I am grieved to think his pain might have subsided if he had been encouraged to hold on awhile longer. I have heard that there may have been cancer or other issues that he didn’t reveal, but it doesn’t change the way that I feel.

I had missed my father every day of my entire life from the time I was a little girl. One of my earliest memories of him is when he visited me while a woman waited in a car in the driveway for him. My mother was inside the house and my heart broke for her and for me. That has been the story of my life. There was always a woman keeping me from my father, and I’ve always been jealous of anyone who got to enjoy his company, because I never did. I still love my father and I forgive him for his ways that he could not change.

Over the past few years, he told me he felt many regrets about the pain he inflicted on my mother and sister and me. Visiting Spain was painful, because it let me see the beautiful life that he never would include me in. Someone in Spain recently sent me a message which I had to translate from Spanish, saying that my father had horrific recurring nightmares in the months before he died: He dreamed that the two of you, you and your sister were still little and were crying, screaming, grabbing his pants legs … Begging him not to leave … That he would not abandon you ….He would wake up crying, sweaty, he would sit on the bed and put his hands on his face …. He was very aware of the pain he caused you. It hurts me that I did not know how to transmit it.

I have also learned a few things he said about me, which I had not known before he died. I asked a Spanish lady to place a purple flower in my name at his memorial service. I later saw the photograph of the lovely orchid she offered on my behalf, and saw a note attached which read, “With Love to My Poppy from your Delicate Flower.” The lady explained that my father called me his delicate flower and that he often said that I was amazingly strong and yet very delicate. He told her he respected and admired me. It means so much to know that he felt this way. I still talk with him in my mind and send him text messages, because I miss him terribly. I had hoped to visit him during the holidays, but now my dreams of time with him are shattered.

I will always remember the lady who searched for my father and tried to save him. I felt that I was driving with her and screaming through the car window that day, and I too was crushed with a terrible weight when they found his body.

Please pray for me and my family in this emotional time.

Peace and Grace,
~Olive~

 

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Yesterday in Mallorca, a sweet lady presented this purple orchid in my name to my father. IMG_20170429_112105 On the card it says “For my Poppy with love from your delicate flower”… I am so touched by this kind gesture.

Here are a few photos of my father:

I will miss him forever and a day. Please pray for our family.

Peace and Grace,

~Olive~

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My father died two days ago in Valldemossa, Mallorca, Spain. I have written this poem as a tribute to him. Please pray for our family. Peace be with you.
~Sister Olive~

My Father’s Voice

His voice was as warm as pure maple syrup over pancakes.
It was as gravelly as a mountain road in West Virginia.
It arrived with a rumble like a train into the station.

His voice pranced onto the stage
As classy and sassy as a sexy dancer in red high heels.
It rung like a round glass of red wine tapped by fingernails.
It bleated like lambs under the almond trees.
It played rich like the viola, gentle as piano keys,
And heavenly as the harpsichord.
It sang like the nightingale under the moon in an ancient olive tree.
His voice could make thunder and rain and snow and a clear day
All at once.

When he spoke my name,
I stepped into glass slippers and onto a castle balcony,
Draped in white satin with golden lace rustling about my ankles
And a pearl ring upon my finger.
A noble white dove lighted upon my shoulder and whispered peace to me.
The wind stroked the bell towers
And I inhaled the scent of jasmine and orange blossom.
That was the power of his voice over me.

But in April the floods came
And the hands of the clock died
And the bells rang hollow upon
The twelve bubbles of midnight.
My head is under water
And the fish kiss my eyelids with their tiny lips.
I can only hear the sound of his final sigh.

 

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In the first sermon that Jesus delivered, He said “Blessed are the merciful.” This true story illustrates how we Christians do a lot of damage when we become too smug about our views, and place our doctrine above the souls of desperate people.

(The Iris Diaries)

I asked a nurse with cold white sterile hands scribbling on a chart to direct me to Opal’s room.  Before walking in, my eyes scanned the name on the brushed aluminum nameplate with apprehension.  I stepped in quietly, wondering what to say to her.

Opal was dying.  I knew it as soon as I looked at the old woman. A sense of urgency rattled me like unexpected thunder. It was dreadfully cold in the room.

Opal was lying thin and pale on her bed. Her face was tight like pale yellow parchment and her whole body seemed to be laboring and exhausted under the cold white sheets.  Tubes were in her nose and needles in her bruised trembling arms. Her lips and eyelids were purple, and the oxygen machine breathed like a slow steam train in a dark tunnel. Her fearful eyes opened like hollow caves when she heard me walk in. It was difficult even to look at her in such agony.

I sat down in the stiff plastic chair next to the bed and drew my shawl around my shoulders.  Focusing on the woman’s frightened face, I introduced myself and asked Opal how she was feeling.  The poor woman began to speak between heavy breaths, with the disturbing rhythm of the oxygen in the background:

“I have emphysema and I don’t expect to live long.  I smoked for most of my life, and that is why I am ill.  I have been in this hospital bed for several months, and I am scared of dying.  I am worried about my soul, and I have been asking how I can find peace with God. I rarely have a visitor since I have been here.”

(Opal has to pause for deep breaths.)  “My brother is a Mormon and he came to see me once, and I asked him what I needed to do about my soul.  He said that I would have to do missionary service for the church.  I told him that I was too sick to do anything, and he seemed very sorry that he couldn’t do anything for me.” 

“I also asked a priest who came down the hall one day to come and talk to me.  He came in and sprinkled some holy water on my forehead and made the sign of the cross over me, and told me that I was saved.  But I knew I wasn’t, because I didn’t feel any different when he left me.  I cried and cried.” (I touched her hand and asked her to rest for a moment, since speaking is exhausting for her. She pauses for a few minutes then continues.)

“The other day, a group from some church came in to visit my roommate and pray with her.  I called out to them to ask them what I needed to do to be saved, and they said I would have to be baptized.  I explained that I cannot be immersed in water, because I would die if I did.   (Opal coughs deeply.)  A man in the group apologized to me, saying that there was nothing they could do for me, and then they continued visiting my roommate and praying with her.  I felt so terrible and hopeless, and I have been so scared.”

Tears came to my eyes as the old woman was talking.  I had learned about Opal from the man who told her she would have to be baptized.  I worked with him at the office downtown. He always wore polo shirts and tortoise-edged glasses and spoke in a heated voice.

I had hoped to find Opal before it was too late.  I told her that the thief hanging on the cross next to Jesus did not have time for any rituals.  He simply asked Christ to remember him when He returned to His Kingdom, and Christ had promised “Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”  I explained that faith is all God requires, and asked her if she would like to pray.  Opal was very eager to, and we prayed quietly together.  Opal asked God to forgive her for everything that she had done wrong, and asked if she could be His child.

I asked Opal if she would like to have some Bible verses read to her, and she said yes.  We talked for a long time and read scriptures together, and the old woman was noticeably comforted.  Her face looked more restful and calm. I offered to come regularly and visit and study the Bible with her, and Opal was very pleased.  We did not get to be friends for very long.

After a few weeks, I went to see Opal, and the nurses said that she could no longer talk or communicate because she had lost oxygen to her brain. I asked to go into the room with her anyway, and the nurses consented.  I had heard that people can still hear others even after they can’t speak anymore, so I stood near Opal’s bed for awhile, twisting the corners of my shawl in my fingers and dabbing my tears. The oxygen was puffing loudly inside the translucent tent where Opal lay serenely.  I spoke gently and reminded her that she was a child of God, and that Jesus had promised to never forsake those who love Him. I left Opal alone in the cloudy tabernacle with God.

The next time I went to see Opal, the nurses said she couldn’t visit and that they couldn’t give any details, because I wasn’t a member of the family.  I knew then that she had left this world, and I was glad that her suffering had ended.  Opal is breathing easier now.

“To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.“(Revelation 2:17)

OLIVE TWIST ©2012

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