I bought a beautiful, real, pink flowering hydrangea plant today at Aldi.
It seems proper that I report this purchase because my normal routine is not to buy the flowers; but to only pause to smell, and enjoy the flowers, and take a picture, and then move on to fill my cart with the grocery items that are on the list. It is significant that you know that I bought a real live flowering plant because it is linked to a larger-than-life display of fake flowers that I happened upon a week ago today. Now, this tower of fake flowers is related to an event that happened six years ago today. And you may be wondering, well what on earth is significant about March 10th?
Oh, I have a story to share.
A story of the real and the fake and a blonde who is prone to mistakes. So here goes. Pull up a chair and a brownie, because the real flowering plant purchase today I made today, the Lord, He is using it to make a point with me about the what is lasting and what will fade and the Lord and I took a little trip to the cemetery today that was as real as if He was steering the car and pressing the pedal taking me to the place where my Daddy’s gravestone marks the spot that holds only his bones. The Lord wasn’t physically driving, you know; but, it was the promptings of the Holy Spirit that I was following that led me to a real experience with my Savior.
Go ahead, grab a walnut brownie and sit there beside the fragrant pink hydrangea, I have a story to share.
For two weeks in a row when I’d been zipping up and down the aisles with my list, the artificial flowers seemed to prompt a thought that I should purchase them for my daddy’s grave. I dismissed the thought the first time because I countered it with logic that it wasn’t Daddy’s birthday or his *sip-of-coffee, sip-of-heaven* day – which is what I call the August day he went home to heaven.
But one week ago today, when the prompting of the Holy Spirit came back around when I saw these blush chrysanthemum and white celosia, like Samuel, I recognized the voice that I’d dismissed and grabbed my bouquet and realized I was going on some kind of an adventure with the Lord on the anniversary of a day that was significant in my caring for my daddy.
Oh, that still small voice. It prompted a real flowers enjoyer to buy the fake flowers.
There is nothing about this story that I particularly want to share; but here I am late at night on the anniversary of a day that was only known to me and The Lord. The keyboard and I are meeting to process the culmination of today and I hope that you may find hope on the anniversary of any day that may be difficult for you through this journey of life as I re-discover the vast difference between what is real and lasting and what is fake and will fade.
Daddy came to live with us the last few years of his life. The stroke that left his left side weak at 45, took more strength from him as each year lapped. I don’t plan to recount his health struggles; but, suffice to say, he had many. Where do I even begin but to say that it was difficult for me to even accept the hospice services for daddy because hospice means, well, you know. As the years wore on, his body was just wearing out and the options to help him were decreasing until March 10th of that year. I remember talking to two doctors and on March 10th, I heard one doctor say:
Lora, this is the last antibiotic that will be strong enough to help your dad.
And the other doctor said:
Lora, I can approve this procedure that is being recommended for your dad by hospice; but, he will likely not survive the procedure.
It was the day that I knew the doctors had done everything they could for my daddy.
And it was also the day that I knew I’d done all I could for my daddy. I left that kind-hearted elderly doctor’s office that had researched and taken his old-and-soon-to-retire hands and handed me Daddy’s last antibiotic option.
I held the last option in my hands.
Daddy was in the hands of The Lord.
And truth was, Daddy always had been in the Lord’s hands. But this March day six years ago was a monumental one in my mind. I knew that I’d done all I could do. To know you have done all to care for your daddy helped to bring peace and rest when that August morning Daddy took a sip of coffee and then gently pressed his cup toward his chest that housed the mechanical value in his heart and Daddy took a sip of glory. I pressed in to make sure everything that could be done had been done. I asked questions. I reviewed options. I hoped. I prayed. I campaigned for him. I was his advocate when he had none.
Until there were no more questions.
Until there were no more options.
The Good Lord gave Daddy and I five months, and exactly five days, from the day of being given Daddy’s last earthly option. I purse my lips that hide the most prominent physical feature I have of my daddy’s – my teeth, and my thoughts and emotions jumble together and I look up to the One who orchestrated this hillside meeting of the fake flowers and the fake blonde and the fake holding spots in this ground that will one day fade away.
I look up with a longing for the real. And I tell the LORD, that I feel like the real is here in the now:
real hard
real depressing
real are the feelings of being alone
real indeed
But, the Lord, in His ever so gentle way, has me grasp on to the reality that heaven is more real that the reality I am in. He emphasizes the real here in the land of:
The fake flowers.
The fake blonde.
The fake rectangles that hold nothing but bones.
I am talking eternity. The what is to come. The gathering together with my Father who art it heaven and my Daddy who is at home with Him.
And it was right there, that I preached my first hillside sermon loudly to myself:
Daddy is not here.
Daddy is home.
I speak it to myself, for myself and for the benefit of anyone else who stands at the graveside of a loved one. Oh, I ache because I miss him and my mama; but, for the glory, and space of the never-ending span of eternity, the real truth is, my daddy is home with My Father.
I gather the truthful thoughts and I press my hat down further as if it will help to hold the Truth from whisping out.
And I’m good until I stand and at the grave of my latest loss. The tears fall unfettered and I silently chide myself for not having brought a tissue box. Preaching to myself and walking this walk of walking each other home is hard. But, through tears, I preach again the sermon that I preached to myself only moments earlier and insert a different name:
Grandma Mavis is not here.
Grandma Mavis is home.
I speak it over all the others stones that are in this holding place of bones:
They are not here.
They are home.
I walk back to mama and daddy’s stone and thank The Father that my parents are not really in this fake holding spot marked with fake flowers being watered by the tears of a fake blonde. My mama and daddy are home.
Heaven is real.
As I gather my now empty basket and head back to my car to clink over the cattle gate as I leave, I marvel at this row of stones outlining the family cemetery on the lower side. It’s like they are a crude pathway that represent realities of life:
Difficult to traverse
Sometimes it is just hard
But it here over these rough stones we walk and pass because we are all just walking each other home.
This challenging walk here and now is just the welcome mat to an eternal home.
Past the fake flowers, the fake blonde, and the fake holding spots, is the reality of Heaven. Home.
With tears flowing and a heart of love and prayers that if you are reading today, you are filled with a knowing that this life, and all that is fake, will one day fade away. Let’s set our hearts, and our hope, on the unseen; but oh-so-real Jesus and the reality of our hope that will culminate in an eternity with Him.
I sure do love you,
Lora Lovin Oburn
