Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them [...]]]> I saw her for the last time on such a rare and wonderful autumn day as this. With fall crispness charging the air, our long, lingering stroll around the campus let her enjoy the unique texture of October breeze and sun upon her cheeks.

Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them for the last time. But it’s not ordained for us to know the times or epochs of our lives, to read with full comprehension the great plans indelibly etched upon the scroll of eternity.

I returned home that bright October afternoon to mundane duties far less significant than the one just completed. We retired as usual that evening, around 10:00, only to be jolted awake at 3:00 by the telephone call many parents silently fear deep within their souls.

“Jenny is in cardiac arrest,” the voice dutifully reported. “You can meet the ambulance at the emergency room.” We numbly scrambled to pull ourselves together.

We were there when the ambulance arrived, and a group of medical personnel hovered over Jenny, frantic in their attempts to revive her.

“How long has she been this way?” I asked, dreading the answer. The terse reply came: “Twenty-five minutes.”

“There’s no use continuing,” I acknowledged. “Let her go.” They questioned my decision. “Are you sure?” I was.

Then came a few moments alone with her, the formal documents to sign, the sober trip home, the decisions about what to do first, the long wait until daylight before making the requisite calls, the cleaning and the tentative plans.

Mary shopped for a suitable outfit, one of soft, respectful pink for the daughter who would, after all, need to look lovely for friends coming to see her for one last time. And she did. Mary called me from the funeral home. “I’ve just seen the most beautiful girl in the world.” And she had.

Along with Mary and me, her brother spoke at the funeral. Then we three offered our goodbyes–knowing they were for the last time.

On rare and wonderful autumn days such as this, I sometimes wonder: Is there really a heaven? What will it be like? Will we remember our times together? Will we know each other? Will we be able to take long, lingering strolls and feel the October breeze and sun upon our cheeks?

But in those moments of evaluation, Jesus’ assurances from the Bible spring up within me. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

Thus I seldom recall that particular rare and wonderful autumn day — October 2, 1995 — with any residual sadness. For it was, and still remains, one of the few great watersheds of our lives, defining the terrain and landscape in which we will live out our remaining years. And the last times of that unique October confirm the beliefs we truly call our own.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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—–

There are times [...]]]> I post this 1999 article today in memory of the 15th anniversary of the death of our daughter, Jenny. And though she has drifted away to a far greater extent than mentioned in the article, I have two great assurances: heaven is real, and I will soon be reunited with her–and her mom!

—–

There are times when I really miss our daughter Jenny. In so many ways, our brief time with her, which once seemed so protracted and difficult, is now like a dream. But occasionally something will happen to bring her back to my mind with a remarkable clarity and presence. And in such moments she still lives, and we are together once more in all the pleasantness of childhood.

That happened not long ago when my wife Mary showed me a card that she had made in 1980. With tears in her voice, she handed me the card and said, “See, Jenny really was here; this proves it.” On the card, one large owl and three smaller ones are sitting on a branch. Their bodies are actually our fingerprints embellished with the necessary features to fill out their forms.

The smallest owl is son Barrett’s pinkie at age seven weeks, and Jenny (age eight) is beside him on the branch. No matter how fuzzy her memory becomes, she was with us, and her little owl reverses the clock. Our family unit still faced many years of difficult struggle, but that didn’t matter. Inseparable, we were a happy little band.

But the absence ushered in by Jenny’s death in late 1995 has removed much of the tangible reality of her life. My not being able to physically behold her each day has eroded much of what was once so clear, undeniable, and seemingly unforgettable.

Though she was with us for almost 23 years, there are even some days now in which I actually don’t think of her. In a sense, she, and all the trappings and circumstances of her life, is adrift in my mind. There are those sobering flashbacks, however, when something as simple as the little owl revives her with a voice as fresh as if nothing had ever changed.

In such interludes she is somehow anchored, and time has momentarily paused. Seeing the card was such an occasion, a reminder that death will ultimately affect every human relationship. And no matter how close I have been to family and friends in life, I too will eventually begin a relentless drift away from them. How important it is to let down some “anchors” now — by investing in their lives while I have the chance.

THE SEA OF TIME

What once was near in bygone days,
Relentlessly has slipped away
‘Til what was real (and surely mine)
Is lost upon the sea of time.

Relationships I then held dear
Engaged my heart without the fear
That Death would ever intervene
To plunge the real into a dream.

But, unexpectedly He came
To exercise His prior claim,
Compelling me to loose the line
And launch her on the sea of time.

Occasionally, there’ll be a trace
That brings her fresh before my face –
An anchor in the sea of time –
Reminding me that she was mine.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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The owl card

Article about Jenny

Following is a summarization of the tribute delivered [...]]]> From my own experience, the loss of a child is one of the most difficult experiences we ever face in life. The pain and darkness are indescribably intense, and there are no easy answers to comfort the hurting heart. Can there be any hope in such a situation?

Following is a summarization of the tribute delivered by Karen Gottsponer at the memorial service for her infant daughter, Rebekah Joy Gottsponer, who passed away on October 13, 2009. In it you will see great hope expressed even in the midst of overwhelming sorrow. I trust this will be a help to others who might find themselves in similar circumstances.

—–

Dale and I and our family want to thank you all for being here to support us during this time.

We are thankful for the time that God gave us with Rebekah Joy. I was so blessed to have had the privilege of carrying her for almost 37 weeks and blessed that the kids and Dale had an opportunity to place their hands over my belly and pray over her these past few months. Today is about honoring her and giving glory to God for her sweet little life.

As we have been ministered to this week by so many, we have come across numerous verses that have touched our hearts and have spoken life into our weary souls. Looking back, we realize that God in His tender mercy was drawing us toward Him and preparing us for what we would be facing.

As the reality of Rebekah’s passing began to seek in, I spent time in the hospital bathroom crying out to God to fill my hurting heart as only He could. I didn’t know if I could face another moment without my sweet baby girl. I felt that our hopes were lost, our dreams unfulfilled and our plans unfinished. But God whispered in my heart that this was not true. If this is what we believed we could not make it another day but would just crumble into a heap of despair.

Our hopes are not lost because we know we will see Rebekah’s sweet little face one day!

Because of Rebekah’s passing, our faith is being tested as never before. Do we believe everything we say we believe? It’s so easy to pray and praise God when our world is right. However, what will we do when things don’t go as planned? We now know we must cling to His word because He is really all we have. I was reminded of these verses: “These two things cannot change: God cannot lie when He makes a promise, and He cannot lie when He makes an oath. These things encourage us who came to God for safety. They give us strength to hold on to the hope we have been given. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, sure and strong.” (Hebrews 6:18-19 NCV).

As women came in our hospital room with stories of their own losses, Dale and I realized that we too could “rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep” (Roman 12:15 NAS) because we had “been there” and felt that same grief.

And even though I have a baby book at home left uncompleted, God has reminded me that Rebekah’s sweet days were ordained in His book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:13-16).

We are scared of the “firsts” that are coming. The first time we are asked how many children we have. The first day Dale goes back to work. The first time we go back to church without Rebekah. The first time I am asked by someone who doesn’t know our loss, “How is your newborn?” Though these unknowns frighten us, God “will lead the blind by ways they have not known.” (Isaiah 42:16).

Dale and I had thought a lot about the tone we wanted this memorial service to take. Do we celebrate? Do we grieve? Do we mourn? We eventually decided that we wanted friends to see that we do indeed grieve for our little baby—so deeply from a place in our hearts we never knew existed.

But we also wanted them to see that we grieve with hope: hope of seeing sweet little Rebekah’s face again because we are in Christ. (1 Thes. 4:13-18). We can honestly say we can praise God through this storm. These past few days, His word seems sweeter, His grace ever present, His love surrounding.

We have been blessed in so many ways this past week: To know for sure the cause of little Rebekah’s death. To have a wonderful doctor who cared for me throughout my pregnancy and prayed and cried with us at the end. To have friends that immediately rallied around us and cried and prayed with us. To have a dear hospital staff member to take care of Rebekah when were not able and to minister to our weary hearts. To have friends that cared for our children, taxied them around, played Monopoly with them, took them out for shakes. To have children who helped run the household, cleaned bathrooms, greeted guests. To have family members who came with love and coworkers and neighbors who called, provided meals, shed tears, wrote words. And much more.

Thank you all from the bottom of our hearts. Thank you for walking down this path with us the first few days as we stumbled along. Though we know we have to walk alone now, we are reassured we aren’t really alone, for God is with us every step. And we know He will also bring people along our paths when we need them to help us in this journey.

May God show you how much each of you means to us. Thank you, and God bless you.

Copyright 2009 Karen Gottsponer — www. gottjoy.blogspot.com

THE HOPE

I weep for you my little one,
My heart is full of whys:
Why snatched from me so suddenly?
No answer satisfies.

I’ll never fully comprehend
The darkness in my soul,
But from my pain—and dawning bright—
A wonder now unfolds:

That God could take my deepest hurt
And from its depth extract
A hope in Him, a confidence,
A love that knows no lack.

Not even death with all its sting
Could ever steal from me
The wondrous hope we’ll meet again
And share eternity!

In Memory Of:
Rebekah Joy Gottsponer
October 13, 2009

Copyright 2009 James McAlister — www.james-mc.com

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Listen to a brief audio message (5 minutes)

A few, it seems, do poorly fare In soil of trial and earthly care. So those He specially, gently treats, Those flowers of childhood, frail and weak.

And laying them upon His breast He moves them when the time is best To where in [...]]]> With ever-loving tender care
The Gardner plants His flowers where
A family's beauty's incomplete,
His flowers of childhood, frail and weak.

A few, it seems, do poorly fare
In soil of trial and earthly care.
So those He specially, gently treats,
Those flowers of childhood, frail and weak.

And laying them upon His breast
He moves them when the time is best
To where in heaven roots sink deep,
So they can flourish, strong and sweet.

And while we miss their presence here
We know the Gardner holds them dear.
Because of that-again we'll meet
Our flowers of childhood, strong and sweet.

Copyright 2001 James McAlister

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Wander among graves and [...]]]> As a young man, I never understood an activity that the "older" folk seemed to take some pleasure in doing. But my outlook has changed quite a bit in the last few years. Now, each time I visit a cemetery I am confronted with reminders of powerful truths that need frequent reinforcement.

Wander among graves and you'll learn some things. For one, death is no respecter of persons; he visits infants and aged alike. Our pilgrimage here is brief, and the grave awaits us. We must prepare for that day.

But there's something more certain than death: the resurrection of the dead. "Behold, I show you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed." (1 Cor 15:51). As friends and family precede us into death, the hope of the resurrection becomes even more precious and compelling.

Epithets from tombstones often have a ring of that hope. Here are two I have recently seen: "Weep not father and mother for me, for I am waiting in glory for thee." — A 21-year-old wife. "Sleep on dear child and take thy rest, in Jesus' arms forever blest." — A 14-year-old girl. Though death may bring sorrow, Christians can see beyond the horizon of physical life into Paradise (Lk 23:43), where the dead in Christ await.

Along with ever-faithful friends Dean and Mamie Baney and Jan Simmons, we recently made another trek to the cemetery where our daughter Jenny is buried. Two things are especially memorable.

For one, we reenacted what has become a meaningful tradition. Before leaving, we stood near Jenny's grave to hold hands and pray. Then Mr. Baney quoted that thrilling passage (1 Thes 4:13-18) about Christ's return. We're always aware that the voice of the archangel and the trump of God could shatter our prayers — as the Lord Himself descends from heaven with a shout. What a thrill it will be to see both living and dead caught up together to meet the Lord in the air!

Nature provides a graphic foreshadowing of the resurrection as winter's decay invariably yields to spring's new life. This spring Jan lovingly planted a blooming rose on Jenny's grave, carefully watering it with the plant food that husband Keith had prepared.

From spring to spring, that blooming rose should continue to remind us that death is not the end. New life is inevitable. For Jenny … and for all who are in Christ.

IN SPRING

In spring, when sunlight gently falls
In golden heaps of dappled rays,
There open windows of recall
To other Springs in other days.

This spring, on such a wistful day
'Twas out of love two freely gave
A gift of more than words could say:
A blooming rose to grace a grave.

Each spring, that blooming rose's pow'r
For touching hearts will e'er suffice
To call to mind another flow'r,
Our rose who blooms in Paradise.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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One strong, one weak, but both would seek To serve their Master, hear Him speak.

For came the day He’d clearly say, “It’s time to go your separate ways.

“Though one take breath, the other death, Your parents’ roots will find new depth.

“It’s for their sake I heal and [...]]]> Two lads conceived for special deeds
Down different paths the Lord would lead.

One strong, one weak, but both would seek
To serve their Master, hear Him speak.

For came the day He’d clearly say,
“It’s time to go your separate ways.

“Though one take breath, the other death,
Your parents’ roots will find new depth.

“It’s for their sake I heal and break,
And length of days I give and take.

“This day’s ordained for joy and pain,
But be assured you’ll meet again.

“When sorrow’s done and crowns are won
To both of you I’ll say, ‘Well done.’”

Honoring The Lives Of
Phillip David Pascoe
Isaac Wesley Pascoe
October 18, 1999

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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This Spring, on such a wistful day 'Twas out of love two freely gave A gift of more than words could say: A blooming rose to grace a grave.

Each Spring, that blooming rose's pow'r For touching hearts will e'er suffice To [...]]]> In Spring, when sunlight gently falls
In golden heaps of dappled rays,
There open windows of recall
To other Springs in other days.

This Spring, on such a wistful day
'Twas out of love two freely gave
A gift of more than words could say:
A blooming rose to grace a grave.

Each Spring, that blooming rose's pow'r
For touching hearts will e'er suffice
To call to mind another flow'r,
Our rose who blooms in Paradise.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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He overtook her and at last Led her away. Her hasty flight left in its wake A sober thought Enveloped in the loss of one Who'd been so [...]]]> It doesn't seem so long ago
That she was born.
Though fleeting years brought many trials
That mounted fast,
She stayed ahead of one who ran
In close pursuit.
But two and twenty years were all
That she could last.

He overtook her and at last
Led her away.
Her hasty flight left in its wake
A sober thought
Enveloped in the loss of one
Who'd been so close:
Death catches life much quicker than
We think he ought.

Her birthday next uniquely marks
A special year.
I could have lived my life again
And gladly would —
For she would be the age I was
When she was born —
Reliving both the joys and pains
Of motherhood.

Copyright 1998 James McAlister

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