The Saturday Journal: Seven years and a few months shy...
- tathelmillerwriter
- 17 hours ago
- 4 min read
This week I celebrated a birthday and I am now seven years and a few months shy of the age of my Daddy--when he passed away.
It was a cold day--a fresh blanket of snow had fallen--it wasn't a deep snow, but enough for the power to go out--a tree to fall. And on that March day, my Daddy took his last breath here on this earth and his first breath in heaven.
A month before he took his last breath--he attended his first and only great grandbaby's birthday party. He fixed him mashed potatoes--his great grandbaby boy loved them and so he had for his first birthday--cake and mashed potatoes. His second great grandbaby was on the way--due in a few short months and this time--a baby girl.
Seven years.
I've thought about this and if we are all truthful with ourselves and we've had a parent to pass--the thought has come to mind--how much time do I have? Will I die at the same age--as my father or mother?
I heard a story of a woman whose father died really young--the age of 45 and on the day of her forty-fifth birthday--she cried all day. She's in her late 70's now.
And on this birthday of mine, I baked a cake--not a birthday cake for me--a chocolate pound cake--from my Aunt Louise's recipe in the PTO cookbook, dated 1982. The birth year of my first child--my daughter. This special cake--I'm taking it to the Rhodes' family Christmas gathering--along with deviled eggs and maybe a meatloaf--iron skillet and all.
And at my Christmas family gathering, there will be aunts and uncles and cousins galore--and their children and grandbabies and great grandbabies. The church fellowship hall will be brimming over full with laughter and conversation--and the tables of food and dessert, even fuller. Our memory table displaying photos of my grandparents and family members now in heaven will sit against the wall--closest to the Christmas tree. And over the past few years that table, too, has expanded to a larger table. In the photos--their faces--their smiles--I see the goodness of God--the blessing of family.
A few days ago, I received "the letter". The one with the results from my recent mammogram. Letters such as these--they are never opened in haste, but with a slow exhale. The heading of the letter is addressed to me, the patient, my doctor and radiologist, and the date of the letter. The letter begins "Thank you for choosing..." and then it goes on with more information about breast cancer, laws, general information and at the bottom of the page are these bold words and to make them stand out even more--the sentence is enclosed in bold lines as well--for attention purposes, I'm assuming. The body of the letter is standard--everyone receives that message--the one sentence in bold--that is personal.
My letter read, "Your mammogram has been interpreted, and we are pleased to report that no evidence of breast cancer was detected on your study."
And it was seven years ago--in 2018 when a letter never arrived--instead I received a phone call--we need to do more tests--we are scheduling you for a biopsy.
There's this gift shop in Pawley's Island, one of my favorites and this past summer, I bought a journal--it wasn't the color or design of the journal that caught my attention--it was the title of the journal, "This Wild and Precious Life". I know this quote well--this profound question from poet and writer, Mary Oliver. "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
And my granddaughter said these words to me--two days prior to me turning a year older. She and I were in the car--traveling home--she in the back seat and me driving. We had been in conversation about everything from her friends--school--Christmas. And I don't recall how our conversation turned to this, but she said, "Sometimes I forget, I could die tomorrow."
All I could say was, "I believe we all do."
And on the morning of my birthday, I wake to the rising of bread--the glow of Christmas tree lights and the smell of orange slices drying on the stove. I have no idea--not one clue--if I will live another seven years, seven hours, seven minutes, seven seconds--or 33 years--for that matter. Only God knows. But, what I know, what of I am sure, is this--life is short and only by Him, we have all been given this gift of, our one precious life.
And as I reflect back on the story of the lady who spent the entire day crying on her "one and only" forty-fifth birthday, I wonder--could it be, perhaps, rather than her fear of dying--she was more afraid she hadn't lived?
I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know and I pray, the stories shared in this
space will encourage and bless you in some small way.
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Soli Deo Gloria
The Christmas Quilt and the Zion Creek Ladies Circle
I will be sharing the first in the fictional series on Wednesday, December 17. I hope you will join me and get to know the Ladies of Zion Creek
My new book, The Saturday Journal: Stories of Faith, Family, Farming and Community is sold out. To say I am humbled, grateful and a bit overwhelmed is an understatement. I have reordered and in hopes the second shipment will be here in a few weeks (possibly by December 22nd).
As soon as I receive the shipment, all orders will be shipped.
Thank you again for all your prayers, support, and encouragement!
And David Caldwell (young man's story who is featured in the book and on the cover),
He and I will be doing a joint book signing after Christmas.
More details to come!
I can’t wait for the new series!