Polly's Story

Almost a year ago, I met my blogging friend, Polly. At first she made me smile with her ever-positive attitude, and how she always signed off her posts saying, “Stay sweet!” I could just hear her little southern drawl. Plus, she loves free stuff and those recipes that are like the commercial products (for example—Reese’s bars and the latest: Almost Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia Ice Cream!). I do recall, that must be how I came across her. But now, the more I learn about her, the more I love and appreciate her and the Lord’s work in her life. Here’s a story she told me, pieced together from some messages we shared on Facebook. Let me encourage you to visit her blog, Angels In My Garden. Be sure to say “Hi,” and that you’re visiting from WCP. Also, if you’re on Facebook, go ahead and “friend” me and I’ll tell you about our “Lifeboat” group for widows.

Here's where we pick up Polly's story:
“Ferree, I moved 300 miles away, leaving behind everything I had ever known. My heart is still there and it will always be “home.” Still, it was the absolute, without a doubt, best thing I could have done.

Jerry & Polly

Memories are wonderful and painful at the same time ... in my old house they were everywhere I looked, in every nook and every cranny. I slowly began to see that if I moved, I would take those memories with me and perhaps lessen the pain a little.

I do miss my old home, though. My oldest son and several grandchildren still live in the area. But until last summer, when I visited them I could not bear to even look at the street with my old house, nor could I go to the cemetery.

What is so important about this is that I suppose I was in denial. I’had lost a son, both parents and now, my husband. For a long, long time in my old house I’d buy flowers, take them home and keep them there instead of taking them to the cemetery. Somehow it seemed that if I went to the cemetery that would validate it, make it real.

I found myself listening for footsteps coming down the hall ... and keeping all the flowers at home. I could not bring myself to go to that cemetery except one night, when I went at 2:00 in the morning in my pajamas in the pouring rain, alone; no one knew, my tears mixed with the rain.

After moving and going back home several times without even a glance in the direction of where I had lived for 30 years, let alone the cemetery, my son took me there. Last summer my son said "Mom, let's go for a little ride and look at some of the country."

We drove by our house; through my tears, it was like I saw it for the first time. I squeezed his arm tightly, and then he drove on to the cemetery. We both got out of the car and and it was like a healing!

I will tell you that sweet boy (48 years old, but still my baby) had to be guided by the hands of God. He stayed quietly with me as I cried so hard my body shook, and let me do whatever I needed to do to release all the pent up grief I had been holding inside. At last the sobbing, the shaking began to subside and, holding him close, I began to feel the peace. Gratitude for the time I’d had with his dad and his brother welled up within me and I could look ahead with joy to days with him, with his brothers and sisters.

Now I can go and be so grateful for the time I had. I can take flowers there and feel the joy I knew 'back in the day' once more. My son is very wise, indeed!

It was the right thing to do and the right time to do it. Each of us is unique, each of us grieves in our own way. My grief doesn't dominate my life the way it once did. I believe God, in His great wisdom, quietly sent the message to my son, "the time is now".

I cannot tell you how I hope that sharing one of these stories of mine may help another to realize that, in time, they, too, will laugh, remembering the good times. Thank you, sweet, dear lady!!!

Thank you, Polly. And may the Lord continue His good work in you!

♥ ferree