Janet Morris Grimes, Author/Speaker

Janet Morris Grimes – Writing and Speaking for the Pursuit of Sappiness

Posts Tagged death

So Much To Do ….. So Little Time.

Feb 27

Posted by Janet Morris Grimes in Essay | No Comments

In Memory of Kimberly Jennings Buice.

Tuesday, February Kimberly Jennings Buice23, 2010. My friend, Kim, posted this as a status on Facebook from her mobile phone.

“So much to do….so little time.”

The next evening, she was broadsided while in her car. I have few details on the accident regarding how it happened or what went wrong. She was Life-flighted from Dickson, Tennessee to Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville; a definite sign of the seriousness of the situation. She was given a twenty percent chance of survival on that night.

As the waiting room filled with her friends and loved ones, many of whom hadn’t seen her in a few years but followed their instincts to simply go be with her, prayers went up on her behalf all across the country. Those who were able to visit with the family came away with the face of her husband, Tommy, and their two-year-old son, TJ, etched in their hearts forever.

Sadly, because of the damage done by the severe head trauma, Kimberly passed away on Friday, February 26,  just before 5:00 p.m.

The last time we saw Kimberly, she introduced us to her son for the first time, explaining that he was actually a twin. Her face beamed with pride over TJ, but we could sense the pain in her eyes when she spoke of his twin. Motherhood was a perfect match for her.

As a teen, Kimberly was always smiling, as the twinkle in her eyes mirrored her inward happiness. Her entire face lit up when she saw you, as if she had been anticipating your arrival for a long time. Kimberly had a great sense of humor; some might even say it was on the smart-alec side of things. She sat behind us in church for years, always quick to correct us if we got a little too rowdy, even if she was the cause of it.

Just recently, we ran across an old video that had a brief shot of Kim in it. With her broad smile and quick wave, you felt as if she had a secret she couldn’t wait to share. But there was no secret. This was just Kim, always excited to welcome you into her world.

I don’t know what was on Kim’s mind this week when she posted that status update, “so much to do….so little time,” but I’m so thankful that she did.

Because it’s true. There is so little time.

Kimberly’s to-do list was most likely filled with millions of mom things and wife things, work things and life things; all that is required to keep up with the hectic pace of the life she so dearly loved.

I can’t explain why things happen the way that they do. Death doesn’t make much sense from down here. We long to keep our loved ones here with us forever. But life is fragile, even temporary. Heaven is eternal, and the more we can focus our efforts there, the better off we all will be. Kimberly is just our latest reminder of that.

Kimberly, as Jesus opens his arms and welcomes you into Heaven, thank you for pointing us upward and reminding us what matters. We love you. We miss you. We need you. That will never change.

As you help Jesus to prepare a place for us, we will do our best to take care of your husband and son, of your Mom and Dad.

But know that we will be there soon. Very soon.

And we promise to remember what you taught us — that there is so much to do, and oh so little time.

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November 15, 1967

Nov 17

Posted by Janet Morris Grimes in Essay | 1 Comment

Behind every person lies a story, waiting to be revealed.

Mine is simple, touched by tragedy, yet moving on to a life filled with love, laughter, dreams, tears, and a desire to focus only on things that will matter forever.

I plan to keep it that way; understanding that those who learn to do this are the ones who never look back with regrets.

Dealing with the death of my father when I was a baby has never been an option; it was not my choice to accept.  It just simply was.

Memories, or the lack thereof, left me to fill in the blanks.  It should have been easy to move on.

Does it make sense, after all, to miss something you never had?

After forty-two years of experience in dealing with these matters, I am still not sure how to answer that question.

Several years ago, my mother, searched through boxes of family records to find an old church directory, the 1967 Edition from Northside Church of Christ in Corinth, Mississippi.  This was the church where my father, David Morris, served as the Pastor.  As a foreward, Daddy wrote in a message to his congregation, “This directory, the first in the history of the Northside church, will help us as we strengthen the bonds that tie us together.”

Turning the pages to the “M” section in the middle, I found it:

Morris, David, Jeannine, Jeanna, & Janet

3128 Harper Road

287-2140

Reading this as an adult for the first time, I felt a sense of belonging; continued relief at any proof of his existence.

But more powerful than this, I was sad.  This was a family I never knew.

For as long as I can remember, my family has been just the three of us.  Mom, Jeanna, and me.  It was a great family; my mother, to this day, remains my hero.  Jeanna and I are inseparable, even though we now live 600 miles apart.  Life, as required by it’s very meaning, moves on, gradually pulling us along with it.  If this is defined as healing, then I suppose we have done that.  Check.

But for today, my message is this:

November 15, 1967.

Our lives changed forever on this date.

Life before the death of a parent never equals that same life afterward.  And healing on the outside never brings me back to who I was as a child, living at 3128 Harper Road in Corinth, Mississippi.

I would give anything to call that phone number to speak to that Morris Family.  There is so much I would like to know about how life would have been….

“Every day, it still  matters….”

That’s what I would say to him when he answered the phone.

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Daddy, what if?

Jun 16

Posted by Janet Morris Grimes in Essay | 9 Comments

My writing career, if you can call it that, started with my first published piece on Father’s Day in 1990.  It was published in the Sunday Edition of The Tennessean, in a small column called “The Nashville Eye.”   The title they chose? “She Still Dreams of Life With Dad.”

How appropriate that here I am, eighteen years later, sitting at my computer as Father’s Day approaches, still dreaming.

For those who know me, and even those who don’t, it is important to understand that by doing this, I am exposing my feelings in their purest form.  Sometimes embarrassment follows, as if I’ve said too much. But still, the writing process cleanses my soul in some way.

And on Father’s Day, I just don’t have a choice.

You see, my father, who was a preacher down in Corinth, Mississippi back in November of 1967, was fatally injured in a car accident. I was only six months old at the time, and my older sister, Jeanna, was barely three-years-old.

So, forgive me if the cleansing of my soul also means that tears roll down your face as well.  Maybe I do say too much, but then again, maybe God gave us all stories so that they could be shared.

Dear Daddy,

I spent the weekend listening to Father’s Day tributes all over the radio.  A million songs filled with memories that I don’t have, and it still hurts me to this day.

I’ve always said that the hardest part about you dying was not that you left, but that you never came back.  I would have given anything to spend a day with you, even if it was our little secret.  I so needed a memory to call my own.

So, now it’s been 41 years worth of times that we needed you, and every day, you are still gone.  I’ve learned that the world tends to move on quickly from these things, but for those of us left behind, you still aren’t here and that never changes.

Sure, we move on.  We live.  We heal.  But we are never the same.

Somewhere along the way, I wondered why I couldn’t get over you.  Was something wrong with me? How can I miss something that I never had?  How could a man in a picture mean so much to me?

I tried to recreate a memory - to stand where you once stood and learn everything I could about you.  I would imagine your voice and try to touch anything you may have touched. I assumed that if you were here, any problem I ever had could have been resolved with a hug.  I never imagined any rough times in our relationship, but since you were a fairy tale, I could make you anything I wanted to, right?

But that’s just the problem.  It was like I was describing a fictional character, and the only way you existed was in my mind.  That’s just not the same thing as a memory.

But, it finally dawned on me this weekend, as all those “Daddy” songs kept reminding me of the things we never got to do together, that it’s not the lack of memories that bothered me so much.

It’s the love that is supposed to go with those memories.

Daddy, I don’t want to hurt you by saying this, but I don’t remember feeling loved by you. It’s like it was something else I imagined; just another dream.

Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s not your fault.  And in my mind, I know you loved me, and still do.  But in my heart, the only thing it remembers about you is that you weren’t here.   Maybe that’s why I can’t get over you.

Did you know that every day was hard for Mom?  Though she rarely showed it, somehow, she was able to constantly prove she was strong enough to handle it.  She did a great job of raising us, always placing our needs before her own.  But deep down inside, I don’t think any of us really want to do this all by ourselves.

Did you know that when I was little, and was trying to figure out this thing they casually call “death,” I used God as a messenger to get to you?  I would pray to him every night, but in the beginning, it was only because he knew you.

Did you know that for as long as I can remember, my number one goal was to get to heaven?  Again, that was more about you at the time than it was my love for God or Jesus.  But if that’s where I had to go to meet you, then that’s where I was going.

Did you know that when Jeanna had her bike accident when she was 9, and I saw her lying in the street unconscious and bleeding, that I kept yelling at everyone and telling them not to let her die?  I truly didn’t want her to die, but I also thought that if one of us was going to get to be with you, I wanted that person to be me.

Kind of a twisted way of thinking for a 6-year-old, I guess, isn’t it?

My motivation may have been selfish in the beginning, but what developed through the years, though, was this very personal relationship between me and God.  I remember hearing the scripture that said “God is Father to the Fatherless,”(Psalm 68:5) and we had a deal from that day forward.  I was asking the hard questions from the start, and he was OK with that.

When I prayed, I would say, “My Fathers, who art in heaven. . . ” and he was OK with that.

I told him everything about how I wished he had handled our lives differently, that we needed you here, and that I didn’t think it was fair. And he was OK with that.

And somehow, as Daddies do, he comforted me.

In my own little girl logic, I ended up feeling sorry for those who hadn’t gone through it yet.   And sometimes, I felt that I had the advantage, because I had two “Fathers in Heaven” watching over me, and everyone else had just one.

They say that our Dad’s are here to show us the love of God, our Heavenly Father, right?  Well, you’ve done that better than any of them, I suppose.

The truth is that I don’t ever really want to get over you.    To this day, everything that is wrong with me – and everything that is right with me - it all started with you.  It makes me who I am today, and I don’t want to let go of that.

Because of you, I see what is most important in life, and can spend my time and energy on the things that matter most. Because of you, I treat each day as if it could be my last, so that there are never any regrets. Because of you, I make sure that my family will always remember what it was like to feel loved.

Still, what I wouldn’t do for a big hug and the chance to cry out all this strength I’ve held on to for all of these years.  Sometimes, I get tired of being strong. I just want you to be here doing all the Father and Grandfather things you are supposed to be doing.  I want my kids to know you, and to make jokes about how you are losing your hair or something.  I want you to be planning some sort of retirement cruise with Mom.  I want to see you grilling out in shorts and black socks so we can tell you how embarrassing that is. . .

There I go dreaming again.

I guess one day, when I can be more spiritual and less human, I’ll trade in all these earthly dreams for those about heaven.   I have no idea what you’ll look like up there, but you had better have big arms, because I can’t wait to run into them.

Until then, Happy Father’s Day.

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Precious Memories . . .

Jun 3

Posted by Janet Morris Grimes in Essay | 5 Comments

This was something I wrote as a tribute to my grandmother, and will go down as one of my all time favorites, because I don’t even remember writing it.  I had been to visit her for the last time, and was sitting at a table near the fireplace at a Cracker Barrell in Cadiz, Kentucky writing on a scrap piece of paper all that I was feeling.  I was crying my eyes out, and I’m sure the folks nearby thought I needed some help.  But I don’t remember them being there.  It was just me, the fire, and my feelings, and this was the end result. 

 

Precious Memories
 
By
 
Janet Morris Grimes
December 16, 2002
 
 
            Somehow, after driving through the darkness, I found myself staring into the roaring fire dancing in the fireplace in a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Cadiz, KY.  Laughter and sounds of busy-ness filled the room, overpowering the Christmas music heard in the background.  In two rocking chairs nearby sat a grandmother and granddaughter playing checkers.  Tears spilled from my eyes again as I secretly hoped the innocent little girl knew to treasure that moment.
            Sitting by my own grandmother’s bedside earlier that day, I held her hand in mine.  How frail they had become – those same hands that I used to draw imaginary pictures on during church.  I closed my eyes and was once again sitting beside her on the pew.  I held the songbook and followed the words as she sang her favorite hymns, emphasizing each word with all of her heart and soul.  Her voice was still so clear in my mind.
 
            ‘. . . Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing pow’r?  Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? . . .’ 
           
            Although she had grown weaker with each passing day, my grandmother was especially talkative during today’s visit.  It was as if she was on a journey through her past memories, and was in a hurry to share the details.  So, I listened.
            Born Martha Louise, she was the oldest daughter out of the eight Hardeman children.  Many of the responsibilities of caring for the younger ones fell on her shoulders, and as she talked, I caught an occasional glimpse into her life as a young girl.  She told stories of taking her younger siblings to church to hear her father preach while her mother would stay home with the babies.
            On this day, she spoke in disconnected thoughts, stopping to take a breath between her words.  Suddenly, she interrupted herself and asked me to swap sides of the bed so I could hold her other hand.  She said it was getting cold.  I moved my chair to the other side, and taking her hand in mine, I could think of nothing I would rather be doing.
            She continued with the story that was replaying itself in her mind.  “There was this house full of strangers, and I knew my Momma and Daddy would get my goose if I didn’t find my brothers and sisters.  But I never could find them. . .”  Her voice trailed off.
 
            ‘. . . Are you fully trusting in his grace this hour?  Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? . . .’
 
            Her eyes closed for a few moments and her hands went through the motions of waving to someone.  She smiled, discovering another happy memory.  
            “You know, I always see people here in the halls that I have classes with.  Don’t you think it’s nice to say hello and smile at people when you pass them?”  I agreed with her as an attendant from the nursing home stopped in, warning her that it would be time to take her medicine in about an hour.  She responded by sticking her tongue out at him, and they both laughed.
           
            ‘. . . Precious memories.  How they linger.  Howe they ever flood my soul . . .’
 
            My mind took me back to my own days as a young girl, spending holidays at Granny’s house.  Traditions were born out of everyday things, but that’s what made our visits so special.  My favorite memories were the simple ones - a house overflowing with relatives, playing games with my cousins, going to church together, praying before dinner, the grown-ups sitting at their table and all of the kids sitting at our own.  Granny was always so busy serving the rest of us that she rarely ever sat down to eat.
            We were summoned each morning by the sounds of banging pans in the kitchen and the sweet aroma of bacon frying and biscuits baking.  My favorite sound of all was her voice singing those beautiful hymns.
           
            ‘. . . In the stillness of the midnight, Precious sacred scenes unfold . . .’
            She dozed off once again and her breathing was labored.  There were long pauses between each breath.  I brushed the hair away from her face and wondered how many more she would take.
            Her eyes abrubtly opened as if I had asked that question directly to her.  She turned her head toward me and squeezed my hand.   
            “You know, Janet, I talk to Jesus every day about how much longer I will live.  He won’t tell me the answer, but He doesn’t have to.  It’s just something we are going to go through together, so there is nothing to worry about.”  She slowly closed her eyes again and rested for a moment.
           
            ‘. . .When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound and time shall be no more. . .’
           
            Traveling through my own memories carried me to a time when I was only 9-years-old, standing in her kitchen after my grandfather had died.  I had been crying, but told Granny I was glad he wasn’t hurting anymore and that he was in Heaven waiting for us.   I then confessed that it was hard for me to say that, and that I wasn’t sure I understood it. 
            She pulled me toward her and I buried my head in the apron she was wearing.  She ran her fingers through my hair and reassured me, “I’m not sure any of us will truly understand Heaven until we get there.  All we can do is believe in it.”
 
            ‘. . .And the morning breaks eternal bright and fair.  When the saved of earth shall gather over on that other shore. . .’
 
            As the sun was setting outside, Granny shuffled her covers and softly recalled Thanksgiving weekend a couple of weeks before.  She proudly mentioned each of her family and friends who had come to visit her at the hospital during that time.     
            A nurse poked her head in the room and Granny made a point to introduce me as one of her 13 grandchildren.  Her voice strengthened with pride as she announced that she would never trade her family for anything in the world.
           
            ‘. . .And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there. . .’
 
            She showed her love for us by knowing what each of us preferred as a favorite dish, by sewing clothes for us when we were little, by praying for us daily by name, by playing the piano for us, by calling us on Saturdays to make sure we were all right, and by following us down the driveway as we were leaving her house and waving until she could no longer see our car.
           
            ‘ . . . Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.  That saved a wretch like me. . .’
           
            As her voice was getting weaker, it finally struck me that perhaps her greatest gift to us was in giving us the memories of her singing her favorite  hymns - hymns about Heaven.
           
            ‘. . . I once was lost, but now am found.  Was blind, but now, I see. . .’
 
            For now, when we needed comfort the most, and she was no longer able to provide it, we still had the memory of her singing those words she believed and lived each day of her life.
           
            ‘ . . .When peace like a river attendeth my way.  When sorrows like sea billows roll . . .’
 
            At the end of the evening, she looked at me and asked, “Have we seen everyone we need to see today?”  I told her I though that we had.  She nodded her head in agreement.
           
            ‘. . . Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, “It is well, it is well with my soul. . .’
           
     This was to be our last day together.  I think we both realized it.  She tilted her head up and kissed my cheek.  She told me it was time for her to rest.  I kissed her forehead and nodded my head in agreement.
           
            ‘ . . .On Jordon’s stormy banks I stand, and cast a wishful eye. . .’
 
            Walking to my car, I was sure of only one thing.  Though I couldn’t see them, I was standing as close to humanly possible to the gates of Heaven.
           
            ‘. . .To Canaan’s bright and happy land, where my possessions lie. . .’
           
            I knew there were angels nearby waiting to take her home.
           
            ‘ . . .I am bound for the promised land. . .’
           
            I knew that her journey was complete.
           
            ‘ . . . I am bound for the promised land. . .’
           
            Even though I could not imagine life without her here –
           
            ‘ . . . Oh who will come and go with me?. . .’
           
            I knew it was time to let her go.
           
            ‘ . . . I am bound for the promised land. . .’
           
            And I knew that she was.
            I love you and miss you Granny.  We will see you soon.
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Daddy’s Little Girl

Jan 2

Posted by Janet Morris Grimes in published | No Comments

Technically, I suppose this was my first published piece.  Written when I was fourteen years old about the loss of my Daddy, my grandmother saw to it that it was published in her church bulletin on Sunday, November 25, 1990.

Our sister, Marge Morris, submits the following poem in memory of her son, David Morris.  He passed away in November, 1967.  The poem was written by her granddaughter, Janet, who was only six months old at the time of her father’s death.

Daddy’s Little Girl

My mind wanders off, as I sit here alone

To you, my dear father, whom I long to have known.

Your death came so sudden, without leaving a clue

As to which way to turn, or just what I should do.

A life without you, to succeed I must try

But the emptiness I feel still brings tears to my eyes.

My closeness to you, I can’t comprehend

For in you I’ve found my very best friend.

An ever-watchful eye you keep on me,

For my each and every move, you are there to see.

Sometimes I question the reasons involved

For your untimely death, but what would that solve?

I wonder how different it would be

If you were here sharing my life with me.

I understand that this could never be true,

But still, I don’t like this life without you.

I’ve accepted the fact that you’re no longer here

But dream of thoughts of you once again being near.

You’re alive in my heart, there is no doubt.

But the pain’s so intense, I just want to cry out:

“Dear Lord, why him? I so need his love.”

But the question’s soon answered – God needs him above.

O Lord, please forgive me for doubting your purpose.

If it were your will, he would be here among us.

I wait for the day when in heaven we meet,

And you see your daughter all grown and complete.

So now, as I prepare to succeed in this world,

I realize I will always be My Daddy’s Little Girl.

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