Janet Morris Grimes, Author/Speaker

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

Posts Tagged heaven

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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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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She still dreams of how life would be with Dad

Jan 3

Posted by Janet Morris Grimes in published | No Comments

Published in the Nashville Eye column of The Tennessean, Father’s Day, 1990.

 

My reaction to Father’s Day has changed over the years.  

When I was little, I ignored it completely.  As I grew older, it became a sad time for me.  Today, I have come to appreciate this holiday, maybe even more than the others. 

You see, my Daddy died when I was a baby.  I never knew him, but I had his picture and my own fairy-tale view of what he must have been like.  I constantly watched other daddies and dreamed about my own. Sometimes, I still do.

It took me awhile to figure it all out.  I guess I was three years old when I asked the inevitable question, “My best friend has a daddy; why don’t I?”

My Mommy explained that Daddy was killed in a car wreck and had gone to be with God in heaven. She said he would always love me and be watching over me, even though he couldn’t be here. It didn’t make much sense to me.

I asked my sister, Jeanna, about it and she said it was true.  She was six years old and knew everything.  She said she remembered Daddy.  Everyone seemed to remember him except for me.

It seemed that the more I learned about my father’s death, the less I understood it.  I wanted a lap to sit in and a neck to hug.  I wanted to be tickled and chased and to ride piggy-back.  I wanted my Daddy to come back.  And I believed with all my heart that he would.

It was my seventh birthday- this was the day he was going to come see me.  I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay long because he would have to get back to heaven. All I wanted was to spend a few minutes with him so that I could remember him too.

I wore my favorite blue dress to school that day because I knew he would like it.  I saved part of my lunch for him because I thought he might be hungry from his trip.  I knew he would be able to recognize me because he had been watching over me all those years.  I wondered if he would look the same as in the pictures.

I wondered, and waited.

May 7, 1974 – on that day I learned the meaning of the word “forever.” Finally, I had come to terms with my father’s death.

Perhaps this might explain my misconceptions about Father’s Day.  My first memory of a Father’s Day was being in church and the preacher loudly saying “Happy Father’s Day!”  I quickly decided that since I didn’t have a “happy father,” I didn’t have to listen to that sermon.  I slept through church that Sunday.

As my sister and I became teenagers, we recognized the holiday by buying our mother a Father’s Day present. She played both roles in our family and deserved the show of kindness.

Now that I’m grown and have kids of my own, I look forward to father’s Day.  It’s a big production at our house.  The kids march around with sigsns that say “Daddy is great!” they have buttons that say “I love Dad” on them.  I want them to understand how important their daddy is; I what their daddy to understand it as well.

Maybe I still have a fairy-tale view of things, but in my opinion, it is quite simple: It’s the little things that a father can do that are most important.  Spend time with your kids, whether it’s playing ball or doing yard work or reading to them.  Listen to them.  Let them know you are on their side.  Make them laugh often, and hold them when they cry.

Regardless of their age, your children need to know you care. 

Trust me, it matters.  And Happy Father’s Day!

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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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