Hands of Strength and Skill

Ed had hands that could make most anything. When I was about 10 years old, he made box kite frames from strips of light weight wood, and he covered the frames in paper of different types, experimenting until he found the paper with right weight and strength. After several attempts to fly kites with paper so thin and light that the paper tore in the wind, and paper so thick and heavy that they couldn't quite get off the ground, he eventually settled on sticky-back shelf liner. It was thin and light, yet durable. We went across the road from our house to the pasture where the grass grew taller than his and mama's heads, and us kids thrilled to watch him run with the kite held high in one hand, tail flapping behind him, and see the kite lifted up into the wind. He held the string in his hands and let out more and more length of it as it rose higher and higher into the sky. After it was so high in the sky we could barely see it, he would let one of us kids hold the string, and we felt like we were 'doing something'. Most of the time, the string would eventually break, and the kite was set free to fly away to the heavens, never to be seen by us again. Sometimes we wrote notes on the sides of the kite...'Please write us if you find our kite...Shackleford Road...Duluth, GA, 30036".

Ed was a carpenter by trade. He framed houses, often working with his father-in-law (my mama's dad) and several brother-in-laws. For the last 25 - 30 years of his life, he worked for one man, Kenneth Mosely, at Mosely's Cabinet Shop. Most of those years,  Kenneth and Ed were the only employees, and a whole lot of the time, it was mostly just Ed. He built cabinets for expensive, beautiful homes. He also built them for mobile homes, for a local man who owned and rented them out. 

In every room of my house, there is a piece of furniture my step-dad built with his hands. When my first husband and I divorced, he took with him his grandmother's china cabinet, which I loved. Ed built one to replace it. When he brought it to my house, he showed me where he had carved my name into the wood, saying, 'Now, no one can take it away from you.' He built for me a t.v. stand with a 'hole' for the VCR.  He built Amber a book shelf with drawers in the bottom. He built both Amber and Jess 'hope chests'. I also have a quilt rack (on loan to Amber), a lingerie chest, several desks, a bakers rack, a corner curio type cabinet, and several decorative shelves. I have one piece that I got from Granny that is mostly just a square box with doors. I think she may have used it to put her t.v. on, I use it in my kitchen to store dishes I don't use often. I also have the tiny table and chairs and the miniature china cabinet he made for the girls when they were little.  The only piece I ever let go of was an oval coffee table, and that was given to my brother. I knew it would be kept in the family there. All these pieces are special because he made them, and when I walk in any room I have reminders of him and his skill and the time and love he put into each piece.

In Ed's last year and a half, he underwent treatments that robbed him of his physical strength. He went from looking and seeming like his 'old self', to a person who had to sit down and rest, to using a walker, to a wheelchair, and back to the walker, and finally only sitting or laying down. Because his brain tumor was on the left side of his brain, his right side became weak first, and eventually was paralyzed. But his left hand picked up where the right hand couldn't. He learned to do things with his left hand and he would reach out with that hand to take your hand. He could squeeze your hand with his, all the way up until the a day or two before he passed. You could still feel the strong man he had been in his grip. 

In his last year and a half on this earth, he could not build cabinets or furniture, he could not frame a house, or even build a kite. But he held our family together and kept us from falling apart, pulling us back from the edge of despair with his strong hands. And the day he died, he rose high into the sky like one of the box kites we flew in that pasture. But instead of eventually crashing to the ground, he continued on up into the heavens, and here we are, still holding the string.

The Face of Courage

Reflection #1 of an Amazing Man - The Face of Courage

From the beginning of his journey into the unknown, my step-dad, Edward, or Ed, as most of us call him, never had the look of fear on his face. I did see sadness and frustration, and maybe pain, but not fear.

When he cried, it was for his family. He didn't want to hurt us. And I know he felt that him being ill hurt us.

When he came out of  the operating room after having brain surgery, he was physically sick from the anesthesia and pain medications, but he did not seem afraid. When he saw his son cry, he cried, but again, I think more for his son, than for himself. 

After his first round of chemo, with the results of the MRI not good, he was sad and disappointed, but I can't say he was afraid.

After his second round of chemo started, he had a time of hope, as it seemed that the chemo was going to work. But then, after months more of treatment, the tumor begin to grow again. While me and my brother hid our tears and sobs the best we could, he kept a straight face.

Ed had courage that few of us would have, knowing he had a disease that few people have ever over come. From the beginning, he was told this was a fatal disease. He was told most people die within six months to two years of discovery of the disease. But he had the courage to believe he could beat it. It took courage to endure the surgery, to endure the radiation and chemotherapy, the needles, the bad news, and the every day life of a person slowly losing their life. 

I never heard him ask 'why me', or 'what did I do to deserve this?'. 

I am not saying Edward was not ever afraid or never questioned God, but I am saying that IF he was afraid, or if he did question, he had the courage to keep it to himself and not bring what he thought would be more hurt to those he loved. 

I hope if I am ever faced with even half the terrible news he was given that day after the removal of his brain tumor, that I can have a fraction of the courage he possessed. I hope that I can live a life of courage, and encouragement to others, as he did till the day he died.

(Note: the nature photos included in my reflections are taken at Callaway Gardens, Pine Mountain, Georgia, unless otherwise noted. These two particular plants exhibit courage in their boldness of shape, color, and presentation. May all my photos be a reflection of God's handiwork, and may all my words bring glory to Him.)