Never Blame the Umpire

by Gene Fehler

  About fifteen minutes ago she fell asleep, and Ken and Dad left the room. I’m alone with Mama. We have it planned so someone is always with her.

  I’m leafing through Mama’s Bible. I read two of the highlighted verses from Psalm 146: “Praise the Lord! Yes, really praise him! I will praise him as long as I live, yes, even with my dying breath.” I look closely at the words, trying to make myself understand the words the way Mama does, trying to believe them. It’s hard.

  I read farther. “Don’t look to men for help; their greatest leaders fail; for every man must die…But happy is the man who has the God of Jacob as his helper.”

  I want to be happy. But how can I be when I know Mama’s going to die?

  “Kate.” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it, even though I’m sitting right next to her bed. “Dear Kate. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Dad and Ken are just in the other room,” I say. “I’ll get them.”

  “No, that’s all right. They don’t need to come in just yet. I had such a good sleep, such a nice dream.”

  “I’m glad, Mama.” I squeeze her hand.

  “I heard God’s voice in my dream,” she says. “He told me that no matter where I look in the Bible, he will speak to me. The verse will have some personal meaning, especially for me. Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “That’s a great dream, all right.”

  “Can you get the Bible?” she asks.

  “It’s right here.” I hold it up for her to see.

  “Let’s try it. Let’s open it and point to a passage, like God says.”

  “Okay, Mama,” I say.

  I wonder if it will work. I hope I don’t turn to a passage that lists a couple dozen “begats.” I can’t see that a list of who was born to whom would have much personal meaning.

  I open the Bible.

  “It’s second Thessalonians,” I say.

  “Point to a verse,” Mama says.

  I close my eyes and put my finger on the middle of the page.

  “Chapter three,” I say. “Verse sixteen.”

  “Let me hear it,” Mama says. “Let’s see if there is truth in dreams.”

  I read, and I hope, for Mama’s sake, there might be truth. I doubt it, but I hope anyway. I start to read out loud. “May our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who has loved us and given us everlasting comfort and hope which we don’t deserve, comfort your hearts with all comfort, and help you in every good thing you say and do.”

  “Yes,” Mama says. “You see?” She closes her eyes. “God is good,” she whispers.

  I look at the words again. It’s as if they are in big, bold black type. They almost jump off the page at me: May our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who has loved us and given us everlasting comfort and hope which we don’t deserve, comfort your hearts with all comfort in every good thing you say and do.

  I hold the Bible to my breast. I wonder, was it just a dream Mama had, or did God actually speak to her?

  Was it an accident my finger went to that verse, or did God guide it?

  All through Mama’s illness I’ve been angry at God, and I haven’t understood how Mama could be so calm.

  My hands start to shake. They’re shaking so bad I have to set the Bible down. “Mama, you’ve known all along,” I say. I lean forward and kiss her cheek.

  “Be comforted, my darling,” she whispers. She squeezes my hand. I’m glad her eyes are closed so she can’t see my tears.

  Twenty-seven

  ginny’s song

  The church is packed. It seems like almost everybody from our church is here, and lots of other people, too. I’m sitting in the front pew. Ken is on my left, Dad on my right. I don’t look back at anybody. I can’t. Once the service starts, I keep my eyes closed. I have to. If I open them, the tears I’m holding inside might pour out in a flood.

  We’d done a lot of talking to people at Mama’s visitation, so when we got to the church we just walked right to the front. Well, not right away. I saw Allison. She didn’t come over to me, but she looked at me and smiled. She nodded. I nodded back.

  I got stopped by two people. Coach came over and gave me a hug. He didn’t even have to say anything; the hug said it all.

  The only person who spoke to me was Mrs. Bennett, a lady from our church who I don’t know all that well. She reached out and touched my hair. She held a strand of my hair in her hand and looked at it for a few seconds.

  “You look so much like your mother,” she said. “Such a wonderful lady.” Then she dropped her hand and said, “Be strong.”

  I don’t watch the pastor when he starts to talk about Mama. He tells how Mama’s earthly pain has ended. Then he says words I’ve heard many times before. They take on a new meaning now. He says, “Now she’s in the loving, comforting arms of Jesus.” He talks like that’s a good thing. I know the fact that her earthly pain has ended is a good thing. But I want her in my arms, not the arms of Jesus. I know I’m being selfish. I can’t help it. Why should Jesus get to be with Mama, and not me?

  I open my eyes after the pastor finishes talking. That’s when Ginny goes up to sing. I asked her to. I told her that Mama would love to hear her sing one more time. It took me awhile to talk her into it, but she finally agreed. “I’ll do it for your mama,” she said.

  I told her that one of Mama’s favorite hymns was “On Christ, the Solid Rock I Stand,” so that’s the one she sings.

  I sit there, listening. And thinking, “Listen, Mama. Isn’t that beautiful? Ginny’s singing just for you.”

  I close my eyes again, tight, because the tears are trying so hard to get out.

  On our way to the cemetery I keep my eyes open. I don’t care about the tears. There’s only Dad and Ken and me and the driver of the car we’re riding in.

  At least it’s a sunny day. It’s the kind of day that Mama would have loved. I think how at least God gave Mama this one last sunny day.

  I think about the last few days and wonder if this is how Ginny feels when she’s on stage. I feel as if I’ve been on stage, first at the visitation, then at the funeral service, then at the cemetery. Everybody tries hard to say something that will make me feel better. I have to pretend it does.

  Once we get back home after leaving Mama at the cemetery, I’m still not alone. Our house is full of people. Mrs. Loden from across the street arranged for people to bring food and to be with Ken and Dad and me. I guess they feel that we need people around us at this time.

  I know they mean well. Everybody’s been nice, they really have. Nothing can take the pain away, but it helps to know how much Mama was loved by everybody, not only me. At the visitation, we had a continuous slide show playing on the computer. Ken did most of the work on it, but all of us—Mama, Dad, Ken, and me went through hundreds of photos taken of Mama and of our family. We put together a little history of her life. Ginny helped choose the music that played in the background. The slide show was so beautiful, and so sad. Almost everybody who saw it had tears in their eyes. The same slide show is playing now in our crowded living room.

  I stay in the house for a few minutes and try to eat some of the food. The tables and kitchen counters are filled with casseroles, desserts, and plates of sandwiches. I try to eat a little. But the first chance I get I sneak out to the back yard with some of the other kids who showed up.

  We have enough for a little soccer game. Allison is here, and Ginny and Heather and Ivy and two other girls—one from my class at school and one from Sunday School. A couple of Ken’s friends are here, too.

  Nobody seems to worry about getting dirty. Dirt just doesn’t seem important today. I think how if Mama were there she’d say something about how Ginny doesn’t even seem worried that the soccer ball might give her a swollen lip. I think how if Mama were here she’d be right out here playing with us.

  I hear the words, “Great shot, Allison!” And I’m surprised to realize I am the one who said them.

  Twenty-eight

&n
bsp; the letter

  For the first time since Mama’s funeral, it is only the three of us in the house: Dad, Ken, and me.

  Dad hands each of us a envelope. “Here’s something your mother wanted you both to have. I haven’t read either of them. All I know is that she wrote them especially for you.”

  “To My Kate”

  is written on the outside of my envelope. I wait until I’m alone in my room before I open it. I take out the handwritten pages.

  My dear Kate,

  I had hoped you would never have to read this letter. I always held onto the thought that somehow it would be God’s will that I live longer, that he would miraculously take the cancer from my body. I so much wanted to be with you as you grow beyond the beautiful young lady you are now, the young lady I am so proud of. I wanted to be right there to help you with the problems that you will surely face and to share in the joy of all your exciting discoveries.

  But it’s not to be.

  God’s will was for a different kind of miracle—the miracle of the life that you and Ken and your father have ahead of you, and of all the blessings you will share.

  And yes, even the miracle of the lesson my illness has taught us all: that every day is to be cherished. That no matter how much time we have, or how little, we should use it as a time of love, of joy, of thanks. Earth is the right place for love (remember that poem by Robert Frost?).

  But since it has been God’s will that we all begin a new chapter in the book that he has written for us, I am not sad. I am not even angry. I regret that we can no longer be together in body to share all the fun things that we so much enjoyed. I hope—I know—that you will remember our talks, our sports, our games, our camping trips, our quiet times. Even our Friday night popcorn.

  We will always be together in spirit. Heaven is also the right place for love, and I rejoice that I will be with Jesus, just as Jesus will continue to be in your heart.

  John Donne wrote a poem that said, “Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so…One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.”

  It’s okay to cry, but do not cry long for me, for I am with Jesus, and I am free from the pain of my illness.

  Do not cry for yourself, because you have a family and friends that love you, and you have the memory of our happy times together.

  Most of all, hold on to the knowledge that I am with you in spirit, as Jesus is, and you will never be without either of us.

  My darling Kate, we have always shared a special love. So turn quickly from your mourning; the time for our love has not ended.

  It is still beginning.

  With all my love,

  forever and ever,

  Mama

  I start to read the letter a second time, but the words are blurred. I wipe the tears from my face, but still they keep coming.

  I place the letter on my bed and go to the window. The moon is full, and I can see clearly the flower bed Mama loved so much and worked in so often. I can’t stop the thoughts from rushing forth: “Mama, please don’t be angry with me for crying, I miss you so much.”

  I close my eyes tight, just as tight as I can.

  In the darkness behind my closed eyelids, I see the bright outline of Mama’s body—young and athletic and healthy. It will always stay that way. Always. And I see her beautiful face. I do! I see it so clearly it’s almost like I can reach out and touch her cheek.

  And the best thing of all—she isn’t angry or sad.

  She is smiling.

  I smile, too, and I walk outside. I have Mama’s letter in one hand and my notebook in the other. I sit on the soft green grass next to Mama’s flower bed. My legs are crossed beneath me, in the way I learned from Mama when we sat together so many times and just talked. I read her letter again.

  My notebook feels like a close friend, someone I can share my secret thoughts with. I can’t imagine a time when I’ll ever stop writing my thoughts. I can’t imagine a time when Mama won’t be in those thoughts. She’ll always live in my heart. I know that. My notebooks will always have something of her in them. By writing in my notebook I might be able to keep her alive even for those people who never got a chance to know her.

  But right now, Mama, I’m just going to try to write a poem for you.

  For only you.

  I hope you like it.

  For Mama

  The loving arms of God reached out for you

  And heaven has a brand new angel

  Brand new lights to shine

  So bright

  Tonight.

  Mama, who taught me about life

  About love,

  About the God I tried to push away,

  I’m holding on now.

  I’m holding on to the time we had

  The silly times

  The joyful times

  The crying times.

  And I’ll remember

  Just like you told me

  To never

  Ever

  Blame an umpire.

  Twenty Questions I’m Often Asked

  1. Do you have a family?

  I have a super family.

  A terrific wife, Polly, who has put up with me during forty-five years of marriage. Wow! That’s a long time! She’s a nurse. When she worked in the hospital, her specialty was neo-natal intensive care. She loves working with babies. She also loves teaching others how to become good nurses. She just retired in 2009 after twenty years of teaching nursing at Tri-County Technical College in Pendleton, South Carolina.

  Two wonderful and talented sons.

  Tim is a history professor at Furman University in Greenville, South Carolina, and loves to play softball and baseball. He and his wife Jacquelyn have two daughters, Mireille and her younger sister Gabrielle. Don’t get me started talking about my three wonderful granddaughters or I won’t ever get to the next nineteen questions.

  Andy is a realtor who lives near Lake Travis in Austin, Texas, with Kellie and their daughter Kaya and their two good-sized dogs, Arlo and Daphne. Andy loves all kinds of water activities. He also loves Austin, which is bad for Polly and me. If his family didn’t love Austin so much we might be able to convince them to move closer to us so we could see them more often.

  Luckily, both Tim and Andy can do many things they didn’t learn how to do from their dad, like use computers and build things and fix things.

  Two incredibly cute tiny dogs. Angel, a white toy poodle, and her brother Hunter, a black toy poodle.

  2. What are your most favorite and least favorite chores?

  Most favorite—mowing the lawn.

  Least favorite—everything else.

  3. I want to write and publish books someday. How can I get started?

  First of all, read a lot. All the good writers I know are also people who love to read. Secondly, write a lot. To be a good musician or athlete, one must practice and practice some more. The same holds for writing: the more often you write, the better your writing will become.

  4. When you’re not writing, what else do you like to do for fun?

  I love to play tennis and golf and softball and baseball. I play mostly outfield and shortstop on a softball team of “seniors” (that’s a nice way of saying “old men”). We play more than seventy games a summer from March to October. If I were writing a scouting report about myself, it might say: “He hits for a high average, runs fast and is a good fielder, but he doesn’t hit for power.” I also play on an adult baseball team (for players 28 years old and older) with my son Tim. We play about twenty games a year. I pitch and play the outfield and first base. I love baseball. Can you tell?

  I also love to collect and read three kinds of books: poetry books, young adult and children’s novels, and sports books, mainly sports fiction. I have more than 7,000 books in my personal library, so I don’t even have to leave my house when I feel like reading a good book, which I feel like doing every day.

 
; 5. How old were you when you started writing?

  I don’t recall ever writing a poem or short story until I got to college. I didn’t start writing poetry (other than just a handful) until I was 33 years old. My first story and poems weren’t published until I was 35. The problem is, even though I really liked my high school English teacher, neither he nor any of my other teachers in elementary or high school ever showed me how much fun writing a story or poem can be. Those of you who have teachers who encourage you to write poems and stories and show you how to get started are lucky.

  6. Where did you grow up and go to school?

  I grew up in Thomson, Illinois, a little town in the northwest part of Illinois, right on the Mississippi River. We had 500 people in town and eleven in my high school graduating class. I’ve written a lot of poems about growing up in Thomson. I went to college at Northern Illinois University in DeKalb, Illinois, and earned my Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees there.

  7. Are you rich?

  I certainly am. But not in money. In satisfaction—the satisfaction of having great friends and a great family, and the satisfaction of waking up every day and looking forward to the fun things I can do and the new things I’ll have a chance to write.

  8. What’s the hardest thing about being a writer?

  For me, the hardest thing has nothing to do with the actual writing—it’s trying to keep from getting too frustrated when a publisher doesn’t want to publish something I think deserves to be published.

  For some people, the hardest thing is coming up with an idea and getting those first words on the page. That’s not really a problem for me because I’ve discovered a lot of ways to help myself come up with ideas. I usually have more ideas than I have time to write them. But as a writer, I know how important it is to make time to write.