Aunt Matilda's Candelabra

This manuscript was presented at the 2002 Write-to-Publish Conference at Wheaton, Illinois where I was awarded Best New Writer of the Year Award.  

                                             MIRACLES OR MERCHANDISE

                                            (Aunt Matilda’s Antique Candelabra)           

                                                                       By

                                                         Janet Baird Weisiger

My hand trembled as I hung up the phone.  “She sold that candelabra for $8,000!  I can’t believe it.  She never thought of me,” I wailed.  “That candelabra was supposed to be mine!” 

I vividly remember how often I admired my aunt’s candelabra.  It always stood in the center of her dining room table, polished to a fine patina, reflecting the flickering soft light of the tall lighted tapers.  As a young girl I gazed at the priceless antique, admiring its intricate shape, entranced with its lovely beauty. 

I fantasized its history.  Over how many parties had this silver piece presided? It had flickered over conversations of romance, intrigue, betrayal, happiness and sadness.  I  thought of the long line of ancestors who had proudly displayed this treasure.  Yes, there is no doubt.  From my earliest years I wanted this candelabra.

The owner was my rather eccentric Aunt Matilda who had conveniently inherited a sizeable estate following her husband’s death.  As a child I envied her affluent lifestyle.  She employed a full time maid who quietly and efficiently attended to Aunt Matilda’s every whim. 

Every Thanksgiving I had to sit in perfect composure as our family consumed the traditional turkey dinner prepared and served in elegance at Aunt Matilda’s drafty old home.  I suffered the discomfort of the rich gravy that bloated my stomach.  I endured the admonition to take ‘just a tablespoon of turnips’, a vegetable I despised.  And to add misery to my boredom, there was never anything for a young girl to do.  Since Aunt Matilda never had children, I had to sit for hours in my Sunday dress and listen to adult conversation. 

But I did love to look at Aunt Matilda’s beautiful things.  My very favorite was the glorious candelabra.  I fancied myself as a famous concert pianist, dressed in a long flowing dress with the lights of the candelabra flickering in time to the music.  I dreamed of dancing in the arms of my dear one as the glowing candlelight lit some grand room of my future home.  I thought of the years ahead with own family and the presence of the silver candelabra gracing each birthday, graduation, and wedding celebration.

In my small self-centered mind I felt confidant that this priceless treasure would be mine!  Did Aunt Matilda know this?  As I reflect, I remember always admiring the candelabra in my aunt’s presence.  In fact I was honored that she let me borrow it several times for special dinner parties in our home.  But, no, I never actually asked Aunt Matilda for it.  I just thought some day she would give it to me.  Surely Aunt Matilda knew I would love to have it and she would of course just leave it to me in her will.

I coveted that old silver candelabra!

Did I say “covet”?  Ouch!  We are not supposed to covet.  God has said you must not want for yourself something that belongs to someone else.  I knew that.  But God’s law did not keep me from wanting it, seeing it in my home, using it.  Why I even had a place all set aside for it!  No matter what God’s law said, I wanted that candelabra!  After all, didn’t I deserve it?  I was her only niece.  I was the one who loved it passionately.  Surely, Aunt Matilda would give it to me one day.

Last month Aunt Matilda turned 92 years old and entered an adult residential home.  After being on the waiting list for six months, her turn came for admission and within two days she made a decision to sell her home and all her furnishings.

I waited for the phone call.

As she is distributing her property, she will remember me and because of her great love for me, she will at last give me the candelabra.  At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Finally, I decided to phone her myself and wish her well in her new home.

“Everything was auctioned and the proceeds given to charity.”  Aunt Matilda announced.  “It was splendid,” she added.  “All those things brought in over $120,000.  Can you believe it?”

I hesitated, then blurted, “The candelabra, too?  What happened to the candelabra?”

“Oh, my dear, that alone went for $8,000!” she exclaimed.  “I never realized it was worth that much!

Tears stung my eyes.  I hastily ended the conversation.  I was stunned.  The candelabra was supposed to be mine.  Didn’t she know?  How could she give it to someone else!  What a selfish thing for Aunt Matilda to do.  Instead of keeping those treasures in the family, she sold them at auction!  How horrible and unloving of her! 

I felt rejected and bitter. Gone now were my visions and dreams of that beautiful antique in my house and in my possession.  I was inconsolable.

Later that day, as I collected the mail, a letter dropped out of the pile of catalogs and other advertisements.  Ah, real mail for a change, I thought.  I recognized the return address of friends from Virginia.

“Thank you so much for your loving letter you sent last month.  This has been a very painful time for us and your words and your choice of scripture was just what we needed.  We are attending church again and receiving a blessing.  We keep your letter next to our bed and every night we read your words which remind us that we have a faithful God who loves us and will never forsake us.  Thank you for your love, prayers and support.”

I stood there staring at the letter.  This is what matters in life.  This is what is important.  Not material things, not mere merchandise, but the miracle things, the things of God.  I coveted a thing that would tarnish or be stolen some day.  But sharing God’s love brings eternal treasures.  By sharing His Word and His love with my friend, she received encouragement and blessings. 

            Suddenly I was ashamed.  I was the one who had sinned.  I had coveted something that did not belong to me.  I was the one who had been selfish.  

“Oh God,” I cried, “forgive me!”

I rushed to the scriptures for some direction, some message and found it.  

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

                                                                 Matthew 6:19-21  NKJ

God showed me that I must focus only on Him.  Material things, mere merchandise, are worth nothing in His kingdom.  Only His miracles and his Word are eternal.

c 2002

                                                                                               

Let Her Go

This was published in the Journal of Christian Nursing in 2002 shortly after my mother died at age 93. 

                                                LET HER GO!          

                                                         By

                                           Janet Baird Weisiger

             I stepped into room 3014 and smiled at the familiar, loving face.  My mother, her aged body looking so vulnerable in the hospital bed, grinned in response.

“I’m back,” I said in greeting as I reached down to kiss her cheek.  “I see you’ve got lots of company,” acknowledging the presence of my nieces and nephews.

            She must know she’s dying, I thought.  Relatives show up like this when you’re dying.  She hasn’t had this much company for over a year.  She knows something’s up.

            “Dad phoned me”, my niece explained.  Tears filled her young eyes as she turned away from the bedside.

I gave a quick professional assessment of my mother.  Color slightly jaundiced, respirations steady, pulse 84 and strong, deep non-productive chest cough.   Her untouched dinner tray indicated she had eaten nothing.

A day earlier her housekeeper had phoned 911.  “Your mother had a spell,” she later told me.

“Bronchitis,” the doctor pronounced upon emergency room admission.

But somehow I knew this was serious.  This was in God’s perfect timing.  He had arranged for me to travel from another part of the country for a totally different reason because God knew I would want to be here now. 

She knew, and so she had waited for me to come.

Earlier in the morning, God had given me the gift of a precious half hour alone with her.

“Are you in pain?”  I had asked.

She shook her head in denial.

“Will you tell me how you feel?”

“No,” she said, closing her eyes, shielding me from some unpleasant reality.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”  I spoke the familiar words.

Her voice picked up the verses, proclaiming her assurance of God’s presence.

Her eyes remained closed, so at first she did not see the tears flowing down my cheeks.  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me.”

My fingers gently curved over hers.  “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” 

            Clasping her bony, arthritic hands, I wept.

            These were the hands that had held me as an infant, had wiped away my hurt tears of my childhood, the hands that had lovingly and lightly spanked the naughty child, the hands that had stitched and knitted my clothes, the hands that had baked and cooked to feed me, the hands that wrote cards and notes of encouragement, the hands that waved as we said frequent good-byes.  These were the hands of my mother. 

            “I love you, Mom,” I whispered.

            “I know you do,” she looked directly into my tear filled eyes, her mouth drawn into a loving smile.

            Yes, I told myself.  She knows she is going to her Heavenly home.

Now as I looked at the relatives crammed into the small hospital space, I silently thanked God for those earlier moments of intimacy with my mother.

She sat propped in bed, pillows supporting her frail body, like a reigning queen greeting her subjects.  She graciously smiled at the photos shoved in her face and patiently listened to all the family news.

A nurse aide popped into the room.

“Time for your test.”  A broad, toothy smile flashed across his face.

“What test?”  I challenged, blocking his way.

The charge nurse appeared at the door.  “We’ve scheduled a special lung test.  This is Sunday.  We were fortunate the specialists could come.  They’re waiting for her now.”

“But she signed an Advance Directive for Health Care two years ago.  She filed it here at the hospital and also filed it with her doctor.  She does not want any extreme measures.”  I spoke with quiet resolve.

 I gradually moved out of the room, away from my mother’s hearing. 

“Why are you doing this?”  I asked.

The charge nurse explained. “The doctor ordered a special breathing test to see if your mother has a pulmonary embolism.”

The nurse aide stood awkwardly, uncertain whether to proceed with his routine assignment of patient transport.  He slowly edged his way down the hall.

Another nurse wheeled the medicine cart toward us.  The charge nurse motioned for her to join us.

“Look, I’m a nurse myself,” I explained.  “I realize you have your schedules.  But my mother does not want any special life-saving measures.  My niece just finished telling me that my mother returned a short time ago from having a CAT scan.  Why put her through any further discomfort of any kind?  Any test is a trial for a lady who is almost 93 years old.  Besides, what will the doctor do if she does have a pulmonary embolism?”

“Well, then, he’ll probably put her on heparin.”

“Why?  Is that really going to prevent her from dying?  Why try to prolong her life?”  I pleaded.  “ It’s all right to let her die.  She’s lived a wonderful long life.  She’s not afraid to die.  Don’t you understand?  She’s a Christian.  She knows where she’s going.  Please, just leave her alone.  Just let her go.”

           

I stood in the hallway, surprised at hearing the calm in my voice.  I faced the nurses and read compassion in their eyes.

“Don’t you understand?”  I repeated.  “She’s not afraid to die.  That’s why she wanted to sign an Advance Directive for Health Care.  Can’t you find it in your records?” I challenged the nurses.  “Last night I brought the one she had on her refrigerator and had a copy put on her chart.  She wants a peaceful death.  She does not want people jumping on her chest.  She does not want tubes and life support.  She’s lived a full wonderful life.  And she knows that when God calls her, she is ready.  A Christian, like my mother, knows where she’s going.”

I paused.  The two nurses listened, their eyes locked on mine.  They did not protest, so I continued.

“I’m her daughter,” I emphasized.  “And I’m not afraid to let her die.  That’s what she wanted.  She always wanted to die with dignity.  We talked about it.”

Finally the charge nurse spoke.  “I wish more families had your faith and peace,” she said simply.

“Thanks,” I  said.

Their compassion disarmed me.  I struggled for composure. 

“But,” I continued as my emotions threatened to consume me. “I do have to share something with you.  I’ve cared for a lot of people during their dying moments.” I swallowed and forced my voice to remain steady.  “It sure is different when it’s your own mother.”  My vision clouded.

“You’re very strong,” the charge nurse wrapped her arms about me.  “I know.  I went through this with my own father-in-law last year.  Believe me, it’s tough.”

The med nurse squeezed my hand.  “You are an inspiration to me.  Thank you.  Most people we see here are afraid to die.  I can see you and your mom are different.”

“Let me see what I can do.”  The charge nurse turned and walked down the hall to the nurse’s station.

She returned a few moments later.

“If you’ll come with me, the doctor will talk with you.  I have him on the phone.”

I followed her down the hall, shaking my head in frustration.

I don’t believe this, I thought.  We went to all that trouble two years ago to draw up an Advance Health Care Directive and now I wonder if those directives  mean anything.  My mother has been transferred to three different units in this hospital and I have had to remind each health care team of my mother’s wishes.  Are hospitals that afraid of litigation?  Why can’t health care professionals recognize that we all will die?  Is it an insult to hospitals that people actually die?  It’s as if we Christians have a wonderful secret and the title is, “I know that my Redeemer liveth!”  Christians are not afraid to die.

I picked up the phone.  “Yes, this is her daughter……My mother signed an Advance Health Care Directive two years ago……..Basically, she does not want any undue measures.  That’s because she is not afraid to die.  You see, she’s a Christian and she knows where she’s going.”

Suddenly I realized the entire nursing staff had zeroed in on my phone conversation.  I continued.

“Please just let her go.  No more tests.  Please, let her die with dignity.”

I waited.  I heard the doctor take a deep breath.

“Am I correct in saying you choose no further medical intervention?”  The doctor questioned.

“Yes, that is correct.”  I responded.   “Please, no further medical intervention and,” I paused.  “Please give an order for No Code.” 

“If those are your wishes, that’s fine.  We’ll arrange for her to be discharged tomorrow morning.  Please put the nurse back on.”

I handed the phone to the nurse.   So that’s the acceptable phrase for today, I wryly concluded.  ‘No further medical intervention’.  And tomorrow, the lawyers will demand another terminology. 

I strode back toward room 3014 with agonizing questions bombarding my mind.

If I were not a Christian, if I were not a nurse, I don’t think I would have known what to say or do.  What about families who are not familiar with the

medical language?  What about those who do not have a strong Christian faith?  How do they handle these situations?

I knew the answer.  Their loved ones end up on life support for months or years, stretching the dying process to a painful, expensive siege.  I began to realize what a horrifying way to use our medical technology.

“The doctor says you can go home tomorrow.”  I announced as I reentered room 3014. 

“Thank you,” she rasped.  Then with eyes closed she added, “Yes, I’m going home soon.” She sighed as her facial muscles relaxed.  “Yes, very soon.”

She knew.  Her appointment approached.

Later that afternoon, my mother gently exhaled and slipped into unconsciousness.   Then, as the flame of an antique lamp slowly dims, her life slipped away and she entered into the waiting arms of Jesus. 

I caressed her hand while the pulse in her wrist slowly weakened, then finally stopped.  The pink of her transparent skin turned to a waxy glow and she was gone. 

The doctors, the nurses, and the hospital had allowed her to die with dignity.  They finally let her go.

To God be the glory forever and ever!  Amen.

Notes about the author:

Janet Baird Weisiger attended Hope College and holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing from Columbia University School of Nursing.  Prior to her retirement, she held positions in public health, psychiatric and geriatric nursing while living in New Jersey.  In 1977 she received the Distinguished Alumna Award from Hope College for her Christian witness in song throughout the United States.

Publishing credits include Women Alive!, Regular Baptist Press, The Church Herald, Mature Living and Church Libraries.

Married 60 years to Richard, they have 4 children and 12 grandchildren. 

Give a Plant and Grow a Friend

                                 GIVE A PLANT AND GROW A FRIEND          

                                                            

                                                                 By

                                                Janet Baird Weisiger

      “When you have a minute, stop by my garden.  I’d like to introduce you to all my  ‘friends’,” Lois called across the lawn.

      Soon after my husband retired we built a beautiful new home in the country.  Lois lived in our new neighborhood and I was delighted with her gracious invitation.  Since I am a passionate gardener, I was intent on designing our new garden beds as soon as possible.  The south side of the house was the perfect location for laying out curved and shapely areas for perennials.  I had experienced enough gardening to recognize the dependability and long-lasting beauty of a perennial bed.  Challenged with virgin land surrounding our new home, and blessed with a woodland border, I was convinced these new flower beds would be the epitome of garden design.  What a delight to discover my new friend Lois shared my interest in gardening.

      Thus it was that on a warm, sunny July day, I accepted Lois’ invitation to meet her  ‘friends’.  Expecting to meet people who were members of her garden club, I was introduced instead to plants and flowers.  The ‘friends’ were not people.  Lois’ ‘friends’ were the horticultural specimens growing in her garden!  And what a garden!  She had extensive established garden beds in the English cottage garden design.  Flowers of all varieties harmoniously blended together in an informal pattern.  I marveled at the neat and well-tended gardens because I knew Lois was well into her 80’s.

      “I have the most unusual names for my flowers,” Lois told me.  “Here, let me show you.”

      We started walking through her lovely garden.  Cheerful petals of Shasta daisies, brilliant hues of red and pink Monarda, blue spikes of Jacob’s ladder, intermingled with tall stately spires of white and deep blue delphinium.  The heavy scent of oriental lilies hung in the air.  The soft pink flowers amid fuzzy leaves of lamb’s ears bordered the walkway.   It was beautiful!

      “It must have taken you many years to develop this garden,”  I commented.

      “Well, as I said, this is a special garden.”  Lois smiled. “The plants all have special names.  Here let me introduce you. This lovely one is Marian, my very first friend in this town.   And this one is Evelyn Stokes…..she always won the ‘Best in Show’ at our flower shows.  Over there is Phyllis.  She could create the most beautiful arrangements.  And see the blue spire?  That is special and I’ve named it Angela.  Angela died of cancer 5 years ago…..  dear lady….”

      Lois paused, as if recalling a precious moment.

      We moved further along the path.

      “Now, these are such a special joy.  This one is Rob…he grew the best tomatoes!   And see there….that tiny flower…well that one is Mary.  Mary has been president of our garden club forever, it seems.  She is the sweetest person, only about five feet tall but oh!,…. you should see her garden.”

      Confused, I shook my head.  “But I don’t understand.  I thought I knew all the horticultural and Latin names of flowers, and I don’t seem to recognize these names.”

      Lois laughed.  “I doubt if you would.  You see, all the plants and flowers in this garden came from someone else.  So I’ve named them after those dear friends.  Why some of these perennials are over 20 years old.  Some of the people who gave them to me aren’t even alive any more.  But when I walk through my garden I feel like I am surrounded with scores of friends.  People I’ve met over the years….People, well, like you, who just love to garden.

      “You see, when I first moved here, all I had for a garden was space.  No flower beds.  Just weeds and earth.  Gradually I met people….oh, in plant nurseries, or in town and we’d start to talk about gardens and flowers.  And before I knew it, people would say,  ‘I have to separate my peonies, or my astilbe, or my daisies’…and in no time at all I had a garden full of friends!

      “So I started calling the plants by the name of the person who gave it….Sort of a way to remember them.  To tell you the truth, I couldn’t tell you the proper horticultural names for most of these flowers.  But to me, they are my friends.

      “I like to continue that idea and that’s why I invited you to my garden.  I’ve dug up and separated some of these perennials. You know it really is healthy for those perennials to be divided every few years, and I want you to continue this tradition. 

      “You can call them Lois or whatever you want.  But that way you will always remember me.  And when it’s time for you to divide some of your peonies, lilies or daisies or whatever, you can give a plant and grow a friend.”

The following year, Lois passed away.  But she had left a legacy.  All over our county, her flowers and plants bloom and grow in hundreds of gardens.  Lois gave away the memory of her friends to be planted in other gardens and in doing so, she gave away herself.