Bellyaches, Headaches and Heartaches. (Those Faint Whispers - Part 2)

We probably all have times when we have disregarded wisdom calling out to us.

Jonah heard God asking him to go to Nineveh and he didn't want to go. He ended up in the belly of a whale. I wonder if he gave that whale a bellyache?

Bellyaches

I had a lot of bellyaches when I was growing up. Looking back, I must have internalized the stress our family experienced.

As I've reflected on this next season in my Mother's life, after the death of her son, Nathan, I am reminded that there is a cost when we don't follow our inner sense of direction. It can lead to a lot of bellyaches, headaches and heartaches.

She had started driving a school bus for extra income but she mentioned (in her own words) that when she started sensing that she was to give up driving the bus, she didn't want to and ignored the warning. Strangely, she got meningitis from a child on her bus not long after that warning.

Headaches

When she got the meningitis, they had to put a shunt in her head due to scar tissue build-up in her brain. My Mother struggled through many seasons of illness, caused by the malfunction of the shunt. We all struggled with her.

One time she was so sick we had a hospital bed brought in and placed in the living room of our farm house so she didn't have to climb steps. We could care for her more easily on the ground level. I'd wash the linens—sometimes several times a day because she would lose control of her bladder. Even worse, at times, she would seem to lose her mind.

One day she had hallucinations of my brother, Adriel, being dead and in heaven. This was scary, since it was her only living son that she was hallucinating about and not the two sons who really were dead.

There was one thing that always seemed constant through her illnesses; she craved a good old steak. Daddy would make her a steak no matter what time of day or night it was. We ran a beef farm so at least we had plenty of steaks on hand.

Once the Doctors discovered that the shunt in my Mother's head was clogged and needed replaced (or unclogged), she would recover rather quickly. However, the frequent episodes took a toll on her. Sometimes it seemed they would unclog the shunt and she'd still struggle, so then they would replace it. They had to shave her head every time they worked on the shunt. The head trauma also left her feeling depressed.

My Mother and her favorite dog, Angie. She often wore a handkerchief like this after they worked on her shunt.

Heartaches

We had a foster child living with us at the time and because of her illness, he was immediately removed from our home and she was never able to locate him after that. She was heart broken. Even in the last years of her life, she'd mention him and wonder what happened to him.

Green, Yellow or Red?

I had a teacher in Oklahoma who used to always say, "Feel for the green, yellow or red light when it comes to making decisions." If you are trying to get a sense of which way you should go, ask yourself if you feel a "green" light—a sense of yes, move ahead. Or do you sense a "yellow" light of caution—slow down and wait. There are times we will sense a strong "red" light—which means, STOP!

I remember a time when I ignored a whisper of warning. I was interested in a guy (long before I knew Tom) but I clearly felt the Spirit telling me to stay away—to STOP!

I didn't listen. I wish I would have.

It clouded how I viewed myself for years.

Grace, Forgiveness and Healing

Thank God for grace, forgiveness and healing, not just in that situation but in the life of our family too. We'll never know what we might have been spared if my Mother would have paid attention to the whispers of the Spirit. But it doesn't do any good to ponder the "what ifs" in life, at least, the ones we can't go back and change.

Years ago, after my first few trips to Nashville, I started asking God to move us to Nashville. I asked this for years and finally one morning, out of the blue, I heard Him say, "not yet." From then on, I had peace and I stopped asking. Then we entered the final phase of my Mother's life and I was so thankful that I was living close to her to help her as she prepared to finish up her time here on earth. I began to sense that part of the reason for "not yet" was so that I could be present with my Mother through those final years.

Those faint whispers are worth paying attention to!

No mother is perfect. No person is perfect.  I appreciate that my Mother was willing to share this part of her story with us. It's priceless. It lets me know that she was human. It reminds me to pay attention to those faint whispers. They come to us for a reason.

The Long Walk.

It's a long walk up the lane to the home where it all happened. You can't see the pond or the house from the road which adds to the anticipation. 

"There be dogs here"—a nice weather-worn sign greets you at the entrance.

I drove up the long lane toward the house......gasping as I drove. It was as if the summer rains had made a lush garden of Eden right here in Gardners, Pennsylvania. 

No wonder my Mother fell in love with this place the instant she saw it and decided this was the place to raise her family over 50 years ago.

And then I saw the pond. The pond beside the barn. I just sat there in my van.

The present-day pond.

The pond in the 1960's.

I moved on, past the pond, heading toward the house and started looking for Matt and James who were scheduled to be there ahead of me scouting for the best places to shoot video. I hired them to help me tell this part of my family's story—a very sacred moment in our past. 

(I usually shoot video in Nashville, but since I really wanted to do this song back at the farm where it happened, I needed to find someone local. Matt graduated from the University of Valley Forge with a degree in video production. Filmmaking is his passion. I've already done one small project with him and really enjoyed working with him. It's special to think that I can have a part in making someone else's dreams come true.) 

They were already getting set up. 

The landscape around the house was breathtaking. I stood there for a moment taking it all in—the gurgling springs, the singing birds and the fragrance of bitter-sweet family stories lingering on the grounds.

I greeted Virginia, the owner. They purchased the farm from us in 1968 (two years after Nathan drowned). Our family has visited them since that purchase, so it was more like seeing an old friend than a stranger. 

We all share a love for this little place nestled in the hills of Pennsylvania.

Stella, the dog, was eager to welcome us! We tried to coax her into the video, but she was too camera shy. She didn't want to appear in something so personal without a hair and makeup artist.  😊  Believe me, I understood!

It's amazing to compare pictures from the past to the present. Though the barn is gone due to a fire, a shed still remains.  In the second picture, you'll see my sister, my Father and my Grandpa moving the family beekeeping operation from Ohio to Willow Springs Farm in 1964 when we moved there. Notice the 1956 Chevy in the background! 

Present-day shed.

I took my Mother back to the farm not too long before she passed away. She was showing signs of dementia and I wanted to see if she'd remember the farm...and the pond. When we first pulled up the driveway, she had no idea where we were and I knew that she was indeed losing her memory, because this place was her favorite spot on earth. I finally pointed out the pond and told her about Nathan.

"Oooooohhhhh my", she said.

Talk about an emotional moment!

Near the shed is the house where my Mother raised her little family—the yard where she put Nathan and me out to play that fateful afternoon. It's the house she entered for a moment to get something and came back out to find Nathan missing...

We began the video shoot by having me walk up the lane. The same long walk my Mother took when she found Nathan in the pond and tried to resuscitate him. 

They wanted to drive her back to the house...but she refused. She wanted to carry him in her arms. 

I barely began the story and the tears came in full force. I'm still reeling from the thought of what it must have been like for her that day. 

Notice the snowflake on my shirt in the above picture? 

The snowflake is a very special symbol to me. They say each snowflake has it's own unique pattern. Just like humans. No two people are alike and no journey through grief is alike. My Portraits of White winter concert is all about winter and snow, as well as Christmas. Many of the songs on the album stemmed from coming to terms with the loneliness and grief from the loss of our two brothers—especially over the holidays. It felt appropriate to wear this shirt for the video.

We found lots of beautiful spots to do the video. 

The swing under a big tree near the pond. 

Beside the pond. 

Walking up the lane. 

Sitting on the dock at the pond. 

On a bench by the pond. 

As we were wrapping things up, Katie, the daughter drove by the pond. She stopped and got out of the car. I thanked her for allowing us to come and do this on their property. 

She said, "My mother feels very sad about it." 

"It IS sad", I replied with misty eyes. 

(Her Father, William Daniels, died on this same farm two years ago. He and Virginia were getting into their car and he had a stroke right there in front of her. Stella, the dog, came and laid down on him until the ambulance came.) 

Katie and I embraced and cried. We didn't need words. It's the first time I ever met her but for a moment if felt as if no time had elapsed between the two deaths. We shared a common bond. We lost someone special on this beautiful place. 

She got back in her car and looked up at me as the tears flowed. "My Father loved this place", she said as she drove away—down the long lane.

So did my Mother, I thought to myself. 

As I drove away from the little garden of Eden, I knew that this was the right time in my life to do this. I'm finally starting to see how this story has shaped me as a person and I'm very comfortable with that journey now.

It's been a long walk for our family. 

Going Home.

Tomorrow, I'm going home, to my birthplace. It's been fifty years since I lived there.

I'll drive up the lane beside the pond where Nathan drowned. We'll greet the current owners of the farm and set up cameras—looking for the best place to shoot video.

And oh, by the way, tomorrow is my parent's wedding anniversary. They are both deceased, but maybe they'll be able to watch. I hope so.

(I'm interrupting the regularly scheduled blog post to bring you a special announcement. If you've been following the story of our family, you'll know that I mentioned plans to do a music video to the song "Pond Beside the Barn" this summer. As it turns out, we are going to do it this Saturday—weather permitting.)

It's been 10 years since we recorded and released the album with this song on it. For many years I refrained from doing it in my concerts because it was so potent and personal. When I did share it, I wasn't sure people were receiving it well. Too personal perhaps? Many times I wondered why I even recorded it. It's one thing for people to listen to the song whenever they want, but it feels like a very different thing to share it with audiences in a live setting. After all, I don't want to leave everyone feeling like they need Prozac—though we've often joked that I might make a better profit from selling that than music. 😉

But since the writing and release of my projects "Portraits of White" and "Brand New Me", the song has found a proper place in my concerts. Though the song hasn't changed, this singer has. My perspective is so different since I first wrote the song. It seems like I had to write two more albums to get to this point.

I am not going back to the farm in sadness. The seasoning of time has helped me process the grief. Perspective has given me a deep strength and peace. I realize now why I wrote so many songs about death, why I needed to do a Christmas album and Portraits of White show. The loss of a little loved one has made me dig deep. I'm ready to move forward, record the story/song on video and use it to encourage others who walk through similar journeys.

This past year, I've started putting the song back in my concerts. I've met people who come up to me afterward and say, "I lost someone too". They'll be able to tell me exactly where it happened. Funny thing about living—landscape IS important to us.

A few weeks ago, I returned to a venue to do a concert in the Pocono Mountains for the second time within a year and a gentleman came up to me and said, "You didn't do the song about your brother this time. I remember the sweet story." He brought his family with him and now they are interested in coming to the December show—and that's how the world works.

Life (or death) happens.
Seeds are planted.
Songs are written, recorded and shared.
People are touched.

Yes, tomorrow I'm going home.

This visit is very personal.

Those Faint Whispers! Part 1

Sometimes we feel or hear faint whispers that give a sense of direction, but we don't pay attention to them, for various reasons. Maybe we underestimate our ability to hear. Maybe we just don't want to hear. In the case of the story I'm about to share, it would appear as if my Mother really loved doing what she was doing and didn't want to stop, in spite of a faint whisper she was hearing.

I've been sharing extensively the impact the death of my brother, Nathan, had on our family. Our story doesn't end there. As you'll begin to see, there were many more struggles ahead for my Mother—which continued to rock our world, and I think that if she had heeded a whisper, a feeling she had, the next phase of our lives could have been very different.

I'm not in any way pointing a finger, because we've all had those times when we don't heed a warning we have. I just share it as part of our family's story.

The story from Bertha Sollenberger Crider Heisey continues:

"We ended up selling Willow Springs Farm and moving to a farm near Newville...Mt. Pleasant Farm. It was much larger and required more from us. One year, around 1970, to help make ends meet, I took on the job of driving a school bus. My route took me back towards the mountain on many narrow roads. Oh how I loved driving the bus and learning to know the children! I taught them Sunday School songs. One time, we got stuck in a snow drift...and the children said, "Let's pray, let's pray!". (I, Frances, have fond memories of sitting on a metal box of some kind right behind my Mother's bus driver seat. I enjoyed going with her as we picked up the children.)

At some point I began feeling like I should stop driving the bus, but I didn't want to. I liked the job and the extra income. I kept on.

And then, in January of 1971, about a year after I had been driving the bus, I had no choice to but to give it up. I was diagnosed with viral meningitis. For adults this is often fatal, and I was very seriously ill. But, I recovered.

Several months later though, I had symptoms of pounding head pains, lack of balance, distorted vision and taste. I remember working in the garden, (once I felt good enough to do that), I was down on my knees and there was an awful thumping in my brain.

By the beginning of 1972, those symptoms were so severe that I could not get around or take care of myself. Five weeks of tests and observation in two different hospitals—I was finally diagnosed with Hydrocephalus - which basically means "fluid on the brain". It was thought to be caused by scar tissue which formed when I had the meningitis, thus blocking the normal drainage of fluid from the brain. But the doctors knew what to do—a mechanical shunt would regulate the fluid in my head by way of a tube that would go from my brain to my stomach. Three openings were made, the shunt and tube were installed, and the operation was a success. My hair grew back slowly and I began a long road of gradual recovery that took about two years.

I cannot begin to tell you the extent of the generosity given to my family and me during those years of illness and the long road to recovery. I feel indebted to so many people—the church community, neighbors and our extended family—the meals that were brought in, the help and support that was given on so many levels, the cards and flowers sent, the visits made, the prayers that were offered. We witnessed first-hand just how far people will go to help."

Frances here:

Next week, I'll share how this experience impacted her and our family. I'll also share a time in my own life when I didn't heed a whisper I was hearing.

We can all learn from these mistakes.

What Do You Say When Someone is Grieving?

She had no idea that the moment I pulled into the parking lot to attend the picnic, I wiped the tears away so no one would notice. How would I explain that the death of a little boy, over 50 years ago, still makes me cry?

Our conversation was too timely to be a coincidence!

"I knew your brother, Nathan", she said.

I know it can be hard to figure out what to say, but those are some of the most comforting words you can say to someone who is grieving the loss of a loved one—even if it's decades later!

On my way to that picnic I had been listening to the song I had recorded years ago—Beside the Barn—surrounding the tragic death of my brother, Nathan. I was practicing the song for an upcoming video shoot we are planning sometime this year.

(When you're preparing to do a music video, you have to learn the song exactly the way you sang it the day you recorded it so that in the music video, your lip syncing appears to be as if you're really singing it live. You ARE singing it live, but it's not being recorded in a way that people will hear it so it has to match your original version. The only way to do that is to listen to it and practice with it. Even your breathing should be in sync with the recording.)

As I drove to the picnic, each time the song played, the tears would accompany my shaky voice. I could barely even get through the song. It was an interesting prelude to my conversation with the new-found friend at the picnic. (The hostess of the picnic introduced us and thought we'd enjoy connecting because she knew my Mother.) She shared that when she was a young woman, she and her mother were watching children in the nursery at a conference and my Mother brought Nathan to the nursery to be cared for while she attended the missionary conference.

Apparently, while all the other children ran around the room with much animation, Nathan just sat in his little chair and watched. He hadn't been walking yet but not long after that event, my Mother shared that Nathan began to walk. As she shared her memories of him with me, I drank in every word. I asked her all kinds of questions about Nathan. Curious....what was he like that day in the nursery?

She is the one who brought up Nathan—not me—which made it all the more mysterious.

If you've ever lost a loved one, you understand this. Hearing about your loved one from someone else is a fragrance that lingers long after you walk away from the conversation and you absorb every word.

Words like this are a verbal bouquet and the fragrance has an enduring quality. If you know someone who is grieving, perhaps a simple mention of their loved one is a nice place to start in offering comfort.

P.S.

If you're like me and you're curious about "behind the scenes stuff", take a look at the music video, "Inside Things" that I did years ago. You can't see this, but while I sang this song (using the lip syncing method that I described above), I had a whole crew of people helping me: my performance coach reminding me to smile, or look "this" way and "that" way, the videographer running around me with his big camera, plus, my producer and the makeup/hair artist making sure all was well.

In the end, I was shocked that I was able to pull it off. I had to perform as if it was the day I first wrote the song and yet sing it as if no one was there. Like acting as if nothing is going on in the midst of a tornado.....

It was a really fun experience and I look forward to doing it again for the upcoming video shoot of "Beside the Barn". However, this will be a much more challenging song to do because of the nature of the story itself and going back to the home farm where it took place could be quite emotional.

Like Drops of Oil on a Sandpaper Heart

"Like sandpaper grinding on sandpaper in my chest."  It's the description my Mother used to express the sorrow following Nathan's death—and a very descriptive one.

"Sandpaper Heart"— I've written it down as a song title. I have no idea at this point what the song will be about but it's such a picturesque word, I feel I must write a song about it. Until then....

The story of Nathan's death (her 2 year old son) continues in my mother's words:

"That night, (after Nathan drowned), I tossed and turned, was up and down; I could not sleep. I had never felt hurt and pain like that, and it was beyond what I thought I could endure...like sand paper grinding on sand paper in my chest. Finally, toward morning, the vision or dream came back to me—I had not thought about it until then—seeing our two families assembled in the basement of the church ready to go upstairs for a funeral.

Not long before Nathan's death, I had a dream or a vision, was I sleeping or awake? I saw plainly our two families—the Sollenberger and Heisey families in the basement of Air Hill church, waiting to be ushered upstairs for the seating at a funeral as was the custom...and I said in the dream—"That means there is someone in our family—Orville's and mine, that has died".

Cousins as pallbearers with funeral directors - walking to the cemetery of Air Hill Brethren in Christ Church, carrying Nathan.

When the day of the funeral came, there we were; the two families brought together just as I had seen it. I realized then that the dream of vision had been from God, trying to prepare my heart.

God again had gone before me to tell me He was in control—a drop of oil was dropped onto the sandpaper in my chest. I can't describe the comfort it brought, ever so delicate and gentle but so soothing. As the days passed, more drops of oil were administered, bringing the comfort that God has promised to those who mourn. I said, "Thank you Lord..this is all part of your plan"...and my burden was somewhat lightened.

Even though I was able to rest in God's will, we all took Nathan's death very hard. We had great sadness—it would take a long time to grieve. We couldn't help the question—why? why? why?—trying to make sense of what seemed senseless. Finally, with God's help we began to see that Nathan was a special gift to us for two years. His life was not snuffed out—it wasn't shortened. He lived his full allotted time and our home was the one blessed by his earthly visit.

We would often reminisce at the table, remembering the little clown that he was, how much joy he had brought our family. Nathan seemed to have been "loaned" to us for two years, and we had to give him back."

Nathan just a few days before his death.

Re-write Your Past or Move On?

I never set out to write a song about the tragic death of our brother, Nathan. It was too delicate. Too tragic. Too personal. I would have never thought to try to write a song about it.

But it came about because my older brother, Adriel—who I've always looked up to, called me one day in October from his home in Arizona. Adriel and Nathan were both born in October. It was also the death-month of Nathan. October is bitter-sweet.

On the phone, Adriel said, "What's the weather like there today?"

I said, "It's a perfect day.  The sky is a deep blue, not a cloud anywhere and the leaves are starting to turn."

In his warm, brotherly voice he said, "Ah....when I hear you talk of blue skies and colored leaves, I can just picture it!" 

I detected a smile in his tone.

As soon as those words came out of his mouth, I heard the lyrics and melody for the song in my head and to this day I have no idea what the rest of our conversation was about because I was already starting to write it in my head based on that one line. (Sorry Adriel.  😔) We hung up and I immediately sat down to write. 

Sometimes when I'm writing a song, it feels the same as trying to write down a dream. When I first wake up in the morning, the dream is so vivid, until I try to write it down. It evaporates as I write, though the residual emotions can last all through the day or even years.

Trying to write a song based on an idea can feel that way.....it's hard work to make the inspiration settle down and say what you want it to say. I'm sure if I had deliberately set out to write a song about Nathan, it would have felt like recording a dream.

But the one line from Adriel was all I needed to get me started. I began to think about the month of October and how monumental it is in our family history, which served as a natural progression leading to Nathan's story. 

I've wrestled with whether or not to share this next paragraph, but since I'm growing as a songwriter and sharing that journey with you, I decided to not delete it:

As I study the craft of songwriting, sometimes it bothers me that there are two lines that aren't consistent with the rest of the song's rhyming scheme, Maybe I could re-write it better now after years of distance from trying to re-write it and much more learning under my belt. In fact, when I pulled out the past notes from the song, I saw that I only have a few copies of re-writes. These days, I have a LOT more copies of re-writes per song.

The recording will always stay as it is. Perhaps that's a great lesson for life. There are many things we'd like to go back and "re-do", but there is a time to just keep moving forward and learn from past regrets. 

The only time I ever heard my Mother speak of regret as it related to Nathan's death, had to do with her realization that Nathan had just discovered the pond and she asked Daddy to consider building a fence around it. I never, ever, sensed that she blamed anyone, my Father or herself, for his death. That doesn't mean she didn't carry any regret, I just never heard her speak of it. She seemed to have learned how to remember the past and yet keep moving on.

One of my "re-writes" for "Beside the Barn".