Letters to Heaven (cont.)

When I set out to write these letters to Heaven, my goal was to put into words the profound impact certain individuals had on my life before departing this world. Austin's was an easy name to add to the list as I am quite certain he had no idea just how important he was to me. He was living proof that small gestures can make a huge difference. 

Dear Austin,

I wish that I could shake your hand one last time and tell you these words in person because the truth is that I shook your hand almost daily for over a year and never bothered to tell you how much it mattered.

You weren't my student. Had our paths taken different turns, you may have been someday, but the fact remains that you weren't. I was never your teacher. This is an important aspect in regard to your impact on me. You never had an extrinsic reason to do what you did. Never.

You stopped by my classroom every day. You shook my hand. You talked for a minute or two, and then you always wished me a good day. Always. And always as you were walking away. "Have a good day, Miss Piper," you would call down the hall and wave one hand in the air. 

Sometimes there was a second handshake at the end of the short conversation. Just sometimes. But the encounter always started with one. Always. You had a strong, solid handshake. I remember your handshake well. 

I don't remember what we talked about each day. I'm sure it wasn't anything of substance as it only lasted a few minutes between classes. But what we talked about isn't really the point. The point, at least to me, is that you took the time to stop and have that short encounter ever single day. You shook my hand every single day. You took a few minutes out of your day to have a quick conversation, and you wished me a good day. Every single day. And I wasn't your teacher. I wasn't anyone special who had any kind of influence over you. I was just a lady standing in the hallway. 

I looked forward to those daily encounters. I never told you that then, so I'm telling you now. It made a difference in my day. Maybe you made a point to stop and speak to every adult in the building. I don't know. I never asked (and now don't want to know). I'll just continue in ignorant bliss thinking I was special.

I just wanted you to know it mattered. You mattered. To an adult you barely knew. You mattered. What was probably a small, insignificant gesture that was just a part of who you were continues to matter. Because I remember those daily handshakes and the boy who made a point to wish me a good day. Every. Single. Day.

I wish I would have told you this when you were with us. I can't change that now, but I can write you this message and in it thank you for your manners and your presence and for simply taking the time. 

I miss that handshake, 

Miss Piper 

Moments, Inspirational Moments

Moment #1

I can think of no better book than Calvin Miller's Letters to Heaven to read on a cool Texas morning as you sit in a camp chair listening to the Guadalupe River rush below you. That's exactly what I did yesterday, and while reading Miller's words to those who have gone on to their celestial Heaven, I felt as though I was sitting in a close earthen proximity. 

In this beautiful tribute to a set of individuals who influenced his life before passing to meet their maker, Miller wonders, "How shall I finish up the unfinished business of earth?" His answer? Letters. Letters to dear friends, family members, legends of his time, and one young girl he saw only once and to whom he never even spoke. Reading his letters, so beautifully crafted, touched my heart. They are honest and uplifting, and I can only imagine that after writing each, he felt a sense of relief or release or maybe even unadulterated joy knowing that his words had been delivered by an angelic messenger and that he had been touched by a piece of Heaven. 

And so I now set forth to write my own letters. A collection of ten, the first of which I share now. To whom shall I write? To ten people who touched my life in very different ways. Ten people with whom I would love to have the chance for one last conversation. Ten people who have gone on before me to enjoy the promises of Christ and so the conversations will be one sided unless the angels see fit to send a response. 

• V.C. Andrews
• Austin Bailey
• Patrick Swayze
• The Chernobyl Suicide Squad (I don't even know their names.)
• Demi Smith
• Grandpa Piper 
• Theodor Seuss Geisel
• Pope John Paul II
• Catherine Hechler

You may have (but probably did not) notice that there are only nine on the list. That brings me to my next moment. 

Moment #2

The weekend before this camping trip, I sat in a very different environment. I was at a professional conference listening to a teacher talk about how writing saves us, and a seed which had been planted in my heart some time ago began to grow. I felt it. And just like that...this moment led to the next moment, and they came together to inspire me.

That teacher asked us three questions, the third of which was, "What do you really want to do?" She gave us two minutes to write an answer, and after sitting perfectly still for the entire first minute, this is what I wrote: 

I really want to write. I want to write more and better and more and better. I want to write about Mema. I really, really want to write about Mema. And I'm going to start TODAY.

And so I did. I sat down that same evening and wrote a Mema story. The next week I gathered some of the stories I'd written in different journals over the years and started a list of other stories yet to be written. And I wrote a list of questions. Questions I want to ask my family members so that I can write their stories as well. Stories that I can put together in one collection to paint a picture of Mary Clawson. Her story as others remember it. 

Today, I connect that moment to my moment with Miller's words and I write my first letter to Heaven:

Dear Mema,

I suppose saying we miss you would be a logical way to start this letter, but in the end, we missed you while you were living as well. You left us to a place that doctors try to explain but is hard for others to grasp long before you abandoned your body here on earth. You still looked like Mema, and your voice sounded like Mema, but we had already begun to miss you. 

So instead, I will begin with a sentiment I wish that I had told you in person. You had beautiful hands. I loved your hands. I remember the feel of your hands (both young and old). Mema, I miss your hands. 

This week I wrote the story of when Ryan and I took you to see Planet of the Apes at a movie theater, and while it is a funny story and one that in the end proved to be a turning point for me, my favorite part was soothing your nerves as we sat in the theater waiting for the movie to start. The hustle and bustle of the theater had left you confused and anxious. You sat there with your left hand in my right, and every few minutes you asked me where we were. I answered you the same each time while I rubbed the top of your hand over and over.

I always loved holding your hand, and I especially loved rubbing your hand. Late in your life, it proved to have a calming effect on you, but I had loved doing it from a very young age. On this particular night, I watched the movement of my hand pull your skin taut so that your wrinkles disappeared momentarily. Then I would move my hand down to your fingers; you had long, beautiful fingers. Like a piano player should be blessed with. Did you ever play the piano? 

Every so often, you reached over with your right hand and patted my left and then just left it there. All four of our hands stacked together. In a theater. Next to a five year old. Waiting to watch a movie you wouldn't understand. Or even remember seeing. 

Those same hands pinched one cheek and slapped the other cheek of every grandchild every time we visited. The word slapped may seem negative to some. It's not. And it's really the only word fit to describe it. It wasn't a pat. Oh no. Your beautiful hands were also strong, and it was definitely more than a pat. We acted like we dreaded that pinch/slap combo, but we would stand in line awaiting our turn every single Sunday. 

I remember those hands vividly. Beautiful. And strong. There is no other way to describe them, and no better words to describe you. Beautiful. Strong.

I want you to know that I have begun to write my memories of you. Your stories as I (and soon others) remember them. Your stories that had become mysteries to you even while you were still living. I know my rendition will not be as beautiful or as strong, but I hope it will, in the end, be a little piece of you that those of us left to miss you can cling to and pass down to those who would have loved to have known you. 

I often wonder if George Jones sings to you in Heaven and if you ever run into Martha. 

Oh Mema, so badly I want to know... "Who was Martha?"

Love always,

Kristi, forever your Martha