It's been three weeks less a day that we had the memorial at Mountain Christian Church for our son, Patrick Alen Ryan. He died 12 days short of his 54th birthday on February 28th. The memorial was really nice. Pastor Windell Pell did the eulogy. He couldn't say much for he didn't really know much about him except that he was a "prodical son" that had been astranged from us for twelve years this time.

Pastor Pell is my uncle, brother to my deceased mother. His wife, Connie is my aunt. They have their own church in Peach Bottom, Pa. It is called "The Lighthouse of the Restoration" and he does actually have a lighthouse attached to the church. Uncle Windell (as I call him) and Aunt Connie sang a few spiritual songs during the service which were simply beautiful. Uncle Windell plays the guitar in a unique style all his own. He has a "clicking" guitar pick that really lends the uniqueness to the sound. My brother in law, George, particularly enjoyed it.

During the service I was called on to read the devotional that I had written for my son. I did get up to the podium and begin to read but my emotions took over and I could not do it. I called on Christy Struben to read it for me. She is one of our ladies at the Mountain Church Writers Group. The devotional I wrote was this:

A Mother's Pain

Go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father, and to my God and your God. John 20:17b (KJV)

I sat in the car holding tightly to the box that held the blue, cold urn containing my son's ashes. I thought about the mother of Jesus, holding her Son's dead, cold body in her arms. She was wracked with the pain of loss. I felt the depth of her pain. Mary hardly saw her Son those three and a half years He ministered in the streets, preaching the Kingdom. I had not seen my son for twelve years. I longed to hold him just once more before he died.

God raised His Son to the heights of heaven where He reigns with Him today. I raised my son to the top of my china cabinet where he will be until my husband or I expire. His ashes will be put in one of our caskets to be buried with one of us someday.

At John 11:25 Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

I know that in the resurrection, God can take my son's ashes and build a new, perfect body, to live again in a world cleansed from all sin. My hope is to be there with all of my family.

I once held my warm, wiggly baby boy in my arms. Now I hold him again in a cold, still urn.

Father, I pray that my son's soul ascended to You and that he was forgiven of his trespasses so that he might live with You forever, surrounded by Your love. Amen.

(c) 2014 E. Bonnie Ryan

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Rest in peace, Patrick Alen Ryan

Born February 28, 1960            Died February 17, 2014

I haven't written for a while. So much has happened in my life and I get so caught up in it that I forget to write. Please pardon my slothfulness. Two months ago, February 17th, my husband and I lost our middle child, our son, Patrick Alen. He had been gone from us for twelve years, no phone calls, no letters, nothing. Of course I prayed for him and his safety every night. I thought a lot about him and his lifestyle as I did my housework. I wondered where he was and if he was well, if he was warm, had enough to eat and a place to sleep. He chose the way he lived his life, I told myself. It didn't make me feel any better to think that way, so I continued to pray for him. The spirit urged me to pray differently for him. So, I began to pray that he would meet up with a good, spiritual man or woman who would talk to him about the Lord and eventually bring him back to being a real believer again. I prayed this prayer for years, believing that it would eventually happen, that God was going to answer my prayers.

One day I got an e-mail from our daughter. She said a black man sent her a message on Facebook to give him a call. It was about her brother, Patrick. She did not want to talk to him so she gave me his phone number. I told my husband about it but he was not ready to go back into the heartwrenching things we had endured the last time he had been to see us. So, I waited. The next day our son's former girlfriend e-mailed our daughter and she called and told me about it. She said his friend told her that our son had died and that we should call Mr. Water's.

My insides did all kinds of flip-flops as my head tried to take in the news of  our son's death. As I told my husband the news, I felt like I was moving in a dream. I felt like my whole system was on molasses mode. I could not believe our son was really gone forever, that we would never see him alive again, hold his hand or kiss him.

I called Mr. Waters and talked to him. He told me our son had lived with him in his "half-way house" and he was Patrick's care-giver. He said the first year there our son had been cocky and a little belligerent. Mr. Waters worked with him, even talking to him about God. He said Patrick said he didn't believe there was a God. Mr. Waters didn't give up on him.

One day about a year or so after he came to live with him, Mr. Waters heard someone throwing up in the bathroom. He went to see what was the matter. He asked Patrick if the blood on the side of the toilet was from him and he said, "No." "Patrick," he said, "I know it is from you. No one else has been sick lately. Get yourself ready. I'm taking you to the hospital." And he did. The doctors gave him a lot of tests and I guess Patrick was given the results of those tests.

Mr. Waters told me that Patrick had very bad kidneys, scerosis of the liver, and a very weak heart. He was finally faced with his own mortality. Mr. Waters told me he continued to talk to Patrick about his vices; smoking, drinking and drugs. He told him they were going to kill him if he didn't stop. Slowly Patrick began to realize that he was going to see the end of his life. He didn't want to spend his last days being sick all the time. He did stop smoking, drinking and drugs during the time he lived with Mr. Waters.

While at the "House," Patrick learned what a true Christian was. He watched as Mr. Waters conducted a weekly Bible study in his home. Some of it must have rubbed off on Patrick because during that time he began to see the error of his ways and he listened more intently during the Bible studies. I asked Mr. Waters one burning question that I could not hold back. "Was our son a Christian before he died?"

"I can't answer that but I know he did begin to believe in God before he died."

All the breath went out of me for a few seconds. Tears stung my eyes and I tearfully told Mr. Waters, "That's what I wanted to hear. If he was a Christian when he passed away, then all these years of wondering about him and where he was is worth all the anguish we felt over him." A big, heavy load had been lifted from my soul. I had to, no, I wanted to believe that our son was in heaven with Jesus. It lessened the deep hurt I had carried all these years of not knowing if he was alive or dead. My husband and I had felt in our hearts that a policeman was going to knock on our door and tell us that our son was found dead in an alley somewhere. Now we could put that fear to rest.

After that conversation with Mr. Waters, he gave us some information on where Patrick was and some important phone numbers. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for taking care of our son and he told me he was glad to do it. He also surprised me when he told me that Patrick was a pleasant, happy man, always laughing and making others laugh. He said Patrick had a lot of close friends. All of this made me glad that it was Mr. Waters who had taken care our son for the five years he lived at the "House." He made the difference in Patrick's life. He brought him back to Christ. I wept for joy, pain at losing a son, and relief that he was with God now, forever being taken care of by the Father of us all.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity for me. I called the hospital he died in, Bon Secors, and learned he had died two days ago and that if his body wasn't claimed by the end of that day, it was go to the State and then we'd have to pay to reclaim it. The thought struck me that we didn't have a burial plot or anything prepared for this time of sorrow. I discussed it with my husband and we decided to have his body cremated and his ashes put into an urn for burial with one us "someday."

Long story short---we made arrangements for a crematorium to pick up his body and cremate it as soon as possible. My husband and I drove to the funeral home-crematorium and signed all the papers, paid for the cremation and then, after all was taken care of, the director brought Patrick up from the morgue and let us take one last look at our son.

Our daughter, Marie and her husband, Tom, had come with us and so the four of us stepped into the outer room where Patrick was laying on the table in the body bag, unzipped to show his head from the neck up. His hair had been cut close, his beard and mustash trimmed neatly. We slowly walked to where he lay, so cold and still. I couldn't help but notice how his cheeks were filled out. He didn't look gaunt and eyes haunted as when we last saw him. He had deep pink on the lobes of his ears and his skin was a natural color, not grey as is usual in death. He actually looked healthy. I could not keep my eyes off of his features. I had to remember his face for the rest of my life because I truly would not see him again.

Both my daughter and myself could not help the wellspring of tears that flowed so freely. When I could compose myself, I went close to his table and whispered that I loved him and told him to rest in peace with the Lord. Then I kissed his forehead and whispered "goodbye" in a broken voice. Marie told him "goodbye" also and we turned and walked away into our husbands arms.

It was four days later that Charles and I drove back to the crematorium and picked up our son's ashes. We bought a beautiful blue urn with three white doves flying on the side. The name of it was "Going Home." It fit perfectly. The ashes were transferred into the urn and placed in a box for easier carrying. And that is where my devotional, "A Mother's Pain" originated. Tomorrow I will enter that in my blog. Until then, God bless whoever is reading this.

Mother's Day is just a week away. It will be the first one celebrated since my dear mother passed away. I know it won't be the same but I have to go through the paces so that my children won't know just how sad I really am. I always love to visit my daughter, Marie and her husband, Tom on special occasions because Marie enjoys doing things for me and her dad. So, on Mother's Day we will be coming back from three days of camping out (our first time in six years) and we will go directly to Marie and Tom's house for a nice luncheon. Hopefully, our son, Chuck and his wife, Betty, will also be there. Our original plans (Marie and Tom's) were to go with our daughter and son-in-law to Harper's Ferry for two days and come back on Mother's Day. Things didn't pan out the way we wanted because Tom has a major fishing tornament that weekend. So, we opted for camping instead. It will be so nice being by ourselves and just relaxing in Nature. We have missed doing that over these last six years, but one thing or another has prevented us from going out with our camper. Well, it's all water under the bridge, so to speak. No sense in rehashing it now. Some things took priority, that's all. And my mother's care came first in my life at that time. Now that we are alone again, we can begin to take trips or camp as often as we want to. I just hope the rising cost of gas doesn't prevent us from traveling, even to the campgrounds that are close by us. I guess that remains to be seen. I won't borrow trouble. It comes often enough anyway. Mother's Day has always been special to me. I have many wonderful memories of celebrating Mother's Day with my own mother. I remember once when I was in fourth grade, the teacher gave us construction paper and told us how to make woven baskets on a card for our mothers. I painstakingly cut strips of brown construction paper and, following a pattern, wove the strips into a basket design. Then, with bright colored paper, I made flowers and pasted them into the basket. When I was finished, I had a very attractive card to give my mother. When I gave it to her she complimented me on the beauty of the basket of flowers. It made my young heart so glad that she was pleased with my card. Mother kept that card for many years. I'd love to see that card now but after such a long time and many relocations, it was probably thrown away with other things a person tosses when packing to move. I can't blame Mom for that. I've done the same thing time and again in the years we moved while my husband was in the Army. All wives of service men have to do that. I'm glad I still have the memory of giving Mother that card though. It was special to her and to me, our own private memory together. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY all you mothers out there of all ages. Motherhood is special, only given to women by God. We accept it with all the pain and sorrow, smiles and tears, years of trials and errors. Finally when we think we have actually succeeded in learning "How" to be a good mother, the children leave the nest. But, isn't that what God meant to happen? Look at the birds---they do the same thing. Even so, motherhood is a badge of courage. We welcome and accept the challenges of motherhood. Thank you, God.

Sister Love

This was a lovely, warm day for January 24th. The snow melted and the fog finally lifted. I went to physical therapy for my left shoulder, the rotator cuff. It's getting better after almost three months of therapy, but it's not well by any means. It doesn't hurt so much any more except when the therapist forces it to move beyond the stiffness it still has. My range of motion is very much improved, except for putting my arm up behind me. That motion still has a long way to go to be as good as the right arm movements. I hope so much that it was already well. The pain is getting to me now and I am very frustrated. I know everyone at the p.t. office by their first names and they certainly know me. They've all had a hand in giving me therapy at one time or another.

I'm going to see my sisters tomorrow after lunch. I'll pick up Gene and take her with me to see Barbara. Last week she was not doing well. She has her bad days now and then. Each time I go to visit her, she seems to be thinner. I was appalled to see how thin her arms and legs had become in the last month. When she held up her arm, I could see both bones from the wrist to the elbow, almost visible beneath the skin. They were so distinct, it was hard to look at them. I never in my life thought that my baby sister would be the one to go first of Mother's three natural daughters. She has always been so loving and kind to her family as well as friends and neighbors. She is a good Christian and made many friends in her church home. I was happy to hear that some of them came to see her and sing to her.

Barbara is also a poet, coming by it quite late in life. She never thought she had any talents to explore and wondered why God didn't give her any to develop. She always envied me the many talents God had bestowed upon me. I have been a writer since I was twelve years of age. She wanted to write poetry too. I told her to ask God for a gift and be ernest about it. She said she prayed many times about receiving a gift. One day during a shower she was surprised that words came to her, very quickly. She recognized that it was words to a poem and she was anxious to get out of the shower to write them down. She begged God to let her remember what was coming into her mind. As quickly as she could, after drying herself, she grabbed paper and pencil and wrote down the words she was hearing in her mind. When she was finished, reading it over, she realized that God had just given her a lovely spiritual poem, her first one. She was so happy that she called me right away to tell me. I was so happy for her. "See, I told you that if you ask God for a gift that you would receive one," I said. I was so proud of her. God hears and answers prayers of those who truly believe. And Barbara really does. Since that time, about eight years ago, she has written many lovely poems. She calls me up each time and reads them to me, sometimes asking for help in the phrasing. I am glad she trusts me that much. About a year and a half ago, Barbara wrote a lovely poem entitled "Jesus is my Life Line." It was so good that her pastor asked for a copy. He, in turn, gave it to his choir director who wrote music for it. Now her church members sing it almost every Sunday. The first time the choir director was going to introduce it to the church and surprise Barbara, her husband Bill, who knew about it, asked us to come to her church to hear the song too. So, Mother, my sisters, Gene and Leasa, and I went to Barbara's church. When they all sang Barbara's song, she cried. She was so humble and pleased to hear her poem that was made into a song. Her poem honored Jesus and so, she was humbled and honored to hear it sung with such love. I think not a one of our family had dry eyes that morning. God bless her.

God loves Barbara so much that He wants her in heaven with Him. It won't be long now and she will indeed be with her heavenly Father for all eternity. God bless you, Barbara. I love you so much and already miss you. I hope to join you and Mother some day, if it is God's will. I have been blessed to have three wonderful sisters who have always shown great love for one another. And then to have an adopted "baby" brother, our family has been greatly blessed. I love you all.

Sister Love

Hello, blogger friends:

I just have to tell you all that I got my "Heroes" devotion published on our Portions of Grace blog site today. Hooray! I hope everyone enjoys it. I was so worried about getting it done without calling my friend, Virginia again this time.

Today is so windy and cold, almost blustery. It feels just like it will snow soon. We do need the snow for the sake of the farmers and their crops of winter wheat, barley and other hardy grains that are grown in Maryland. I saw, even at this late date, several corn crops that had not been harvested yet. I wonder why the raccoons haven't gotten into the field and destroyed the ears of corn hanging down on the stalks? I remember once I had planted several rows of corn and just as they were in the half-way mark of developing full ears, I found them all knocked down and the corn ears eaten. I was so angry that had I owned a rifle or even a pistol at that time I would have gladly shot every one of those marauding varmints to pieces and celebrated at their demise. It is so devastating to have a whole crop of corn destroyed over night after I worked so long and so hard to be able to harvest and enjoy the food that I grew.

Since we've been here at this Mountain Rd. address, I have seen many, many deer roaming on our property. Oh, they are such beautiful animals, so much like the goats I used to raise. I enjoy watching them wander along the edges of the woods behind our house. Sometimes the doe will bring her new babies out of the woods and they will nibble off the green grass in the spring time. The babies frolic about while the mother deer nibbles here and there, keeping her eyes on them.

Just yesterday I was walking our pug dog down in the clearing in the woods and in just a short distance away was a doe and three yearlings. The mother saw me and Krickett so she stood very still, ears pointed toward us, just watching to see how close we were coming to her and the youngsters. I walked very slowly behind Krickett. She didn't seem to notice the deer just yards away from us. Presently the three youngsters wandered off away from us. The mother doe still stood her ground. She stomped her forefoot, a warning to us not to come any closer. Krickett still did not see her and continued sniffing through the fallen leaves. The doe stomped again. I held the leash so Krickett could not advance further. By this time the little yearlings were a good way off from us. The doe sensed that her youngsters were not in any danger so she finally turned and slowly followed their trail. In just a few seconds they could no longer be seen. They "melted" into the darkness of the trees.

I never tire of seeing nature at its best. I feel the blood of my Indian ancestors stir in my veins when I am walking in the woods, watching the animals and birds in their habitat. I was also blessed to see a beautiful bluebird with it's red vest lite in a tree overhead. I'm glad Krickett did not see him or he would have flown away too soon.

How blessed I am to see such beauty all around me. I can't wait for spring to come so that the bulbs, which are already up more than an inch, will be shooting up higher every day. But for now, they are asleep in their earth nests, awaiting the rays of sunshine that will be strong enough to awaken them again. I sigh heavily and I dream. Until next time, bloggers. Happy reading.

blog boo-boo's

It has been a nightmare for several months when trying to publish my devotionals to our Portions of Grace blog spot. I have worked tirelessly on typing them in the proper space and when hitting the "publish" button, nothing happens. My frustration built up to a high-pitch from trying to get them published. Finally, I just called a good friend who also publishes on P.O.G. and she puts my devotional on for me. Yes, it's wonderful when I see it in print but it lacks the complete satisfaction of doing all of it myself. Still, I hope and pray when others read it that it touches a place in their heart that may have been luke-warm. Now after reading what I have written, perhaps they took interest and drew just a little closer to our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

I don't consider myself a "great" writer, but I try to do my best to express the love and warmth that loving God brings out in me. I hope the reader receives that message when perusing my work.

I love writing poetry almost as much as I love writing devotionals and children's stories. When I get right down to it, I love the most what I am working on at the moment. To me, it is a gift from God, the Father. I know that He gives each of His creations (humans) different "gifts". For me it is writing and also many of the other things I can do, such as gardening, sewing, knitting, crocheting, and painting. Whatever I do I try to do it as if I am doing it for our Lord. I can only hope that it is pleasing to our heavenly Father.

I wrote a Christmas poem entitled "Christmas Morn" and submitted it for critique to our writers group. Only minor corrections were made and I was scheduled to post it on our Portions of Grace blog site on December 25th, Christmas day. Well, I got up early and did all the necessary typing in the proper blog space and when I was done, I pushed "publish". Nothing happened. I was about to panic when I remembered my good friend, Virginia Colclasure. I e-mailed her and explained my situation. She told me to send the poem to her and she would post it for me. I was so grateful. As it is, I felt like I had failed the writers group. But, as long as the poem got published, then it was alright. I hope that many eyes read the poem and was blessed by it.

Now, I am going to try harder than ever to make sure my computer does what it's supposed to do. I'm a ding-bat when it comes to "fixing" a problem with the computer, but I'll sure try or find someone who can do it for me. I'm not a quitter. I am also not a slacker. I do my share of work and sometimes more, but my work gets done sooner or later.

And speaking of work...I've got mounds of ironing to finish, a house to clean, and more letters to write. So, until next time, may God be with you. E. Bonnie