Journey to my heart….

I started this blog almost one month ago.

I have been surprised how hard it is to formulate the words that fit with what swirls within me. So many times I have sat at the keyboard and started a sentence or two, contemplated, closed my computer and somehow concluded not yet today.

I am not sure that my thoughts are any more clear today than they were a month ago. This is the sixth week since my Dad died. I will say that the journey of grief is more unpredictable than I was prepared for.

Have you stood on the shore and watched the power of the waves. There is a power that comes with the bigger waves. You can watch it build and come with some momentum and then it breaks. Then there is rippling from those waves that continue for quite some time. Then the water stills, but in time, there is another big wave, and then ripples, and waves and ripples. This is how I find my grief journey has been.

There are many moments that I feel like the sadness of missing my Dad comes over me like a wave. This wave can take my breath away for a moment and require me to take a deep breath. Grief is powerful and has the momentum to disrupt almost every part of your being.

Then there are other times where grief comes in ripples. This is much more common. I feel the ripples in my heart and soul almost all the time, but they are not always disruptive. Sometimes one can stand at the shore, and the ripples just seem part of the way the water is moving. What I appreciate about the ripples of grief is that they allow for more than the feeling of sadness. When grief is present in ripples, there is room to feel the goodness and the joy

In six weeks time, our lives have been full. There was Memorial Day, Father’s Day, and July 4.  We celebrated Ellie’s graduation, the following birthdays: Hermie’s 91st, Jonna 50th, Suzi’s 40th, Peter’s 15th,  Janneke’s 25th, Matt’s 27th  and Sonta’s 20th. There has been a weekend away to Milwaukee, lots of baseball games and family gatherings. Then there is the never-ending tending to details that need attention when someone you love dies. Six weeks in the Borgdorff family brings lots of activity.

It is good to be together in our grief and in our joy. The other night one of the kids was crying. “What is wrong?”, an adult asked. “She is grieving” was her mother’s reply. It is just like that in our world right now. We all feel the ripples and waves and are learning to how to navigate the absence of a good husband, Dad, Papa and friend.

In a text with my Mom tonight I mentioned that my heart is overflowing right now and I am sure that in time, the tears will not consume so much space. In response she said, “And the tears are welcome, sometimes unexpected.  I get it.  The tender parts of our hearts are touched unexpectedly, and it shows.   There is nothing the matter with that.”

I am grateful for people who stand in the water with me/us and bear the weight of the waves and understand the ripples.

I am grateful for people who understand that when you lose someone you love, sadness is just part of your being, but grief does not consume your being.

And I am thankful for a community which surrounds us with love, kindness, and goodness as we move forward into each day, living just as my Dad modeled, one day at a time!

Happy Hour is one of those things that I grew up with and believed everyone else also did. I remember as a child when my Dad would come home from work, my parents took time together to connect. They would pour a beverage and sit in the living room. It happened every day, and I love how together they prioritized the importance of setting time aside to intentionally connect.

I remember it as a time when as younger kids, we knew it was our parent’s time. As we grew older, we joined in on happy hour and now as adults, we all cherish the time when we have happy hour (and now kids are always present as well). Happy Hour in the Borgdorff/Bos/DeKam world is a staple of almost every day and a must when we are together. It is not uncommon to hear the question: “how long until happy hour?”

If you have not been someone who celebrates Happy Hour as part of your regular routine, I invite you to give it a try this summer. Consider setting a time to connect each day, to sit together and reflect, remember and celebrate all that your life holds.

In these last weeks, since my Dad’s death, I have reflected a bit more on the role of happy hour in our lives. These are some of my happy hour takeaways:

• Happy Hour is cherished because it is when we are together.
• Happy Hour is cherished because it is when we take time to listen and engage one another.
• Happy Hour is intergenerational. During happy hour conversations, we hear stories about our parents growing up years and about the plans of the grandchildren and every conversation in between.
• Happy Hour always has room for more. So many people from around the world and right at home have enjoyed an invitation to join in. A glass of wine, a beer, a diet coke, or some water and crackers and cheese and happy hour begins with whoever is present.
• Happy Hour is a way of celebrating the goodness of life.
• Happy Hour is cherished because it is just what we have always done and will always do. It says in some way that everything is going to be ok, even on hard days and in sad times.

And so I was not surprised when the adult grandkids offered to get what we needed for a happy hour in my Dad’s hospital room on Sunday, May 20, 2018. After all, we were together and so they came with crackers and cheese and red and white wine and diet coke and water, and we gathered together and we remembered together and we toasted Papa and celebrated the goodness of life even in our sorrow.

And just a few days later, after we had a private committal service, we had one last toast to Papa. For in all that my parents have taught us, so much of it has been shared during happy hour. We love all that we have learned, and we cherish all we have shared. And we raised our glasses celebrating a life well lived that carries on in each of us! To that, we said, Cheers and Glory be to God!

We knew time was limited…

But we thought we had more.

So many of you commented on how surprised you were in the timing of my Dad’s death.

We were also!

I can’t help but replay the events as they unfolded two weeks ago tonight. It caught us all off guard and yet we see God’s hand. As my Dad so faithfully said and so solidly believed, “one day at a time is how we will live, while we also know that our days are in God’s hands.”

It is true that my Dad was diagnosed with a life-ending diagnosis on April 5, 2018. At that time we knew he had a neuroendocrine tumor and that over time it would continue to progress and his abilities would diminish.

Neuroendocrine Carcinomas. Neuroendocrine tumors are rare, accounting for less than one percent of all malignant disorders in the United States. It is estimated that fewer than 2,000 new cases occur in the United States each year.

My parents chose to live life to the fullest without treatment (another blog, another day) and I will say they were living well, even in the unknown and difficult spaces that were very real. My Dad continued to golf, even if the quality of his golf game was affected, he continued to attend the meetings he had the energy for, and he continued to engage all of our family events in his own Papa way. My Mom became my Dad’s chauffeur since he could no longer drive due to a seizure he suffered. My Dad was counting down the 6 months and fully intended to drive again.

He also fully intended to meet his first great grandbaby due at the end of September 2018. My Dad knew his days were numbered, but he did not stop living. He lived at peace with God’s timing and still fully engaged all he longed for until the time God called him home.

The Friday before he died, my folks were told the same consistent message, things will continue to progress but there was no reason to believe that life would be ending soon.  And with that, we all took a deep sigh and continued with the commitment to live one day at a time.

And then Sunday morning my Dad woke up, sent some emails, planned to go to Worship and during breakfast with my Mom had a sudden onset of severe pain. It was clear something wasn’t right and they sought medical treatment. In the Emergency room, we learned he had a gastric ulcer which perforated the stomach lining. Due to his current medical condition, he was not a surgical candidate. It was evident in this conversation that although we had believed we could have months with my Dad with us, this new situation would limit us to weeks. My Dad and Mom opted to have him admitted overnight for pain control, and then we would transition to Hospice at home. He asked us to go home and get his computer, after all, if he was going to be in-patient, he had some things he wanted to get done.

And then within a few hours again, it was clear that my Dad was being released from all that held him here and we would be saying our final goodbye until we see him again. Almost the whole crew made it home to gather and although my Dad was unresponsive our time together was filled with tears, goodness, and love.

We knew our time was limited, but we thought we had more time.

We all wanted more time, just a little, just another month, another week, another day, another hour…

But in the end, we have peace, even in our sorrow, because we know and embrace the same God and the same faith. May we never lose sight that every day holds much more than just our sadness, for we know that God is still on his throne and the birds will sing in the morning.

And now to end with some words my Dad shared in the last few days of his life, just prior to his unexpected death. May we all live in this confidence and truth: “but we wanted you all to know that we are grateful for each day, and rest in the assurance that all of our days are in God’s hands. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”

I am aware that there are people who read this blog who do not know who my Dad is, what he stood for, or what his influence was in the church, for social justice or around the world?

I have been struck by how much I have learned about my Dad in the last week. There is something so good in hearing the stories of his ministry, his relationships and his passion and calling.  I am soaking up the goodness of his impact worldwide, and I am aware that the man in our lives rarely if ever spoke of his influence.

At home, we lived with a really ordinary guy. He was a husband, father, father in law, Papa, brother, uncle, and friend. Some of these pictures show him in the ways we knew and loved him:

Today I want to share his memorial service video with you. It tells a bit of his story from many different angles and I am so grateful for the faith foundation that my life has been built upon.

You will hear a bit of the story of how my parents became involved with some dear Karen people. I have included the translation to the special music they shared at the service.

It is my hope that by listening/ watching this recording of one week ago today, you will be encouraged.

Thankful for the life of my Dad and his impact in so many spaces.

During the last 8 weeks, I have been honored to witness how peace prevails in the midst of illness.  There are so many spaces that my parents could have lacked peace. Yet from the day of my Dad’s seizure to his unexpected death, through the diagnosis of cancer and in difficult conversations about if to seek treatment, the presence of peace was undeniable.

I remember my Dad clearly telling a Doctor who came into his room before his biopsy was even done that he doesn’t like to discuss all the “what if” conversations. He wanted to wait until the biopsy came back and then consider what we know to be true. He had a way of setting the tone and ensuring that my Mom and Dad did not clutter their minds and hearts with unneeded thoughts.

As my parents processed that my Dad had a life-ending diagnosis, it was clear to so many that peace prevailed. In their conversations, their communications, their presence, and their hearts their words carried peace.

Here are a few snippets from a variety of communications:

one of the things that has surprised me some is the calmness with which (so far at least) we have been able to accept the reality of what is.

We find ourselves in new space and are discovering that there are unexpected blessings also in these moments. 

My prognosis will have to await further information, but we wanted you all to know that we are doing well, are grateful for each day, and rest in the assurance that all of our days are in God’s hands. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.

I share this and record this, so we can always remember that my Dad did not fear the end of his life. He was committed to living one day at a time and trusting God to care for him, my Mom and each of us!

I am so grateful for how I have been reminded that to live in peace does not mean that life is without trouble. There are questions, and there is sorrow, there is uncertainty, and there is the hardship, but none of that can erode peace if our faith is strong.

My parents lived with great courage and profound peace in living and in dying.

I have been overwhelmed with the amount of kindness that our family has experienced in the last week. It is hard to believe that one week ago we were all filling a hospital room as we awaited the end of my Dad’s life. God has been gracious to us all in the last week as we have journeyed a road we did not believe we were ready to yet travel.

At the start of this year, I had hoped to blog every day, or close to it. I started out strong, and then my Dad suffered a seizure and was diagnosed with an endocrine tumor that started in his lung and advanced to his brain. Life felt very different as we committed to living as normally as possible in a space that held a new kind of unknown. And yet we learned or at least practiced focusing on faith and living one day at a time.

There were many times I sat down to write during these weeks, but there was something that did not feel right about posting my thoughts, questions, and musings. Although there was nothing wrong with them, they crossed over into telling my Dad’s story, and it was his story to share. I wanted to respect the space he was navigating living with a terminal illness. And I so admired his commitment to focus on living and not some unknown prognosis of dying. But for that reason, I opted to set aside my blogging until a later time.

That later time is now here.

It has been important for me to remember why I blog.

I blogged about that once. 🙂

trishborgdorff.com2014/12

In the coming weeks, I plan to record for our family history the journey of my Dad and his impact and legacy.

So many of you have graciously encouraged me to keep writing. I have missed writing, and when I write from those deep places of my heart, writing is both hard work and a tremendous opportunity to see God at work. I am ready to marvel at how God is at work, even during the difficult seasons we encounter.

Until tomorrow….

Today I lost my Dad.

It feels really odd that it was only today. 2 am seems like so very long ago. So much has happened today and so many very kind people have shared words of comfort. The stories I read of my Dad’s impact around the world are inspiring and I find myself longing to ask him more about each name or face or experience you all shared.

I will never forget when my Dad’s cousin Joke said it looked as if I had walked right out of my Dad’s mouth. We had so many similarities and also our very unique differences. I find that my heart aches for the spaces I long to continue to learn from him. In the last 5 years he taught me to play golf and I feel as if I just recently began to hold my own and understand what club hits how far and what strategy is needed when hitting out of a variety of spaces. I will miss my golfing partner.

Your words have been such a gift and it has only been one day. My Dad’s death came as a surprise in some ways and my system feels like it knows it is real but my processing has to come up to speed. It is good to be with my family as we remember, weep, laugh, share meals and remember Papa in so many ways.

We are planning a private family committal service, a visitation and a memorial service. We are learning of friends who will fly in to share with us in the celebration of his life. We feel the closeness of those who live in our neighborhoods and are a part of the day to day life we carry out.

We are aware that he lived well, and how we would have liked him longer. We are aware he left such an impact in our world, and how we would’ve liked for his impact to continue. We feel that deep sadness, and we are aware of the gratitude that mingles with the sadness in almost every moment.

I lost my dad today, I am deeply grateful for his life. I will miss him, and I will live as he modeled: One day at a time!

Perhaps this has been the most difficult thing to sort out in the past few weeks since my Dad was diagnosed with cancer.  There were nights and days in the first weeks where it all felt too much to hold.

In the days when my Dad went from the ER to the Neuro unit to Mary Free Bed, we couldn’t help but wonder what life would hold now, in this new space?

My parents have made brave choices that are about living and trusting and embracing every day even with some looming unknowns. My Dad was discharged after a short rehab stay, and my parents began to grasp that there were significant changes ahead.

When I think about significant change and how that fits into our family story, this seems important to remember.  These two people were both born in the Netherlands and immigrated with their families of origin, my Dad to Canada and my Mom to New Jersey. They met as young adults, married and pursued ministry and in a short time, there were four kids in tow and then a fifth. My Mom launched a very successful career in her mid 40’s, and they are now Papa and Beppe to 16 grandchildren and have a great-grandchild arriving in September. They have buried their oldest son. They are no strangers to navigating change.

And yet big change always seems to shake the foundation just a bit. Just a few weeks back after the foundation felt shaken and shifted, my Dad said he just wanted us to all live as normally as possible. At that time I would have said impossible,

But today, as I reflect on his request to us, I have a bit of a different perspective.

For the Borgdorff bunch, living normally includes a good bit of together time. So, when my Dad was in Mary Free Bed, we packed up a cooler with Easter dinner and enjoyed a different kind of Easter dinner. There were aspects of Easter that were hard and abnormal,  but clearly, the best part of the day was when we were together enjoying a makeshift Easter dinner.

As my Dad impressed the socks off the therapists at Mary Free Bed with his progress, he was also working with Phil at Toman’s Auto Tech to get a used engine in my car. In the midst of a life-changing crazy week, that felt pretty normal.

This past weekend Olivia and Noah drove in from Ohio and Detroit, and we ordered pizza and met for happy hour and dinner, and we laughed a lot. It is true they came because they needed to set eyes on their Papa and Beppe, but in the end, it was filled with goodness and sweet memories, and as I think about tonight, I can confidently say, we lived normally.

Today we have 15 people gathering for Sunday dinner at my parents, and that is pretty normal as well.

This morning as the spring ice storm creates a bit of chaos on the roads, Olivia posted this, and this also feels normal. 

And so as we now navigate new spaces, we will live as normally as possible.  I am so grateful that our normal has been shaped by being together, embracing what comes with honesty and hope and remaining engaged with our worlds.

Thank you, Dad and Mom, for teaching us that living normally doesn’t mean denying what is real nor does it mean becoming solely focused on our own circumstances. We will continue to live, each of us in our spaces and together as a family, embracing what comes with honesty and hope!

I have a sincere appreciation for Sara Groves, and her music has often spoken deeply to my soul. She has lyrics that have made me smile, invited me to grow in my relationships and faith, reminded me of truth and brought me peace.

There is a line in one of her songs that my sister mentioned to us the other day.

The path is worn, but for us it’s new

My first thought was Sara did it again. A line that is utterly descriptive and accurate of where we are standing as a family. We often comment on how many people we know, and love have journeyed the road we have just barely set foot on, but these words say it so well. So many people have been on this worn path and yet, there is a stark reality, that for us it is new.

I would guess many of you are also walking on a worn path which is very new to you. We understand just a little of what you might be experiencing, and we know others understand a glimpse of what our hearts hold as well.

This morning as I listened to music again. I looked at my playlist for when I am searching. I am not sure there are more real words than this song…

If you are on a worn path that is new to you or just need to be encouraged, listen to this beautiful song with lyrics that say it all!

I am not so good at waiting…

In 2012 when my brother died in a car accident out of state, I can vividly recall the feeling when I learned the coroner had gone home for Christmas. I could not understand how his decision to leave work meant Len’s body would not be released to the funeral home until after the holiday. It put our family in a position of waiting. We had a sense of timing in how things should unfold following a death and a little more than a week between the accident and the funeral felt like way too long.

But in the waiting, we experienced time to grieve together, remember together, sort Len’s things together and laugh and cry together. There was something sweet in the togetherness that happened in the dreaded waiting. God’s presence was real in that week through the words, love, and presence of the community that surrounds us. As I reflected back over the week of waiting in the months following the funeral, I was deeply grateful for the week of waiting, the week I dreaded was a real gift

Ten days ago my Dad suffered a seizure. I remember standing in the ER and learning he would be admitted for testing. It felt in that moment like we would have answers soon as to what was unfolding. Days came and went. I found myself battling frustration that at the end of each day we did not have new information. It has been 10 days of waiting. Tomorrow my Dad has an appointment, and our waiting will come to an end as we learn what the next steps are.

The waiting, although frustrating in some sense, again has felt a bit like a gift.  We have had time to be together, to talk and wonder, to pray and laugh and hope, to feel the love of our “village” and to receive words of kindness and grace. This past 10 days has given us time to get used to the idea of what we may hear tomorrow and allowed us to catch our breath after the events of that Monday night only 10 days ago. We have been witness to my parent’s commitment to each other, their deep faith, their vulnerable spaces and their incredible strength. At the end of this day, as I anticipate tomorrow, I am thankful, once again for the waiting. 

If you and I  were together as you read this, I would ask you about where you have had to wait and what have you taken from the waiting that speaks of God’s goodness and provision. I believe we all have waiting stories. It is my hope and prayer that at the end of each season of waiting, you can also name some of the goodness that was birthed in a time that initially felt like nothing good could come from it!