Ginger

 My sister just went to heaven, having finally succumbed to the ravages of cancer. Here is a thought or two about her.

Ginger

Our family was blessed with a pair of “younger sisters,” and a pair of “older sisters.” We had two boys bracketing two girls. Ginger was the younger, younger sister, and the younger, older sister, depending upon which vantage point you take. They were all younger than me, and Coy got a set of older and younger, olders. Clear? Let’s go on. Sometimes it seemed like we were all mixed up.

Growing up on the farm we had a division of labor. Boys did outdoor chores, with the exception of gathering eggs, and the girls did the indoor chores. To our point of view, the girls had it easy. We believed that until we got married and got to help with what turned out to be house WORK. They didn’t tote five gallon buckets, roughly 40-45 pounds of slop to the pigs, feed the calves, and do the rest of the farm work, but “indoor labor” turned out to be just as strenuous and taxing as the boys’ jobs. (Who knew?)

I do not know if Ginger was ever bullied at school, but if someone had dared to offend her, that miscreant would have had a couple of hardened farm hands to deal with. (Well, maybe Big Richard and Drew would have caused us pause, but they were both gentle giants, and shirt-tail cousins. I never remember them doing anything, unless they were also defending the younger, less robust kids on the playground.)

I recall one trait of Ginger’s that drove me nuts. Both she and Pam were pianists, and practiced virtually every day. I liked music, and still do. The piano was just outside our bedroom door. (In a house that was 28 by 28, it didn’t matter much where you were, you could hear just about everything.) Ginger seemed to have a penchant for perfection.

She would play a song until she hit a tricky, or difficult spot. Then she would stop, go back, play it again, and again, and again. I was “singing” (make of that what you will) singing along and half way through the phrase, she would stop, go back and do it again. My expected next note never occurred. It drove me nuts not to finish the line.

I even asked her, nicely of course, to finish the line, then go back. She didn’t. I think she was training me not to like contemporary music that has a penchant for stopping a musical phrase on the wrong, wrong to me, anyway, wrong note. A musical phrase, like a sentence has to have an ending and ending inflection. It is like leaving a sentence unfin.....

I remember an accordion, but not whether Ginger ever played it. She was also in the band. I think it was trumpet. Pam was clarinet, squeak, and I was trombone, a slide trombone and you could slide all over a note before finally, hopefully getting it right. Was Coy a trumpet too?

Mom and Dad would not let us quit band and I hated it all through high school, until I was a senior.  (Remember Mr. and Mrs. Houder? I think he taught math and she, music.)Then, in my senior year, the light came on and I looked forward to band. It was the same hour as chemistry, and you know the rest. (I’m a chemist, if you need a hint.)

We even had an organ. Pam tried to teach me to play piano, but couldn’t put up with me so we mutually agreed to terminate that training. I do not remember Ginger ever trying to instruct me. I didn’t care enough to get it right, I guess.

Covid came and I had the great idea of having a Zoom or google.meet conference. Well, somebody got the time wrong. (Alaska is a funny time zone, about 3 to 6 hours different, who knows, from the civilized world in the central time zone.) So I started the call and when Ginger got on, she was in a car, taking kids or grandkids somewhere. It was obviously not a propitious time. I do not know who was driving and who was holding the phone, but we did have a nice little, emphasis, short, visit.

But Covid was “johnny come lately” to Ginger’s health. We got a call, on Palm Sunday, I believe, that she was in surgery for bone cancer in her neck. The doctors did an amazing job, helping the Lord to get her through that. Well, not helping as much as being used by Him. Get it right, Jim. And, fighter that she always was, she was able to give us over eight more years.

Now, she has answered the upward call in Christ Jesus, that Paul mentioned. She heard,  “Well done, good and faithful servant.” We all have a call coming. If, as Ginger, our earth suit wears out, we get the call to our new one, we will be waiting with the Lord. Or, some, maybe some of us, will hear the Lord Himself, call from the heavens and we will all go to be with Him at the great reunion with Grandad and a Grandmother none of us have ever seen; Mom and Grandpa Williamson; and Dad and Mom; along with a whole host of friends and relatives waiting for that trumpet call. Maranatha!

Mom and Dad used to sing a song for funerals at the little church in Stratton, that said, “the land where we’ll never grow old.” The college quartet I was a part of had a song that went, “If you get to heaven before I do, tell all my friends that I’ma comin’ too!” Ginger can tell all those waiting that we are comin’ too.

Even so come, Lord Jesus. Amen.

I am not sure if this is Ginger’s favorite hymn or not, but I’m pretty sure it is at least one of them. This was written by a man who lost his family in a ship wreck and only his wife escaped. When he sailed over that spot in the Atlantic, he composed these words.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.

Refrain: It is well with my soul, It is well, it is well with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, Let this blest assurance control, That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate, And hath shed His own blood for my soul. Refrain.

My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!—My sin, not in part but the whole, Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul! Refrain.

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live: If Jordan above me shall roll, No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul. Refrain

But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait, The sky, not the grave, is our goal; Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord! Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul! Refrain.

And Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight, The clouds be rolled back as a scroll; The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend, Even so, it is well with my soul.

 It is well with my soul, It is well, it is well with my soul.

And the last thing we want to think about is another song.

Just think of stepping on shore, and finding it heaven, of touching a hand and finding it God’s, of breathing new air and finding it celestial, of waking up in heaven, and finding it home.

Ginger stepped on shore, touched a hand, breathed new air, and is home. All is well with her soul.

Amen.