My grandmother always read the book of Job in February.

I am not sure when this lifelong habit of her began was it before or after she was widowed on February 22nd?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There is a season for everything, a time to be born, a time to die. Something about death and taxes. There are many ways to express that death is commonplace, and inevitable. Yet there is an expected order within the circle of life. Parents have children, children have children, those children have children, ostinato ab libitum. You have four grandparents living, then three, then two, then one, then none. You expect to out live your parents and grandparents. By then you and your siblings are possibly parents and grandparents, and will take your turn crossing over. I would guess that is the generally understood expectation, or unspoken hope.

I often think of the ‘olden days’ when fifty was old, and babies were not named on their birth days. Death was a common, household visitor. Even the furniture spoke to that truth, in the form of wake tables. The expected order was oftentimes disorder. I think our expectations of the proper order of life and death are something born in modernity. Now, babies are more often born healthy and thrive and children more often will outlive their parents and grandparents. Maybe that is why we are so shaken when death from natural causes comes unexpectedly, out of the now expected natural order of life.

That’s the way it was in my family. I was a surprise baby.

My siblings were twelve, ten, eight, and seven years old when I arrived. Surprise! The called me the accident. We were close, a unit, siblings united in love and legacy. They properly spoiled me, and I properly worshiped them. Because I was a late to arrive addition to the family, my grandfather was two years in the grave before I made my appearance. I have often mourned not knowing him, but have always felt connected to him because he is the reason I was born a redhead.. the only one of us. It was special to me! I held to my heart all I learned of him through pestering questions, overheard stories, and his left behind belongings. At age six, I lost my only known grandfather. I loved him with my whole six year old heart. When we visited, more often than not, I was curled up in his lap. I amused myself by running my finger over the pattern of the military tattoos on his forearms. I felt safe, loved, comforted. I remember in detail his funeral, my first ever, it plays in my mind like a beautiful sad movie: A cold afternoon in Maine, muted sunshine on the horizon, snow falling blurring my vision, sticking to my eyelashes, a hillside walk to the graveside holding my daddy’s hand. I awoke one morning in my eleventh year, crawled in bed with my mother and asked- Is Grandma gone to Heaven? …Yes. -Somehow I knew. My waking thought was a feeling of fresh emptiness. The Godly woman of Faith, intelligence, humor, and strength who influenced my heart and identity more than any other, the woman I was named for. She let me brush her long long hair. She would even take out her glass eyeball for my enjoyment on occasion. She taught me One, Two, Buckle my Shoe and our favorite part was A BIG FAT HEN for ten. We shared a bedroom for while before her Alzheimer’s took too much. I treasure that time. I saw her resilience, and strength.

Three influential deaths in my life before I was twelve. I was sad, but not shocked. I mourned, peaceably. In my childhood innocence it was simple to turn to God for comfort. I held onto their influence in my life and their examples in faith and character, and the love they poured into my life, long after their deaths. I still hold on.

My childhood was precious. Truly. Not perfect, PRECIOUS. Fast forward to my 20’s…

I am married, a young mother of four children. I never had the passel of read headed babies that my Aunt Corie always predicted. I surprised them all by marrying a brown eyed Chilean! and by acquiring an instant family, a 7 and 4 year old son the day I said I DO. My days were rolling out before me in predictability, I kept it interesting by getting myself into challenging activities such as homeschooling, and various hobbies and ministries. Life was good and beautiful. Not always easy, but varyingly blessed. There were hardships but amongst them all, God poured unmeasurable blessings upon our family. We felt sheltered but didn’t realize how much. February 2nd, 2000 I get that phone call. You know, that one that changes everything. A pivotal moment. Death had come unexpectedly.

Hilda, we lost Judy.

Those terrible words will forever ring in my mind. My breathing stopped, my mind took a moment to comprehend she wasn’t merely lost, but gone. I have never been near an explosion, but that is the closest comparison my imagination can conjure for those traumatic moments that followed. World spinning. Gut wrenching nausea. Looking at my arms and legs because it feels as if I have been physically chopped to pieces, and stare in wonder that I still have hands to reach and feet to step forward. How can I still be whole when I feel so broken? My sister was gone. Our sister. Our beautiful, wonderful, precious sister. Gone. In a moment. Since that day, I have an undesirable passion to play whack-a-mole with Punxsutawney Phil. Hard core grief tore at my heart. Tragedy had touched our family at its core. The middle sister, our center. She was our laughter. The memory of her antics bring us to bittersweet tears. The following years were healing in the way that I have learned to walk this world with joy in one hand, sorrow in the other, only through God’s Grace and Mercy. I miss her still. I remember her. Remembering keeps her close. Sometimes I have dreams that she comes back to visit for a while. They are beautiful dreams. 2001 brought our fifth child, another one of us who did not know and would never know Judy. Joy and Sorrow intermingled. These were long, soul growing years.

Raising five children, now a grandmother! Life is so full, in a good way. Somewhere in my 30’s…

My sweet Daddy. His call name on the CB radio was Can Do Man. He could fix anything. Once our family vehicle was broken down on the side of the road and he temporarily repaired it with a toothpick, a real life McGyver. When in high school if something needed repair they called him to the office. There was a reward given in his name for years after he graduated to a promising student with ingenuity, know how, and skill. He was the pillar of our family, a picture of strength. We confusedly and painstakingly watched him waste away in a matter of months. A year before his passing he could have outrun any of his 20 grandchildren He was the most intelligent, capable, servant hearted man I have ever known. Gone. Too early, it was just too early. February 6th, 2010. That awful first week in February, ten years later. Such heartache, such sorrow. I remember how my cheek feels against his morning whiskers. I remember how high I reach my arms to hug his neck, the touch of his work worn hand in mine, the love in his eyes, the sincerity of his Faith. There are so many things that trigger his memory.. in those moments I ache with sorrow while my heart swells with thankfulness that he was MY own sweet Daddy. Joy and Sorrow.

Almost empty nest! Looking forward to a new chapter, full of anticipation. The last years in my 40’s…

I married into a family of eight siblings, I was welcomed as a daughter, and a sister. In the early years we only gathered en mass a few times a year. When my sweet mother-in-law passed, to ease the pain and draw together, we began monthly family gatherings. Sharing simple meals, much laughter, lots of hugs and encouraging each other in life. We instinctively drew together, it was a balm to my heart. Since loosing my sister, and then my sweet daddy, our Wheeler family gatherings were more emotionally strained and less frequent. As much as we try, the void of their absence looms large. The Manriquez Family Gatherings became even more precious to me. There was a wholeness. There was comfort in unbroken sibling togetherness. There was easy joy.

Through the years we did life together with Manriquez siblings, with our individual families, outside of those whole-family gatherings. New Year’s Eve at Carlos’s.. Helping Ana move, AGAIN… Watching Rudy’s children play basketball.. Supporting the Zipper Chest Club. (A club you do not want to join, unless having open heart surgery sounds fun.) In high school I had formed friendly acquaintance with a couple of the brothers, so when I married Marco and became a Manriquez, gaining friends as brothers was an added bonus. One brother, was dating my high school best girl friend, and we eventually became sister-in-laws, both happily married to a Manriquez!

Several years into my marriage to Marco, our relationship with another brother gradually became part of our day to day life. We three supported each other in many ways. We stayed in each other’s homes so often it was sometimes like sharing two homes, many times to work on home projects, or just celebrating life and enjoying a meal together. He truly became our closest friend, a family friend, and the uncle who showed up!

I consider him truly a best friend. What we share most is our love for the same people, our family. We are both glass-half-full thinkers, with a strong willed approach to life, always making plans and to-do lists, striving to look for the positive spin on life’s discouragements, and always looking to build another person up never to tear them down, and striving to forgive those who hurt us. One day he called me, not just for our daily chat but to ask a favor. Before knowing what it was I said “Of course! You know we will doing anything for you.” He had an endoscopy scheduled and needed a driver. No problem. I’ll clear my calendar, make that long drive, and give my day to him.

On that January day, I was with him when he first heard the big C word. I was with him each step as he faced that unpredictable journey. We were all gathered with him exactly one month later. Pressed closely together to fit around the hospital bed, hearts intertwined, bodily overlapping one another to stretch out our hands, each of us holding him.. his feet, legs, arms, hands.. my own hand over his heart, as he took his last breath.

That awful first week in February, ten years later. February 7th, 2020.

The only other time I had witnessed my husband cry was briefly when my sweet daddy and his precious mother left us. Now, we were both crying together going to sleep at night, and crying together when we first awoke each morning. We Struggled. We barely managed to ‘get through’ the days of the necessary, practical procedure of settling his estate. Emptying his home crushed us.

The grief, stacked upon grief, wrecked me. Anger, Depression, Rebellion, Constant Activity in an effort to Forget for just a moment. The clock kept ticking forward, no matter how much I wanted to turn it back. Or make it stop. Just stop. So we could not think, not feel, a time of truce for the war raging within our hearts.

Sorrow is weighty. And the Februarys arrive every year, each one rewinding my heart to the heaviness of repeated loss.

For me, this time, this February loss… Joy was slow to come. No, that is not true. God’s Joy is always there for those willing to accept. I could not accept for a long time, I was so hurt, I could not think or process or let go of the anger. Not anger at God, no never, just angry at this imperfect world. God’s love is stronger than grief in any stage or form. I knew He was with me and would never forsake me, no matter how much I turned into my sadness and away from His promises. I still cry. We still cry. Gradually, bit by painful bit, I give up myself and give into accepting Comfort.

Each new day is a recommitment to turning my heart away from self and towards God. Pursuing a life of purpose and faith, and clinging to the blessings He has bestowed, Each day a slow and thoughtful walk with Sorrow and Joy as my faithful companions.

Oh, for the eternal spring! When Joy will prevail, and there will be no more sorrow. No more Februarys to endure.

I am 50 this year.

Actually I am now 51 because I have walked away from this writing for several months. It is a heavy task.

When I think of my precious sister, my sweet daddy, and my brother friend, I note they had some character qualities in common. They each strove to show true hearted goodwill toward their fellow man. They were slow to anger, willing to forgive. They were firmly supportive of family. They knit others together with kindness, and were always ready with helping hands. I pray that I honor their memory by following their example.

Beauty for Ashes.