Journeying Through the Torrential Storm: A Couple's Journey in Finding the Pathway Towards Passionate Oneness Through Any Storm, Including the Death of a Child

By Raymond Wilson

Frolicking together under rainy skies usually results in romantic fun for Angela and Roger, until they encounter the tempestuous storm of their livesthe death of their child. Ac-company them through their struggle of shattered dreams, broken hearts, and torn relationships. Discover how they overcome their sorrow and the path they took towards mending their relationship and moving towards healing in their journey of grief. Learn also how you can have an effectual ministry with families struggling to cope with the death of a beloved child from this powerful novel based on real events, Journeying Through the Torrential Storm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491820117

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© 2013 by Raymond Wilson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2012-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2011-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917595

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue—What Am I Going To Say?

Chapter One—Transparency 101

Chapter Two—Impending Storm

Chapter Three—An Adaptable Plan

Chapter Four—The Most Memorable Moment

Chapter Five—Packed Suitcases

Chapter Six—The Worst News

Chapter Seven—The Journey Begins

Chapter Eight—No, We Are Not Doing Fine

Chapter Nine—The Battle Of The Wills

Chapter Ten—Finally, Someone Who Knows What It Is Like

Chapter Eleven—An Important Discovery

Chapter Twelve—Getting Drenched Together

Chapter Thirteen—Turning a Page

Epilogue—Being There

Appendices

Resources Used

About the Author

The orange drenched flower on the front cover was photographed by Celina Brewer (CeeCeeDotCa) of British Columbia, Canada. It is used with permission. Her photography talent can be seen on www.flickr.com. When I initially made contact with Ms. Brewer about using this particular photograph for my book, she shared with me stories about her heroic friend, Danielle Kelly Helmer, who eventually succumbed to cancer at the age of sixteen in 2007. So with thanks and appreciation to Celina and in memory of her friend, Danielle, I am grateful for the use of this photo, which is entitled We All Cry Sometimes.

Journeying Through the Torrential Storm is based on real events. In the telling of this story, every effort has been made to accurately describe what can happen to a family whose child has died and how to provide effective ministry for them. Great allowances have been made, however, for the purpose of dramatization. Therefore, contained within this book are certain characters, conversations, and events that are solely fictional. Any similarities between the characters and actual persons, either living or dead, are purely coincidental.

Dedication

With devotion to my wonderful wife, Penny, who is my faithful companion and my caramel sunshine of love that my Lord has graciously bestowed upon me.

With great expectations, I dedicate my book to the hope and prayer that for each person who reads Journeying Through the Torrential Storm there will be far fewer bereaved parents who feel as though they are alone in their journey of grief. The reason for this is that this book will equip you to know how to walk alongside a bereaved parent and be able to effectively, and with compassion, minister to them in their journey. And the reward for you is that you, in return, will gain a friend. You will become in their eyes a forever friend.

In Memory of

Written in memory of Joey and Danny—beloved sons and brothers.

Giving Words of Thanks

Philippians 1:3—I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.

To the first person who showed me how to help someone in grief:

Rebecca Juris Sommons

Unexpected teachable moments can present themselves right in front of our eyes. Such a moment occurred for me in 1977, when Rebecca gave me my first lesson on how to help a parent concerning the death of her baby. Her actions, as a small child, taught me, you don’t try to offer up explanations. You simply let them know that you love them. In that moment, I learned more from Rebecca than all my years in college and seminary combined as to how to effectively minister to a grieving parent.

To those who actually walked alongside me in my journey of grief:

Jeanneane Huberty

Besides being a great coworker and a kind, caring friend, I will always remember your kindness as you willingly listened to my stories and memories about Joey and Danny. Your listening presence meant a lot. Along with that, you graciously loaned me your camcorder for an extended period of time, which allowed me to videotape many hours of footage of Danny before he went to the hospital for his bone marrow transplant. Thank you for your priceless gifts.

Carl Considine

I’ll never forget one of our first conversations we ever had when I started working at the post office. It was how you responded when I answered your question regarding me taking some time off from work. I told you that my son, Joey, was dying. Since then, and along with what also eventually happened to Danny, you’ve been there for me in many ways. You listened as I expressed my pain and sorrow about their deaths. You listened for countless hours as I shared memories about them. And even many years later, both you and your wife, Nancy, have and are such gracious hosts in allowing my wife and me to stay with you during our visits to Minnesota.

Michael Erdman

It’ll cost you five bucks is what you told anyone who asked you for a favor while at work at the post office. Of course you were kidding. The greatest gift you gave me was taking the time and listening numerous times over the years to my stories about each of my children, including Joey and Danny. I will always remember you for that.

Jerry Donald

I don’t believe that it was a mere coincidence how we met back in 1984 at Big Ben’s restaurant while waiting in line. Over a period of time, we met again and again and became great friends. We conversed over a lot of topics, especially baseball and how I always believed that my fighting Illini were better than your Minnesota Gophers. Thank you also for how well you listened over and over to my stories and about the process I went through with the deaths of my two sons. You listen so well!

Jon Ekblad

Before the widespread usage of e-mail and well before the day of internet communication, you didn’t use distance as an excuse for not communicating with me—despite the fact you were in a foreign country. You remembered my sons’ birthdays and the anniversaries of their deaths by sending us cards and letters. You also wrote out some memories about them. Receiving such cards in the mail even years after their deaths meant a lot. Thank you!

Fred Scurry

It was November 9th, 1991—Joey’s birthday. Besides wanting to go the cemetery to put flowers on Joey’s grave, I also wanted to get in a quick visit to Danny at the hospital before coming to work at the post office. However, I was late. After I showed up and you told me my job assignment, you then called me back to your desk. I thought you were going to chew me out for my tardiness. Instead, you took your supervisor’s badge off and laid it on your desk. You looked at me and said, I want to talk to you not as your supervisor, but rather man to man and as a parent who knows what you are going through. As a supervisor, you were rather new to our department. You told me you had heard what happened to my other son, Joey, who had died a few years before, and that Danny was now in the hospital. Then you told me that twenty some years previously, you had two sons yourself who had died. You asked for permission to help. Even though I wasn’t sure what you had in mind, I told you that I would appreciate it. With your efforts, you rallied all my coworkers in the flat sorting department. The weekend before Thanksgiving, they gave us an enormous amount of food, gift coupons, and certificates. Along with that, in the four weeks that followed, led by fellow coworkers, there was also a drawing and a benefit dance, the Danny Dance, that resulted in a gift of several thousands of dollars. Fred—and my fellow coworkers—I will always remember your gifts of love to me and to my family. God bless each of you!

Chaplain David Harvey

Your visits at the hospital when both Joey and Danny were hospitalized meant a lot. You were actually the first chaplain that I remember who made such a huge impact. Your interactions with Joey and Danny were priceless, and your friendship that followed even years later is very special.

Chaplain Bob Flory

After Danny’s death, we received a referral to become part of a parental bereavement support group that you facilitated at another hospital. Being a part of that group helped a great deal. Your manner and very compassionate, caring presence will always be remembered.

Pastor Bruce Henry

I knew you cared greatly about what had been going on with my family, in particular all that was happening with Joey. Of all your visits to the hospital, I will never forget the night you visited that turned out to be just a few hours before Joey’s death. Your presence and seeing the tears in your eyes spoke volumes. You cared so greatly.

North St. Paul Chapter of

The Compassionate Friends

I find it very interesting that you could go to a meeting, not knowing a soul there, but within a couple of hours you could feel closer to them than most people you already know. I am very thankful for the emotional and caring support I experienced from other bereaved parents that I met there and quickly became friends with. It became a special bond like no other.

To those who encouraged me in writing:

Dr. Theodore Martens

Dr. Martens, you were my all-time favorite college professor. With your influence, inspiration, and encouragement, I was drawn toward minoring in public speaking and getting involved in the drama department. The opportunity of being in dramatic productions, with you as the director, was very rewarding. Thank you for the one-on-one support you gave me.

Nancy Mayes

You were a fellow chaplain resident during my clinical pastoral educational training, and I always appreciated your words of encouragement and friendship. As part of the training, we were asked to do assessments of our fellow resident chaplains. I know that your words encouraged me in my writing—I honestly believe that RW will be a great author, when he releases the deep waters within on paper.

Reverend L. Kofi Adzaku

As a chaplain resident, you were my clinical pastoral education instructor. With your manner and style, you often reminded me of a college basketball coach, giving out words of encouragement, pressing for more out of us, and encouraging us to give it all we had. Out of the many lessons you taught us as residents, you showed me the importance of the process. How does one arrive from point A to point B? For you, it was not enough to hear us, as residents, simply state what we believed in or had arrived at a certain persuasion or something we had integrated into our lives or practice of ministry. You were concerned about the process—how did we get there? You wanted us to lay it all out. It reminded me when I was in grade school, doing long division. Being sort of a neat ’n tidy kid, I always wanted to turn in a neat paper with the answers all in a straight line. My teacher gave my paper back to me and told me that the next time I turned in homework, she wanted to see my work—how I got my answers. This was what you wanted from us as well. This part of my clinical pastoral education training helped me tremendously in the writing of my book.

Jon Prim

You were the first writing instructor that I ever had when I signed up for your classes back in the nineties. I learned greatly about the art of screenwriting. I was intrigued with the stories you shared in class about your experiences when you worked with Michael Landon on The Little House on the Prairie television series. You took the time even before and after class to look at my work in its very early stages of development. Your words helped inspired me to continue to press forward in my writing.

Reverend Stan Wilson

It was a privilege working as a chaplain resident with you as the director. You gave me the opportunity of getting back into full-time ministry. During our sessions, you took special note of my writing. You gave me tremendous feedback. Your words of encouragement meant a great deal.

Candace Kay Hardin

Kay, you were one of the very first people that I showed my book to for review when it was completed as a screenplay. Thank you for your insightful comments and encouraging words.

Cindy Sheffield Michaels

Without you as my editor, this book would never have come to be. Originally, this was written as a screenplay—it even had a different title. But with your encouragement and tremendous help, Journeying Through the Torrential Storm has become a reality. Cindy, I appreciate how you helped me to write. With your tutelage, you were like another set of eyes, giving me insights into the importance of not only writing the dialogue well but also being able to write descriptively—showing the readers what the characters were thinking, feeling—their body language, their motives, and their intentions and how they were processing all that was going on—as well as heightening my understanding of the importance of description, keeping in mind the seven senses. Those boxes that you inserted in the margins of my paragraphs were like road signs for me. They sent out a word of caution or a notice that I needed to pay particular attention to something that I had just written. Thank you for your loyal dedication and hard work.

"When they sense that you genuinely care—when they sense that you are not there to judge them, to correct them, to minimize their pain, or to offer up unsolicited advice—only then will they begin to feel that they can trust you—they will begin to open up their treasured memories, their treasured dreams, from their heart to yours. You will gain them as a friend as you simply listen and walk alongside them in their journey of grief."

Prologue—What Am I Going To Say?

On the steps and along the edge of the maroon carpeted platform at the front of a small mortuary chapel are several floral arrangements sitting on top of short metal stands. Draped over some of them are light blue banners with various words and phrases imprinted in gold-colored lettering: beloved son, beloved brother, cousin, nephew, grandson, and precious friend. Soft and soothing prerecorded organ music, mostly hymns, is heard through the ceiling speakers. Except for the front portion of the chapel, the room is only dimly lit. On the main floor just in front of the platform on the left side are three men and one woman, in their fifties, dressed in dark semi-formal attire. They are standing in solemn observance in front of a small, blue metal open casket. The woman is quietly conversing just above a whisper with her husband.

With hopes of gaining some insight as to what to possibly impart to the grieving parents, the wife makes her inquiry to her husband. What are you going to say to them?

Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he then responds with the only words he can think of in a tragic situation like this. I am going to tell them that I am truly sorry.

And what else are you going to tell them? she presses, with the expectation of gleaning wisdom from her husband.

With a shrug of his shoulders, her husband reveals his feelings of helplessness. What else could I say that would possibly be of any benefit to them?

As they turn and look at each other, the organ recording of the hymn Rock of Ages can be softly heard from one of the ceiling speakers above their heads. So as not to disturb the others’ pensive mood, the wife motions with a tilt of her head for her husband to take some steps back with her. He silently complies and they walk a few feet further away from the casket and the others gathered there.

Disappointed and feeling rather irritated, she persists in probing him. Still speaking just above a whisper, she places her left hand on her hip and her other hand briefly on his upper arm and says, For Pete’s sake, you’re a successful salesman, and I’ve never known you to be lost for words. You’ve got to conjure up something more than just saying you’re sorry. Now what else are you going to tell them?

I—don’t—know. Even though he is a bit exasperated with her, he continues in a hushed voice. He folds his arms up close to his chest. Since you think you know so much… on what you’re supposed to say at a time like this… then you tell me what you’re going to say.

All right, I will, she answers, speaking mellifluously yet confidently. She lifts her hands and starts counting off, using her fingers. ‘You have my sympathy.’ ‘Call me if you need anything.’ And thirdly, I believe I’ll say… . Her eyes blink and she drops her hands. Her assurance quickly evaporates and she starts to panic as though her mind has suddenly drawn a blank. No… I think I left something out. Rubbing the back of her neck and feeling puzzled, she quietly asks herself, Now, what was it?

Putting his hands down in front of him, he prods her to confess and own up to her own feelings of helplessness. Admit it. You don’t know what you’re going to say to them either.

Trying to be empathetic, he reaches towards her, attempting to hold her hand; however, she resists his attempts by pulling her hand away. Raising her voice a bit, she snaps back, I do too. In an attempt to explain her predicament, she nervously says, I… I just need some more time to practice. Now, please,—she moves both of her hands in front of her as though she is shooing him away—don’t bother me. You’re making me nervous.

Not wanting to make a scene, he complies with her wishes and very inconspicuously steps away. He goes to stand near the two men at the casket.

The man closer to him expresses his sobering thoughts. I… cannot imagine what the parents are going through.

The second man comments rather presumptuously, I think I know how they feel.

In awe, the other two men immediately look at him as though they are about to become enlightened with some gifted insight.

He explains, My cousin died last year and we were very close.

Almost aghast to hear such a comment, the first man speaks out. "Your cousin died? I am sorry about your cousin, but this… this is an entirely different situation. Think about it… . He shakes his head and makes a slight gesture with his left hand towards the casket, which contains a child’s body. Unless you have had the tragic misfortune of having to bury your own child, then you don’t know how they feel at all."

Meanwhile, the woman, now feeling pleased with herself that she has finally settled in her mind what she will say to the bereaved parents, is rehearsing in a graceful voice. I am sorry. You have my sympathy. Call me if you need anything. As she further dwells on her carefully chosen words, a scowl gradually covers her face. In a moment of panic and forgetting her sense of propriety, she suddenly bursts out-loud her apprehensions to her husband as she rushes towards him. Oh, honey, I just had a dreadful thought, she exclaims while nervously pulling on the hem of his suit coat.

As her husband turns his attention towards her, it is apparent that she has also captured the interest of the other two men.

What if they would need something? What if they would happen to call me? Oh, for Heaven’s sake, what should I say to them? Help me out here.

Understanding her quandary, her husband nods his head. He tenderly rests his hands over her shoulders and tries to ease her anxiety. Since it bothers you that much to tell them all of that, then just leave that part out. They can always call on their pastor or the funeral director if they feel they’ll need some further assistance.

After reassessing his previous comment, the man whose cousin had died now concedes, All right, maybe I don’t know what the bereaved parents are going through. Keenly looking at each of them as though his eyes are a spotlight on their souls, he adds, And it is very obvious to me that neither do any of you. Genuinely seeking an answer from anyone who might know, he lifts his left hand and asks, "But answer me this one question… how much more can we do for them anyway? After all, he rationalizes, their child went on to Heaven and they too will someday. There is a pause and he continues, It’s not that I don’t care about them, but a… well, we’re here today, he finishes anxiously. We’re here, offering our support with a sympathy card and a generous monetary gift… . And that’s not all we’ve done, either… . He looks to the gentleman on his left and points out, Like me, you’ve also given them some flowers. You ordered those lovely chrysanthemums for them that are sitting in that vase over there."

Uh-huh, the man soberly concurs.

And you both, indicating the husband and wife with a quick nod of his head, prepared and dropped off at the church a very nutritious and delicious four-course dinner for them, which I’m sure they’ll enjoy.

The couple cordially assents as well.

"But beyond what we’ve already done, I don’t know if there is anything else we could possibly do for them, besides pray for them. Do you?"

With their attention focused on him, the other three are consciously aware that he is echoing their underlying sentiments of helplessness. Each of them feels that they have no idea what the needs of bereaved parents really are, and they also feel lost as to what they could further do for this family whose child has died.

As though he is grappling to find some answers, the man then suddenly cries out, What else are bereaved parents going to need that time alone won’t heal?

~WWM~

January 25, 2014

Encased in glass on a wall in the vestibule of a church is a black sign with white lettering. The sign reads Death and Bereavement: How Can I Help a Family Whose Child Has Died? Keynote Speakers: Roger and Angela Kramer of Walk With Me Ministries.

There are approximately two hundred people, including pastors and ministers from various churches of different denominations, social workers, and other potential bereavement caregivers seated in the auditorium that is filled to near capacity. They are gathered on a very brisk and sunny Saturday morning where Roger, his wife, Angela, and a panel of bereaved parents will be speaking and discussing the topic of how to minister to bereaved parents. In addition, throughout the day there will also be a variety of workshops where bereaved parents and others will be speaking on matters pertaining to the challenging struggles that bereaved parents and surviving siblings go through.

At the front of the church auditorium, sixty-one-year-old Roger Kramer stands on the platform. Dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt with gray dress pants and a yellow tie, he is of medium build with a mixture of short brownish-grey hair. Using a lapel microphone, he is speaking from a podium with a large, white writing board behind him, along with some multimedia equipment sitting on a couple of tables nearby. On the board, written in large capital letters with no spaces in between, is the word HiHowAreYouDoing?

Roger is concluding his introductory remarks on the topic that he and his wife, Angela, and others, will be speaking on. Convincingly he asserts, "I’ll tell you what bereaved parents are going to need. First, they are going to need people who will realize that ministering to a family whose child has died doesn’t end at the gravesite, where you just hope and pray that time will heal. Secondly, they are going to need someone who will come alongside them and will allow them to openly share their memories and their broken dreams about their child. They don’t need the quickie Hihowareyoudoing? question—he momentarily points to the white board behind him—tossed at them as you rush past them to get to wherever you are going."

He leans into the podium and pointedly asks a series of questions, slowly scanning the near-full auditorium as if he is speaking individually to each person present. Are you willing instead to genuinely listen to them? . . . Are you willing to remember their child, who will always remain very much alive in their hearts? . . . Are you willing to reach out to them and befriend them by walking alongside them in their journey of grief?

Standing straight, Roger concludes his introduction by declaring, "During our sessions today, we want to show you what the grieving process can be like for a family whose child has died and what their needs are. And as you become cognitively aware of their needs, we also want you to become very familiar with practical ways you can minister to them. And thirdly, we hope you will be moved with a sense of urgency to minister with compassion and effectiveness; resulting in less people journeying through their grief alone."

Chapter One—Transparency 101

June 23, 1978

It is Friday afternoon, June 23, and the 1978 Extravaganza Tour of the Twin Cities officially gets under way with plenty of sunshine. The temperature is in the high seventies. This seventeen-day annual event in Minnesota showcases some of the most exquisite homes in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, and there are more than two dozen sites that have been chosen for this year’s estate exhibit tours.

Nestled within a luxurious residential suburb is one of those selected spots. There are approximately twenty sightseers who are only minutes away from the start of their excursion inside a gorgeously newly renovated, one-hundred-year-old, French manor design, five-bedroom cottage that includes a four-season porch and a twenty foot tall stone fireplace. The home also features a large vibrant flower garden and many modern amenities. While waiting, the sightseers intermingle on the estate’s enormous front yard and garden.

Twenty-five-year-old Roger Kramer and his fiancée, twenty-two-year-old Angela Erlingsson, are taking a leisurely stroll along a winding maroon brick sidewalk that is creatively landscaped with ornamental pebble rock. They seem to be encircled by an array of ferns and flowers, including tree peonies, roses, pansies, perennials, Asiatic lilies, and geraniums. Roger sweeps his hand through his short brown hair as he scans the tour brochure, and Angela marvels at the beauty that is surrounding them. He stops and looks at her and points out some astonishing news. Angela, this house is priced at seven hundred thousand dollars.

Wearing dark designer jeans and a long-sleeved silky white and blue blouse, Angela’s shoulder-length, curly dark red hair is waving softly in the light, warm breeze. Momentarily she places her hand over her chest, feeling relieved that they are not saddled with a living expense such as that. Goodness, imagine having a bill like that to be paying on. After reaching her hand out and touching Roger’s arms, she continues, I’m just relieved that getting married and having children are going to be a lot less expensive. With that thought, she looks down at her left hand and admires again the gift she received from Roger just hours earlier—her diamond engagement ring, which is capturing the sun’s reflection with its sparkling luminosity. Roger drinks in the starry-eyed look Angela gives him when she eyeballs him again.

They had made plans to go on this tour last month; however, when Roger called her on the phone yesterday, he told her that he would be coming over to take her out for breakfast around eight o’clock. Out of curiosity she wanted to know where, but the only clue he gave her was that they would be going somewhere just a shade classier than McDonald’s.

After arriving at her apartment this morning, to Angela’s surprise Roger drove her about twenty-five miles to the historical Lowell Inn in Stillwater. The city, often referred to as the birthplace of Minnesota, sits on the bank of the St. Croix River, separating Minnesota and Wisconsin.

The pair was served breakfast in the elegant and prestigious George Washington Room, one of the esteemed dining rooms of the inn that was established in 1927. To Angela, this was an enormous shade classier than any fast-food restaurant—here they were waited on at a table near one of the high, arched colonial windows and underneath one of the sparkling chandeliers in the spacious room that takes on the sophisticated charm and romance of eighteenth-century colonial Williamsburg.

Believing for some time that their steady relationship was eventually heading toward marriage, unknown to her was Roger’s ingenious plan of when and how he was going to ask her to marry him. During their breakfast, when she asked for the butter, he held the silver covered butter dish out towards her. As soon as he lifted its lid, she saw, sitting in between two halves of a stick of butter, an open ring case displaying a sparkling token of his affection—a diamond engagement ring. With that, he stooped down on one knee and proposed to her as he slipped the ring on her finger. With enthusiastic ardor, she responded "YES!" They both stood up and kissed more than a few times and embraced each other, while a number of patrons and staff members of Lowell Inn looked on and applauded them. Feeling assured that she would give him a positive response, Roger had already made arrangements with a photographer to get some engagement photos taken later that morning to celebrate and announce this occasion.

With her hands now at her side, Angela breathes in deeply. Oh, how I love the aroma of these flowers, she proclaims. To me, they have such a romantic fragrance. And look, she bursts out, pointing to another part of the garden, those tiny yellow butterflies! Just then a hummingbird whizzes overhead. With wonder, they both watch the tiny winged creature licking up nectar from nearby red petunias and flapping its wings with incredible speed. They turn around and look at each other, pleased at what they have just witnessed.

Throughout the day, Roger reflects on how he was challenged by his pastor in 1975 to seriously and specifically pray about marriage. He thought that while attending Bible College in Minnesota after leaving home in Illinois he would meet his future wife. Even though Roger didn’t meet his wife-to-be at Bible College, he remained unswerving in his belief that, according to the Bible in Psalm 37, the Lord directs the path of those who love Him and promises to fulfill the desires of those who trust and delight in God. Therefore, instead of deeming that meeting Angela was mere coincidence, he rather believed it was the result of the providential hand of God directing his life. Last year, through an invitation of a friend from work, he had started attending the church that Angela belonged to. After meeting, they eventually started dating, and by springtime of this year Roger knew in his heart that Angela was the answer to his prayers.

Greatly stirred with exhilaration and enthusiasm over what has transpired in their relationship, and especially with what just occurred to them this morning, Roger quickly places the brochure in his back pocket. He reaches out and readily takes Angela’s hands in his.

With a svelte build and being four inches shorter than his five foot ten inch medium frame, Angela leans in with great anticipation, knowing that she is going to hear something intimately important.

Immersed in love, Roger feels like he can’t wait any longer to transparently express the emotionally-charged feelings he has for his fiancée. Even though they can still hear others from the group talking just a few yards away from them, Roger is not at all deterred from seizing this moment to declare what he wants to say, despite having the sensation that his heart is taking up residency in his throat. Angela, up until this morning, he starts, pausing briefly as he attempts to fully articulate the words resonating in his soul, only in my dreams have I been engaged to the most wonderful woman in the world. Filled with a heightened sense of emotion, he momentarily stops as his hazel eyes begin to moisten. With Angela’s blue eyes fixed on him, he clears his throat and slowly continues. Becoming your husband and eventually a dad will be the ultimate fulfillment of my life.

Angela gently slips her hands from Roger’s and takes a small step backward. She is taken aback, and is a little stunned over his sudden display of emotional affection. This was something new for her to see, not only from Roger but from any man she had ever known. Before she met Roger at the Memorial Day church picnic just over a year ago, she had only casually dated far less than a handful of guys, with nothing serious ever developing. However, when she started going out with Roger, she knew very quickly in her spirit that this budding relationship had tremendous promise. She rapidly fell in love and looked forward to marrying him. But just now, when Roger began to display even the slightest bit of emotion that resulted in tears welling up in his eyes, Angela was completely taken off guard.

It isn’t because Roger has some sort of saccharine type of personality that brought this on. In a lot of respects, with his British ancestral background and somewhat quiet yet strong and confident demeanor, Roger reminds Angela of her father, the stoic Minnesotan Norwegian, who served not only two tours of duty in the navy but was also a decorated veteran of the Korean War. She dearly loves and highly respects her father, who by both example and word taught and stressed the importance of self-discipline to his family. With that kind of upbringing, Angela, in her high school and college years, grew to admire older men, even from afar, who constantly seemed to display a stouthearted disposition. Being a fan of athletics, her list of professional sports heroes included the likes of a couple of National Football League coaches—Bud Grant of the Minnesota Vikings and Tom Landry of the Dallas Cowboys. Unlike the lively, flamboyant coaching style of John Madden of the Oakland Raiders, these two coaches always seemed to be outwardly poised and showed little if any emotion, regardless of the score, as they stalked along the gridiron. She grew in awe of those characteristics in a man and became especially grateful when she saw over time these very same qualities in the man she decided to join in matrimony.

Though he does have these traits Angela admires, Roger is simply caught up in the moment with a sense of joy and responsibility set before him of being her future husband and becoming a daddy someday, along with a deep sense of gratitude to God for how He has brought them together and what He has in store for them. If there is anything that yanks his emotional chain, it is surely this.

As far as her own personality goes, Angela takes primarily after her mother, who is of French descent and grew up in Texas, the daughter of a sheep rancher. Both women often displayed temperaments of being spontaneous, audacious, and adventurous. Besides being initially attracted by Angela’s pulchritudinous appearance, it was these very characteristics that drew Roger to desiring a relationship with her. Shortly after they started dating regularly, Roger experienced how ardently and affectionately Angela could behave in how she expressed her love and devotion towards him as her new beau.

So, Roger, how often do you get emotional like this? Angela delves as she fleetingly glances sideways toward the other people waiting for the tour to begin.

Angela’s initial response leads Roger to believe that she is feeling a little uneasy. Although he is a bit hesitant in his reply, he feels the need to hopefully convince her that this is only a rare occurrence with him. Oh… only once in a while. Why?

Oh, I don’t know, Angela responds matter-of-factly. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting that from you. I guess my ideal picture of you has always been that of someone who never wears his heart on his sleeve.

From her initial reaction, Roger now also feels that her words are giving him a clear, strong message—a message that will affect him for many years to come, regardless of what she will ever say or do afterwards. Apparently, she can’t handle even the slightest emotional expression of tears coming from a man, regardless of the cause—whether they may be the consequence of an overwhelmed sense of joy or even . . . he extrapolates for a moment the emotional pendulum… or even of grief, for that matter, he thinks to himself. Evidently, she feels that it is a sign of weakness. No matter, in the future I’ll keep such emotions in check and figure out alternative ways to express them.

However, it isn’t Angela’s intention at all to relay that kind of a message, let alone to make an impactful impression like that on her future husband. She is totally unaware of what she, in his mind, has just done. She merely shrugs off her initial reaction and chooses instead to focus in on the tender words he has just expressed to her. Excited about their future, she grabs him around his waist and pulls him closer to her and declares, "Honey, hearing your verbal expressions of love is very romantic and reassuring to me. Becoming Mrs. Kramer and bearing our children will be my joy and crown." They embrace and engage in a prolonged kiss.

Preoccupied with each other for a moment, they are oblivious to the fact that around three to four yards away from them stands a gardener dressed in bib overalls. With a shovel in his hands, he has been doing some soil digging and is preparing to transplant some flowers. Looking in their direction, the white-haired gentleman catches them with their lips locked together. He plunges the shovel once more into the hole he is digging. He immediately smiles to himself and looks at his wedding band on his left hand, which is now resting on the handle. Seeing such a demonstration of young love reminds him of his relationship with his wife, to whom he had been married for more than forty years until her passing away last winter. About this time, he contemplatively looks up again, Angela opens her eyes, and their eyes meet.

I’m always amazed at expressions of young love, the gardener comments to Angela. You two remind me of how my beloved late sweetheart and I often behaved when we were courting over forty years ago… . She died this past December.

Roger turns around and looks at the gardener with Angela, and she begins to blush—but only because she was unexpectedly caught doing something she enjoys: spontaneously demonstrating her affection toward the man she is madly in love with.

Speaking solicitously, she says, Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you to say that… . I’m sorry about the recent passing of your wife… . You must miss her very much.

The gardener laments and nods his head. I do… I miss my Valerie a lot… I think of her every day.

Angela’s eyes widen and she asks, Did you say that your wife’s name was Valerie?

I sure did. Valerie May was her name… . Why?

Umm… . Angela directs her eyes on Roger and they both exchange a grin. Turning her head back to the gardener, she explains, My middle name is Valerie.

Is that so?

Yes sir, it is.

Sure is a beautiful name… a name that I’ll never grow tired of hearing, the gardener says, reminiscing. Grateful over what Angela just told him, he inquires, What about you two? Are you making any lifelong plans together?

Putting his arm around Angela’s shoulders, Roger proudly replies, Actually, we just got engaged around… he purposefully peeks at his watch and announces, . . . five hours ago. They both beam at him.

Well, congratulations. I wish you the very best, the gardener declares in an affirming, enthusiastic manner. This will always be a day that you’ll remember. With a wink and a nod, the gardener turns his eyes back to his work and proceeds to scoop out another shovelful of dirt. Now feeling assured that the hole he has dug is large and deep enough, he lays his shovel on the ground and pulls from his back pocket a pair of thick, heavy work gloves and puts them on. He leans down and gently lifts one of the floral plants that have deep scarlet-colored petals from a large wooden wheelbarrow, which also contains a bag of sand, a box of small pebbles, and some gardening tools.

Immediately, Angela is drawn toward that flower as well as the other two still in the wheelbarrow. She is fascinated by their splendor. Oh, Roger, these flowers are strikingly beautiful. She glances at her fiancé, touches his arm, and looks back at the flowers again with an expression of amazement.

Roger directs his attention to the plants as well and they both take a few steps closer.

Sir, Angela asks, what nursery did those plants come from? I have such a love for flowers and for gardening.

Now sitting on his knees after having set the plant down next to the hole, the gardener looks up and witnesses their admiring gaze. "I suppose one would think that these flowers were cultivated in a greenhouse… ."

Angela’s eyes blink. Feeling fully convinced that they had been, she touches the front of her blouse and exclaims, "But how could they not have been? They’re so beautiful."

Yes, it’s true, the gardener concedes, beautiful flowers can grow and develop into a work of art under ideal conditions, such as in a greenhouse; but not these beauties. He looks down and gestures with an open hand toward the flowers. Looking back up, he explains. "The last monsoon season in Arizona was extraordinary heavy with its torrential rains, turning the desert in some places as green as the Midwest. These flowers from this plant—Echinocerus cactus—lived and survived those very storms. While these plants can tolerate cold weather, they of course do much better in a drier climate. Since they made it through such stormy weather, the owners here wanted to take a chance and have a few of them transplanted from their winter home in Arizona up here to their cottage in Minnesota. He lifts his hands upwards while declaring, And as you can see, they have a fascination for gardens."

This whole place is beautiful… and what you just told us is absolutely amazing, Roger says, nodding his head.

It sure is, Angela concurs.

Good afternoon. May I please have your attention? A deep male voice resonates through the loudspeaker consoles that have been strategically placed in the front yard.

Instantaneously, the tourists who are scattered across the front yard and those who had chosen to do some exploring in the garden stop their conversations for a moment to pay attention to the announcement. We are pleased to welcome you as our favored guests. As part of the 1978 Extravaganza Tour of the Twin Cities, we will be starting your tour in ten minutes. We’ll be meeting you at the front entrance. Thank you.

With that announcement, Angela and Roger are getting ready to say their farewells to their new acquaintance. Well, it sure has been nice to have met you, sir, Angela appreciatively declares to the gardener.

Yes, it sure has, adds Roger as he takes Angela by her hand.

Knowing they are leaving soon to go on their tour, the gardener, with more than forty years of marriage behind him, wants to impart some guidance that may prove to be helpful to them in their journey as a married couple. Oh, I know that you’re out on a date to have some fun instead of learning some lessons about horticulture and life, but a… . Please allow me to tell you this before you go on your tour and I get back to my work.

With their attention caught, they both look at him, more than ready to hear what he has to say.

The gardener points to the flowers that they had been talking about. With these flowers as an example, as in life itself, very often a magnificent piece of work can be born and can actually flourish through extremely adverse conditions. In a fatherly way, he gently points his finger at them and continues. "Always remember that, especially after you’ve been through some trials and heart-breaking difficulties."

Puzzled by what the elderly gentleman has just said and wanting some clarification, Angela asks respectfully, "Sir, don’t you mean during the time when you’re going through those trials and difficulties?"

No, he clarifies for her, because most of the time, in the midst of trials, one can be more prone to focus in on just surviving, depending on how difficult the trial has become. While you’re in it, you’re hoping and praying that your ordeal will soon pass.

As the gardener is clarifying his remark to the newly engaged couple, some of the others taking the tour are walking past, talking rather loudly to each other, as they head toward the front entrance. Despite the temporary distraction, both Angela and Roger are trying to stay focused on what the gardener is attempting to communicate to them.

However, once you get through the adversity… and it may even take years ’til you discover this for yourselves…—he lifts both hands in front of him to illustrate, with a move of his left hand and then with his right—"you’ll be able to look back and see with much clearer vision from where you were… to where you are now. And hopefully afterwards you’ll both be able to say ‘a magnificent piece of work has