As we approach the Memorial Day weekend, and memory unreels a film upon its magic screen, I have decided to visit the graves of relatives who have gone on to the next sphere of existence.  While I am not proud to say it, I will be honest and admit that many years have passed since I have done this.  The scripture says:

   

          "Blessed are they who die in the Lord, yea saith the Holy Spirit, that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."  

 

This scripture is usually used at the memorials of people who were active in some form of ministry and are leaving a legacy as a result of their obedience to God's call on their lives.  It is also true that their memory lives on through the offspring that they brought into the world.  A superb example of both of these facts is the ongoing radio ministry of Dr. Thomas R. Wyatt, a third generation of preachers, who is keeping the legacy of his grandparents alive to this very day. 

 

Let me share with you some memories of relatives whose graves I'll be visiting come Monday, May 29, 2006:

 

AUNT MARGIE:  A chapter title in the draft of my autography is 'Love Lessons of 1945".  I was seven years old.  In recalling this year, I think of the fact that "there is no love without sorrow, and no sorrow without love."  I dearly loved my Aunt Margie, one of my father's sisters.  She was young and very pretty.  I loved spending the night at her house.  At that young age, I wet the bed.  My father and mother told me that I could not spend the night at Aunt Margie's until I quit wetting the bed.  It worked.  I quit immediately and have never we the bed since.

 

In 1945 Margie was hospitalized with double pneumonia.  She did not survive.  This was my very first experience in dealing with the sorrow that comes from the death of a loved one.  Of course, I got over it.  And yet, throughout all these years, my fond memories of  Aunt Margie live on.  As the song says: "Memory is one gift of God that death cannot destroy." 

 

FUSSBUDGET:  My cousin James, son of my Uncle Donald (my dad's brother) nicknamed our grandmother on our father's side of the family "Fussbudget."  In 1949 my dad's second marriage was to Lanta Mae -- and we lived in the home at 17400 E Burnside, in the Rockwood area, that had been purchased by Fussbudget. (The house is no longer there).  Fussbudget was in her mid-60's and had many health problems.  Her maiden name was Maclean -- she moved to America from Scotland.  (Her husband, my grandfather, was Danish -- hence the Danish spelling of Nielsen).  She was a staunch Presbyterian.

 

During this time I was taking tap dancing classes at the Young Oregonians (sponsored by the newspaper The Oregonian).  One day a kid yelled at me:  "Are you a morphadite?"  I had no idea what the word meant, and so I asked Fussbudget.  "A morphadite," she said, "is someone who is half man and half woman."  This was at the time that Mr. Simons, the principal at Rockwood Grade School, said to me: "You act more like a girl than girls do!"  I told Fussbudget this, and she was not amused.  Inasmuch as I wore Aunt Margie's high heeled shoes at home, and would wrap a blanket around me, pretending like I had my own radio show called "The Mary Nielsen show", the principal's remark probably didn't come as a surprise.  Fussbudget would often say: "Your dad is all man", even when she knew that I didn't inherit that characteristic.  In fact she told my mother that, when growing up on Scotland, she had a brother who "acted just like Larry (me)." 

 

Fussbudget's funeral was in 1951 -- the first funeral I ever attended.  At her request, the song "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" (coming for to carry me home) was sung.  One of her favorite hymns was "The Old Rugged Cross".  At this time, the Johnsons, a couple who lived in the Rockwood area, would come to take me to Powellhurst Baptist Church, where I found Christ as my personal Saviour and was baptized in water.  We would sit at our living room piano and sing hymns, one being "The Old Rugged Cross".  On the way to church one day, Mrs. Johnson noticed that when we were singing that beloved old hymn, tears were streaming down Fussbudget's face.  And to this very day, whenever I hear that hymn sung, I think of Fussbudget -- another memory that death cannot destroy.  Fussbudget's grave is next to that of her beloved daughter, my Aunt Margie.

 

            There are two podcasts -- sisterpaula.org -- on the preaching of the Cross -- where the beloved hymn "The Old Rugged Cross" is featured.  (One tv program coming up on this as well).  It is very sad that you rarely hear these beloved old hymns sung in churches today.  In referring to this particular hymn, a TV preacher said to his congregation: "As long as I am pastor here, we are not going to let this one go."  God bless him for that!

 

There are three other family graves I'll be visiting on May 29.   In order to keep this column from being too lengthy, I'll share memories of them next week.

Until then, always remember, there's someone who loves you, who is with you whenver your pray.  That One is Jesus Christ, seated at the right hand of God, ever living to make intercession for us.  The One who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities -- the One who understands and cares.  Know that!

 

                                                   SISTER PAULA NIELSEN

 

PO Box 2206, Portland, OR 97208