“The Cracked Bead “ as related by Jim Welty

At the end of May, I had a serendipitous encounter with a couple who knew Stephanie, but  had never met me.   They had purchased jewelry from her and expressed their appreciation not only for her creativity but also for the message of “The Cracked Bead” which was the name of her jewelry business.  At one point during the conversation the wife asked if Stephanie’s story was written down somewhere, and I realized that I didn’t know.  I looked through the files on our computer and found remnants of her business but not the story.  Eventually I worked up the courage to look through some of her papers  and found some notes about “The Cracked Bead”, so I decided to type it and share it with you.  Parts of what I discovered were in narrative which I will present as I found them, but parts were in outline form, so I will cautiously elaborate to keep the narrative flow going.  So here is the story of Stephanie Welty’s , “The Cracked Bead”. 

As a little girl I already loved jewelry.  I made rings and bracelets out of the small colorful wires inside telephone cords.  I dreamed of having a real birthstone ring and when I turned ten, my grandparents gave me a smoky topaz in a heart box.  Then came the day I looked forward to, receiving that most precious piece of jewelry – a flawless engagement ring.  But it wasn’t flawless.  The jeweler had been dishonest.  It was so upsetting to us that we returned it and had a new one made.  We wanted the symbol of our new life to be perfect and flawless, without blemish or defect – it needed to match our ideal of our new life.  We had a lot to learn.

One year while on vacation, my daughter Emma and I went into a bead store in Damriscotta, Maine called “Aboca Beads”.  The store was breathtaking, a visual Eden – thousands of beads arranged by color families in hundreds of small round tins.  I found myself saying: “Emma look at this”, and “I don’t know where to look”, over and over again.  I was so over-stimulated that I left the store without purchasing anything.  But the beads and their possibilities had captured my imagination, so I decided to try it out.

As Jim would say, “let the beadings begin”.  I learned as much as I could about beading.  I bought magazines and books, purchased tools, design boards, little round stackable containers and of course, beads.  I was thoroughly immersed in the bead world and was having a grand time. 

One afternoon I had once again taken up residence at our kitchen table in front of our large multi-paned window.  The natural light provided a great environment for choosing colors.   I like the idea of a completely tone on tone necklace, and I was “designing” on my board using clear beads.

I strung several clear beads in a row and then a cracked bead and then more clear beads.  I liked the pattern I was creating.  As I admired my work, my eye was drawn to the cracked bead.  “Looked how the cracked bead reflects the light”, I thought.  Then my mind took off, and I realized thatI am a cracked bead.

How did the bead get cracked?  I remember my friend Linda telling me that when she was a child, she and her siblings would put marbles in a frying pan on the stove, turn on the heat, and eventually the marbles would crack.  Stress and heat cause beads to crack. 

My life was already cracked and fractured due to my childhood and some traumatic experiences and negative messages that were communicated to me by my parents.  The extremes of my childhood created stress: the extremes of wanting to give my life to God and love him with all my heart but being terrified of his arbitrariness, the extremes of being told that I was made in God’s image but practically speaking I sensed that as a girl I was seen as less valuable than men, the extremes of wanting to reach my world for Jesus but not being allowed to participate in my world.  I kept thinking that it was me who just wasn’t getting it right, and so I must try harder.  The more I tried the more helpless I felt.  I longed for the childhood of others around me.   As a little girl I spent years yearning for the perfect, flawless childhood and rehearsing the “if onlys”.  I thought of myself as Jo from “Little Women”.  “My life is hopelessly flawed”.

What are the characteristics of the cracked bead?  They are whole on the outside and cracked on the inside.  I worked hard to create a whole life for my family and me.  I desperately wanted to feel normal.  I didn’t want to lose my individuality, but I didn’t want to be thought of a weird.   I wanted to throw everyone off the trail that the truth was that I felt like a second class citizen.  I was going to behave my way to change.  I didn’t want to let God down by showing that somehow his love and grace weren’t covering everything for me.    Appearances became more important than reality. 

On the inside, however, I was fractured.  I struggled with pain, depression and sadness.     I couldn’t understand why I knew God’s love but couldn’t feel it.  I couldn’t understand why phrases like “being used by God” or “created for His pleasure” made me angry.  I couldn’t understand why no matter how much I did for God, I couldn’t feel His delight.   Then 2001 came and brought panic attacks, fear, anxiety and sadness.  I didn’t sleep for months.  I didn’t think I would live through that summer.  I had to get help.

Cracked beads are also transparent, so I realized that I had to get honest.    I had to start telling the truth: the truth about my family, the truth about my definitions the truth about my view of God.  I had to put everything on the line and tell the truth.  But Jesus said in John 8:32:  “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”  

Finally cracked beads are reflective.  As I have stopped trying to be perfect and flawless and have become more honest about my fractures, others feel free to share their fractures with me.  “You’re broken?  So am I”   I have openly told the story of my healing journey and what my Heavenly Father is doing in my life with many women, believers and non-believers alike.  .  God is redeeming the brokenness and allowing it to catch His light.  Paul said it this way:  “And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.”  (2 Corinthians 3:18)  

The beads that I used for my jewelry making taught me a lot about myself.  Ultimately they taught me to embrace the cracks.

A closing comment from Jim:

Writing these words was a good but difficult exercise.  It was good in that I was reminded of the wonderfully creative, gifted and talented woman that I had the privilege of being married to for nearly thirty-five years.  She was truly a cracked bead who strove to allow the light of God’s grace to shine through the flaws in her life that were inflicted by living in our fallen world.  Her awareness and observations of the wonder around her humbled me because I am often a man on a mission who can miss the beauty right in front of me.   She often made fun of me using the lyrics from a song of our youth, “Ain’t nothing gonna break my stride”.  Meanwhile she was taking in everything.  She marveled at the world around her.  

This process was difficult as I could hear her saying the things that I wrote.  I typed the words from her beautiful handwriting and remembered all the times she used that beautiful handwriting to communicate her love and support to me.   

This experience taught be something valuable about the importance of community.  The morning after I typed this up, I was spending my morning time in reading, reflection and prayer, and I came across these words from Kent Ira Groff.  He said, “A life-giving church is one where human brokenness is lifted up like bread and wine to be held, and touched, and blessed – to heal the world.”  Stephanie gave us all the gift of honesty about her brokenness and by that hopefully brought healing. 

"My Friend the Pharmacist" by Pastor Welty

Early on in Stephanie's illness, I used to joke that when you know your pharmacist on a first name basis, and they know every medication you're taking and why, it's not an ideal situation.  That, however, was true for Stephanie and me.  It seemed that almost every week I would be at the pharmacy getting a prescription filled.  The list of medications that Steph had to take was long and expensive. 

 A woman who worked at the pharmacy became a friend of mine.  Perhaps she could tell by the prescriptions I had to purchase or conversations that she had to have with doctors, that Stephanie had a lot of complicated medical problems.  Whenever Brenda was working and saw me she would greet me with a big smile, a hello and a question: "How's our girl doing?"  We would talk, and she would usually assure me that she was praying for Stephanie.  She was indeed a bright spot in a very dark journey.   

After Stephanie passed away, I thought about Brenda from time to time whenever I was in the grocery where the pharmacy is located, but I didn't see her.  Occasionally I would peak over at the pharmacy to see if she was there, but I wouldn't see her.  Then one morning when I was in the store to pick up a few things, Brenda walked in.  "How are you doing stranger?", she asked with a big smile.   I realized that she didn't know, so I told her that Stephanie passed away last summer, and she gave me a big hug and reminded me that Stephanie was better now.  I told her that I knew that.  It was a sweet encounter, but it also was hard.  It was like a scab being pulled off a wound.  I took my groceries to the car and was weeping as I loaded them and drove away. 

 In the days and weeks following Stephanie's death, there was an intensity with almost every encounter I had with friends who were seeing me for the first time since she had died.  That intensity has subsided significantly, but every now and then it raises up again.  Seeing Brenda was one of those occasions.  It was a brief encounter, but it affected me. 

I'm glad that the pharmacist was my friend and that I got to see her because she was such a source of encouragement. But it was a mixed blessing - or was it?  I think every time I cry, I am reminded of the great gift that I lost.   Some people never get the blessing of living with someone who knows you as well as or better than you know yourself and vice versa.  Someone who knows your weaknesses and foibles, your peccadilloes and annoying habits and loves you anyway.  Someone who celebrates your successes and consoles you when you're not successful.  That was true love, and I was blessed to have had that for almost thirty-five years.  The intensity of the feeling of loss that I feel occasionally is a tribute to what I lost. 

So I'm glad that I saw Brenda, and if she had asked:  "How's our girl doing?"   I would have said through tears, "She's just fine. Thank you."   

She's Alright Now - by Pastor Welty

"She'll be alright; it's you I'm worried about."   A doctor in the Emergency Room said those words to me as she was treating my daughter, Emma.  Emma had an unfortunate accident, which was my fault, and which left her in need of several stitches. I must have looked ashen and desperate as the doctor was stitching her up.  The thought that I had injured my little girl was breaking my heart.  The doctor took excellent care of Emma, but she was concerned for my well being as well. The doctor could care for Emma's wound, but she didn't have the expertise needed to handle mine. 

I sometimes imagine that God is up in heaven looking down at me and saying about Stephanie:  "She's alright now; it's you I'm worried about".  Last summer Stephanie became alright.  After having suffered for six years from a litany of medical problems, she is now perfectly whole.  When I list those medical problems, I can't believe what she endured.  We walked through the difficult journey of her failing health together, struggled to hang onto hope, struggled to find answers, but now she is alright - completely healed, but I'm still here.  So I wonder if God is up in heaven saying:  "She's alright now; it's you I'm worried about."   

 But unlike the doctor who cared for Emma's wounds, my Heavenly Father does have the expertise to care for both of us. He healed Stephanie's illnesses, and He can mend my broken heart. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted  and saves those who are crushed in spirit.  (Psalm 34:18)  (The Lord)  heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. (Psalm 147:3) Those aren't just words on a page to me but real experiences that my Heavenly Father has blessed me with.  My quiet times with the Lord often involve tears of joy as I reflect upon His faithfulness to me in my journey, and as I have significant and real encounters with Him through His word and prayer.

 And God doesn't worry about us like the doctor in the ER, he intervenes.  He gives us hope, through the death and resurrection of His Son for us, so now I know for sure that Stephanie is alright, and that I will see her again, and she will be even more beautiful than the day I married her - which is hard for me to imagine.   He gives us His Spirit to comfort and direct us in the journey.  I just have to adjust to my new life without her as I wrote in a previous blog: "The Bridges of Fair Haven".  There are countless adjustments and just when I think I've gotten through most of them, another one unexpectedly raises its head, and that leads to tears, anger or  just the handling of more details..  But my Heavenly Father has given me the grace and courage to face each one.

 Tommy Walker wrote a song entitled "He Knows My Name".  Here are the lyrics for the chorus:  "He knows my name.  He knows my every thought. He sees each tear that falls And He hears me when I call."

Those words are so comforting as at times I find myself missing Stephanie so much that tears just well up in me, and I cry out. I know that my Heavenly Father, sees each tear that falls.  And He hears me when I call.  So Stephanie is alright now, and so am I because my Heavenly Father is looking out for me.
 

The Bridges of Fair Haven by Pastor Welty

In October I spent a few days at a Christian retreat center in Tennessee called "Fair Haven".  It is a beautiful, isolated spot, without TV, internet or even cell phone coverage.  That took some getting used to, especially during the baseball playoffs.  A babbling mountain stream runs through the property and a series of trails wanders through it as well with an occasional bridge crossing the stream.  During my stay, I felt a strange attraction to those various bridges and spent hours sitting on them.  As I sat there watching the water rush by, I spent time thinking, praying, crying, worshiping, and journaling.  I wondered why these bridges were so significant to me and then it occurred to me. 

 When a person passes away, it is sometimes described as "passing over".  Jesus himself said: “Very truly I tell you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life and will not be judged but has crossed over from death to life."  (John 5:24)  In fact some evangelistic literature uses a picture of a bridge to illustrate what happens when one enters into a personal relationship with Christ.  So on July 25, 2015, Stephanie crossed the bridge from time to eternity and crossed into the presence of God.  She crossed a bridge, and that left me to cross a bridge also, a bridge into my new life.

 My daughters sometimes use this expression "This is me now".  I asked for the source of those words,  and they told me that these words were uttered by a character on a TV show called "Bob's Burgers".  Having watched a couple of episodes of "Bob's Burgers", I don't feel it is worthy of something so existentially profound; however, I am borrowing those words because I feel that they describe me.   When your identity is wrapped up with another for as long as mine was, it's not easy to find your way on your own.  This is the first time in my life that I've lived alone.  I lived with my parents until I went to college.  Lived at college for four years, and Stephanie and I were married in September after we graduated.  But "This is me now."

 I am a widower, and unmarried man, a bachelor.  I am getting used to being alone in my "big house".  Several friends from our church or neighborhood have invited me to share a meal with them which I greatly appreciate, but there are nights when I end up eating supper alone with the nightly news or more likely "Sports Center" as my companion.  One night I was hungry for fried chicken, so I went to our local grocery and picked up a piece.  I also spotted the "Ben and Jerry's " section of the freezer, so I picked up a mini container.  As I stood in the check-out line looking at my items, I thought,  "This is what my life has come to" or "This is me now".  In my defense, I did have a salad at home. 

I am half of a whole.  I was just me for twenty-two years of my life.  Then for thirty-five years I was part of "us".  Now I am just me again.  I was half of "Jim and Steph" or "Pastor Jim and Miss Stephanie".  It was a great partnership, but now I feel like half of a whole. 

Along with that I am the odd man out.  No one has made me feel that way, but it just comes with the territory.   Whenever I sit at a dinner table with friends whether in their home or in a restaurant, there is always an empty chair.  Once when I was out with some dear friends, the man was staring at the empty chair next to me with a sad look on his face and said, "This isn't right", and I agreed.  There used to be four of us, now there are three.

I now experience tears at the drop of a hat.  I've always been a softy  inside, but now for no apparent reason, I'll be fine one minute and in tears the next.  The tears can be prompted by a song, a picture, a card or just a sense of "This is me now".

So I'm crossing over a bridge to a new life.  Fortunately I am grounded by my other roles and relationships.  I am a father to two beautiful, talented and intelligent daughters.  I am a pastor of a church that is very dear to me.  I am a brother to my very supportive and loving siblings.  And I am a friend to some very understanding and caring friends.  So I'm crossing a bridge and staying where I am at the same time.  "This is me now". 

"Home For Christmas" by Pastor Welty

Stephanie loved Christmas.  Christmas music would start playing in our house as we were picking the meat off of the Thanksgiving turkey.  She would want to get the decorations out and up as soon as possible, and our decorations stayed up well into the new year.

 Advent was a big deal at our house.  We had a log with enough holes in it to hold a candle for every day of Advent.  After dinner we would light a candle, read a passage from the Bible, sing a carol and pray together.  When our girls were younger, Steph had a cloth calendar for the month of December, which she had made hanging on the wall of our kitchen  with a ribbon on each day.  With those ribbons she would tie a piece of candy to the calendar, and as the days went by the candies would be removed, alternating between our daughters.  The children in Kids' Klub may remember Miss Stephanie's Advent chain, a paper chain made out of multi-colored construction paper links which were torn off as each day of Advent passed by. 

 Decorating the house was important to Stephanie.  I can still remember disagreements over how many ornaments should be put on our Christmas tree.  She liked to put on so many ornaments that you couldn't see the tree for the ornaments.  I am more of a minimalist and would be happy to just have lights on a tree, so we compromised and put every ornament we owned on the tree.  I should have just built a green cone out of plywood and we could have decorated that.  The end result would have looked the same, and you don't have to water plywood.  She used the tree to entertain her piano students.   She gave clues and the students would try to find a particular ornament on the tree based on the clues.  Can anybody say "needle in a haystack"?

Steph loved the Christmas story told in all of its forms.  Whether the Biblical account or her favorite children's account of the nativity where the angels show up in work boots and many other versions in between.  During December our TV only got one channel, The Hallmark Channel.  (I am being hyperbolic, or course.  Any football fan knows that there are a couple other necessary TV channels during December.)

She loved entertaining as well.  In her hay day, we would invite everyone from our church over for an open house, usually the Sunday before Christmas.  We did this for many years until the church grew larger and our house seemed to grow smaller.  She would bake and bake until we had plastic containers all over the house containing the treats.

One of her favorite stories of our Christmas occurred when I was in Seminary.  We would try to get home to see my family, but one year Steph's father was very ill, so we didn't feel the freedom to leave.  I told my family that we wouldn't be traveling to Ohio that year.  At the last minute, Steph's father rallied, so Steph felt the freedom to go.  She knew that a trip home would be good for me. We left on Christmas Eve and drove all night, arriving at my parents' home sometime around 6:00 Christmas morning.  Our dog was dispatched upstairs to wake up my Mom.  When Mom felt that cold nose on her face, she got up quickly and headed downstairs.  What a great surprise.  Steph loved that story.  It was a happy ending worthy of a Hallmark movie.  We made it home for Christmas.

Every year during the Christmas season I make an appointment with a Christmas song by Stephen Curtis Chapman.  It's a ballad about his grandmother and her love for Christmas.  He tells how she prepared decorations, food and gifts for that one day when all of her family would be with her.  One year she became ill and ended up in a nursing care facility, but she vowed that she would be home for Christmas, and she continued to make plans from her room at the facility.  Sadly, she didn't make it home for Christmas but went to her ultimate home with Jesus.

After losing my mother in 1994 and my father in 2005, this song always touched my heart and led me to tears.  This year it was even more meaningful and significant for me because my Stephanie is now home for Christmas.  Here is a link to the song. Home for Christmas  Before you listen be sure to  have some tissues ready.  Here are the lyrics of the final chorus.

"And now she's home for Christmas, and now she's home to stay.

She's home for Christmas, and nothing could have kept her away.

She'll be face to face with Jesus, as we celebrate His birth.

This gift will be worth more to her than anything on earth.

She's home, she's home for Christmas"

 Dear Stephanie,

I know how much you love Christmas.  This year I was tempted to hunker down and not decorate, but  Abby and Emma wouldn't hear of it.  We got our tree up and decorated the day after Thanksgiving.  They also got out your collection of international Nativities that you love so much.  They carefully placed them around our house in spots that worked for their artistic eyes.  You would be so proud of how they carried on your traditions.  The Advent log is in place and loaded with candles that I light during my morning devotions.  I even hooked up the electric candles in windows.  The house looks so much warmer with those lit at night.  I also got a wreath for the front door and am blaring Christmas music in my car although there is no one at home to acknowledge the blaring music as I pull into the driveway.

I can't help but wonder how is your first Christmas in heaven?  I imagine the music is spectacular and live.  The decorations must make Rockefeller Center look like Kmart.  The treats, I'll bet, are delicious, truly heavenly and good for you as well.  (I'm guessing the recipes for "manna" have been perfected over the years.)  Do they celebrate Advent like we did at home?  Do they have a living nativity with the original characters?    For your sake I'm glad that you're truly home for Christmas, but I miss you terribly.  Merry Christmas, my love.

Love,

Jim