By: Marlene Oxender
It must be true – angels have a sense of humor. Angels are capable beings. Angels know how to have fun.
My brother Stevie, who had Down syndrome, was born in the spring of 1969. At the time of his birth, my parents were told he’d likely not live past the age of five.
They were told how tough it would be to raise him, how the community would not accept him, and how he’d be an embarrassment to his siblings.
Those of us who know the story of Stevie’s life know they got it all wrong, and Stevie got it right.
We watched him grow up the same way the rest of us grew up. He played ball. He held babies. He knew that ice cream was important.
And the moon and the stars were important. He had a way of reminding people that there are things to be taken seriously. Especially the not-so-serious kinds of things.
Stevie lived to the age of fifty-four. At the time of his passing, I was asked if I’d be writing about the sorrow we feel after someone close to us passes away. It was a question I’d already asked myself. Of course I didn’t know the answer. Until now.
Spending time with Stevie meant someone was going to be teased. Usually Stevie. And he teased right back. We often heard him say, “Quit teasing me,” and then there was laughter.
Most families have only a few months to sort through their parents’ estate before the house is sold. In our case, we were able to go through things at a slower pace because Stevie was residing in the home.
One of the items that’d not been claimed was an oak mantle clock – often referred to as a kitchen clock. I brought it home with the intention of seeing if it needed to be repaired and plans to find someone who’d like to be the new owner of an old clock.
The only thing my siblings and I knew about the clock is that it always sat in the same spot in our home. On a corner shelf in the living room. We’d never seen the pendulum swing, nor had we heard it chime.
I carried the clock into my living room and found a spot for it on the desk. I remember being disappointed that the hands on the face of the clock were at 12:58 and not at eleven o’clock – my angel number. Or one o’clock – Stevie’s number.
Several weeks went by, and I was dusting the furniture in my living room while listening to a podcast about angels and how they speak to us through synchronicities. How they use methods right in front of us simply because that’s the easiest way to get something across to us.
As I was listening, I moved the clock to the other end of the desk and noticed the pendulum began swinging back and forth. I could hear the clock ticking as I walked a few feet away to grab my cell phone. That’s when I heard a loud chime.
One. Big. Magnificent. Chime. A chime so loud – it startled me. I walked back to the clock and recorded twenty-two seconds of the pendulum making the noise that old clocks make. It continued to tick, with the hands stopping at two minutes past one o’clock.
I was left in awe. If the clock could speak, maybe it’d say how good it felt to finally let out a chime. After all those years. If I were to interview the clock, I’d ask for its best stories. Maybe December was its favorite month, for it was a time when the family was excited about Christmas.
The clock would’ve seen the toys and gifts being placed under the tree on Christmas Eve, and it had a perfect view of children racing down the staircase in the morning to find Santa Claus had been there. I’d like to help the clock write a book.
Years ago, when Stevie and I were shopping in a grocery store, he stopped me in the middle of an aisle to tell me my shoelace was untied. He pointed at my shoe and made me look. Then he laughed and said, “April Fools.”
Funny thing about my shoes – they were slip-ons with no shoelaces, yet he made me look. I’ve never forgotten the April Fools’ joke Stevie played on me when it wasn’t even April Fools’ Day.
Life changes after we lose someone close to us. We live with memories, and we think there are no more memories to be made.
We deal with odd feelings and with emotions that are new to us, and there are times our thoughts stop us in our tracks.
But what if those feelings are just our loved ones checking in with us? What if they’re simply letting us know they’re beside us? What if they’d like to hear us say their name once again?
What if we told them their angel shoes are untied? What if we told them to quit teasing us? What if they’d love to hear our voice as we order a scoop of their favorite ice cream?
What if they told us that our soul never dies, and we stay busy forever? What if they felt our love for them growing stronger as we appear to be coping better with each passing day?
What if they told us we can relax about it all – for everyone is on their own timeline? What if we stop taking things so seriously? Except for playing ball. And holding babies. And watching the moon and the stars. In a not-so-serious, yet serious kind of way, of course.
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Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie, and “Grandma, You Already Am Old!” are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com