Archive for the ‘Memorials’ Category

My three days with Jordyn Kube were the most generous and rewarding in kind. Jordy girl, you were so kind, so strong and oh so sweet. I shall gladly never be the same for the gifts of your embrace and trust on your last few days here.

Jordyn Kube ~ 1990-2015

Jordyn Kube ~ 1990-2015

I wasn’t in the room when the merciful Angels came, but I felt a gentle breeze precede them there, and heard them softly call your name. And those last few times I held you close to me, you squeezed my fingers tightly whilst I quietly hummed “In the Arms of the Angels”, so only those Angels, you, and I could hear. Jordy, Jordy, so sweet Jordy…a thousand times I thank you for knowing and showing your sweet love. For this I am eternally grateful. Love, Matty

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It occurs to me…In Oklahoma…during the storm, I can hardly imagine the only storm cellar around, and a soul choosing to remain out in the wind because the owner of the storm shelter voted for Romney…And on the same note, after the winds died down and folks are lifting debris off of trapped souls, and from under the rubble a voice would be unlikely be heard to to say, “if you voted for Obama, just leave me here to die.
And in the months to come, I can hardly imagine a Republican home or business owner refusing help and aid from the federal government, nor would a Democrat citizen turn State or local support away.
Mother nature doesn’t vote along party lines, nor religious denominations, or race, or age or social standing…Mother nature creates a level playing field…a flat, destroyed, tragedy struck playing field.
God bless the good folks in Oklahoma and the entire tornado alley. God help us and bless us all. MLL

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Today there is no rivalry between the Yankees and Red Sox, the Knicks and Celtics, the Rangers and Bruins, Jets/Giants and Patriots…For today, and forever more, these two grand cities will be forever linked and sadly have terror and profound loss and pain in common.
For today, there may be a lack of criticism and bickering between our citizens, and less finger pointing by our politicians…For today I will pray to my idea of God, and I will also pray to yours…for tolerance and oneness and a collective embrace…
It was not a mixed up boy that killed in Newtown…or a collection of terrorists that came to prey on us on 9-11, and 4-15 in New York City and Boston…It was Satan himself wearing the shoes and hats of many murky souls…
For today, while we are down on our knees to pick up the pieces, to scrub the bloodstains off of sidewalks and our memories…for today and forever more, let’s pray the Devil gets a one way ticket on a hell-bound subway, and that prayers and serenity fill that void…
For today, and the rest of my days, I shall weep for the loss of serenity and life in kind…Matthew Landsman


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I know a quilter. When there is a rough patch in the life of a friend, she fashions a handmade quilt with colors and patterns befitting of the soul in need of comfort and a safe place to wrap up and mend whatever ails them.

She is selfless and dedicates time best spent on sleep and other life callings, but regardless…the quilts are created, lives are made to be filled with the things conducive to peace of mind, healing, and a general feeling of being embraced and cradled with love…

A couple years ago, she prepared one such quilt for a dear friend of both of us who was fighting the good fight, and eventually received his reward at an age much too young. He did in fact sleep under this quilt until the end…

Safe harbor from life’s storms …in our school colors.

I wrote this piece to introduce him to the gift from her…

This quilt…

This quilt is a river, it is a song. Every stitch is a ripple, a line that soothes your soul. This quilt is a memory within every square…a moment in time when you need us there. The colors are smiles and laughter…midnights and dawn. This quilt is a promise, a wish, and prayer.

There ought not be a time when you feel abandoned…the proof of love from your friends is folded right there…and when you perhaps need a little more, lay it over your needs, your questions…and fears…

There is love in every stitch, a moment in time can be found in the patches…This is meant to close in the miles, draw together the years…to shelter you from the gathering clouds if a storm should be near.

This quilt is a comfort when you might need refuge from any doubt…it is a place where your friends gather and keep you close, keep you safe, and keep you warm.

This is a buffer for you come chills of winter or trials of life…like the presence of family or friend from the descending of night to the approach of morn…

This quilt is a river like the one near which you grew…This quilt is a song to keep in your heart, so you know God is on vigil watching over you. In the dead of winter, or the long days of summer…be it for warmth or a picnic on the ground…keep it near to you, to keep us near to you…and remember…This quilt is yours to keep always…as is the silence of your forest, the flow of that river…and the love of your friends…Keep it nearby…and be assured our bond is without end..     M&B

Whether you make home on a mountain or the flats by the sea, there is a patchwork of reassurance and comfort there folded and ready to bring a hug from afar, no matter where you are…

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Late Thursday night…a day wanting to be Friday. Even days have to wait for the passing of time, of long moments and thinking that is wishful.

My old cat is more awake than he has been all day…feeding in the other room. My younger cat…she is likely hidden in plain sight, watching me with her beautiful eyes…the same eyes that prompted me to adopt her from a shelter before I had even stroked her fur or heard her purr. God knows who belongs together…and it takes little or no convincing when it’s right.

I will be awake for a while…in the dog days of summer here in the desert, late afternoon will bring heat near or over a hundred degrees come the dinner hour. And when nature wants to strut her stuff, it will stay nearly as warm till after midnight. I will wait till the cooler time of the tiny hours to open my house to the night, and place fans in doorways and my window above the bed to draw the kinder air into my hamlet beneath the sycamores and desert stars.

Just a few more minutes of my late Momma’s birthday to mark and reflect on her being, her passing, and her being again…in my waking thoughts and very best dreams…

My Dad was very quiet today…I can’t imagine the marking of their anniversary and her birthday one day following the other. He has earned the right to a moment of silence, even if it lasts all day. It’s good too, just to sit with your dad…for the sake of a few days a year, enough has been said for one to know that silence speaks, and sings. And silence recalls, remembers, and celebrates not only what has been…but too what could have been, and what certainly will come at their reunion and the walking away of those two…hand in hand as their two silenced hearts still beat as one.

For now, in the lingered heat of a night late in July, I will consider the cooler hours at hand, the approaching yawn of pale light that is dawn and a day that will soon tire and whither in the heat that will surely bring the eager intentions of many to a place of resignation. And of shade being sought…and quiet reflective laughter at the recollection of bitter cold winter days that were cursed as we lived them…a distant and scorched memory.

Tis a late Thursday night, aspiring to be an early Friday morn, and I will bid adieu to one and embrace the other…as I hear the silence of my thoughtful dad, and strain hard to hear the echoes of laughter from the always near and caring soul of our much missed Mother…

Matthew Lyle Landsman

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Memorial Day…

It’s just a piece of paper, folded several times. Containing a few well thought out words, written over time. Times when things were quiet, sometimes by flashlight, moonlight, others; the light of day.


One carries that paper till it’s ragged and tattered, nearly confetti. But one carries it close to the heart. And hopes it stays there till a guy or gal is home, unpacked, reunited, well fed, hugged and reassured by a night of quiet sleep in an old familiar bed.

Even then, the letter is tucked away, like a faded photograph or a misty memory.

But for now, the world is on fire, and the days all blend together in a nightmarish collection of close calls and cold sweats and all the “things I haven’t done yet…”, moments of lucidity, and others of utter chaos.

Then comes a fateful moment, a flash, a thud, a struggled breath, a pool of blood. A brilliant light, and a pair of reaching hands…one taking the letter carrier away to a celestial muster…And another to seek out the pocket where such letters are customarily stored.



There will be a flight, a Freebird home, and a gathering…where a tattered letter will accompany another typed on finer paper, with signatures and sincere thanks from a grateful nation. And too, a folded flag.


That tired piece of paper folded several times is now carried next to another heart, stained in tears and holding a new meaning and stark reality…all the things that could have been.

Look to the sky and give thanks… Happy Memorial Day.


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I have been hit by a barrage of advertisements for Mother’s Day declaring that if I REALLY love my mother, I will do as they say and buy what they say at the retailer of their saying and present it as they say…or I might simply be a bad son for having turned my back on the material greed of the retail generated mothers.

I haven’t a mother, just the memories of having had one, for a decade now. What is it that a son can do for his late mother on the designated Sunday in May? I thought perhaps on this spring Wednesday afternoon I might visit her grave, appraise the condition of her granite upright monument, and make a plan to clean the effects  a decade in desert weather has inflicted on it.

I know it has been cleaned in the past by family members. I know that grass clippings have been whisked away in the warmer months, that snow has been brushed aside during the dark months…and that I have illuminated her name etched there with headlamps during the hours between dusk and dawn. A lot of moments that found me in need of her presence in my life have led me there, despondent at times, happily sharing in others. Some visits have left me in tears for various reasons; others have left me without emotion, resolute to the point of being cold, distant, or simply strong.

I did return there after a conference with a well-intended cemetery attendant over the causes and cures for the staining of granite exposed to elements. He did offer a possible stain removal solution, and also the opportunity to be buried near my parents, without a large expenditure of cash up front. I am considering buying a plot on my own, as the plot of my life is tending to see the numbers of family still interested in my membership in said family, to be dwindling at best.

After returning to the grand old cemetery with sunshine overhead, music from my car radio through a pair of open windows, a bounty of the subscribed cleaning supplies and a well lubed elbow to see to it that mom would soon know I loved her still…I set about the task of scrubbing her stone and making it right come Mother’s Day this weekend…my version of honoring the day in a public display of dedication to a corner lot with a granite creation in the midst.

As I applied the warm mix of cleansing solution to the engraved names of my parents, the date of birth of them both, the date of death of just one so far…I thought about the ten years and four months that has passed since her burial.

One can’t fathom the influence of a true matriarch has had on a family until she is in a diminished state and finally passes into the next life.  In the weeks and days leading up to her death, her family remained at her side, but as a cohesive unit…it will suffice to say that she was the adhering factor and would be missed deeply. That hunch has proven prophetic and I dearly miss the occasions when we gathered together as one and rallied around her for whatever reasons. It has become but a state of memories and fond recollections.

Although I reapplied the cleanser again and again, and brushed more in earnest, it came to me; the stain and the truth were both there for the duration. It has been ten years. I can’t imagine living with the heartache that accompanied the time period when that stone was pristine and newly set where she lay. So I rinsed it in cool water and drove away.

And I wondered if the stone already carried an as of yet not evident mark from the day it was set in place, tarnished by the division of her flock, the decay of the honoring the rules of her home left behind. I have to admit that I appreciate her effectiveness as a mom and community influence more than ever. And that over time, it becomes more evident just how remarkable a human being, woman, mother, and friend that she was. Her influence lives on in many people and I am honored to have called her mom. And too, I admit her effect and the respect that followed her in life, has been diminished to some since her death. If she were still living among us, certain others would carry a much different attitude in light of her way of urging more fitting behavior.

I pondered if a soul in heaven could or would truly sense the dissent and mourn the erosion of what she created and was taken away from too soon. I wondered if such behavior could make her time in heaven less than rewarding for fragments of the time.

I wondered in truth that perhaps my disappointment over the demise of my family over time was the only sorrow being felt. There may be other living souls feeling the twinge of the broken family unit, but perhaps there is no such a letdown in heaven. And it made me glad to believe so.

It is now plain to see that for today at least, the mark of time and the elements are to remain on her (and my father’s) names there carved in the stone.

And I thought about the significance of Mother’s day itself and the other days mainly promoted by retailers. There is no way to meet their lofty and expensive standards, unless of course we actually just loved and respected our moms on the days before and after such days on the calendar.

I recalled that regardless of the days marked in red on the calendars over the years, she was always our mother, even when we scarcely were earning her love and devotion…All the days between the days she was obligated to care (either by the church or the retailers) she always stayed a mom.

And it occurred to me that few, if any of my efforts should evolve around a specific Sunday in May. It came to me that my efforts ought not to be a forced effort at all and that my daily existence and substance ought to honor my mother.

It also became clear to me that flowers at her grave are trivial because she can see and smell flowers in every garden spot that exists under heaven. It dawned on me that a scrubbed stone in the corner of an old grave yard might be minimized by the fact she can soar above even the tallest of mountain ranges, made up of granite or otherwise…and convene with soaring eagles. She can assure the nested fawn, marvel at the wobbly legged new foal. Or even look in on her great grandchildren when they are kneeling for night time prayers or are up to their ankles in a joyous mud puddle.

She can be anywhere. I know this because for many hours on most days, she chooses to accompany me here inside my thoughts, my heart, my drives, my laughter, my tears, and my life dreams…And I know she is proud of me even as I lend my hands to the keys here. She needn’t tell me what to say here and now…she taught me those things long ago…and I think perhaps for the past few years I have been channeling more writings and have been the blessed recipient of more epiphanies than before she left her earthly bounds. And I think perhaps that is not a coincidence…

I looked around today, at well preserved old cars with well-worn but still intact paint jobs. And I passed ancient farms with the weathered barn wood and fence rails that wear the badge of smooth spots from livestock reaching out to the greener grasses there beyond the corral. The Statue of Liberty has a proud coat of green patina from her life standing in marine air, no longer gleaming copper.

I thought of my father’s work hardened hands, once so immense and strong…now mostly resting and tellingly full of stories of the pipes he fit and the wrenches he turned and the long life they spent together.

As I returned to my mom’s multi-hued grey stone, I reflected on the decade since it had been set there. I looked into the rear view mirror at my own reflection and the weathering that time had added to my face, and my eyes. I looked at the growth in the surrounding trees and thought of her grandchildren now being no longer kids, no longer babies.

I looked at the big picture, knowing the marks of time there on her stone had been well earned and are reflective of the years that had passed.

And I realized that between mom and I, just one of us was growing older, and perhaps the next time I see her we will be closer to the same age and yet forever young. And maybe she’ll take my hand and lead me to where she is now. And that old stone will be a mere step, the last here on God’s green earth, and the first on the journey to places beyond.

And neither one of us will notice the weathering left over time.

Happy Mother’s Day Momma. Every day.

Love, Matthew Lyle

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She often looked away to another place, stretching her wings with a faraway look on her ivory face. Somewhere a faint voice called to her from a distant place that was drawing her nearer. I feared I’d awake one morning to find she was gone, so I cherished the moments we had left to share.
After she really had gone, I hoped I could accept and learn to understand.
Then the beckoning voice grew stronger and clearer. Soon would be the time she’d fly from here, for there was a tug at her heart she had to be nearer.
I remember the day, sunny and fair. The last there was for us there was to be…a warm day in January…
I held her close to let her know I loved her still. We sighed one last time and shared a glance in each other’s eyes. Then she whispered a message for me to share…the last three spoken truly were, “I love you…”
Then she raised her heart toward the clear blue sky. There was a tear in my eyes for I knew it was time we said, for now…Goodbye.
It was the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do—to raise my arms toward skies so blue, and feel that heart beating in my clutching hands. Maybe she felt me tremble at that moment when I realized I was to be left with only memories of the dearest soul I’ve ever known.
Then all the magic between us rushed through her fingers and mine…those fingers I wished I might always hold.
All in one instant, the last her hand was touching mine; there became fingers and soft feathers intertwined. I hesitated, and then loosened my grip—and my dove was but a flutter, an angel in flight…high above me soaring from sight. We both felt a tug at our heart strings as she left me there earthbound and faded from sight.
Some days I’m reminded of that fateful moment so long ago. And I want my soaring friend to know; I’ll be here as she left me; with a full heart, yet empty handed…with open arms.

I love you Momma, Matthew Lyle

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The cold pillow sets there next to me…the empty spot where she used to lay. The tired yard shoes, worn gloves, and ragged coat she wore to tend to garden and chore…she would leave them next to the washer, just inside that squeaky back door. Her keys hang there on a board with hooks and notes and paintings called tole.
She wasn’t a terrible driver, but she somehow seemed to get lost a lot…and on the way she’d go junkin’, especially Friday morn. I think she wandered and reminisced to songs of old, looking for yard sales and old friends to pass the time away…window shopping and chocolate dropping and being happy with things she had. She looked around and saw the half acre yards that others had to mow and knew she’d get tired of all that after a week or so. She was so much more than what others collect, polish and protect.
She was dry flowers and baby showers and dusty bottles of rainy day wine…clothes she wore when she could fit in them, and clothes she wore when she was happy just being who she was. God’s girl, whether she felt skinny or a little bit more.
She is still here…on the radio station that was hers. And those songs that would bring her cheek to mine on a worn spot there on our living room floor. She is here in the reflections in our coffee cups…I’ll keep hers next to the pot, on a napkin, upside down…just in case she happens around. Here…in the way the lid never quite got settled straight on the container of flour. I miss her baking…as will our children. She lives on in their smiles and mannerisms.
She had a way of sensing another’s tear about to form, and touching a cheek to capture that drop on its way down. She had a prayer in her fingertips, a reassuring song in the quiet look from those kind eyes. She could look out on a cloudy day and remind us all that sunshine through a mantle of green is only possible because of darker days and rains. She was all those things and much more.
But in quiet moments I will remember walking with her, and the sharing of dreams. Knowing which parts of her hurt a little more when the clouds were swelled with rain. How she would tear up a little when she heard a special song, or read something written in her grandma’s hand. I will recall her scent…that little bottle that reminds me of embraces and love that she sprayed just above her heart. Oh how it lingers still on the sweaters and coats she wore. I will keep them hanging there where they belong…and give them an occasional spray to refresh the hugs and love there.
But mostly, I will be grateful for the memory of her breathing there on the pillow next to mine, keeping her vows…making mornings worthwhile. I will recall midnight talks we had quietly after our kids were asleep. And I will feel her watching me sleep…on those nights she came to me late, after time spent pondering, folding clothes, and things she was always did to make ends meet. She was special like that.
And every day when I make the bed up, like she always did…I will fluff her pillow again…and hold it to my nose and breathe in her essence. And when I lay me down to sleep, I’ll look over there at the cold pillow setting next to mine…and I will give thanks and recall all those nights when her pillow was yet warm.
Matthew Landsman 03-2012

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I cannot fault the earth that gave place for the tree to root, nor the rain and sun that provided it life.  And yet there grew the tree.

I won’t place blame on the axe that fell it, nor the man that wielded it and brought it to crash on the life giving ground.

I cannot fault the carpenter that gave it form and function, or the blacksmith that forged the spikes. I can’t blame the hammer that drove them. A hammer can both build and be used to break…or in the case of assembling a particular cross; both.

reflections on Christ - crucifixion

I cannot blame the thorny bush, or the soul who cut the branch that formed a crown.

I cannot fault the sun that rose and shone that day, or the path he walked while those that gathered stood idle.


I cannot blame the day that was passing during which he died, or the fabric his perished being was wrapped in.


I won’t place blame on the darkness in which he was laid to rest, or the strength of the men who placed a boulder to seal the implacable tomb.

But I can be thankful for the dawn, for the deliverance and evident rebirth. I will continue to praise the miracle and reunion when the third sunrise came to pass.

I can be forgiving of those who put timber and tools to use, who brought an end to one life as we know it…and in turn, eternal life to being. It seems that even misguided evil can manifest mystery and miracle.

In all of my life, I have been taught sacrifice on so many levels, but I think I finally understand how love makes it worthwhile, hope makes it possible, and faith–faith makes it real.

I cannot see the wind, but I never question that it rustles the leaves and lifts the desert. I cannot touch the sunshine, yet it brings me sight and accompanies me through shadow and warmth. I cannot understand why the stream fills with salmon that return to spawn and die, without ever knowing if the effort would turn to fry and perpetuate the life cycle. And yet they leave the sea and head home nonetheless.

I no longer feel my mother’s hand upon mine, and yet she never ceases to touch me. And I won’t stop believing that she waits for me and others where she is now.

All I need is forgiveness, acceptance, patience, faith, and most of all love…to know that come morning, the stone will have moved, and reunion will be at hand.

And sure as the sun will rise at Sunday’s dawn…so too will have the Son.

cross tomb

Keep the faith and be good to each other. I bid Happy Easter to one and all.

Matthew Lyle Landsman

Early Easter 2012

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