Lost my journal

Ramblings about my life as a wife, mama, Christ-follower and medical doctor…

Belius, Bedee, Bee, ..

It was only fair that we got to name her a few,

as she always nicknamed us –

Paddee, Lainee, mrs P and for me it was Lodee.

In 1940, a day before Valentine’s in Dale Street, she came to be.

Number 2 of 6 Foutens,

But Ouma Heuvel’s number 1 most definitely.

Although Mummy’s oldest sister she came to be,

she was more of another mother to me.

More Obedient a lady you never would find.

A tough mans ultimate quest,

she turned them all away on ouma’s request.

She was stunning and tall,

with beauty that attracted them all

Not a wrinkle to see,

And always dressed to the tee.

On a Saturday should would “sleep in”, waking up at 5am to start with the clean

And then to the hairdresser to get her hair pristine.

She was our family’s alarm clock

and many pigeon race victories daddy would see,

only because B woke him up to toss his birds at 3.

For 22 years her daily routine would be collecting Wilma dear,

And on the train to St Georges mall they would steer.

Any time spent in Town at Cape watchmakers would end.

Then off to Clicks with smiles and glee

When from B we received niknaks and a Cadbury.

And that’s just a taster of her spoiling me.

A more loyal friend could never be found.

As tales of Koepie, Erica, Wilma and later of Patty -she would sound.

Her blood was colored with green and gold.

About her love for her Proteas and Springboks she was bold.

Glued to her radio she would be,

when Supersport we weren’t able to see.

In a family where music was compulsory,

she opted for something more unique you see:

Her accordion she played with style,

Triple tasking with it since she was a child.

The only Aunty willing to teach me underwater tricks,

She was the official Montagu Springs bikini chick.

When with my Afro I emerged -natural was the way she encouraged me to be.

The first one to say “leave it like that Loddee, don’t blow your hair dry”,

Long before the media’s curly hair cry.

Aunty Bridget always told me I was unique, to this day

– those words stick.

Her days of work she sacrificially gave up

And cheerfully cared for ma Lulu even when it was tough.

A quiet spirit but with strength that roared.

Her words her whole life would be “Jesus and me”,

in sadness and in glee.

She was generous with all she earned,

never expecting anything in return.

Yet always thankful she was, at a gesture so small,

even if another thought it a waste of time to call.

And so all that she sowed in service and love,

harvested back in her last few months with us.

Her sisters so dear, gave her their all,

In dignity they kept her standing tall.

While in the home stretch, she said to them,

“Isn’t it beautiful, can’t you hear them sing? It is “Going home” that the choirs sing.”

Even when in immense pain, resilient she was,

not a murmur did she utter.

Instead she quietly sang:

A heartache here is but a stepping stone.

Along a path that’s winding always upward.

This troubled world is not my final home.

But until then my heart will go on singing.

Until then with joy I’ll carry on.

Until the day my eyes behold my Saviour.

Until the day God calls me home

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