John Michael

Grief has this way of sneaking up on you. There is nothing linear about it. In the weeks after I started taking baby steps out in to the world again, I would find myself confused by the world around me. How did it go on? Didn't anyone know I just lost my Mom? I was viewing all things through glass. Nothing was clear. I wasn't an active participant. In the days following her funeral, my body was depleted. She gave out on me and I finally let myself succumb to the sickness and all I wanted was for her white Prius to pull up with a home made soup delivery. It didn't matter what kind, all of her soups were winners, and I never took the time to learn how. I always assumed we had more time. . .and then we didn't.

My birthday was six days after she passed away. I woke up to the smell of smoke which I automatically assumed was her barbecue. It flickered comfort for a second. I also hadn't listened to my voice mails, hoping I had one of her singing Happy Birthday to me. I always tried to answer those calls. If she wasn't the first call of the day, I was disappointed. I had come to expect the woman who brought me into the world, would also sing and welcome me to the gift of another year first and foremost. I cried my eyes out when the very first message I played was her singing. While family and friends showed up that night to celebrate, it is a blur. 

Twenty-four days later, I would venture out to a friend's house to celebrate with an intimate dinner with five of my friends from church. I had Ernie drop me off that night. Driving took energy I didn't want to waste. I remember I walked through her door, and the candles were lit, the food smelled delicious, the environment was warm and calming. I had an instant feeling of relief instead of anxiety. This felt almost normal. I felt so loved. My friends were arriving. There were hugs and check ins with each other, and then my phone rang. It had barely been a few minutes since I was dropped off, but my husband was calling, so I answered it.

He told me that he didn't want me to worry, and immediately my heart dropped. My voice raised. My friend's voices got quiet as everyone watched me. I remember that clearly. I think someone put their hands on my back. All I know is my hands were on my mouth, as my husband told me my 44-year-old brother who had taken his boys on a hunting trip had been in an accident. I was trying to remember to breathe. I wanted to go home, but he told me I was in the best place and to stay and pray. We did. I remember clearly thinking, "There is no way God would do this to my family." I then called my sister in law who was crying, but who also told me my brother was moving and talking, and I know I felt some peace. He was going to be okay. I just knew it. We sat around the table, I tried to eat. We talked a bit...about what I can not even remember. But then the hosts face changed as she noticed someone coming up to the door. She asked if we were expecting anyone.

It was my husband, and I knew in my heart before he even said, "We had to go." I don't remember if I crumpled under the weight of his words, but even today it still feels like it, so I expect I did. I could not cry. My friends cried for me. I could not breathe. I fell apart. I could not comprehend that this could even happen. How in only twenty-four days did my life as I knew it, cease to exist?  My brother, my first friend.  Polar opposites, but the only one who shared our growing up experience with me. Simply gone.

If Only. . .

If I want to write, I have to write. . .even if it means I have nothing to write about. With the ending of 2022, it would appear I have much to write, but just as I felt I was experiencing life in a fog like vapor, the night she passed away, the fog hasn't lifted. . .yet. I am however plotting my course, digging into the tools that provide me with the roadmap to dissect my grief, deal with it, and move through it, albeit slowly. The bible, my gratitude journal, therapy-these are the tools I tuck away in my tool box that I carry with me around the clock now. These tools are my safety net in a world that feels anything but.

Going back to that night, October 1st isn't something I am ready to do. My hands start to shake, my heart races, the dread of that night returns with just a thought. A single flicker is all it takes to take me backwards, and I am determined to heal whole. My husband and kids deserve the best parts of me, not a shell of the person I was before mom died. Looking back, I was already moved out of the house when my mom's mom died. Her struggle with cancer was swift. My grandma knew what she was saying yes to when she refused treatment and six weeks later, December 27th she went home to heaven. Even the night before she died, my memories of my mom losing her mom were stoic. She did all the things a loving caregiver would do. They had said all that needed to be said. There was a very evident peace between them. I remember so clearly crawling on to my grandma's bed reading aloud from, Love You Forever,  by Robert Munsch. I choked through the ending bringing both my mom and I to tears. It was a moment I will treasure forever. Three generations on one bed, together one last time. I always envisioned having the long good bye with my Mom. I was so very, very wrong.

My mom is one of the strongest women I have ever known, especially in the area of caregiving. She cared for both her parents and father in law up until their deaths. The emotional and physical toll that would have on her body was not evident at first. There were many times  in her life that I would watch her and think to myself, "I could never. . ." I actually feared her getting older because of the responsibilities that might one day come. She would joke back, "That's why we have long term health care," and that crutch made me feel a little bit better.  I have always known what a gift her level of care was, but now I see how she willingly sacrificed pieces of herself to care for each of our loved ones. 

As much as I envisioned the long good bye, maybe it simply wasn't long enough because in some ways I guess I had it. I just didn't realize that is what it was. Shortly after losing her dad in 2004, my Mom was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. I was pregnant with my second child at twenty-nine years old. I remember clearly calling out to the Lord to save my Mom, to heal her, and give us all the gift of more time. At barely fifty-one years old, having cared for and losing both her parents, working in the dark environment of a prison, and a marriage that was struggling, I wanted her to experience joy and the fullness of life that I thought she deserved. Selfishly, I needed her here. My kids needed to know her love as their grandma because there would be nothing else like it. She went on to survive cancer, but the journey was an arduous one, and the fear of its return was always tucked away in the back of her mind. She never wanted to endure a cancer journey again. This we did talk about from time to time. We received seventeen extra years: years that would bring about the things of life: Love, saddness, divorce, change, and lastly growth.

If only I had known that day would be her last.

If only I had asked all the questions.

If only I had fully appreciated who she was in life.

If only I could hear that laugh and see her smile again.

If only. . .

If only. . .

If only. . .

Coyote Sighting

With Papa's passing, there was immense joy that he was free from confinement and pain, but sadness for the lives we are left to live without him.  But the very next day after he passed, I went out to run an errand in the night.  I ended up heading towards my parent's house.  That had been my home away from home the last two weeks, and I just automatically went that direction.  Suddenly on Foothill, I noticed cars slowing on the opposite side so I slowed too.  I knew I was coming towards construction, but luckily no cars were around me because all of a sudden, a coyote ran across the street. I braked and it stopped, just looking at me before it ran off.  My heart was beating wildly, I mean. . .I almost hit a coyote!

Turning down my parent's street just a minute away, the first thing I noticed was my dad's car wasn't in the driveway, so I knew they weren't home.  The next thing, Papa's light wasn't on.  And I sat in the driveway and cried.  On my way home, I called my brother to tell him but he didn't answer.  So, when I returned home Ernie listened, hugged me, and sent me upstairs to get some much needed sleep.  Minutes later, my brother called me back and asked what was up.  I recounted the story of almost hitting the coyote, but ultimately-just missing my Papa.  He stopped me and said I wasn't going to believe what he saw that morning.  It was a coyote, running in broad daylight about 10 am. down a busy street by our house.  I was surprised.  I haven't seen one by our house in years!  Now he and I had seen one on the same day after Papa died!  We would tease Papa about running wild and free when he was in heaven. Could it be some kind of sign?

I fell asleep pondering that.  The next day Nessa and I headed to my parent's to work on a project for school.  My mom has everything one would ever need for anything!  I was almost to their house when my cell phone rang.  Ernie told me I wasn't going to believe what he and Anjalene had just seen. . .a coyote running on the opposite side of our street!!!  I hadn't even told him that Alan had seen one the day before too!

Final God-incidence. . .Jonathan went to Science Camp the next day.  He had to return early for Papa's funeral, but he burst through the door holding his hand up for all us us to see his stamp.  He had randomly been assigned to sleep in the "Coyote Bunk."  Papa was showing up all around us.

So we did a little research about coyotes and their symbolism.
The coyote totem is strikingly paradoxical and is hard to categorize. It’s a teacher of hidden wisdom with a sense of humor, so the messages of the coyote spirit animal may paradoxically appear in the form of a joke or trickery. Don’t be tricked by the foolish appearances. The spirit of the coyote may remind you to not take things too seriously and bring more balance between wisdom and playfulness.

Other research suggests the coyote represents forging a new path, or way of doing things...

Definitely food for thought.  And then the day of Papa's funeral, as we pulled into the cemetery, one last sign waited.  It said Warning:  Beware of the coyotes.  

As usual, Papa had the last word.

 Our Family and Alan's will always think of you when we see or hear about a coyote.  Love forever.

My Last Tribute to Papa

Our papa may have been a man of few words, but his life was a living example to us.  He was a doer by nature. He was  a hard worker both on the job and at home.   

He was busy doing dishes, or sweeping floors, doing yardwork, piddling away in the garage, or taking us out on cardboard hunts. The station wagon, a back yard perfect to get lost in, and a bar with slippery floors for spinning were a kid’s delight.  Growing up, his bark was way bigger than his bite. He teased us, he gave heavy handed birthday spankings and if you passed by him too closely, you might get a, “skeetz. . .”  

Papa was present in all the moments that mattered most to us.  I remember fondly the day I gave birth to Anjalene, his first great grand-daughter, named in part for his love, Angela.  He sat in the waiting room until after midnight to welcome her into this world. And my brothers would agree, he was at birthday parties, games, confirmations, graduations, weddings, and births until his knees started slowing  him down.  Alan and I will always have the memory of vacationing in Hawaii with him.  Seeing Pearl Harbor after years of hearing his war stories was a moment we won’t soon forget. There were always stories of serving in Italy with John Wayne told time after time. Papa’s love of westerns ran deep and were often playing when we stopped by for a visit. It was easy to get lost in a “shoot em up cowboy” movie with him.

But in the end, it wasn’t Papa’s service that made him one of the bravest men we knew. At 91, he  willingly and confidently stared death eye to eye day in and day out over the last couple of years.  Bravery became waking up each day and still being here, despite a set of knees that were becoming increasingly uncooperative and were limiting his ability to get out and socialize. To be brave is to confidently know where we are going when this life is over, palms uplifted, to offer ourselves as the sacrifice.  That is bravery.  And there he was, glasses on, prayer book in place, rosary in hands: praying.  His very life had become a living prayer.

His body ached and the only thing that probably brought any type of real joy to his confined life the last four months was the hope of heaven.   We didn't see fear when we looked into his eyes. There was  a peace about him because he knew what awaits.  He knew there would be a grand reception and his soul would be set free from the body that was failing him in his old age.   He was ready.  He wanted to be called home.  He wanted God to usher him into the promised land.

So from bed, he prayed diligently.  He prayed with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in our God.  He didn’t fear his death.  He welcomed it.  And that brings us comfort. . . that God would guide papa to the ultimate peace, the peace we have looked for our entire lives, but could not be found until our final moment on this earth.  His homecoming, surrounded by all of our love and prayers, was a beautiful moment.

The last words he spoke to me mid-week when I asked, “How are you?” was his traditional response, only this time whispered, “Still here.”  It was in that moment that his answer became the window into his soul.  He had poured into our lives in his own silent, strong way since the day of our births.  The power and depth of his words weren’t lost on me.  He will always be here, in our hearts for as long as we live and his legacy will be his love.

Resting in Peace

Say not in grief, "He is no more," but live in thankfulness that he was.--Hebrew Proverb

Last week we attended another funeral.  This time for our second cousin:  Dave Morales.  His life and death was pretty extraordinary.  I mean, he lived a large life.  I remember him being a party animal, wild and free in my early childhood.  He had personality for days, was a jokester and loud!  But then one day he found true love and settled down. . .as settled as they could be because she was the life of the party too, so together they were a good thing.  Fatherhood seemed to change him, as is usually the case, with a job and day to day responsibilities, visits were sparse.  I saw less and less of him as he lived about an hour away and the demands of practices and games kept him busy on his home front.

He kicked cancer's butt, not once but twice!  His zest for life was big and he wasn't going down without a fight. Unfortunately, a couple years ago he started to develop Parkinson like symptoms which slowly took their toll on his body.  His mind was trapped in a body that kept failing to cooperate.  And it was during these times that he would come spend some time at my parents as my dad would drive him to appointments. One of my best memories was coming home from work to find Janessa sitting indian style on the floor so she was eye to eye with him as his body had slipped and was contorted in the chair.  She was carrying on a conversation with him, oblivious to the state of his body.  Isn't that how it always is with kids?  They don't seem to notice the differences like adults do.  The two were just chatting away.

I would always go to offer my cheek for a kiss and he (like his father) would chuckle and often say, "Like Angie."  I guess that might be my trademark gesture that I inherited from my nana. A lifted cheek to accept the kiss offered from friends and family.  It only meant something because that recognition came from him and my Uncle Frank.  With Uncle Frank's dementia now, he hasn't said it in a long time. . .and with David gone now, I know I probably won't ever hear it again and that thought alone saddens me immensely. My eyes are filled with tears as I type that realization.

However, I am filled with absolute joy that Dave is dancing with angels, free from the bondage of his body that ailed him.  That man went through so much in the last twenty-three years.  I am happy he is at peace.  I am sad he is gone, but happy he is in heaven.  His funeral was probably the best I have ever been to.  Each song played, I knew because he and my dad were so similar in their musical tastes.  Each song was so fitting. So Dave.  The tavern they held his reception at was also absolutely so him too!  To see people gathered, talking, and toasting was a happy occasion.  

I had to get gas on the way to the funeral and my navigation took me five miles off the course.  Janessa and I marveled at our scenic drive as my mind appreciated the wrong turn to soak in the beauty of nature and to be a noticer on a day that potentially could have been looked at as super depressing: a 63-year-old man was gone far too soon. I found myself considering this detour (which almost made me late) as joy instead of an inconvenience. I decided to look at it through Dave's eyes instead of my own.

"Be present" was a theme throughout the service.  I think that's a theme I've embodied in my own life of late. There are so many distractions but my presence is crucial.  These are the days my husband and kids will remember.  I want to be looking in their eyes instead of down at a screen.  Dave's funeral reminded me of the importance of this truth.  And I thought, how appropriate, I had taken a wrong turn and glimpsed some camp scenery as camping was something they all used to do too.

Interestingly enough, two days later was Lene's 12th birthday--her last year before the teen years set in. She had been disappointed not to be able to attend the funeral as she was feeling under the weather.  I didn't want her to push herself with the distance we had to drive, plus her big birthday plans.  There were some tears, but she decided not to attend.  The morning of Lene's big day she got ready for some girl time with her bestie.  We had a pedicure and went to sushi for lunch.  We got Starbucks and then went by another party for a friend at a local park.  It was there that I took a picture of her, really took it all in, and I couldn't stop smiling.

Take a look at her shirt.  Of all days, she put on a shirt with the lyrics, "Hey Jude,"  the same song that played at the opening of Dave's funeral!  I hugged her tight and told her about the songs significance in Dave's life, and how here she was wearing the lyrics on her 12th birthday.  She hadn't been at the funeral, but she hadn't needed to be.  Dave chose her to deliver a message to us.  I quickly texted my dad and a brother who is very into God-incidences these days.  What a little gift!

Dave will live on forever in our hearts.  A lesson I need to take to heart from Dave's life is to party it up just a little more.  Let go of all the detailed planning and be more willing to go with it.  Also, let the music move you.  Always let the music minister to your heart and soul. You will be missed, David.

Promises

"Because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace." Luke 1:78-79 (NIV)

I saw this and immediately thought of papa.  His ninety-one and a half years on this earth has been lengthy.  I have no idea how long he has remaining, as there isn't a diagnosis that we have to go off of, but I know he's tired.  His body aches and the only thing that probably brings any type of joy to his confined life is the hope of heaven.  And what a promise he has in his heart.  

I don't see fear when I look into his eyes. There's a peace about him because he knows what awaits.  He knows there will be a grand reception and his soul will be set free from the body that is failing him in his old age.   He is ready.  He wants to be called home.  He wants God to usher him into the promised land.  He doesn't mind leaving behind the legacy he was a part of creating because his physical work here is done.

From bed, he prays diligently.  He prays with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in God.  He doesn't fear his death.  He welcomes it.  And that brings me comfort. . .knowing what a tender and loving God we have, that he would guide papa to the ultimate peace.  The peace we have all looked for our entire lives, but could not find until our final moment.  It will be a beautiful thing: his homecoming.  Until then, we will love him well.

Brave

When I was a kid, bravery took many forms but it usually was associated with heroes I saw on the television: Mighty Mouse comes to mind. . .and Punky Brewster when she stood up to some school bullies.  Luckily, my school experiences were rich and without much drama or a need for bravery, unless you counted fearing recitation of a poem in front of the class.

Today, thirty some years later, bravery has taken a different face.  It's the face of the aged who is willingly and confidently staring death eye to eye.  It's the face of a ninety-one year old veteran, who still shares stories of life in Italy.  It is this man who has bravely lived life fully despite the loss of a wife and son many years before.  Bravery is waking up each day and still being here.  The gift of a day has become almost a curse with a body that is not willing to cooperate; however, he still opens his eyes to face the day.

To be brave is to confidently know where we are going when this life is over, palms uplifted, to offer ourselves as the sacrifice.  That is bravery.  And I see you, glasses on, prayer book in place, rosary in hands: praying.  All the time praying.  Your very life has become a living prayer.

You know what else is brave?  Trusting the people around you to care for you, to have your best interest at heart.  Brave is accepting their plan for you, even if it is different than your plan.

Brave is putting on your best face and letting your great grandchildren serve you.

Brave is ceasing the moment to instruct and pass on wisdom even though the words are fewer and far between:  "Behave," you told them when they kissed you good-bye the other night.

This is the real face of brave.

And we consider it an honor to love and care for you.

The Days are Long

This week was a long one.  In between a flurry of at home projects and Open Houses I've been battling a cold or allergies.  Something has me not at a hundred percent, but life goes on and there has been so much living of it to do!

She planned a birthday party for Jacob and Bella.  Such a good mama.

Breakfast at the airport:  Just the two of us

Lene was our tour guide at the Living Museum.  Wow, some parents outdid themselves! 

Being silly with my baby.

A labor of love right here.  Research report writing with Bubba was a testing of patience for sure.

His Gold Rush Project

Aqueduct.  I should have taken it from the front so you could tell.

 Monday we celebrated Aunt Lupe's life.  Janessa and Lene went with me.  I thought it was sweet that Anjalene wanted to be there for her cousin Sandra, who in reality, she hasn't spent much time with.  Janessa, my sidekick goes where I go. . .until Kindergarten starts next year!  She and Cadence during church kept me busy.

Watching Aunt Lupe's life in pictures and video.

Cousins

Cousins

Aunt Lupe would have enjoyed these two hams dancing to the mariachis after the funeral; in fact, I daresay she would have been dancing with them!

The next two weeks will be busy.  I'm ready for them, sort of.  My writing class is finished and I have some organizing to do before Summer is upon us.  First things first, I need to get well.  Resting up while E and three of the kids are out at the desert for the day. I miss them already and am looking forward to a night snuggling with my Lene Bean watching a movie on the DVR that we have put off all week.  The simple things make me happy, always.  For now, Bubba gets to watch Anne of Green Gables with me.  Lucky boy.  Lucky me!

Life in Your Years

"It's not the years of your life that count, but the life in your years."

We lost a great Aunt this weekend.  It wasn't a death I saw coming so soon.  Doctors initially said we had more time, but God had other plans.  Like it or not, it got me thinking about had we more time with her, would it really have been for her, or for us?  The answer is evident: us, of course.  

We are never prepared to say good bye to someone we love.  Could my Aunt Lupe have lived any better in extra days before the inevitable end?  I don't think so. There had already been so much life in her years.

"It's not the years of your life that count, but the life in your years."

I can still hear her voice.  Perhaps that is what I will miss most.  No, her laugh.  Her laugh is like her signature: unique.  She had this way of story telling that made you lean in to not miss a beat.  Her facial expressions and that voice were mesmerizing as a child, but their effects remained into adulthood.  She embodied a joyful spirit that I admired.  She dealt with tragedy: losing her brother, her niece, her daughter, and eventually her husband, yet none dulled her spirit. Or if they did, she never let on to me.  

And that meant the world to me:  someone who was so close to my Nana, only to have my mind boggled by her deep bouts of depression.  Our time together was often marred by her inability to get out of her bed, locked in her room for me to wonder what was wrong.  

My Aunt Lupe was at the kitchen table, loud, jovial, pan dulce, coffee, and cigarette in hand.  My Aunt was out and about, put together and doing life despite the hard hands she had been dealt.  My Aunt Lupe was present after I lost my Nana, a part of my wedding planning and china ordering.  

I'll never forget the way she threw my grandpa's blanket over her shoulder as she pranced down the aisle, laughing all the way.  

I'll never forget dancing with her and my Aunt Carmen on my wedding day.  The entire dance they poured into Ernie and I, telling us how proud my Nana was of me and how I deserved all the happiness in the world. And I believed them.  

I believed with everything in me how much I was loved by these two women.  

These two women were the closest thing to my Nana I would have on one of the biggest, most important days of my life.  

They stood in the gap and they were completely enough.

Aunt Lupe Sarinana, Aunt Carmen Morales, and Grandpa Shelby Gaul 4/6/2002

When I look at this picture, I can clearly see my Nana . My Aunts stood in the gap and made sure I knew she was there.

Saturday night I got to say thank you.
I got to tell her what her presence at our wedding meant to me.
I got to remind her that one of Anjalene's greatest memories was going to China Town with her great-great aunts and cousin Sandra. She did something  that I was a scaredy cat to do on my own!
I got to remind her in a whisper that my confirmation name was Sandra, after her daughter who left this world too soon. My aunt will always be a part of that story of my name.
I got the honor of praying over her a couple hours before she transitioned into our promised life of eternity.

What a privilege it was to be a part of her life, no matter how often I did or didn't see her.  She was my great aunt. She loved me and I loved her.  That is enough. Love will always be enough.

Death's Door

I remember one particularly trying year, hearing something about things coming in threes.  It was a season where funerals were one after another.  That was a long time ago, but recently three women I know of have succumbed to some kind of cancer or complications from the devastating disease.  Two of these younger than me.  Talk about pausing you in your tracks; taking stock of your life; and just plain questioning why bad things happen to good people!  It hurts my heart that each woman has left behind two kids.  Young kids.  Some of whom aren't even old enough to talk.  That breaks my heart because every child should know their mama's love. It should be tangible.  It should be readily available.  It should be on earth until they are old enough to know how to grieve, shouldn't it?

Exhale.  Recently my little health scare was enough to shake me up to really take stock of this life that I am blessed to be living.  I'm a bit of a pessimist, I must admit because in my head I thought to myself, why not me?  I've been privileged enough to live the life of my dreams, married to my best friend, with kids who are just amazing. . .so maybe my time here will be brief.  God has given me the best, spared my mom, and I will be the one we say good bye to early.  Not exactly joyful thoughts one should spend time dwelling on, so luckily I've moved on to more positive ones and counting my joys.  Thirty-three a day to be exact, which means by the end of this month, I will have a thousand.  A thousand gifts to reflect on His goodness in my life.  A thousand gifts to symbolize so much ordinary activity that is extraordinary only because of the way I choose to live it.

And that right there is what living is all about.  We all are living to die. And in dying because we believe, we know the story doesn't end in our death.  We believe in life after death with our Father who loves us most BUT it's how we live in the meantime that matters most.  It's the choices for how to live we make today that influence our tomorrows.  And while life here on earth with our families is what matters most, we sure don't always show it in our actions or through our words.  Let me say it again, how we live today is a choice that influences our tomorrows.  We don't want to live in regret, having wasted too long carrying burdens that weighted us down. We don't want to live with  anxiety breathing down our necks, or fear clouding our views.  We want to live today, while we still  have the chance.

Run if you can, don't just walk.  Feel the wind through your hair, the sun kissing your skin.  Breathe in deep gulps of gratitude, fresh, crisp November air because your lungs work, and it's lung cancer awareness month-and Jennifer can't anymore.  Notice the rise and fall of your chest.  The natural rhythm of what He created.  Stretch arms and eyes wide to the sky, paying attention to the leaves of trees changing colors in that moment.  When your little one talks, get down to their level, look deeply into their eyes so you can really get to see their heart.  Hug longer.  Linger over the ordinary moments and make them extraordinary--whatever that means to you because life is fragile.  And this is the only one you're given here on this earth, so live it.  Run the race of each day strong and finish well because only God knows when your race is over.  So, better to be ready, to love well  and well lived.  The choice is yours.

Living and Leaving

I went to a funeral today for Ofie and got to thinking. . .as one usually does when they are paying their respects and listening to the eulogies and words from loved ones.  I was happy to hear that Ofie was blessed with four grandchildren.  And I thought of her fierce desire and enthusiasm for becoming a grandma.  She radiated joy with just the thought of what a grandchild would mean in her life.  She was so interested in my babies and what they were doing and saying.  I tell you, her daughter and son in law were planning a wedding and her mind was already on the grand babies.  And I couldn't help but wonder at God's glory for planting that desire into her heart early on so that when the babies came...she embraced every little second. I bet no time was wasted. She knew what a gift they were: the gifts she had been waiting for and so she became "amma," whole-heartedly and completely. And then she was gone too soon, but what little time she had with her grand kids, it sounds like she made it count.

The funeral came on the day after a long awaited family dinner.  I think the last time we may have all been together was early September.  It is now November.  Too long.  Too much time has passed.  Too much busy not enough rest.  Sundays at our house has become a day to go to church together and then rest, watch some tv, go for a walk, only do minimal cleaning. . .and eat a good dinner.  That has been on my to-do list for the last two months, and it's working.  It's a nice, calm way to end our weekend and reconnect before the new one throws any curve balls at us.  But I really wanted my kids to have some scheduled time with their grandparents and cousins.  I was happy to ask for once a month but to my delight we agreed to try twice a month!  That makes my heart full.

Sometimes, I must admit,  I feel like the odd man out--But listening at Ofie's funeral today, I was reminded of how she walked in her faith and upheld her convictions in a way that wasn't preachy or arrogant.  I knew she loved God by the way I saw her love people.  Obviously, God and her family came first and it comforted me to feel like I am walking down a similar path with my family--we might not look like everyone else, but it's who God is calling us to be.  I have to chuckle as the words I speak to the teens and tween come back to me, "Right is always right even if no one is doing it.  Wrong is always wrong even if everyone is doing it."  Sometimes being different is being who God wants you to be.  Ultimately, my goal is to meet my maker and for my kids to know and love the Lord so we will love as many as we can along the way. I think Ofie and I had a lot in common.  I do.

So today we walked to ballet, pointing out butterflies and birds along the way.  This afternoon, I walked around the lake while the kids ran.  I breathed in the beauty that was before me.  All of it. And tonight, we danced in the kitchen after dinner to "God of This City."  And this little one fell asleep listening to her dad reading Charlotte's Web aloud to her. And the day was a gift. . . so we decided to live it as such.

One day she will no longer sneak into our bed in the middle of the night. . .and I will miss her.

I get to be there for this.

And this.

And this.

And this.

“We are the windows through which our children first see the world. Let us be conscious of the view.” 
― Katrina Kenison
Children are a heritage from the Lord,
    offspring a reward from him.
4 Like arrows in the hands of a warrior
    are children born in one’s youth.
5 Blessed is the man    whose quiver is full of them.
Psalm 127:3-5

Gone

It should come as no surprise when people pass away.  I know it's all part of the circle of life.  I know God has a plan for each of us that includes our being born and our dying.  How we live in the meantime is just a part of our journey.  For those of us who believe, we know where we are going to end up and that is comforting if not exciting at the same time.  Heaven is a place we have only read about in the bible and imagined in our dreams.  It is our final destination after what we hope is a long life lived well.

Today I heard that a secretary I had used to work with passed away.  I haven't been on that particular campus in close to six years.  There's something about me and visiting my former schools. . .I don't tend to do so.  I think in the six years I had been gone, I took my dad a Starbucks once, causing me to walk the familiar campus with many unfamiliar faces.  And I visited when my daughter performed with the drama department, but that was generally after hours and on a drop off or drop in to the theater basis only.  I just wasn't one to visit and reflect on what I had left.  It was always good while I was there, until it wasn't and then I moved on.

But today when I tucked my oldest in and we prayed for Ofie's family, I could see her clearly sitting at her desk.  She was always so darn stylish and put together; cute hair, and great laugh and smile.  I loved passing through her office area when going to the guidance office. She always asked me about my kids. Always. She saw me through my first two pregnancies and she always asked about my babies.  Even when they weren't really babies, she called them that.  And she always listened and believed in my dream of wanting to be home with them.  Always.  She  encouraged me.  She smiled.  She laughed.  She asked about who was most important in my life and when we talked, she made me feel like they were that important to her too.  Oh, how she wanted to be a grandma!  She was so excited when her daughter was getting married because that meant she was one step closer to those grandbabies. . .and I'm not sure if that ever became a reality.  I sure hope so because that woman had so much love to give.  It makes me sad that she is no longer here.

I ache for her sister, who I randomly met a few years back through a mutual friend.  I knew they were sisters before I really even knew.  I could just tell.  They both had that look, that spark, that laugh.  Her family will not be the same without her, but I know where she is now.  She believed.  She loved God greatly and she lived a life that I'm happy I was able to be a part of for a little while.  And I just wanted to write down in my little book of memories and life lessons for my babies that Ofie was one of my original cheerleaders at the high school who encouraged me to be with you.  She supported me working if that's what I needed to do and she supported me at home if that's what we decided we could afford to do.  She would look at your little faces and say she saw so much of your dad. . .and she would laugh and smile and talk about how much she wanted to be a grandma. That's the Ofie I will always remember and I'll always be grateful to have known her for the time I did.  If only she could see you now. . .oh wait, she can: )  Heaven gained another angel today.

Die a Little

It is crazy how the days rush by and I'm left speechless. . .or with writer's block as to what needs to be said and what needs to be read. Documenting the lives of my littles is a dream come true.  Years ago I let go of perfection and became content with the record keeping that worked for me: this blog!  Even if it's only for my family's eyes, it is a real life way of record keeping, of documenting the ways my dreams became a reality and how they were a part of that journey.  They were the reason my ship shifted to a different course and that has made all the difference.

It's crazy to think of all the conversation and activity that goes into the day.  Between homeschooling, cooking, cleaning, and parenting, there's not a whole lot of down time.  This week has been no exception.  Sometimes at the end of the day I feel like I am crawling into bed desperate for rest.  There has been a phrase that just keeps creeping into my mothering moments.  Those times, when she asks me to stay and play with her hair, or he asks me to tickle his back, or she wants to fill me in on every single detail of her lunchtime, or he is telling me about the pole change out they completed and the trouble they ran into, or she wants me to play Barbies, or he wants to explain Pokemon to me for the billionth time and  I still don't get it. In these moments where I naturally want to rush through to get to the next item on my to do agenda, my conscious has been whispering, "Die a little. . .Die a little to yourself." 
At first I was kind of oblivious.  I didn't think about what it might mean. . .until it was like a neon sign screaming and flashing on my daughter's face as I looked up from the floor I was mopping only half-heartedly listening to her story.  Then it kind of just crushed me.  The magnitude of the holy spirit speaking to me and there I was again, missing it.  Missing the small moments that matter most; the ones that won't always be in my kitchen spilling out their guts or in their bed asking for more of me.  I was rushing through again and missing the lovely life that was begging me to stop and pay attention.

As I allowed the words of this ancient song from my Catholic School days to come back, I was met with the very realistic conclusion (again) that THIS STUFF MATTERS MOST.
Would you die a little?  
Would you die a little to yourself-to bring to me a gift you could not buy?
Would you die a little?
Would you die a little bit for me?
And in dying would you rise again to life?

I have searched high and low to find the rest of the lyrics but to no avail.  I wish I remember what the whole song said but I guess the chorus is what is most important: obviously.  The Holy Spirit was whispering it but now he's flashing it across faces to get my attention.  I need to stop.  Get down to their level.  Watch my tone.  Be present.  Embrace the gift that is their stories to tell.

Last week was rough.  My birthday was probably the only real brightspot and even that was questionable since the day was so busy!  I had to do a mammogram at the request of my Dr.  She didn't want me to wait until December so I went and I was uneasy.  Not anxious.  Not scared.  Just uneasy.  And waiting for the results made me feel the same.  I had some crazy thoughts.  And then there was the whispering, followed by the flashing sign.  And I began to think the message was one I needed to hear (again).  Die a little.  Every time there was that thing that needed to be done.  Die a little bit more.

So this week I've been practicing dying a little.
It is in dying that I will rise again to life: the fullness of life, the richness that is mine for the taking. . .
all I have to do is die a little bit for Him.

Me and Uncle Frank at Golden Days Parade 2014

Friends since Kihndergarten

Proud of my girl: she and another neighbor planned a surprise party for twins on our block.

Kisses from Papa

Sweet Treats by Sandra:  blessed by her talent and friendship.

Throwback to Uncle Ted and our first Thanksgiving without Nana.

My truth everyday

He's a keeper so I'll let the whole world know.

The results were fine. Praise the Lord!