The Dream

I remember this one time I had a dream that came back to me in the middle of math class my Senior year. As I looked at some crazy trigonometry notes, there in the middle of a bunch of numbers I had written:  I saw Nana in a white room and she talked to me.  I was weirded out. I had to leave the room, not knowing what it meant but knowing it had to mean something.  As I walked around my big, open, high school campus, it came back to me in bits and pieces and I needed to get to my papa's to let him know, his wife who had died almost a year ago. . .was fine.  She visited me just so she could give me this message for him.

Even now, this dream is so meaningful on so many levels.  I don't remember dreams.  I'm not sure if I truly don't have them or if I just wake up and do not remember a thing.  But I'll always remember that one.  It's like my Nana chose me on that day to be a messenger to my Papa, who was still visiting the cemetery daily for hours on end.  In fact, when I did find him later that afternoon,  it was in front of her grave, in his parked car, out in the rain.  And he had tears in his eyes as I told him the parts of the dream that I could remember.  I recently told this dream to the kids.  For never having met their Nana, anytime they see a blue bird fly across the sky, they call out to me.  They don't want me to miss the opportunity to catch a glimpse. . .of Nana (a bird lover).

There's certain things I remember about my Nana as a little girl.  I often wonder what quirky things my own kids will remember about their grandma when they are older.  For example, my Nana always prayed before we drove somewhere.  She usually had a damp washcloth with her, and she spent hours in a dark bedroom or perfectly applying her make up in her bathroom. I remember vividly us around a kitchen table, and having to stay out of her perfect, formal living room with the plastic covered furniture.  I remember singing, lots of singing.

I remember a station wagon, and my song about the pink jacket.  I remember her chicken mole and the tight pigtails she could make.  I remember these seemingly meaningless things that mean something now because I actually remember.  Her only brother often would remark "Ah, Angela," when I would say hello or good-bye and turn my cheek up to accept a kiss without giving one in return. . .and there was always a sense delight in me with the realization that I was some how like her, even in such a simple way.

Angela, part of our daughter's namesake. . .memories that seem a lifetime ago, but gratitude that they're my memories for the taking and sharing in this sacred place. It is here I recount to my children so that my legacy might one day live on. . .maybe it will be the gift of my words, sharing our family history that they might always remember who they come from and who we strive to be.
"In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps" (Prov. 16:9). 

Sometimes We Forget

Dear Kids,

I'm sorry that sometimes the adults you're with, myself included, forget that you are just kids.
We've somehow let the world get the best of us and instead of growing old gracefully. . .we grow old and forget.
We forget what it's like to feel the mud in between your fingers as you make mud pies.
We forget the feeling of invincibility as you look out from the tree house so close to the sky.
We forget insects and little critters are both interesting and important.
We forget that building tents  to hideaway in means an empty linen closet and help refolding. 
We forget the joy you feel when you're playing house and acting like the grown up.
We forget the loud screams and yells that deafen will soon be met with silence.
We forget the mess you leave in your wake will one day be gone for good.

And forget about it.  Shrug.
Our loss.
Our mistake.
Our relationship that could have been strengthened and love filled and joyous becomes just another missed opportunity: part of  the reason we've allowed ourselves to forget anyways.

I'm sorry for the times I've made you feel badly about just being kids.
Run further, laugh louder, play harder, play messier, imagine wildly, gulp in gratitude for this gift that is your youth!
And the rest of us will just have to deal with it.

You're only young once, love bugs. Dig in.  Dig in deep!