Remembering My Grandmother

This week my grandmother passed away. She was 84 years old. Her heart gave out and she passed peacefully in her sleep.

We called my grandmother Nanny. I am not sure I even knew her real name for years. She was part of the team known as Papa and Nanny. We lost my Papa about 15 years ago in a car accident. And I can’t help thinking that a part of her faded away then.

Nanny was my primary grandmother, the kind of grandmother that knows with one look just what you need. My grandparents lived only two miles away from me for most of my childhood, and I saw them at least once a week if not more. They were an integral part of my youth.

Of course we had the big memories of Christmases and Fourth of July cookouts. But for me it is in between moments I most cherish. I have early memories of standing in her lap playing with her glasses and exploring every inch of her face with my fingers. She taught me how to play rummy, which way to deal the cards, and how to create a strategy that could lead to a win.

It was her house we went to if we got sick at school. She would make me cinnamon sugar toast and sit me on the couch to watch the Price Is Right and the Young and the Restless. She would always French braid my hair and let me dig through the flea market stash kept in my grandparents closet.

I remember when Nanny was baptized at our church. And how every Sunday my family would pick her up to take her with us. I’d slide over to the middle seat as she climbed in the car. Then later, when I was in high school I’d pick her up for church, and we’d talk about school and the week’s teenage drama.

Nanny was a listener, an observer, a rocker of babies, and maker of peanut butter and chocolate cake. She was a walker who drug grandchildren through the woods spotting the changing leaves in the fall and the wildflowers in the spring. She loved to read and carried a quiet wisdom.

Nanny was an introvert, not unlike my 6 year-old daughter, Grace Florence, who shares her name.

The last time I saw Nanny, she took a ring off her finger and pressed it into my palm. “This is for Grace since you named her after me. I want you to keep it for her.” I kissed her cheek and said my good-bye. That was over two years ago. After moving out west a decade ago, I didn’t see her much. I wasn’t there to watch her health fail. I have to cling to those early memories. The long walks, late night rummy games, French braids, and cinnamon sugar toast. Those sweet grandmotherly memories I hope will pass from our generation to the next.

My grandmother lost her mom when she was a young child. I cannot imagine the hole that left in her heart. The whisper of suffering she must have carried throughout her life. I don’t know what heaven is like. But, I hope that when Nanny’s soul entered heaven that her mom was waiting to greet her. I hope that her mother cupped Nanny’s face in her hands and said, “Welcome home my baby, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Out of a Job. Finding my Gifts.

My twentieth high school reunion is next month. My senior year I was voted Most Likely to Succeed. I guess that was because I’d never met a club or activity I didn’t try to lead. Yep, I was the nerdy yearbook editor.

Back then, I hustled. I actually believed I could be successful at whatever I tried. I always had at least one job. I took a full load of classes, volunteered and worked. I was a spit fire.

Next week after almost eight years as a stay-at-home mom, I’ll be out of a job. My girl is going to kindergarten. My heart is sad yet excited.

A few years ago, a long time friend told me that of all the people she knew, I was the last person she thought would stay home full-time. Me too. And yet, it is the best decision I’ve ever made. This time with my sweet babies has been the biggest blessing of my life. If I live to be one hundred, I have no doubt I will look back and this will be the highlight. I have zero regrets.

However, I have spent the last year trying to find my hustle, trying to figure out my next step. Can I be honest? For the first time in my life, I’ve not been successful. When you step out of line for eight years, no one holds your place. Especially when that place was fifty hour work weeks and constant travel.

I was always the girl people believed in. The person that got the job because it would be done and done well. But, I’m not that girl anymore, because back then I only cared about myself. And now, my world is bigger and that life no longer fits.

At age 8, 18, and 28 I definitively understood my gifts and abilities. I knew where I was going and what I was good at. At 38? Not so much. I do know I can craft a sharp hospital corner when making a bed. I’m pretty awesome at calming my crying children. I can clean up a peed in bed in three minutes. I’ve got my strengths. But, no one’s lining up to pay me for getting vomit out of a carseat.

I have fretted and worried and obsessed. But, in the quiet space of morning devotions, conversations with kind friends, and lots and lots of prayer, I’ve found a tiny bit of clarity.

I don’t need to hustle. I have the life I busted my tail for. No one cares what I do. I guess that’s the burden. Trying to define expectations when there are none. And so, at 38, my lesson is being at peace right where I am. I don’t need to be voted Most Successful. I don’t need to prove I’m smart, or driven, or enough.

I can rest in the space of gratitude. I can lean into this beautiful life. What a gift! And this uncertain space? Part sad. Part exciting. I just walk through it, like all those uncertain spaces before. Only this time, it’s pretty certain. No matter what, I still get to be a mom to two little people who think I’m awesome. And my gift? It is being right where I am, right in this moment. The measure of my success in not in what I’ve accomplished but in who I get to do this life with. And by that measure, I have succeeded.

The Perfect Book to Read to the Birthday Girl

This week my baby girl turned five. She is the best girl. She is quiet and observant and sensitive. I have loved watching her grow and learn. If I am honest, this birthday was full of contrasting emotions. I am happy, relieved even, that we are through the early years. For me, parenting is more fun when it doesn’t involve diapers and spoon-feeding. Yet, I am sad to know that she will be heading off to kindergarten in a few months. The long days of little children at home are quickly passing. These kids are growing up.

One of my favorite children’s books is “I Like to Be Little” by Charlotte Zolotow. The book is a conversation between a little girl and her mother. The little girl explains all the reasons she likes to be little. Her descriptions are heart warming. The simplicity of her examples are pure and innocent.

At the end of a day filled with celebration, I snuggled with my daughter in her bed. I told her the story of her birth and how I was so happy to add a girl to our family. I didn’t have to live with the boys alone anymore. She loved hearing that. Then we read Zolotow’s simple story. She was reminded that being little is a gift – that she shouldn’t rush to grow up.

And I was reminded that protecting her innocence, encouraging her to grow slowly and not giving in to the worldly pressure to mature too soon, is one of my most important jobs. She gets to be little and learn to love these sweet years of childhood.

An Improbable Life

In first grade I begged our neighbor for a bed. My brother and I shared a twin bed, and it was beginning to feel a little crowded. One day while playing outside I walked across the street to the grandmotherly neighbor’s house. I’m not sure how I ended up inside, but this neighbor had a junk room. I quickly spotted an unused twin bed.

I clearly remember telling this old lady that I shared a bed with my brother, and if she wasn’t using the one in her junk room, I’d be happy to take it. Later that night, my dad carried the bed across the street. That bed stayed in my room until I went away to college.

I’ve always had a way of getting what I want. A magic fairy has never appeared to grant my wishes. I think it’s been a combination of gumption, stubbornness and hard work. Also, I have an optimistic belief that all things are possible.

As a little girl, I spent many nights awake in that begged for bed dreaming of the life I wanted. My dreams were shallow. I imagined new clothes. I dreamed of a new car for my mom without a big dent in the passenger side doors. I wished for two-story white house with a wrap around porch.

Looking back, I want to spend a day with my ten year-old self. She would be so happy and proud. If only I could steal her through time and away from her house full of rage and dysfunction.

I would take that hopeful, desperate, people-pleasing child to my two-story white house with the wrap around porch. We’d sit on the porch swing and I’d tell her a story about a handsome boy who fell in love with an awkward girl and taught her how to love herself. We’d talk about the blond boy and funny girl that sleep in their very own rooms upstairs. I’d tell her that one day her sweet little family would live in this safe home full of joy.

I know that precocious child would ask, “When does it happen? How will I get here? I can’t possibly wait.”

And I’d have to tell her, “Keep your chin up. Study hard. Be patient. Forgive yourself the many mistakes you’ll make along the way. Believe in happy endings. And most importantly, try not to resent the hardship. It’s what makes this life so sweet.”

The beauty of this story is that my home, my family, my peace, really is just ordinary. But when I remember that ten year-old girl, it is improbably extraordinary.

How It All Started

The first time I remember attending church I was four years old. I remember being left in a Sunday school class full of other kids that would eventually become like siblings. However, that morning I cried for my mama. After that morning I refused to go to my Sunday school class and everyone thought it would be best if they just let me go to class with my brother.

At the time, my family lived in a scary trailer park. We were in a nomadic phase. The pastor and a deacon from the church repeatedly visited my parents until my mom finally gave in and told them to pick us up on the church bus the next Sunday morning. I spent the next fourteen years going to church almost every Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night.

A few other things occurred over those 14 years. We moved twice and settled in a safer, new trailer. My parents became teachers for Sunday school and other church activities. Our home life varied based on whether my dad had a job and his temperament. I would now describe my childhood home as controlling and volatile.

At age nine I was saved. I truly felt a new presence in my heart and mind. I believe this was the Holy Spirit. For most of my childhood I was open to receive Biblical teaching and spiritual guidance.

Throughout middle school I was active in youth group. I participated in church choir and youth weekend activities. I even traveled to Boston for a mission trip the summer after seventh grade. By all accounts, I shouldn’t have lost my spiritual way. However, high school changed things.

My friends in high school were for the most part nice girls. I had a few boyfriends but overall boys didn’t really want to date me. I was kind of a nerd who made great grades. I participated in many school activities and had a job. High school was busy and fun.

Yet, it was during this time that I started to question my faith. Part of the reason was the disconnect between what my parents professed to believe and how they actually behaved. It is very obvious to a child if a parent’s actions do not align with the Biblical truth they teach.

After I left for college I did not read my Bible, go to church, or in any way worship. I lost my way.

My twenties were a beautiful mess. So much of my experience was fun and positive. I did well in college and worked hard. I had lots of friends. People seemed to like me. I graduated and moved away from my family and friends. I continued to work, make friends and somehow convinced my now husband to date and marry me.

Yet, for all of the good in my life I was still missing something. I wasn’t happy. I had financial  freedom, a nice home, great man, a career, friends…but not peace. I made self-destructive choices. I blamed others for my discontentment. I struggled. It was the craziest decade.

Finally, sin caught up with me. It wasn’t until I was on the floor about to fall apart that I started to think about God. It wasn’t until I admitted I was lost that I started to be found. My great and profound lesson to end my twenties was that I was my own worst enemy.

I wasn’t ready to turn my life over to God but I did start taking responsibility for my behavior. This changed everything. Once I learned that I needed to be different, I opened my mind to all possibilities. The big thing I didn’t expect to find was my faith.

My thirties started with a new view of marriage, the birth of my son, transitioning away from my career, and then a daughter. My life looked different but mainly my heart was new. I softened. I healed. God didn’t give up on me.

This is where I find myself today. At a new place – a good place. This feels like a beginning. A chance to ask: do I believe the Bible is true and if so, what does that mean for my life?

A Secret Life

I have a secret life. And, I bet you do too.

Before Halloween, my son found an old Wonder Woman costume in my closet. He asked what it was for, and I told him that maybe it is because I am the real Wonder Woman. He smiled big, a boy still small enough to imagine his mom’s secret adventures as Wonder Woman.

But this post isn’t about that kind of secret life. My secret is lived behind the walls of our home. It is a beautiful secret and sometimes a messy secret. I live a secret life of love and chaos. A secret because it is only viewable to the four of us. It is our life together.

The secret life inside these walls is beautiful and hard. We live vulnerable. Sometimes it is silly. The vulnerability of singing at the top of our lungs and dancing like fools in the kitchen. It is not being embarrassed by bodily functions. And wrestling on the living room floor. It is giggling hard together at jokes those on the outside could never understand.

This secret life is one of sharing our desires and dreams. It is the place where we can be real. We see each other in truth and have faith in unconditional love. Life lived inside our secret bubble is beautiful. We share a bond, a home, and a gift. A gift of being together.

But this secret life is not always easy. The shared life of home and work and raising babies and trusting love, it is hard. Hard. Not easy. However, beauty is in the tough love. Even more than dancing in the kitchen and trusting each other with our silliness is the true beauty of loving each other through the ugly.

You see, a beautiful secret life is one where you can be broken. Openly broken and yet still unconditionally loved. That is what home and family offer. That is the inside view a life lived with vulnerability. Because, inside this life it is not about self. It is not about having your needs met or your efforts recognized. No. It is about being the foundation for others.

My secret life is a place where I can be my worst self and yet have no fear of abandonment of love. Because I know I am safe here. We can be broken open by the world and left raw by the harshness of life. Be it sickness or failure or disappointment. Home, our secret world, is a safe place to fall apart. It is the place where we can fail hard and land softly in love.

Forgiveness, responsibility, maturity, discipline, honesty. All of these are important in the secret life. But above all, loyalty and dedication is the base. A foundation of selfless love allows us to accept others at their deepest hurt and highest joy. We can love with empathy and we can celebrate without envy.

This is the best part of my life. It has taken years for me to understand. Nothing external really matters. No hobby, no job, no successes. The highest measure of my life is in the secret. How well did I love? How well did I trust? How well did I forgive? How hard did I try?

My responsibility is in being my best self. I fail often at this. But these people inside the secret bubble make me want to be better. I love fuller. To be vulnerable and trust that our shared life is worth the risk. The risk to be hurt. The risk to fall. The risk to love and be loved.

Most days are full of kitchen dancing and belly laughs. In between time-outs and spilled milk, in the face of busy days and piles of laundry, inside the work of home and family is the choice to love. And it is worth every risk to share this secret life.

This is the hardest work of my life. But it is the best work. It is glorious and sometimes painful. Yet, I wouldn’t trade this choice. I have a secret life. A life I love. 

A Perfect Hello

I wish this moment was captured with a picture. However, I was too busy living in the moment to stop for a photo. Instead of a picture to show this story, I will use words to tell it.

My mom struggles to find her way in our big airport. To ease her anxiety I meet her at the gate whenever she visits. Usually I arrive early and greet her as soon as she steps off the plane.

This time I was running late. Her plane arrived early and security was backed up. Her gate was at the end of the terminal. She arrived before me.

I hurried through the crowd walking swiftly toward her gate. In the distance, I spotted her standing in the middle of the walkway looking around for her lost child.

I raised my arm and waved. I walked closer, arm up, trying to catch her eye. She turned and saw me. Our eyes locked, the path parted as we drew nearer to one another.

Arms outstretched, we arrived into an embrace. In the middle of a busy airport, time stopped as my mom held me tight. Her head on my shoulder. We cried. She whispered, “I missed you. I love you.”

We stood in the moment lost in our reunion. Mother and daughter. Bonded. Together. Two pieces that were once one.

We loosened our embrace, wiped our tears and looked each other over. The same, yet different. We walked. I took her home to hug grandbabies.

A perfect moment. A perfect hello. Mother. Daughter.