grandparenting, living and growing, Love, new life, perspective

Mine Not Mine

It had been 23 years.

23 years since I last held a baby that was only hours old. People don’t seem to often talk about what it’s like…the moment you become a grandparent. When people hear you are going to become a grandparent, they smile a soft sort of smile and tell you, “there’s nothing like it!”.

But nobody mentioned how I might feel when I first held him in my arms. I found it to be surreal. Wonderful…and very confusing. This baby was not mine, but also somehow a part of me. As I held him, I looked over at my daughter lying in the hospital bed and my son-in-law standing beside her and I knew this baby was theirs. But the last time I had held a baby that had just been born, it was my own. Five times I held my own newborn babies and now fast forward 23 years and I was holding this little person. And he was both my own and not my own.

Holding him ignited something inside of me. Something I hadn’t felt since my last child was born. A fierce mother bear feeling bursting with a love so strong that it made me want to protect him. But he wasn’t mine to protect. Not in that mother bear sort of way at least. I was going to need to learn a new way to love and protect. A softer way. A grandmotherly way.

For the first couple of months every time I held him, I would remind myself he wasn’t mine. In case this sounds crazy, let me clarify. I knew he wasn’t mine. I did not long for him to be mine. But having raised five kids, I was familiar with one role. The role of mother. I was proficient at mothering. Mothering was a role I had lots of practice in and when that little baby was in my arms, the instinct was to mother him.

But he was mine, not mine.

He had a mom and a dad, both of whom were doing a great job. So what was my job?

I had heard of some of the grandmother job requirements….at least the stereotypes. Look matronly, wear an apron, bake cookies. Be soft, safe and comforting. Grey hair up in a bun on the top of my head. The list goes on. But much of that list was more a caricature of a grandparent than the real thing.

I had also heard things grandparents said about grandparenting. Things like: ‘It’s a second chance!’ ‘It’s like parenting but without the same stress and you get to send them home at the end of a visit!’ ‘You get to spoil them!’ And although I liked some of those ideas, they still didn’t really help me figure out what my role was supposed to be. Each time I held him, I reflected on my new title of grandmother and the role that came with it.

I would think things like: I am a grandmother to a grandson. Hmmm. Boys can be a handful. What do boys need? I had a great example with my own mom. My oldest son could be a handful when he was young. His antics would get his grandfather and uncles annoyed. But often as we were leaving their house, my mother would stop him at the front door, take his face in her hands, say his name and then tell him, “You’re a good boy!” She wasn’t negating all the annoying things he had done. She was reminding him that she saw the goodness in him too. She knew he was much more than the sum of his annoying antics. And she reminded him of what she saw in him every chance she got. That’s the kind of grandmother I want to be. I want to be there to remind him of his value. Even in those times both when he devalues himself and when the world sends him messages that could try to rob him of his value.

He’s nearly 7 months old now. I no longer struggle with my role. I’ve come to appreciate the mine, not mine status. There is a truth to it. He is mine, in that he is my grandson. He is both an extension of my husband and myself and someone new created by my daughter and her husband; he is theirs. These connections give me my status. He and I are connected, forever grandmother and grandson.

When I spend time with him I am filled with awe and wonder. It’s the same awe and wonder I felt with my own children. But I am no longer striving to raise a family. I’m able to enjoy him without the pressure of the daily responsibilities for him. It doesn’t mean I don’t worry for him. I know the world my own kids had to navigate as they grew. He will face those things as well. I hope I am able to be around for a long time, making sure that he knows he’s a good boy. As his grandmother, I see it already and I will never let him forget.

So I’m writing my own Grandmother job description. A description that includes seeing him through eyes of awe and wonder. Appreciating him and showing and telling him that his grandmother loves him. And maybe someday, the requirements might include baking cookies and my hair turning gray. But for now I’ll be content with being amazed by each new thing he does. To be a soft, safe place might just be the greatest gift I could give my grandson and any future grandchildren that come along.

The distinction of him being mine and not mine may continue to surface from time to time. But I am settling in quite happily to my new role. And like seasoned grandparents had promised, there is indeed, nothing like it!

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living and growing

2023 Awaits!

I still feel that flicker of hope when the ball drops. There is an excitement that comes with being a part of something bigger than yourself. 10..9..8..7..6..5…and suddenly the slate has been wiped clean and a fresh start awaits!

My problem is that the excitement only lasts for seconds before I’m thinking – ‘you can’t trust a new year. It isn’t like it used to be. The first 2 1/2 months of 2020 seemed hopeful and then BAM! Covid.’

2021 promised things would be better but the threat still loomed. Throw in losing 4 people I was very close to and two others I cared about…that year was rough!

2022 comes along and I found myself thinking, ‘Its got to get better, right?‘ But along came the grief that busyness had kept at bay in 2021. It demanded to be dealt with. Add in a diagnosis that, although not fatal, was life changing and 2022 became exhausting.

There were some bright spots along the way. Like when a little boy was born and with his birth I was given a new title….Grandmother. A whole new world of love opened up. Alright 2022, you weren’t all bad.

But what about 2023? I don’t trust new years anymore. I know too much. So how could I fall asleep as 2023 began and be at peace? I found I couldn’t. So I opened up my bible app. A friend had invited me to join her in a ‘read the bible in a year’ plan. The new year was less than an hour old and already I was seeking solace.

And there, almost right away, I found the word that shifted my perspective. A word that took the emphasis off of hope and put my attitude squarely in my lap. A word that allowed me to choose how I would view this new year. The author wrote about how each day, each week and each year is an opportunity for a new or fresh start. The word, opportunity, struck me as a beautiful sunrise strikes the mind and soul, helping to bring color, light and clarity into dismal thinking.

Opportunity doesn’t imply any promises. It doesn’t rely on something turning out well and it doesn’t negate the bad. But it offers possibilities. Ready and present to be believed and acted on, in any situation. Observing a beautiful sunrise doesn’t guarantee a wonderful day, but it allows for the possibility that seeing that sunrise will change your perspective of the day.

The countdown continued 4..3..2..1..Happy New Year! Covid, still ever present, rang in 2023 with us as my son had just tested positive. Yet, even that is an opportunity. A chance to greet this illness with calmness while being grateful for boosters and tests and the knowledge that 3 years brings.

As this new year unfolds, it will have its own share of ups and downs. But I’ll be looking forward to the opportunities that 2023 holds. Opportunities to try new things, to take risks and to see things from a different perspective. Holding onto the word opportunity will help me to keep an open heart and mind to the possibilities this new year holds.

So here’s to 2023 – the year of opportunities!

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appreciation, change, clarity and direction, grieving, healing, hope, living and growing, perspective, spiritual growth, struggles

2020 Hindsight

This past year caused a fundamental shift inside of me. A blanket of heaviness came to rest upon me and I could not get out from under it. Good things happened but I could only acknowledge them on a surface level.

For much of my adult life, I’ve been a hopeful person. So hopeful sometimes that I’ve been accused of being a Pollyanna. When I became a Christian, that hopeful, optimistic view fused with my faith. It became a gift from God. But somehow, over this past year, that hopefulness, the optimistic person in me who thinks it will all turn out ok in the end, left. I didn’t lose my faith. I could acknowledge that God was still in control and that he wanted only good for me. But the spark that drove my faith could not be accessed.

The pandemic and all the things it changed, all the things that had to be given up and the rules that were imposed, I accepted. Some of them broke my heart, but I accepted them. I knew logically, that good things were also happening. That life, even during a pandemic, even with restrictions, could not be contained. That both good and bad things would continue to happen. But when I would try to acknowledge the good, it was truncated, always seen and felt under that blanket of heaviness.

Even on New Year’s Eve, when those on Facebook were posting their hopes that 2021 would be better, I could not join them in that hope. Of course, I did want it to be better but the heaviness inside of me was in charge. There was no room for hope to work it’s magic. It didn’t dare.

I went to bed expecting to sleep through the change of the New Year. Something I would have never done in the past. Yet I couldn’t sleep. I watched the ball drop, while on my phone, in bed. And after it dropped, I cried. It was an odd kind of crying, almost without tears. The thought that there were no tears left, did not escape my thinking. My heart ached from a loss I couldn’t verbalize.

The harsh realist in me has been telling me all along that I have no right to be sad. No one I loved has died from the virus. Yes we’ve had to cancel things and yes we’ve been separated from loved ones, and yes life as we know it has drastically changed, but it’s all for the greater good.

In hindsight, it was really a critic, posing as a realist, that fed the heaviness. The enemy coming in with just enough truth to make me feel compelled to buy it. And the heaviness settled in on top of me and I could not get out from under it.

Of course, the critic was not alone. He had help. Fear, anxiety and the threat of greater loss….the threat of this 2020 life being the new normal, ripped me apart and put me back together again in a way that left me unable to recognize myself.

Over the last few weeks in December, I had reached a breaking point. I was so weary of this new person I had become. I was so tired of trying to be the old me while this blanket weighed on me. My prayer life, like everything else in this year, had been affected. Over the past few weeks, my prayers, when I could get them out were simple prayers, of “help me, Lord.”

This morning, January 2, 2021, I woke up and thought I would pray before I got out of bed. That is not unusual for me but the prayers that came out of my mouth were. “Thank you, Lord! Thank you for the million ways you love me! Thank you for the thousands of opportunities you give me to love you back!”

That prayer just filled my head. I wasn’t thanking the Lord as I had been – out of the knowledge that he deserved it. This was spontaneous as if it came from somewhere else. And there was a song to it, a lightness, that I have not felt since before the pandemic began.

And I began to wonder, had my hope been restored? And the funny thing is, even asking myself that question confirmed for me that it had. I know we are not out of the woods yet. But I am hopeful that I can now live better in the midst of this.

Hope is a powerful agent against fear and anxiety and loss, both real and imagined. Hope gives me words. It gives me vision that allows me to see beyond the darkness.

I’m not so hopeful that I think everything will be unicorns and rainbows from now on. But I am seeing and feeling things differently~ the weight of that heavy blanket is not noticeable. Perhaps it’s still there and will rear it’s ugly head again. I have no doubt it will try. But suddenly I can see the good that’s happened in the past year and enjoy it. I can honestly appreciate it without the heaviness sucking the life out of it.

My heart welcomes back hope and plans to do all it can to not only help it grow back to what it was, but to help it grow stronger, deeper and more resilient than it was before.

They say hindsight is 2020. I’m grateful that hope has come in and let me look back at the year through a lens that sees both the good and bad for what they truly were.

Hope and I will be going into 2021 together. 2020 took it away but 2021 restored it. A Happy New Year, indeed.

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appreciation, change, childhood, clarity and direction, comfort, death, Discovery, dying, families, grieving, home, letting go, living and growing, perspective

Today was a hard day…

Together, my sister and I have been regularly going through and cleaning out, my parent’s house and it’s 62 years of belongings. Doing it together has been a huge blessing. Together we have shared memories, laughed at long forgotten stories and helped each other to let go.

But today was a hard day. The letting go of furniture, glassware and other objects has been a bit easier than I anticipated. But the paper….the piles and piles of papers…that is where my heart has faltered.

Both of my parents kept scads of paper memories. And I can’t let them go without looking at each one. Twice. (I’m not kidding.) The process is grueling and painstaking. Each time I see their handwriting, I am reconnected to them. Each accolade they’ve received makes me proud of them. It hurts to let it go. I don’t want to forget and I fear that without the paper reminders it will all slip away.

Of course, I know this is not entirely true. I know I don’t need to remember every detail. But I want to. I want to wrap my arms around it all, assimilate it into my heart and mind and never let it go.

But I do let it go. At least most of it. However, I have found that letting go of something physically, does not mean you are released from it. At least not right away.

My mother has made it easier. She has entrusted her home and all of her belongings to my sister and I. She has told us to do what we want with it. Most of it no longer holds her heart. I’m grateful for the release she has gifted us with. Grateful that she knows our hearts will honor hers.

But it’s my Dad’s stuff that had me struggling today. He did not release me as my mother has. And knowing how important his papers were to him, makes them take on importance to me. Perhaps he didn’t even remember he still had some of them. Perhaps he never expected me to struggle over it like I do. No doubt, if he had thought of it before he died, he would have cleaned the whole place out himself. Yet he did not, so I must find a way to release myself.

Figuring out what matters, what must be saved, even if only for my heart’s sake, is a challenging task. Caring for my parents has been a privilege I have always welcomed, even in it’s most challenging moments. But caring for them has always included THEM. But without them in it, their home that was once alive and full of love, is slowly becoming an empty shell. A museum of memories. I’m learning that memories, even warm and happy ones, can be crippling. It feels strange to long for what was, while simultaneously discarding what is left of it.

Today was a hard day. But not a terrible one. The tears that welled up, helped to clear my vision. I am reminded that loving hard means letting go will also be hard. It’s the cost of loving. My Dad doesn’t care about the stuff he left behind. And I need very little of that stuff to remember him.

Today was a hard day. But it ends with me finding the release I was seeking. And that, makes a hard day, worthwhile.

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change, childhood, comfort, death, Discovery, dying, enlightenment, families, grieving, healing, home, letting go, living and growing, mourning, moving on, new life, struggles

“And even in our sleep….”

Have you ever noticed that when things happen in life…graduations, births, deaths, moving….they never seem to happen one at a time? That’s been true for me, at least.  Big life events are crowded into a small time period, often with more than one big thing happening at once.

Processing gets lost in these times. That’s where sleep comes in – assuming you can sleep. Our dreams take over when our waking days fail us. At night, when all is quiet, our thoughts are exposed while dreaming.

And so it has been for me.

I heard a quote recently, that was new to me. It spoke to this experience of pain exposing itself while we sleep.

The poet Aeschylus said, “And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

And so this season has been just that. Awake, I function.  I laugh.  I enjoy.  I work. In sleep though, that which can no longer be ignored, demands it’s own time.

In sleep, I weep.

The last three months have been so full.  My youngest daughter graduated college. I moved my mother into an assisted living and along with that I have begun the process of dealing with my childhood home. The reality of my mom being gone from my life, some day soon, rests on the horizon. One of my daughter’s will be getting married in less than a year. She will move out and begin a new life. There is plenty to keep me busy.

Looking ahead, In the fall I will begin to work three days a week. I have done two days for the last two years but three feels like a big increase. I will still be caring for my mom…still working….still planning a wedding…still running a household…still being a wife, mom, friend…you get the idea.

But honestly, during the day, I tell myself everyone has to do this kind of stuff, everyone has these experiences….it’s just life. Deal with it. And I do.

But my dreams speak to feelings too deep to express in the light of day. Sadness, weariness, and fear. And loss. Both real and imagined.

Last night’s dream found me in my parent’s house. Lately this is the new backdrop for all my dreams. Realtors were emptying out the house. I had spent two weeks right outside the house, with my mother. I did not want to go inside. But finally I did and I saw that it was almost done. Furniture was being moved out, everything was sold. And I laid down on a grassy area (yes, inside the house!) and sobbed. Curled up into myself, I couldn’t stop sobbing. Realtors tried to talk to me. They offered me already sold pieces of furniture to try and get me to stop crying. I looked at the items but I recognized none of it. I tried to find my childhood bedroom but the entire house was foreign to me. And this made me weep more. Finally, I decided I must stop crying. I stood up, wiped my eyes and left.

Last week’s dream was the same. In their house again but it was Christmas Eve. But not like I remembered Christmas Eve’s to be….this one was complicated, uncomfortable and again, involved crying.

And so it goes.

I know many go through losing parents and perhaps even childhood homes. I know they survive it. But still my heart worries….

I will learn from it. I will get through it and I’m counting on that grace from God that the poet mentioned. And I know that when my mom does die, that my waking world and my sleeping world will merge. The pain will no longer be contained within dreams.

But for now, I’m grateful for the sleeping world as it does its work at opening my heart to the wisdom and grace that change and loss produce. Even in our sleep.

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appreciation, change, clarity and direction, comfort, death, dying, enlightenment, eternal life, families, honesty, hope, letting go, living and growing, Love, mourning, new life, peace, perspective, spiritual growth, struggles

Living in the Valley

I moved to the valley, eleven years ago when my father first got sick.  Six years ago, he died.  I thought at some point after his death I would move out of the valley.  Instead, my mother, after years of caring for my Dad, got sick and my life in the valley continued.

You probably know this valley.  It’s the same one mentioned in Psalm 23….”Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”  Yeah, that valley.

I chose to move here years before I understood where I was moving to.  Back when I was young and had no idea of what it would cost me. I knew I wanted to stay in the same city as my parents.  My plan always was to care for them, when the time came.

The funny thing about moving to the valley is that you don’t necessarily realize you’ve moved until you’ve lived there for a while.  The move is both gradual and sudden.  Your loved one ages and you start to help in little ways.  A sudden illness or injury and you help out a bit as they recover.  What you don’t know at the time, is that sudden injury or illness is starting a chain of events that would have overwhelmed you had you ever realized your address had just changed and there was no moving back any time soon.

We all know what valleys look like.  They are low places, with shadows that hang over on all sides..  And these low places are filled with things most of us try to avoid.  Like fear and death. In the valley, fear takes on a life of it’s own…it has a form and a shape and it looks like death.  The threat of death, is always lurking in the shadows.  And then there’s the bone wearying tiredness and overwhelming and sometimes debilitating sense of loss, along with a need to always be on guard for the next problem.

In the valley you learn to fight.  Against ignorance…your own and others.  You fight against your nightmares, which threaten to become reality.  You fight to do what’s right. You fight against yourself when you want to quit and with others when they want you to quit.  The valley can be an exhausting place.

With all the lows of the valley, one might think it is a place to avoid.  Certainly anyone who chooses to live there can’t be right in the head!

But here’s the thing….there is beauty in the valley.  Beauty you can’t see anywhere else. There’s a beauty in the valley that transcends even what a mountain top view can offer. And the company in the valley is the reason for the view.  Psalm 23….The psalm that talks about walking through the valley of the shadow of death, also gives a promise.  And it’s the promise that provides the beauty.

“Yea,though I walk though the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for YOU are with me…..”.

Early on in the valley, I feared evil.  I was terrified by it.  Death was evil.  It was the enemy that you knew would win in the end, but that you would fight against with all your might.  The exhaustion that comes with fighting an enemy that is guaranteed to win is not only exhausting, it’s foolish.

I was controlled by my fears until I met Submission.   Submitting to the reality of our inability to control when someone dies moves you from a very dark valley, to a new valley where there is beauty and potential….right in front of you, that you are now freed up to see.  Submission is not giving up.  It’s not laying down the fight.  But it is recognizing what you can and can’t control.  Its choosing when and where to fight.  It allows you to see who the real enemy is.

Sometimes the enemy is ourselves…Fear is everywhere in the valley.   Left to our own devices, fear can overtake us.  But when I remember that the Psalm promises….”YOU are with me”...the fear is tamed and in the best moments, it is vanquished.

That YOU it mentions, is the Creator of Heaven and Earth.  I don’t just have a good friend or family member with me…..(though praise God when I do)……I have the God of the Universe with me!  He reminds me that even though I live in the valley, the valley isn’t all there is.  I’m choosing to live here for a time, so that the people I love don’t have to walk through this place alone.  Walking alongside someone who is in the valley, has eternal significance.

God knows how we look at death.  He knows how death and the fear of death motivates our choices.  He knows we need him beside us to walk though this valley.  When we freely and willingly go through the valley so someone else won’t be there alone, we are doing exactly what He has done for us.

And that is what love does.  It comes alongside.  It sits with us in the mess that the end of life can bring.  It is a place filled with loss and sadness.  They grieve and you grieve with them.  You grieve for the pain they feel.  For who they were and what has been lost. Their address has changed since coming to the valley and it makes them disoriented.  You remind them, no matter where they live, whether it’s in a place they’ve always known, or a dark valley or in heaven…they are loved.  You are the physical hands and feet of Jesus as they journey to what’s waiting for them, at the other side.  It’s an opportunity to bring light to the shadows and love to dark places.  And that love, makes it all worthwhile.

So these days, if you’re looking for me, you’ll find me in the valley.  I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, but I won’t regret a moment spent here.  For although the walk is shadowed by death, the path is filled with life and love.

 

 

 

 

 

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appreciation, change, clarity and direction, Discovery, enlightenment, families, inertia, living and growing, perspective

How $25 Changed Me

It seemed so simple at first.  Give each of my (adult) kids and my husband and I, $25 at Christmas time.  $25 with a catch, that is.  We each had to spend it on someone else.  Someone who had a need.   We distributed the $25 on December 1st.  We had 25 days to find a worthy cause to give our money towards.   And we agreed that on Christmas day we would share with each other where we had given the money.

There were no rules, other than you had to see a need and give the $25 away.

Seemed simple enough.

But what I learned through this process was unexpected and transformative.

I thought I would have no trouble giving my $25 away.   I assumed that there is need all around me and that within the first week, the money would be gone.  Instead I discovered that I live a truly insulated life.  That someone with obvious need, is not constantly in front of me, just waiting to be handed money.   I live a comfortable life, surrounded by other people, who even when they struggle, do so, pretty comfortably.

The first couple of weeks went by and I was chill.  I was certain that some type of need would present itself to me.  So I waited.   But nothing appeared.  Sure there was the Salvation Army bell ringers…I ran into them every time I went to the grocery store.  But I already give to them.  I thought about dropping the $25 into the kettle and being done….it’s more than I usually give and I could be done!  But no, it seemed too easy.

By week three, I was really paying attention to the world around me.  I started to accept the idea that I would need to find a cause to donate to instead of a person to hand the money to.  An ad came on TV for the American Cancer Society.  I know too many who have lost the battle to cancer.   This could be a worthy recipient.  But online giving seemed too easy.  So I watched and waited.

During week 4, I saw a program on TV about Yemen.  The children.  The famine.  The heartbreak.  I did more research on Yemen and was reduced to tears.  This was worthy.  But $25 seemed so little.  Ineffective against all they face.  But here’s the irony.   Had I not committed that $25 to give away, I wouldn’t have given anything towards Yemen relief.  Not a penny.  In light of that, I recognized that $25 was pretty good.  It still took me till Christmas Eve day to make my decision.   Yemen would get the $25.

But getting to Yemen, if you will, was a challenging process.   This experience revealed to me how influenced I was by my early years of marriage.  With 5 kids and only my husband’s salary, we were broke.  When you are broke, giving money away isn’t an option.   When we gave, it was usually to a family member in greater need than ourselves.  We were, more often than not, the recipients of people’s generosity.  They saw our need and gave.  We were grateful.  And for that and other reasons, we gave back.  But with no money to give, we gave our time.  And a pattern emerged.   Giving my time became part of the fabric of who I was.  I was generous with my time and gave freely.  Sometimes I gave too much.  But I gave my time because it was what I could offer.

Fast forward 30 years and money isn’t so tight.  There is extra.  Or there could be.   But I still behave like there isn’t.   Extra money gets funneled towards nice things or helping my kids. Until that $25 showed up.   It opened my eyes to the fact that things have changed.   Just being able to hand 8 people $25 and say, “give it away’ is an indication that I am no longer broke.  So what to do with this new insight?

I recognized that giving to family isn’t bad, but perhaps I needed to expand my idea of family.   Those 2 year olds in Yemen, with arms and legs that were pencil thin….my tears were telling me, they are family too.  And I find myself heading into the new year with a broader perspective of need.  A deeper understanding that I could and should do more.  Not just with my time, but with my money too.

As my husband and I gathered with our kids and heard about how they spent their $25, I realized I wasn’t the only one who found the process difficult.  So with anything that is difficult, the only solution is to practice until it becomes easier.   We will be doing this again next year, though we decided Nov. 1st is a better date to start.

In only 25 days, that $25 gave me a fresh perspective.  And it enlarged my heart.  Now that’s time and money well spent!

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appreciation, families, Love, mothers

Mom

I don’t know how to talk about her.   I never have.   My love for her grows up from such a deep place within me that words have always seemed elusive.  Few others matter as much as her.  Still, the words to describe how I feel about her, seem to slip away before I can pin them down.   Perhaps others might feel this as well?  There’s just something about mothers that make them so significant that they evade definition by the sheer magnitude of their importance.

I used to write about my Dad all the time.  Especially when he was alive.  Birthdays, Father’s Day and any other holiday that might require a gift of words.    It was easy to gift him this.  I could write pages about him.   The words flowed easily and often.   He was larger than life.   And he loved the words.  Loved to hear how he was seen.  How he was loved.

My mother asked me once, why I didn’t often write things about her?   She misunderstood it, I think, to mean that she meant less.   But the opposite was true.   She meant so much more, that my heart wouldn’t allow me the words to describe it.   She isn’t larger than life, she is life.

But she’s turning 86 this week.  And I know I can’t avoid it forever.   I don’t want the first words I write about her to be a eulogy.   I want her to KNOW.   So here is what feels like a feeble attempt at describing what she means to me.

I think, perhaps I can explain some of it through who I have become by being loved by her.  If you are my husband, or child and you are sick.   I am there for you.   I will climb mountains, sacrifice both my own health and my sleep, pray deeply and spare no expense…to do all within my power to restore you to health.  I will not think twice about this.   I consider it my greatest honor and my duty to be able to love you.  For when you are hurt I am hurt.   This I learned watching my mother.

Thinking back to the times when I was sick during my childhood, I can still hear my father in the middle of the night, waking up my mother….”Beverly, she’s calling you….”   I never called for him.   Always her.   She knew how to soothe.  How to comfort.   Her hands were always cool and refreshing to a fevered brow.   It seemed she could make me better just by willing it to be so.

When I grew and left home, it took me years of dealing with late night illnesses, before I stopped longing for her presence when I was sick.  It was one of the hardest things to give up when I moved away.

And my mother KNOWS things.   She always has.   Still to this day even.   “Are you alright?” she’ll ask.   I have revealed nothing, yet she knows.   I love that.   It’s an instinct she has.   Cultivated over years of having to read between the lines with her children.  And no matter her age, this instinct is as sharp as ever.

My mother is a part of everything I have become.   When I am like my dad, I am noticed.  But when I am like my mother, I am loved.  People just love her.   She’s the person you bump into in the grocery store and end up telling your life story to.   You don’t know why you did it, she didn’t ask, but something about her openness compels you.  She is a safe place to reveal yourself.   This is part of what always made her a great secret keeper!   I could tell her anything.

The funny thing about my mother is that she doesn’t even grasp how much she is loved.  She struggles with feelings of unworthiness.  Her life long focus has always been so much on others that her world is off kilter when the emphasis is on her. She often thinks people are catering to her out of the goodness of their hearts.   When the truth is they are responding to her in love and with love – a love that is just for her.

I can’t change this about her, but I have tried.  I’ve tried to impress upon her the significance she plays in her children’s lives…but she can’t hold on to it.  She struggles to understand her own great worthiness. Recently she said to me, “Won’t you be so glad when I’m gone?   You’ll have some free time!”   These words hurt, but she doesn’t mean them to.   She hates to impose.  Hates to take.   And she so values me and my time that taking up some of it feels like a tremendous burden to her.

Will I be happier when she’s gone?  Not a chance.   There is not one moment of time that I have spent with her that I would exchange for something else.   And I know, no matter how many more moments I have, there will never be enough time with her.   I will always want more.

I grew up being told by her (repeatedly!!), “You should never hate anyone.”   I was the dramatic child who hated everyone and everything when frustrated.   Her words drove me crazy.   Didn’t she understand, some things deserved to be hated?  But I regularly hear her saying that in my head these days and the older, less drama driven version of myself, recognizes the beauty in what she tried to impress upon me.   She was right.  Little did I know, she was shaping how I see others.

But she has also shaped how I see myself.  I showed her something I wrote the other day.  She read it, smiled and responded with , “You are really something!!”  And when she says it, I believe it.  I feel like something.   Who else on this planet thinks of me and thinks, “She is really something!!” in the way my mother does?  All blinders to my faults, seeing only the good…..when she says it, you know it’s only a part of who you are but she sees the best part.   And it makes you want to be even better.

My mother has always been a kind, gentle soul.  A fierce protector of those she loves.  There have been moments though, where she has had to rise to tough challenges.   Like the time when I was hit by a car at 16.   My leg was shattered.  One bone in a million little pieces and the other coming right out of my leg.   My foot torn up so much that the bones could be seen.  My mother entered the emergency room and the doctor put her to work.  I don’t know where the rest of the staff were that day, but while I lie awake on a table, the doctor and my mother proceed to clean my leg.  It was a slow, painstaking process.   I know I was in agonizing pain but I don’t remember the pain.  What I remember from that moment was my mother.  She was a rock!  She assisted the surgeon, did everything he asked and did it well.  How on earth, did she do it?  I still don’t know.   But the image of the strength she portrayed that day has stayed with me ever since.

Yes, she’s a kind, gentle soul who did whatever she needed to do for those she loved.  I’ve been the beneficiary of that love and devotion my entire life.  So when I’m spending time with her, I’m not thinking about where I might rather be or what else I could be doing.  Instead, I’m thinking….I love this woman.   Every moment with her is a gift.  And it’s a gift I can never get enough of

Happy Birthday Mom.  I love you.

 

 

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families, living and growing

Transforming Love

“It’s been a slow but steady change. Something that bordered on indifference had transformed into investment and caring. An awakening awareness. 6 years ago my Uncle Ed died. His death, which came a year after my Aunt Mary’s death, shattered my father. He was the oldest of 4 siblings. He had lost his youngest brother years ago. But it was the recent death of his brother and sister, that broke him. The man who had always played the role of the big brother had no siblings left to care for and protect. He struggled with the injustice of them going before him. The consummate big brother had lost his purpose.

My Uncle Ed and my Dad had for many years, lived within a 40 mile radius of each other. They got together often, talked on the phone regularly and were deeply invested in each other’s lives. Each had children of their own and tried to get these cousins together on a regular basis.

Some of my siblings developed, early on, deep and lasting relationships with these “Framingham Convery’s” as we called them. My relationship with them was different. There were six Framingham cousins in all. Three of them were quite a bit older than me, closer to my own siblings ages. But I had one cousin a year older than me, one a year younger and one two years younger. And for most of our childhood we had the type of relationship children have when they feel forced to play with one another. I liked them more than I disliked them and as we all got older we came to like each other even more and let our own insecurities go.

But the overall indifference I felt, remained. Until their father died. Having their dads brother as my dad, I knew what they had lost. I understood the impact. Both men were larger than life. Both left a huge vacuum that time and space could not fill. My dad died just over a year after his brother. And my understanding of exactly what their loss felt like, grew.

And as that understanding grew, my indifference began to be transformed into something new. The indifference had not been born out of dislike but rather stemmed from the busyness of life. For our entire lives, our fathers updated us all on each other’s lives. No real investment was necessary. I could listen as my father would recite to me all he had learned about each of my cousins from his latest phone call. I could smile or be sad for them, whichever was appropriate and then go on with my life.

Until there were no more updates to rely on. And these people, this small band of Convery Framingham’s began to grow in importance to me. Why? Because THEY KNEW. They understood the depth of my loss. We had a shared history that I could no longer allow to languish on the sidelines of indifference. Slowly and surely I began to care. Indifference gave way to curiosity. Not a gawking kind of curiosity but the kind that develops as one starts to see the value another holds.

Each year since their dad died, my Framingham cousins have held a fund raiser around St Patrick’s day to raise money for a scholarship in my uncles name. And each year I have gone. Our dads both loved their Irish heritage and the day that allowed them to celebrate it. It’s a warm time and as the years go by, it feels less and less sad and more and more of a tribute to exactly what those two men would have wanted. The tribute goes well beyond the Irish celebrations because the real tribute is the growing relationships. It would have delighted both of them.

This year I noted a change when I went. I always enjoy it and have looked forward to it from its beginning. But this year, I felt something new. I felt at home. Completely relaxed. No pretense. No walls built up from years of indifference. I felt a deep abiding appreciation and a deepening curiosity. These people MATTER! I need to know more about them. I WANT to know about their lives. I feel that I have been given a gift……a gift stemming from the love two brothers had for each other. Finally I was open to it being passed down in a way that transformed my heart. My cousins have experienced this too…I can see it and feel it when I am with them.

I know my dad and my uncle are smiling down at us….glad we finally understand what they knew, all along. These growing relationships reconnect us with a part of ourselves that was lost when our dad’s left this earth. But connecting with each other isn’t just about holding onto to something we have all lost. Its bigger than that. This connecting transforms us. It takes us off the path of indifference and puts us on a path of deep, abiding love. That’s a transformation worth celebrating and a tribute to the special love that began long ago. A love that transforms.

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Love, marriage

Milestones

This week my husband and I celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. I’m proud of this milestone we’ve hit. And I’m grateful that we not only made it to 30 years but that we made it here strong. Intact. Together. Truly happy, together.

Marriage can be hard. Insanely so sometimes. But it’s also the most satisfying thing on the planet when you get it right. And miraculously, overall, we have gotten it right. Which is amazing when you consider we were kids when we met. I was 16 and Scott was 17. A high school junior and senior. One date, led to us going out. And breaking up. And going out. We went out for 3 years and and that was followed by a sometimes rocky, 3 year engagement.

We were strangers when we started dating. And in some ways, we remained strangers for quite some time. Preconceived ideas about how relationships work and who the person is that you are dating can get in the way of truly knowing each other. We started out as opposites and we still have some basic characteristics that are very different from each other. But over the years we have learned to appreciate and value those differences. And in many ways, after 30 years, we have become alike.

Scott discovered Jesus 31 years ago. A year later I joined him on that journey. And for me, it was my marriage that made me open my heart to Christ. I watched Scott pursue this new way of life…I saw him embarking on a journey without me. And I determined I would go too, so we could stay on the same path. Eventually my faith became my own. Real and powerful. But it was my devotion to my marriage that made me take the first step.

Scott and I, always seem to chose the hard thing. We haven’t done it on purpose but its one of the ways that we are alike. We had responsibility even before we had kids, being the house parents to 9 adults with intellectual disabilities for 3 years. Then we bought a house and invited family to stay with us….got a dog, and before we knew it, had kids. Before our first child was 3 months old we were doing foster care for hard to place teens. We decided we wanted me to stay home with the kids- which meant we were broke for years! We took in more family. We took in friends. We had more kids…..and more kids. People routinely told us they ‘didn’t know how we did it” or the less tactful ones told us we were crazy. I guess we were, but we had each other so crazy felt pretty good. Then we decided to homeschool, The craziness continued.

But we made it through it all, pretty happy and content. And I think there are some secrets to our success. One secret is laughter…we crack each other up. We are not afraid to look silly or be silly and this has saved us unnecessary heartache. Heartache is self inflicted when you take yourself too seriously.

We also have always made it a point to do kind things for each other. We go out of our way to try and make each other’s lives more comfortable. We don’t keep score, we just do for each other because the other person is our favorite person on the planet and we want them to feel that. And during those times when we don’t ‘like’ each other very much…we still do it. Because kindness has a way of changing both the giver and the receiver’s hearts.

We have learned to keep our negative thoughts about each other between ourselves. Ok, Scott was always good at this. I was not. But he taught me how my complaining about him to others was hurtful and I listened. It doesn’t mean we don’t tell each other how we feel….we do. But we stop there.

And communication….we make talking – a priority. It hasn’t always been easy. Life is insistent and annoying and constantly wars for our attention. But we fight for time together to connect and share.

We have also learned together, the power of physical touch….even when you want to be mad. Even when you are mad or the other is mad at you. We’ve learned we need to not let walls be built and touch is the perfect way to stop them from growing.

We’ve learned patience. We’ve learned to let each other keep growing, We’ve learned to actually encourage each other to grow.

We’ve learned that neither of us can be everything for the other person. Sometimes it comes close, but most of the time, we need other people in our lives too. Friends, family. Making time for them is important to us. It’s not always easy to juggle this though. 30 years into our marriage and we still long for and need time together to stay balanced and healthy. With many things on our plates – sometimes, something has to give. We try not to let it be our relationship that has to sacrifice. But sometimes, times with friends is exactly what we need.

We’ve learned to forgive each other for not being perfect. For not meeting some unrealistic ideal. And we’ve discovered the importance of forgiving when disappointed. Little disappointments can add up and cause great division, if couples aren’t careful. It has happened to us. But we’ve been fortunate. Over time we saw what was happening and made a choice to forgive. Forgiveness doesnt come easily. Often it has to be fought for. But the battle isnt against our spouse. The true battle is against ourselves and the desire to hold a grudge.

I know I am blessed. People tell me how lucky I am. To still be ‘in’ love, 30 years later. And I am. I look forward to seeing him every day…..when I wake up, when he comes home from work and the moments in between. We haven’t done this marriage thing perfectly. We’ve had our ups and downs, just like most couples have. But we started this journey, determined. Determined to make it together.

I still see my husband as the most interesting person I have ever met. I see his flaws, we know each other’s flaws better than anyone else does. But I have discovered that I love him best when I allow him to be imperfect.

Our shared faith gets big credit in our story. We started our journey without it. And although we knew we wanted to be together, before sharing a faith, our relationship was rocky. So much depended on our abilities to sustain a good attitude and the right thinking. After we came to faith we discovered we now had a foundation to build on. Faith gave us a reason, so much bigger than ourselves and our fickle humanness, to work at loving each other well.

Hey, we still can annoy each other. We can still drive each other crazy and need space from each other. But even those thoughts are more balanced now. It’s ok and actually good to have a little space now and then. It is not a poor reflection on us that we need it. But our willingness to make time for ourselves is a reflection on our greater understanding of the things that ultimately make us stronger.

We realize that many people never get to experience what we have enjoyed. We see the last 30 years as a gift. The good and the bad. The happy times and the struggles. Our lives are so intertwined we can’t imagine them separate. We’ve built something of great value.

We have seen friends struggle in their marriages and we have seen marriages end. We can understand the struggle – it hasn’t been all sunshine and happiness for us. We’ve had regrets. We’ve felt sorrow for some of the choices we’ve made over the years. When our regrets loom large, we remind each other of our successes. We determine together if there are things we can do differently, moving forward, and we strive to encourage each other towards effective change. And we pray….individually and together, remembering that it is our faith that keeps us strong.

As this week leads up to my wedding anniversary on March 6th, I’ll continue reflecting on this 30 year milestone. Our story has been full of great love. And the hard parts have been softened and made bearable by that love. Two imperfect people, choosing to walk together on a journey. Choosing each other. Choosing love.

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