Grandma Jim

I'm missing my Grandma Jim today.  No particular reason, other than we would have celebrated her (94th?) birthday this week.  Maybe that's why she has been on my mind more than usual lately.  She was my favorite person;  affectionate, kind, friendly, genuine, happy, loving and just plain adorable.  A registered nurse in her younger days and a hippie, Yoga instructor and massage therapist in her twilight years, she worked through her retirement for travel money. And travel she did through 6 continents and numerous countries. Whether she was exploring Asia, enjoying Australia and New Zealand, hiking Machu Picchu on her 80th birthday, backpacking in Europe, roaming around India or riding camels in the shadow of the Egyptian pyramids, she was optimistic about others and wanted to know as much as she could about the world she inhabited.  I proudly blame her for my travel addiction and love of adventure!

Now don't get me wrong, she wasn't perfect, but she somehow understood me and loved me better than anyone else ever has.  She encouraged me to grow into myself instead of worrying about being who others thought I should be.  She didn't judge me when I went through awkward phases, she just loved me in spite of myself.  I would always be a princess to her.  She actually believed that I was one of the most amazing creatures she had ever known.  She loved me uniquely and without pretense, and she loved me in ways I didn't realize I needed until much later in my life.  That is an amazing feat in this broken world and I only hope I can grow into someone who loves as well as she did.  

Grandma Jim didn't see color or status; she wasn't turned off by mental illness, addiction or blatant flaws.  She just loved people where they were. One of the best flesh and blood examples of how well Jesus loves; He was able to love so many people through her.  Personally she was able to reach a part of me that no one else could.  A very lonely, miserable little girl pretending that life was okay, I desperately needed to know that I could be loved despite the damage that had hammered my heart and soul for so many years.  Now I can look back and see God's footprints all over my life, when I could not see them before. I am overwhelmed with the love and grace extended to me and I want to be the kind of person who lets his love, mercy and grace flow through me instead of greedily withholding it when others disappoint me, speak ill of me or make unfair assumptions and judgments about me.

I am so grateful for the time I had with her, but oh do I wish she were still walking around in the flesh; free as a bird, happy, friendly, funny and more than a little crazy.  Instead her ashes are scattered at the family cabin built by my grandfather and great uncle shortly after they returned from fighting in WWII.  It has been over 10 years since we said goodbye and I'm missing her more now than ever.  I wish I could talk to her, travel the world with her, get a bear hug from her, laugh with her, play Boggle or Tripoley with her and simply let myself feel deeply known and loved again.

I miss you Grandma Jim.  You're always in my heart.

Priceless Scars

• Kayak  $800
• Life jacket  $100
• Cooler  $50
• Drowning and miraculously living to tell about it?  Priceless

My cousin Cole could be the new spokesperson for MasterCard. In mid-September he drowned while kayaking.  No one knows how long he was under the water, but it was too long.  One friend ran for help, the other dragged him from the water while performing CPR.  When he arrived at the hospital he was  unconscious and the prognosis was not good.  We all hoped and prayed that he would survive while we prepared ourselves for the worst.    

It was touch and go for awhile.  He was immediately put in a hypothermic state to slow down the damage to his organs.   When he awoke from his drug-induced coma he was miserable, but managed to display his dry sense of humor before intense abdominal pain led to emergency surgery.  Over a  foot of his colon was removed, likely damaged by the kayak or oars while he was under the water.  He was on dialysis for approximately 6 weeks, but a few weeks ago his kidneys finally began functioning on their own.  The good people at RIOSA confirmed that he had no brain damage and little physical damage.  He doesn't remember the accident but he suffers nightmares nonetheless.  He is healing but is too skinny now, his skin stretching uncomfortably over his formerly muscular, 6'11 frame.  Cole is alive, and our family is unbelievably grateful, but he has scars now. 

We all have scars. I don't know about you, but I am always aware of the wounds that caused mine.  Although they are not physically obvious they've left jagged little marks all over my life, and I've resented them for many years.  Only lately have I begun to realize the limitless value of those ugly marks.  Of course I wish that the wounds had never occurred. I wish there was nothing unsightly marring my desired perfect state, no hideous memories to haunt me.  But the scars remain despite my denial.  Now they are priceless because they remind me that I'm a survivor.  They remind me of valuable lessons and confirm that I have a purpose.  They focus my passion for justice and deepen my faith.  They have become priceless because I have chosen to use them to my advantage instead of living in the bitterness of the original wounds.  They have become priceless because they have shown me the way to peace in the absence of answers.

Every time I see or feel my scars I am aware that I survived for a reason and that I have a purpose.  I pray that every time Cole looks at the jagged marks on his own body he remembers that he survived and was spared for a purpose too.  I pray the same for you.

Circle of Life

Years ago when I was a 9-year-old girl something magical happened. My oldest brother and his wife became the parents of a beautiful baby girl. She was christened Andrea Jane and in that moment I became the most ridiculously proud "child" aunt the world had ever seen.

I bragged and BRAGGED about her to all of my friends. No one else in my clique had yet enjoyed the privilege of being an aunt, and I was obnoxiously vocal about my new role. Not that I got to see her much since she lived 4 hours away and I was just a child myself, but no matter, my title was permanent. When we moved to the same town as my brother and his family I was able to spend more time enjoying the wonders of her toddler hood, and before long we welcomed her baby brother, Tyler into the world. Their adorable faces and amazing spirits captured me and I believed with all of my heart that motherhood was on the horizon for me, and I couldn't wait. Little did I know that the waiting would be bitter and endless.

10 years ago this month I was diagnosed with a condition that makes conceiving children close to impossible and carrying a child to term risky and difficult at best. My case was more severe and the doctor said it was unlikely that I would ever be able to conceive, even with the help of medical science. I was 29 at the time and the news sent me into a tailspin. No one quite understood what I knew in my heart. I would never experience pregnancy. I would never feel the flutter of a new life kicking and wiggling in my womb. I would never gaze with wonder on a child I helped create. Never. I was devastated.

For many years I struggled to live life with the knowledge that my dearest dream would never be fulfilled. I tucked away the disappointment and threw myself into being the best aunt I could be. Each time I held one of my nieces or nephews in my arms I was amazed that I shared DNA with such perfect and amazing creatures. Babies are wondrous with their tiny fingers and toes, gurgles, fragility, scent. And oh how I adore 3-year-olds, and 8-year-olds, and, who am I kidding I adore ALL of them! When they're near it proves to me that even though I'll never know the pure love a mother feels for her child I still have a small part in the circle of life.

Now the circle has expanded. My niece, whom I once held in my own tiny arms now holds her own child. She gave birth to Jonathan a few weeks ago. He is perfect and beautiful, a wonderful combination of his proud mommy and daddy. His arrival made me a great-aunt, and I cried tears of joy when I saw the first photo of him gazing at his daddy. Of course I also cried when I saw him resting peacefully in his granny's arms, and when I saw the real smile on my brother's face as he held his first grandchild.

Andrea, Tyler, Bethany, Cody, Bryce, Kaitlyn, Kyle, Zachary and now Jonathan. All miracles. All amazing. All part of my circle.

Most Embarrassing Moment #2

Ah, the teenage years, full of angst and awkwardness and more excruciatingly embarrassing moments than any one human should have to endure. Things that seem so insignificant to others shape us for a lifetime and leave jagged scars that change how we relate to the world.......oh I kid, oh not really. Okay, perhaps I'm being slightly melodramatic (are you surprised???) but seriously, there are some things that make me cringe even 20+ years later. Especially where horrifically ugly, green, dump trucks are concerned!

You see, my dad had (has?) a knack for picking really ugly vehicles. He could see the "beauty" in them that NO ONE else could see.... Take for instance the aforementioned monstrosity. It was truly hideous. Oh how I wish I could find a photo of it for posterity (the image below is the best I could find on the web), but surely the camera would have broken had we attempted to capture it on film so it lives on only in my family's memory. Of course in my mind it has morphed into THE UGLIEST VEHICLE EVER DRIVEN BY A HUMAN BEING, and yes I know I'm "yelling" in cyberland, I'm still severely traumatized!

Aside from its color this thing had a decaying, wooden bed. And remember those really long stick shifts? Yep, it had one that was at least the length of a yard stick. It also had a VERY short driver (my petite mother) who could barely reach the clutch, which meant the gears would grind - loudly - when she was shifting. Oh and it had a lovely (cough, cough) vinyl (?) bench seat where my brother and I would sit side by side, he in the middle by the freakishly long stick shift, me by the door hoping desperately that I would not slide into him when we turned a corner. And worse still the drivers' side door would pop open at the most inopportune times. It had a mind of its own, staying stubbornly shut when you wanted to open it only to swing open in the middle of a drive down the street when you wanted it closed.....

One day my mom decided that it was high time my brother's cat was "fixed" since we had way too many and did not need anymore. So off we drove, my mom grinding the gears as my brother and I dodged one VERY angry cat who was intermittently sliding around on the vinyl seats, clawing at the door, hissing and hysterically looking for an escape hatch. As if on cue the possessed door unlatched itself and swung open, just as we pulled up to the stoplight......on the main drag......in Conroe, TX.....with the cat hanging onto the door for dear life! My mom was laughing and my brother was trying to coax his cat down from the door and onto his lap. But I on the other hand, HIT THE FLOOR completely mortified that someone might see me, thus ruining my stellar reputation (ha!) but hey I was 15! Things like that matter when you're a kid, and when you're a shy, angst-ridden teenager it's hard to find the humor in that kind of situation. It's funny now, sort of, but you probably won't catch me riding around in a green dump truck unless my life depends on it. I'd rather walk, take the bus, bike or pay for a taxi, heck I'd even consider thumbing it!

And that is why I now suffer from "Dump Truck PTSD". Thanks mom and dad.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia is one of the bittersweet by-products of getting older. Reminiscing about the years gone by; looking back at who I used to be; seeing who I am today; looking forward to who I have yet to become. Sometimes there are tears as I confront the dying dreams of my youth. But usually I find serenity when I start digging in their rubble, because despite pain and disappointment, my life is good, and full, and happy. And for that, I'm grateful.

Last weekend was full of nostalgic digging for me. I felt like I was stuck in a time warp as I was transported to my youth during a reunion concert of one of my favorite artists. Granted, most of the concert-goers were, ahem, "aging", some more gracefully than others, and no one really stood or danced for long, (at least not like they did 20 years ago!) Yet, it was still fun watching the band, swaying to the rhythm, listening (and singing!) every word to songs I've known for 20-25 years. Remembering what they meant to me when most of my life was still stretched out before me. Knowing what they mean now as I approach the middle of my life. Wondering what they will mean when I'm old and gray and spend more of my time remembering than doing. Those 3-minute melodies formed the soundtrack of my youth and they always transport me back in time.

As the last strains of that soundtrack faded I traveled on to Tulsa to attend the wedding of my nephew, a man still in the prime of his life. Youthful, handsome, hopeful. It was moving to watch the man I remember as a little boy embrace his glowing bride. To observe my parents as their pride and joy, my brother, watched his own pride and joy enter a new stage of life. I don't think I've ever seen my brother "beam" as he did on that night. To catch a glimpse of nostalgia as it crossed my sister-in-law's face and momentarily clouded her stunning blue eyes with tears. To sit and know the groom's sister, my niece, as an equal, a fully grown, married woman instead of the girl she once was. It was deeply moving and powerful to watch all of these things with the memories of soccer games, dance recitals, graduations and travels swirling around in my head. How has time passed so quickly?

As nostalgic as I sometimes am for the carefree days of my 20s, other than Laurie moving back, I usually don't ever want things to go back to how they used to be. Too many painful wounds that I'd rather leave alone. So, although I allow myself some nostalgia, I'd rather move forward, learn, grow, live and love. Freely. Openly. Vulnerably. Peacefully. And so I am.