Creature Bug

Because you haven't had enough cuteness this Saturday

I know some of you have already seen this video clip when it got linked on my Facebook profile, but if you're like me, then you miss a lot of whatever goes on on FB.

To that end, I feel obliged to post the video here of Miss Jubilee reciting her latest memory verse, Psalm 139:14.

(video: 29 seconds)

Have you seen such adorableness in all your life? That girl cracks me up.

It's a real mystery as to where she got her dramatic tendencies...*ahem*

On Friends and Kindness

 

{Grandma (center) in 1959}

I don't want it to go unnoticed that I have appreciated the many kind words you have all sent my direction. The emails, the comments, the prayers--to say that I am grateful for the outpouring of kindness doesn't fully capture my heart. But that's what I have for you. Gratefulness. Thank you for thinking of me.

When we moved from Oregon to Washington, we left behind a wonderful support system of friends. I still keep in touch with many of them through their blogs, Facebook updates, and occasional visits, but for obvious reasons I don't get to see them as much as I used to. Nevertheless, through these past few weeks I've never once felt alone in my grief. Your words have been a huge comfort.

Jason and I knew that we'd need to make new friends when we moved here, but we've been a little slow at getting connected with others. Fortunately, we have lots of family nearby so we never feel lonely. Also fortunately, we have some old high school pals that live in Portland.

While plenty of high school friendships go by the wayside after graduation, of all the friendships I was disappointed I hadn't kept up with, my friendship with my best friend Megan was at the top of the list. We kept in touch through college, and she was in my wedding, but after we both entered the workforce then life kind of got in the way and we lost track of each other.

Last spring, thanks to the networking wonders of Facebook, I managed to reconnect with Megan. To tell you the truth, when I saw her friend request waiting in my email inbox, I burst into tears. I hadn't seen Megan in ten years.

We agreed to meet for lunch at the Kennedy School (never a bad place to have lunch, as my Portland friends will agree). Even though it had been ten years, we still knew each other. Which is to say, we were still so much the same as we had always been. We were friends.

We made another lunch date, this time meeting up with another high school friend who was briefly in town.

 

That's Megan in the center (holding her sweet daughter) and our friend Sarah on the far right.

Since last spring, Megan and I have continued to meet up for lunch dates. Our families have gotten together (and hooray! the husbands and children get along splendidly). It's just been so amazing that God answered my prayer for a local friend with the bestest friend I'd ever had.

On the day Grandma passed away, Megan called me to see if I wanted to have lunch the next day. We didn't manage to actually talk to each other, only setting up the lunch date through voice messages. I could tell by the messages that she was just calling just because, not because she had heard about Grandma.

By pure coincidence, Megan called me on the day of my deepest grief.

Except I don't think it wasn't a coincidence. It was an answer to prayer (Or as my aunt would say, "A God thing").

Megan sat next to me at Grandma's funeral. We had lunch again today (at the Kennedy School no less!). I have no doubt that we will not lose track of one another again.

I never presume to know how God works. He works in mysterious ways, and that's all I am certain of. But today I was reminded that people are not in my life accidentally. The comments and emails I've received from so many of you are not accidents. My living near my precious family is not an accident. My reconnecting with Megan was not an accident. Her phone call on the day Grandma died was not an accident.

My grief has been made lighter by my friends who have been intentionally placed in my life.

And that, sweet friends, is nothing short of amazing.

Unsettled

When I got home from school today, I asked Jason if he had heard about the shooting. Yes, he said. His mom told him when he had gone to pick up the girls from school.

"How'd you hear about it?" he asked.

"NPR." I have an 80-minute commute home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There's little world news I don't hear these days.

"NPR?" He was momentarily confused, and we realized we were talking about different things.

I was talking about Fort Hood, of course.

He wasn't, and had confused me talking about shooting with the topics of guns in general.

He was talking about a local school where our friend works--and where Jason subbed a couple weeks ago. A kid brought a loaded gun to school. In his backpack. Which he may or may not have intended to use. (This news report says he wasn't going to use it; our friend says otherwise. Either way there are some serious issues going on at the school.)

Today feels crazy.

I know my grandma--who loved the Army and the life it gave her--would have been so sad about Fort Hood.

I am.

One of her favorite pictures

My grandma enjoyed dolls. She didn't collect them or have lots of them, but she had a couple of very old dolls that she kept for awhile. This photo of her with her dolls was one of her favorites. She loved this picture so much, she had it framed and sitting in her bedroom.

I love this picture...it's so sweet: Those dolls sitting on the chair, my grandma looking like a little doll herself, the snow, the trees (clearly this picture was taken in Minnesota...there are few trees in North Dakota, and none where she lived).

I know Grandma wished she could have stayed a kid a little longer than she did. When she was 14, her dad made her quit school so she could help her mom take care of her six siblings. Her dad also hired her out as a "mother's helper" to other families; he wasn't a cruel man, but they needed the money and she was the oldest. She always resented not being able to finish school like her siblings did.

This picture captured a day when Grandma would have been allowed to be a kid, enjoying her dolls on a winter's day. A fond memory indeed.

Buried

After the funeral, there was a reception. And after the reception, there was the graveside service with just family.

 

The service itself was short. We had all said whatever it was we wanted to say at the funeral. We weren't there to talk.

We were there for some vague feeling of closure.

 

Not everyone thought it was a good idea to witness the burial, but I knew I had to be there. I had to see my grandma buried. I had to put the white rose on the casket, watch my daughters put the rose on the casket. I needed to watch the casket placed in the ground and see the dirt pile up.

The heavy machinery rolled in, dark exhaust fumes temporarily masking the scent of the hundreds of flowers that surrounded us. The workers were exact. Pour the dirt. Move the dirt around. Pour some more dirt. Tap the dirt with the backhoe. I was amazed at how one of the men was able to finesse the machine around with great precision and gentleness. The three (or maybe four?) men were respectful. Someone wondered later if they were acting differently on account of the 40 family members watching them.

No, said the chaplin. He had witnessed hundreds of burials, and those men were always the same. Respectful. Hard working. Good men, he called them.

 

They smoothed the dirt, arranged the headstone, placed the grass. Perhaps even now the lines of the sod have faded away and the grave looks as if it's always been there. Only the shiny "2009" plate will give away the newness of grief that grows with the grass.

Sydney watched the machinery, and she watched the dirt. She didn't say anything.

I held Jules the whole time, and she narrated the process. "The man is pouring dirt on Grandma," she said. "Now she can't play with us."

"No," I said. "She can't play with us."

After a second load of dirt was placed into the grave, Jules was more concerned. "They're covering her up. We need to get a shovel to get Grandma."

I cried until Jules wiped the tears off my cheeks as she said, "You're dripping all over your face, Momma."

The chaplin had told my parents that seeing the burial was important for little kids. If they walk away and the casket is still above ground they wonder what happens next. Will someone take their loved one? Will someone watch over them? Why are we leaving them there?

I didn't want my girls to wonder. I didn't want them to be afraid either. I wanted them to know that Grandma was safe. I can't speak for their experience, but they were okay when we walked away.

Watching the whole burial process was important for me. I couldn't have left my grandma until I knew she was safe. Even though I already know her soul is safe in Heaven, I still had to witness that difficult hour on Friday afternoon. For all that, though, it was awful watching the casket sink into the ground, awful watching the dirt pour in, awful to be there.

We need to get a shovel, Jules had said.

If only it was that easy.

I love you and miss you, Grams. Always.

{Photos from Sarah.}

Uff Da!

Although I wouldn't necessarily characterize Grandma as being silly, she could certainly make us laugh. She got a kick out of singing old jingles and teaching us phrases from her childhood. I remember sitting on the kitchen countertop, eating cookie dough batter from the bowl, watching her make chocolate chip cookies. As I sat there--soonly on my way to getting a sugar induced tummy ache--she'd sing, Buy me a package of Beeman's Pepsin chewing gum, please!

(Until I Googled it just now, I actually thought the words were Beam and Pepsin.)

She'd sing the Coca-Cola jingle. Sing hymns. Sing songs that sounded like nonsense until we were old enough to learn the real words.

Mares eat oats and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid'll eat ivy too, wouldn't you?

If something was outrageous, she'd say, Oh, brother on ice! or Oh, my achin' back! She was rarely sincerely irritated when she said these things unless she was referring to weeds, dogs, or deciduous trees. She had plenty of complaints about those things. But toward us? No. She'd say these funny little phrases to make us laugh.

My grandma taught my sister a nursery rhyme she had learned in grade school. I'm pretty sure I never heard it, but my sister heard it often enough to remember it. While Andrea was home this past week, she taught the rhyme to my girls.

And now they know it.

Here's Sydney: (35 seconds)

And not to be outdone, here's Jules with a mostly accurate (and perhaps slightly more adorable) version: (40 seconds)

Even though my sister recites these poems and phrases pretty regularly, for some reason I don't. Some of the songs I don't even remember until I hear my sister sing them. However, there is one word (or rather, two words) that will be part of my vocabulary for as long as I live:

Uff da.

Uff da!

It's what Norwegian's say as a kind of exclamatory oopsy daisy except it's much more versatile. According to Wikipedia, it's used predominantly by people from Minnesota and North Dakota. Wouldn't you know it. My grandma was born in Minnesota and lived her childhood in North Dakota. Of course she'd say uff da.

I'll always say uff da, and I'm guessing my girls--who are only a quarter Norwegian--will also always say uff da. It's a fabulous little linguistic gift passed down from my Norwegian grandma born in Minnesota and raised in North Dakota.

 

(She's the sweet girl holding the kitty.)

I love you and miss you, Grams. Always.

Week 279 & Week 280

 

From the day I was born my grandma was a huge part of my life. She lived next door, and unless one or the other of us was on vacation, I saw her almost every day for 18 years.

We'd get home from school, and she'd walk over and start fixing us an after-school snack.

We'd get home from school, and we'd find her in the kitchen fixing stew for dinner.

We'd get home from wherever we had been, and she would be there. And when she wasn't at our house, then we'd go over to her house. She'd put rollers in my hair and paint my fingernails. Just about every Saturday of my teen years, she and I went shopping because that's what we loved doing.

When we moved back to the Family Farm this past summer, again I got to see her almost every day. My daughters would often run over to my parents' house--where my grandma lived now--and visit with grandma. And get gum from her. When you're two, getting gum is the best there is, and grandma was definitely the best.

At the funeral last week, my sister told the story of how one of her college friends commented about us being raised by our grandparents. "Well, sort of," my sister had replied. "I have parents." The friend persisted: But weren't your grandparents the ones who raised you? No. Or rather, not exactly. Our parents raised us. And our grandparents were there to help raise us in a different kind of way. Not by disciplining us, but by showering us with endless amounts of attention and love.

Losing my grandma has been the hardest loss I've ever experienced. I feel displaced. Out of sorts. I burst into tears by looking at my clothes organized by color, just like my grandma's closet. I lose track of my thoughts and have taken to writing down ideas on scraps of paper so I don't forget. Even in this short bit of writing here I noticed (before editing it out) that I had written "they lived next door" multiple times, as if that's the piece of information I need to convey the most.

She lived next door.

She was like a parent to me.

And now she is gone, leaving a huge void in my life that I know will be filled up with wonderful memories, but aren't just yet. Right now it's just a void. Right now her bedroom is her room...without her in it.

I'm spending this month writing about my grandma because it's just something I have to do. Writing has always been my way of working through life, and I'm hoping that by writing through this loss I'll find my way again.

I love you and miss you, Grams. Always.

Reading Maps

 

Reading Maps

I reach under my daughter's chin
and gently drum my fingers--
a movement I learned from my grandma
who in doing that would look into my eyes,
smile,
and strum her fingers beneath my grin,
playing a lovely tune.

No matter how old my grandma got
I picture her hands the same:
wrinkled and worn with love,
a map folded so many times
in searching for directions in getting from here to there.

The map on the palm of her hands
gives directions on how to raise four children
moving from place to place, year to year,
following the orders of the military.

Her hands held my mother's hand
as they crossed the Pacific Ocean
on an ocean liner full of sea-sick people
(except my mother)
traveling from Japan to home--
yet another,
in a whole memory of homes.

I smell love on my grandma's hands,
the scent of lavender, of vanilla,
of roses and detergent and baby lotion.
I know no one who can clean like she does,
get laundry as white as she can,
make blankets smell as wonderful as
the smell that I smell in her hands.

I hate to wash the clothes, the blankets,
the towels, the coats, the aprons that she
passes along from her hands to mine
for fear that I will wash away the smell
that carries part of my grandma.

In her left hand I read the path that says
you must be right-handed
you must give up your native language
you must stay home from school at 14
to work
to clean for others
to help raise your six siblings
on this farm in North Dakota.

Studying her right hand I see the roads
that led her from North Dakota
to Oregon California Nevada Japan Hawaii
and finally Washington, the Family Farm,
where she holds me and teaches me the directions
and stories of her handy maps.

I see her hands together
holding her great-granddaughter and rocking her to sleep
holding the pie dough and slapping it into a ball
holding the book she reads to my daughter
holding the bucket of August's blueberries
holding the flag that the soldier gave her
when my grandpa couldn't hold her hand any longer.

She opens her hands, and I see the roads
that lead to faithfulness and love
and all the places I want to go someday.
I press my hands into hers
hoping my palms memorize the paths my grandma took
in getting from there to here.

Originally posted February 23, 2007

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your prayers and kind words. It has been a great comfort to me.

The grief spills over

It seems too awful to be believed.

In fact, I tell myself it isn't true. It can't be true. And yet, this morning my dad called me with a phone call so heartbreakingly similar to one I received just a couple weeks ago.

My grandma--my beloved, beautiful, precious grandma who lived next door to me--passed away unexpectedly this morning.

The funeral is next Friday, where I will sing yet another song, watch another slide show, stand by another plot of grass. The pastor who officiated at Monday's funeral will also officiate at next Friday's funeral. I have lost both my grandmas this month, making October 2009 this worst month ever.

I am filled with so much grief, I can hardly breathe.

Week 278: It was a day of fullness

{All the photographs in this post are from Sarah. She's just amazing with the camera, yes?}

Today I woke up tired. Weary tired. Puffy eyed tired. Wishing I didn't have to teach class tired.

Missing my grandma tired.

Tired. And sad.

And grateful that God gave me a heart capable of loving others.

Yesterday was my grandma's funeral.

 

It was lovely and poignant, and people shared some wonderful memories of Grandma. I sang two hymns, which were compromised by my emotions getting the better of me, but you know. My grandma would have said I sang beautifully anyway.

Even though the day was difficult, it was healing too. Healing to see family, healing to say our prayers, healing to place my grandma's ashes in the ground near her daughter's. It used to unsettle me to experience joy and sorrow within such close proximity to each other. How could I laugh when I was so sad? How could I see beauty through the tears?

I'm not unsettled by it anymore. It is how life is. It is how love is. The heart swings.

Swing in.

  

Swing out.

I've learned a lot over the past several months--months in which I've attended three funerals, lost two grandparents, a beloved dog, a definite plan of life--like my knowledge that life is not all of any one thing. It's a mixed bag, is what it is.

Swing in. Swing out.

I've kind of learned to accept the mixed bag and not make any apologies for my emotions or fight with them. Sure, it might seem like I could take on a bag--I imagine myself wrestling with a brown paper bag trying to rip it to pieces--but honestly, the bag always wins. It's like it's made of Superman's suit.

My heart swings in, swings out, swings in. I breathe in, breathe out. Maybe I reach for that brown paper bag.

No apologies for the tears or the laughter.

No apologies for the anger or the gratefulness.

No apologies for the fullness of life.