Grandma

I’ve been sitting on this post.   I’ve been afraid that what I want to share isn’t quite eloquent and beautiful enough. I’ve decided that I’ll just let it be what it is.

I press forward with working, preparing to move, busy house projects and marriage stress.  I even continue to blog about the progress on our house and family adventures and close calls.  (Do you realize that in the past two months we have had two ambulance calls to our house and one rushed trip to the ER?) .

But it’s time for me to take a step back from all the craziness and acknowledge that my grandma passed away a couple weeks ago.  Yes, my most loyal blog fan has died.

Somewhere near the middle of July I pretty much abandoned the blog, but Grandma is the one who motivated me to get back online and update it so that she could check in on me and my family while she was in the hospital. 

Many might see a blog as an impersonal way to stay in touch, but I think that it served as a connection that kept my grandma close to my life’s adventures and my inner-workings.  I would hear second-hand that she was shocked about something I wrote, or hear that she was asking other family members if they had read my latest post. 

The result, I think, is that my grandma probably knew me pretty well, even though we didn’t see each other or speak very often.  We had occasional email and photo exchanges, and she sent a fair amount of lovey dovey angel and teddy bear forwards. 

I am sure of her affection for me.

I feel lucky that I was able to take enough time away from house projects to go and visit her this fall–once when she was first brought to the hospital and once after she was moved to hospice care.  I brought my guitar and sang some seemingly random songs (that were actually chosen quite strategically) with a prayer in my heart to be a conduit of the spirit for her.

God, I love to sing.  It physically feels so good and right.  I smile and close my eyes and and sometimes can’t believe that it’s my flesh moving the air and creating the sound.  It feels like someone else has taken control of my head, heart, throat and lungs and breathed something clear and true out of them. 

When I sang Schubert’s Ave Maria at a funeral for my husband’s great aunt several years ago, I hardly had to open my mouth and the most beautiful and big sound echoed from little me.  Spirit took hold and played me like an instrument.  It left me warm, bright-cheeked and feeling humble. 

Last night I got my guitar out and started jammin’ on the song that came together the last day I saw my grandma alive.  The song had the bones of  a chorus before that day, but hardly a real verse.  And when I sat down to play it for her, it clicked. 

My sister Becca and I sang it at her funeral last week.  Becca added some beautiful harmony and suggestions for pacing and an ending.  It turned out so lovely, and it feels wonderful to sing.

My little J. told me last night that it was good music for jumping.  He was jumping from the couch to the bean bag chair and running laps around the kitchen.  As we set the table for dinner, I was still singing it and when I stopped, two of my girls kept singing the chorus without me. 

I think they actually really like the song.  It made my heart smile.

 

Pray Our Way to the Other Side

 

Hanging on, my friend

This can’t be the end

The path isn’t straight

If we lose sight along the way

 

Let’s pray our way to the other side

Asking forgiveness on the way to the other side

Let’s pray our way to the other side

Learning to trust on our way, on our way

We’re on our way to that other side

 

All the love we have to give

Come to me you say

And together, we’ll pray

On our knees

Hands to the sky

Grace and healing freeing you and me from the lie

We can can trust in Him

To lead us there

 

Let’s pray our way

To the other side

And it won’t be the end

————————

A song was born, Grandma made it to the other side, and each of my blog posts will permanently be missing one loving visitor.

Memorable Memorial Weekend

I ended my Memorial weekend feeling absolutely blessed.  Blessed by fabulous friendships and by God’s amazing and humbling synchronicity at work as we charge ahead. 

• We have bartered a wood stove for window installation (and are getting the windows at a deep discount besides!). 
• The labor for our roof tear off and installation is being donated.  
• The application for a permit for our driveway has  been approved, mostly because of who we know. 
• The labor for our stairway installation is being donated. 

Each one of these items has a long involved story to explain how they came about.  The point of all of it is so clear:  We are being blessed!

I also have to interject a few words about partnership and marriage.  I have felt for a long time that this project is one giant metaphor for me and Sean and us taking time and energy to rebuild our life together.  Moving forward prayerfully and intentionally.  Establishing new financial habits.  Being kind and respectful partners with a common goal: a safe, functional, spirit-filled home for our family.  Few goals are so worthy!!

With that said, we were blessed this past weekend with a visit from the Malveys, who maintain a permanent spot on our list of our favorite people in the entire world. 

I get giddy when we have plans to visit and our time together is never enough.   Thanks for your help with everything this past weekend Malveys!  I have a few more pictures I didn’t manage to get resized last night with this round, so keep an eye out for another round of Memorial Day shots! 

Sean, Craig, Me and Lori hanging out on the stoop:

 

 

 

The ceiling above the stairs… or where the stairs USED to be! 

 

My new favorite picture.

In the interest of preserving our lawnmower blades, we had a contest to see who could pick up the most sticks out of the yard.  Complete with cheesy prizes!  (Photos forthcoming.) 

The kids formed alliances, in true reality TV style.  J and L formed a team:

Against J, C, W, and A.  Forces to be reckoned with for sure!

After a Saturday full of destruction and a Sunday full of mud and tape, the tile floor is installed at last… the plan is to apply grout this coming weekend.  My knees and back will live a happy and complete life if I never install tile again.

Authenticity (and Humility)

When did I become an underachiever?

Once upon a time I was going to write books and make art and be a rock star and save the environment and bring about world peace.

At the very least, this time last year I was attending informational sessions on getting a Master’s degree in education to go teach art.  Now I work at a soybean seed plant. 

I can’t decide if I’m actually cynical about this or if there’s a truly beautiful lesson about authenticity (and humility) hiding in the story. 

Fifteen years ago: I was one of the smartest kids in school.  Ten years ago: I was a funny and creative mom who wrote and illustrated books starring my kids (just for fun).  Five years ago: I took on organizing and directing a praise & worship group at church. 

Being an overachiever has its rewards.   I’ve always been a positive feedback junkie and there were plenty of good grades and compliments and affirmations to keep me feeling great about myself.

And then my faith began to deepen and I began to wonder if earthly approval is really all that special.  What a mess THAT created for a junkie like me, addicted to the quick fix of hearing that I’m smart or special or talented.

Now I wonder about my reasons for doing ANYTHING.  I wonder if my actions reflect the real me or if I’m still chasing affirmations. Who is the ‘real me,’ anyway?

In the doubt about who I am, it doesn’t take much to summon up the old fashioned desire to be liked and respected and I find myself dancing around and putting on whatever color people want.

The more I dance around and change colors, the further from authenticity I travel. 

And watch it spiral from there, because I recognize what I’m doing, and it pisses me off.  And the more pissed off at myself I become, the harder it is to believe what God wants me to hear: that I’m loved, no matter what I do.  That I’m beautiful because He made me.

Does God give a shit about my artistic achievements? 

I think He cares more about what’s in my heart than my list of earthly successes. 

And perhaps a heart that works at a bean plant is easier to keep humble than a heart that is all hopped up on compliments about creative brilliance.

Of course, that assumes my creative work would ellicit such a response.

Sigh.

I guess I won’t count humility on my list of achievements.