Wedding Watcher

 I watched a wedding today.

It wasn’t on TV, and I wasn’t in a public place. I also wasn’t an invited guest. But I was allowed and encouraged to watch and by that generous action of sharing, I have been blessed today.

But that’s not even the best part of the story, so let me start at the beginning. 

Like many of us, we have been steadily working our way through some home improvement and organizing projects during the pandemic and recently I was looking through some old family photos which happened to include photos of the home commonly considered to be “THE HOME,” for my dad’s side of the family. My dad grew up in that house and my grandparents lived there for 22 years. I was only 2 when they moved out, so I am one of a small handful of grandchildren with no memories of it of my own. However, it was a constant touchstone in our family throughout my life and the numbers that comprise the address (709) have become synonymous in our family with “signs from heaven.” (In fact, I have a long running list of the times those numbers have appeared at meaningful times, which I probably should take the time to write down.) There are a few treasured items in my home that hold special significance because they came from that house. 

You could say the house is almost like a member of our family.

I’ve only been inside the house (when I was old enough to remember it) once and that was because it was between residents and empty when our family happened to be having a family get-together at the house next door, where my aunt and uncle lived for many years. Knowing the house was empty and knowing who the new owner was, my family decided to try to get inside to take a self-guided tour. Naturally, the house was locked up and I can remember the adults discussing how to overcome that obstacle — including, of course, calling the new owner and asking if he might come and unlock it. Instead, my dad decided to try out the method he used to use as a kid when he found himself locked out (or maybe needed to get back inside quietly?) and found the basement window to be exactly as cooperative as it had been in the days they had been co-conspirators. He crawled inside, opened a back door, and we all took a tour. 

By the way- the person who was that new owner still lives there today, and that’s going to be important information in a bit.

That house is a fixture in my life. When we were having second thoughts about whether we could afford to build a home, my dad agreed with our decision and went on to explain that when my grandparents bought 709, they couldn’t afford curtains and so they lived there for a few years with bare windows. I know he was trying to make me feel better about waiting but all I heard was “they couldn’t really afford it either but they took the leap and it became this amazing family home” and a few days later we signed the paperwork to move forward.

That house is a fixture in my life. When it came time to pick out siding and shutter colors for our house, we simply took a drive by 709 and then replicated what we saw there. I don’t even know that we loved the particular colors, but we were in love with the idea that we were building our own version of this iconic place for our children.

That house is a fixture in my life. We planned my dad’s funeral procession route to drive by that house as one final good-bye. The current owner made sure to put out his city flag in tribute.

When I found those photos recently, I took some time to reflect on how funny it is that I can feel so connected to a house that I never really knew. And then I realized the current owner has lived there so long now that it’s probably not right that I don’t think of it as his. I don’t think of it as anyone’s house really. I just think of it as this foundation of family, as if the house exists all of its own. I was feeling bad about that, but now I’m not.

Today, the current owner’s son was married at 709. A friend lives close by and had messaged to say how beautiful the outdoor ceremony setup was and like so many others in town as word spread, I drove by to see. Then I stopped and we sat on my friend’s front porch and watched the busy preparations of people coming and going. It was like watching those scenes in “Father of the Bride” and “Steel Magnolias” in real life. At some point, the owner saw us and made a point to invite us over to see the beautiful table decorations for the outdoor dinner seating up close. It was gorgeous, and it caught my breath to be so physically close to where so much of my family’s history lies buried in the walls.

But it was also wonderful to just feel alive and normal, for a few minutes to forget about the craziness in the world and to just look around and soak in some of the love already floating in the air. Love, hope, excitement — all just there for the taking in. Ah, weddings.

We watched the wedding from the front porch of my friend’s house across the street, with the blessings of the father of the groom. It is not something I ever thought I would do and even as I write it, it sounds crazy, nosy, and certainly kind of tacky. But please believe me, it didn’t feel that way in the minute. I am eternally grateful to him for letting us share in that very special moment for their family, and here’s why. 

It felt like we were part of a community again. It was a sense of connection that we have been so missing in these many months of distancing and lockdown. It truly felt nostalgic, as we realized this must be the way “it used to be,” when the best entertainment possible on a Saturday afternoon could be taken in from a rocking chair on a front porch as your neighbors celebrated some wonderful milestone in life. I imagine it used to be like this more often. 

When I gave birth to our last child at home, neighbors took note when strange cars appeared in our driveway and wondered if the blessed event might be happening. I imagine it used to be that way a lot more, when midwives or doctors suddenly appeared in the driveway as a due date drew near. 

Perhaps it used to be easier to tell when good and bad things were happening to a family in a home, perhaps it used to be easier to tell when they needed a casserole or someone to drop in with a neighborly good wish. Today we lock our doors and close our garages the minute we get home. Truthfully, I suspect this is why social media was so appealing in the beginning, because it gave us that sense of connection again.

But there’s something else. 

I swear to you, I saw that house smiling today. 

That house has been home to maybe half a dozen families. It’s seen some things. Last night I found a picture of my dad, maybe 8 or 9, in shorts and argyle knee socks standing near the steps at the front of that house. Today I watched a beaming bride and groom have their photo taken in that same spot. It was the house that my dad grew up in. It’s the house that groom grew up in. It will likely be the house that countless more generations are shaped in.

That house doesn’t belong to my family, but truthfully it never really did. It doesn’t belong to the current owners either. It will likely outlast us all. 

Yes, its continued existence does depend on those who care for it.

But my existence depended on that home caring for those who lived there.

Thank you, 709. And thank you to the new bride and groom and their family for sharing your moment with us. Thank you for sharing it with the home and for sharing that home with your friends and family.

We need that today. 

I needed that today.

Ten Years

I was in Target trying to do some Christmas shopping a few days ago when this man appeared. 

The first time I saw him, he was asking a sales associate for a video game. The associate pointed out there is a newer game that had just come out (I think assuming if the request for the first game had been made, the recipient might also be happy to get the second) and the man looked, then somewhat gruffly declined, saying he’d better stick to what the text said.

The next time I saw him, he was on his phone. He wasn’t so loud as to be rude, but he was loud enough that it was obvious he simply didn’t care that others could hear him. He was talking to someone about that person’s recent trip to Chicago and kept asking if they had done certain things. “Did you have lunch in the Walnut Room at Marshall Field’s?”

As I listened to him, it began to dawn on me that this could have been my dad. Buying gifts his grandchildren sent text requests for, talking to me on the phone as he walked through a store. Slowly, I felt a familiar panic start to creep in. An urge to run out of the store washed over me, but a few deep breaths did the trick as I mentally talked myself down. “Focus. Christmas shopping. It will be ok.”

Today marks ten years since he died. It feels like a special milestone, like there should be something extra special to mark the occasion this year. After all, ten years is an ENTIRE DECADE. It's almost 1/4 of my lifetime. I feel as if I should have extra special words to share this year, something worthy of the occasion. But I don’t.

Really, today feels a lot like yesterday. Tomorrow, I suspect, will feel much like today. The truth is, the milestone I’ve reached is possibly just one where today feels less obtrusive than in years past. Yes, I’ve felt the familiar dread seeping in but it started later and was less intense than in the past. 

This morning as I woke and remembered what day it was, the word “metamorphosis” popped into my head.

I know what it means, but for the sake of exploring further why it might have come to me, I looked up the definition. 

“A change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one…”

Often, we analogize between death and metamorphosis, particularly if we are of the Christian faith, and we tend to associate it mostly with the person who has died.

But truthfully, those who are still living will go through a metamorphosis too. 

I look around me some days and think about how this life I have now is one my dad wouldn’t recognize. If he somehow came back today, he would see how everything has changed. I have another child. Our house has different furniture. I am a college professor. I finally applied to graduate school.

Our children are ten years older. Ainsley is now a year older than Ethan was when he died. He has four grandchildren who did not get to know him here.

Our city has roads and buildings that didn’t exist when he was here. Even the last house he lived in looks different, having withstood a tornado.

A big part of grieving is that you keep on moving and creating your life and eventually the void you have feels less significant. It’s still there, but you grow accustomed to it. It’s not able to sting as often as it used to because you continue to build a cushion around it. Most days, I can say the words “when my dad died” without skipping a beat. The ache still comes at unexpected times, but much less frequently. 

As I lay in bed reflecting on that word - metamorphosis- today, I wondered- how much of the life I have now would have happened even if he had lived? How much of it has only happened because he died? What if some of the most wonderful things that have happened in the past ten years were only able to be so because his death steered me toward that path? 

Does the caterpillar know what lies on the other side of the cocoon?

I don’t know who the man in Target was buying the video game for, or who he was talking to on the phone. I don’t know what about him exactly triggered a reaction in me except that it was another reminder - not of the things I miss about my dad, but of the things we’re missing out on sharing with him. The next few months will be filled to the brim with milestones he is missing. How I wish he was here to congratulate Ethan on his college acceptances and watch him graduate, to teach Elisabeth how to drive, and to see Aidan start high school. And oh, how he would laugh at Ainsley, considering her the perfect retribution for my own childhood.

I suspect that like the man in Target, my dad would have enjoyed Christmas shopping in his retirement, using lists texted to him by the kids. But ten years ago, we had a different arrangement. My dad used to have me buy the kids’ Christmas gifts for him. He knew it was a gift for everyone- the kids got fun stuff, I got to shop more, (it was fun when they were little) and he didn’t have to mess with it. He really was the consummate deal maker.

When he was hospitalized, I was still valiantly doing his shopping - at first. I had only bought one thing, a sweater set for Elisabeth. I remembered it a few weeks after he died. I never got to wrap it but eventually I did put it in her closet. It’s still here in the house today. It doesn’t even fit Ainsley anymore, but I can’t bear to get rid of it. Sometimes, part of grieving is just learning what to hold on to, and what to let go. It’s a process. A leap of faith, if you will. 

A metamorphosis.

Tell me a Story

(This is the speech I gave to my students on the last day of the semester,
Spring 2018.)

Over the weekend, I attended several "end of year" events and banquets at the high school. At one of them, the teacher read the words of the famous "Wear Sunscreen" essay that has become rather a cultural icon in terms of graduation speeches.

"Your choices are half chance," she read. And immediately, I thought of the best job I've ever had- the one I have right now, the one I got by chance.

Or was it? Because when I think back, there is a pretty sturdy chain of people and events that leads to me teaching Speech at Bradley. I don't think I can quite pinpoint its origin either. It's tempting to say that it all began the day I decided the best way to get over my fear of public speaking would be to try out for the speech team in high school. (Oh, how I miss the naive bravery of youth.)

But recently as I was looking through my Facebook feed, I found a post from earlier this year in which I described how my dad used to joke about my gift of gab saying that I "loved to hear the sound of my own voice" and how I had come to realize that he was only partly right because what I really loved was the sound of *anyone's* voice- so long as it was talking. So I think it started much earlier than I used to think.

The first semester I taught speech at Bradley, I decided that it would be appropriate if I ended class on the last day with a speech of my own. Each subsequent semester, I debated doing it again but then some bit of inspiration would strike me like a lightning bolt and I'd feel compelled. So I guess that by now, it's practically a tradition.

But I admit that while I spend the whole semester pushing and prodding my students not to procrastinate, I am the absolute worst at heeding my own advice. This time though, the problem wasn't coming up with *what* to say. It was figuring out how to tell them everything that has been swimming around in my head for the last week or so.

And if that isn't a perfect metaphor for what it's like to be a teacher at the end of the semester- drowning in the things you still want to impart to your students, I don't know what is.

I suspect it's the same for parents come graduation time, and part of why May is filled with so much personal angst in general.  There is so much "but I still have so much to tell you/show you/ teach you" in the air.

So, back to my speech.

Last week, my sister found a box of my old things in her attic and in there was a diary I started at the age of 14 and completed when I was nearly 16, though I did add a few notes in a few years later during college. I sat down eagerly to read through it but quickly became fairly horrified with that version of myself, who seemed - at best - well, fickle. She displayed a stunning lack of judgment, some questionable character choices, and just showed a different person than I thought I had been. It's not an exaggeration to say it sent me into a bit of a, shall we say, tizzy?

Essentially, the entire journal is about boys and relationships.  And one in particular that stood out and continued to haunt me through the evening, because in among all the stories of the boys who so clearly treated me so very badly was one - yes, just one- who did not. He said lovely things to me and pulled off incredibly romantic gestures (I mean, as romantic as 15-year olds can be really) and while I had kept these memories tucked safely in my heart all these years, there was one big problem; I felt I hadn't been as kind to this boy as I should have been. And despite trying a few times over the past 25 years, I'd never been able to find him.

So of course, I did what any sane person would do- I tried again. When a search on Facebook proved fruitless (I mean really, who isn't on Facebook these days?) I turned to our old friend Google and saw that in fact, this particular boy- sorry, man- had created an account on a reunion website not so long ago. And after some clumsy navigating of the site that had me embarrassed about ever making fun of old people and technology, I was able to send him an e-mail. Well, sort of, because the website made it clear that he would only be able to see it if one of us had paid for a membership and I had not done so. Still- I figured that after all this time, fate would step in if the universe deemed it to be so.

The next morning I woke and grabbed my phone to snooze the alarm and saw the Facebook notification at the top of the screen that I had a friend request from... guess who. I'll spare you the details of the parts where I doubted it was actually him, scanned his page, determined it was him and that I had not been searching for his proper first name all these years (yes, really), and then sat stumped for what to do next. I texted both my husband and my best friend like a silly teenager because really, there's no etiquette book for this stuff is there?

The sunscreen essay advises us to "do one thing that scares you every day." Hitting send on that message definitely qualified.

So to wrap up what has become an example MUCH longer than any I would ever recommend any of my speech students use, I feel blessed that I have been able to reconnect with this person because he is an important part of my story and it's one that was missing some pages. Being able to fill them in is a great gift.

And THAT brings me to my point. (I know, just when you thought it wasn't possible that I was getting to one.) When I think about why we do this- why we insist that college students take a speech class and put them through the process, we sometimes talk about how it will benefit them in their future careers. They'll be so good at giving presentations, we say. They'll be able to pitch proposals and ideas, we say. They'll be able to talk to co-workers and be social. Interpersonal skills.

But I think it's so much more than that. I think it's about telling your story. About speaking up and sharing who you are. It's arguably the most powerful thing you'll learn not just here in college, but in life. And that's a skill you're going to need your entire life because you - and your story- is going to keep changing. Right now, 15-year old you is still pretty fresh in your minds and he or she doesn't seem so bad. Trust me, that will change and if you have written a journal all I can say is, save it - but prepare yourself.

In an effort to try to ease your fears, I joke all the time that we are just giving speeches, we aren't doing surgery. No life and death actions in speech class. But recently a friend told me that high school speech changed her life, saved her life, and shaped who she is and as I started to reflect on that in my own life, I realized that maybe I should stop downplaying it so much.

It's important. Using words as tools to tell your story is important.

That's where the magic in life is. What you're experiencing right now- this place, this school, this season of life- it's magic. And there will be people who cross your path here who may disappear and then reappear 25 years later and as the line in that sunscreen essay says, "the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young."

I didn't attend school here. But the man I told you about? Nope, he didn't go to school here either. He didn't even live in Illinois. I met him through mutual friends, and they met him here. At a camp for speech team kids, that I attended here with him and many others that following summer. That story? It starts here. As does my story with many other people, including now- all of you.

Chance? Maybe not.

Go, tell your stories. They matter.

Thank you Mr. G

I may be one of the last people left still playing "Candy Crush," but I'm pretty faithful about it. It's become a nightly bedtime ritual to use up my allotted "lives" to try to pass yet another level. I don't know that I'm especially good at the game, but I'm diligent.

A lot of the levels I've played lately have this challenge where if you clear enough of the "jelly" of a 3x3 square, a hammer will come down and shatter what's left, thereby jostling every piece of candy on the board into a different position. Sometimes it's jolting because the next match my eye just saw is suddenly knocked out of place and not there anymore. You kind of get used to where the pieces are and then suddenly, they all get knocked around.

The game stays the same, but everything changes in that one moment.

That was exactly what came to my mind early this morning. I was just starting to get moving for the day and with nothing pressing to do on these lazy summer mornings, I often just grab my phone and take a quick look at my Facebook feed before the day starts. I was scrolling through when suddenly I saw a post in which one of my favorite teachers was tagged. My stomach dropped when I realized he hadn't written it. I thought something was wrong and immediately a voice inside my head started to silently scream, "No."

And then I read the words his son had typed - that Mr. Grodjesk had died this morning.

Boom - the hammer hit - and suddenly everything changed and I am grieving a great loss.

Mr. Grodjesk was my science teacher in junior high, for both 7th and 8th grades. I was not particularly strong in science (I mean, I went on to get a college degree in Journalism, need I say more?) but Mr. Grodjesk definitely made it fun. He was always eager to get started, always so passionate about what he was teaching us, and never really willing to let anyone be less than completely engaged. He would do experiments with dry ice that were impressive. One time, he showed us DNA. I don't think any of us really understood what he was so excited about but thinking back on it, he was showing us DNA in junior high science in the late 80's. That seems pretty impressive and the sign of a lifelong learner sharing his passion.

I remember spending extra time in Mr. Grodjesk's lab working on my science project (does the size of the environment affect the growth of a goldfish - yes, for real) and I remember working so hard to get an A and getting within a couple of tenths of a point and him rounding up on my behalf in recognition of the effort I'd put forth. (That's a lesson that several of my own students at Bradley have benefitted from.)

It isn't so much the stories or lessons in class I remember, it's more the way this teacher made me feel.  I'm not even sure I can properly articulate it, he was just one of those rare and wonderful teachers who stays with you over the years and always comes to mind when someone says the words "favorite teachers."

A few years ago, he happened to come to mind one night and so I did what we all do in this day and age- I looked for him on Facebook and sure enough, there he was. We officially reconnected in December of 2014 and in February of 2015 we met one day for coffee. Do you know how amazing it is to grow up and connect with one of your role models like that? I hadn't started teaching yet but I knew I wanted to and I think we talked about that. I know we talked about our families. My dad. His wife and children.

I must have been working on a story for the paper about high school graduates. I remember being struck by some of the difficult life circumstances many of them faced and I think we talked about that. In a message on Messenger he asked me, "Are these students the ________ of our community? If all the students were in a Kaleidoscope. . . what would one see?"

I messaged him on Facebook when I was planning to talk to someone at Bradley about grad school so I could teach (a meeting that fell through) and then again after I (somewhat ironically here) had started teaching at Bradley a few months later. He himself had taught at the college level (after teaching junior high) and he offered to help me navigate the world of academia.

He messaged me while visiting his sister in Carmel Valley because they were watching KSBW and he knew we had worked there. He messaged again around my Spain trip last year, to mention a 101-year old cousin he had there and I promise, had the trip been mine to plan and execute, I would have gone to meet her.

In September of 2016, he wrote that he had been "sidelined, temporarily" with brain lesions and that had slowed down his work as a paramedic. He offered to connect that week to talk about me going to graduate school but I was busy with Marigold Festival work that week. He asked for my e-mail address so he could send me some things, and that is where our chats ended.

In reading the thread on Messenger, there are times the messages seem disjointed. He would see something I had posted and then take a moment to send me a personal note - just a quick thought or words of encouragement. The writings back and forth read like something between two good friends who could pick up and put down the conversation on a whim. How blessed was I.

Mr. G came back into my life as a father figure at a time I really needed one and that, I'm sure, was no accident.

I've always felt that the true gift of a teacher often goes unnoticed. Often by the teacher themselves, sometimes by the students. Because the true gift is the impact teachers can have on their students' lives, the ways they can empower and embolden and enrich without even knowing it has happened.

The way they can linger in the shadows of a person's life story forever.

It is both beautiful and tragic to me to see the many posts of fellow students who share sorrow in the news that we received today. We are all from another time, another chapter in Mr. Grodjesk's life.

How lucky are we that Mr. G was part of our story. I am forever changed because of it, and I am forever changed by his loss.

Thank you, Mr. G.

When the Time is Right

Recently, I read the book “The Last Letter from your Lover” by Jo Jo Moyes. It’s a bit of a haunting story that revolves around missed opportunities for love, largely due to timing.

It reaffirmed for me a theory that my husband and I have long had about that very subject, and how often timing plays a critical - yet unseen - role, until the benefit of hindsight becomes available.

But it’s not just love stories that rely on timing. I think so much in life really does.

And so that brings me to the story of how we added a third car to our family. (Yes, seriously. Bear with me!)

I've been wanting to add a 3rd car to our household ever since we got our 3rd licensed driver, or about 3 months ago now. But the timing wasn't right and - warning - full honest parent mode here - our newly licensed driver hasn't always made the most responsible decisions with that privilege and so, we put it off - er- waited.

Then this week we were faced with what I had feared, a reduction in usable vehicles during an especially busy time (even by our insane standards.) So I looked online at the dealership we love, saw a vehicle that fit our needs, and pretty much decided we were going to buy it and put an end to this. And let me tell you- when I make up my mind on something I've been deliberating on for 3 months, it's going to happen. (Just ask my poor husband!)

So today, we bought a third car. Literally while my car was getting a new battery and new brake pads 100 feet away, (and while my husband was riding a bus to Iowa with the soccer team) I test drove and then signed the papers for that “new to us” car. I shuffled between the service dept. and the finance dept. and probably earned a new level of crazy - er- loyal customer in the 3 hours it took to get all of that done. I mean, when the service department calls to tell you your car is done and you tell them you're just down the hall buying another- yeah, that was my afternoon.

What I have learned in this life is that we need to have good, reliable people we can count on to help us navigate some of the trickier moments. I’m lucky enough to count on my team a good lawyer, a good accountant, a good financial investment advisor, and a good mechanic. All of them have helped me navigate so much and their presence in my life has helped fill some of the void left by my dad. 

Another one of those is Brad May - who has seen us through the "minivan to SUV back to minivan (x3) transitions of our growing family.  We always knew one day he'd help us find the "kid car." - a concept that used to seem so laughably far off in our future. Over the years we have bought six cars from Brad. Yes, six. Once we even bought two at once but that’s another story. Brad has always been to us exactly the kind of salesperson I love- never pushy, taking the time to listen and help us find a vehicle that met our needs and budget, honest, and dependable. He’s treated us exactly the same whether we were buying a brand new car or making an even trade for a different one. The level of ease we’ve always felt with him is a gift.

But today, in the flurry of e-mails back and forth to him as we tried to hammer out some details of this latest purchase, another e-mail came in. This one was sent out to a group and it explained that Brad is leaving the dealership and the area in order to begin a new chapter in his life as his wife's job has them re-locating with the opportunity to also be closer to his adult daughters.

For him, the move is about - you guessed it, timing.

For us, the timing was good because as it turns out, if we had waited even a week longer, it wouldn’t have been Brad who helped us buy this car. In fact, ours might be the last car he sells. 

Maybe it seems silly to feel emotional about that but I suspect if you’re lucky enough to have a “Brad” in your life, you understand. 

And then, there’s more.

I was filling out the finance paperwork when I noticed our loan rate of 7.09%. I smiled and explained to the woman that I suddenly felt very peaceful that we were doing this at the right time, because that was a message from my dad. 709 has long been a “signal” and I don’t believe in coincidences. Then (and I didn't realize the significance of this until later) she asked me what color the car is because it's called "Whistler" and she wasn't sure what that meant?  It didn’t actually hit me until Ethan was looking the car over in the falling darkness and innocently asked, “what color is it?” As I answered, “It’s called Whistler,” I gasped a little. (My dad was famous for his love for whistling.) Oh, and Whistler is basically silver, in case you’re wondering.

So, here I sit. I didn't fully anticipate all the emotions this purchase would bring up in me today. I thought we were making a practical purchase and more than once I've explained how a third vehicle isn't so much for the teenager as it is for us. But I actually had butterflies of anticipation as I drove it home, eager for Ethan to be let in on the secret we'd been keeping. And while on the surface it may seem like just another family who bought their kid a car, the reality is we've had to work hard and shift some things and make some sacrifices to make this happen today and I'm feeling very blessed for the ability to do so. I certainly don’t take it for granted. I wonder if it's how my dad felt when he changed his mind on the "no teenager should have their 'own' car" stance and parked that 1986 Pontiac Sunbird on the driveway for me to find when I got off the bus that February morning of my junior year of high school.  

I wish I could ask him.

I suspect he's already given me the answer.

So- timing. I’m not a patient person (see above re: mind made up/must act now) but I do recognize and appreciate these little lessons when I experience them. Yes, it’s just a car. Of course. I guess. But that doesn’t mean it can’t also be a vehicle (see what I did there?) to convey a little life lesson, complete with a few reassuring signs that the time was right.

Thanks Brad. We’ll miss you. 

Do you ever have one of those moments that seems kind of insignificant at first, then seems to suddenly take on some meaning and then before you know it, your brain is turning it over and over so much that you have to go and write it down just to be able to focus on something else?

No? Just me?

The grocery situation in our house is at code “you’re really just better off going out to eat” and since I was alone for dinner, I stopped at Culver’s while running a few errands tonight. At first I pulled into the drive-thru but then I changed my mind and was going to go somewhere else. Then I changed it again, so I decided to go in and get my food to go. (Yes, this is typical behavior for me and yes, my husband is a saint.) 

I walked in behind two older gentlemen. I’m terrible at guessing ages but the older of the two seemed to be in his 80’s and was walking with a cane. The other man appeared to be his son so for the sake of the story, that’s just how I’ll refer to him from here out. The son was helping his father to walk along and when I saw him struggling to hold the door with one hand and his father with the other, I jumped in and grabbed the door. 

And just like that, it hit me.

I miss the days of taking my grandparents out to eat. Even if it was something as simple as a dinner at Culver’s. 

I continued to watch these two as they ordered and the older gentleman joked with the cashier, pulling a handful of change from his pocket and asking her to find the 17-cents needed for their bill. As I observed all of this, I flashed back to the numerous times I would take my grandma out to eat after driving her to a doctor’s appointment or to the grocery store. It wasn’t easy to manage her and her walker along with a baby and then toddler but I just figured out the multiple steps we needed to get it done and did it. I knew the day would come that I would miss it.

I was right.

When I ordered my food the cashier asked if it was for “here” and I smiled and said, “sure.” Just like that, I decided not to take the food home. I felt compelled to stay.

So I sat several booths behind the two men and pulled out my phone while I waited for my food. Soon, their voices carried over to my direction and I could hear the older man telling a story while his son nodded his head and followed along patiently.

For the last several years of his life, whenever my dad and I would say “good-bye” he would thank me for spending time with him. I always thought that was kind of odd.

I understand it now, after watching the two men at Culver’s share the gift of their time with each other.

And then, it hit me that I will never get to take my elderly father to Culver’s on a Sunday night to have dinner. I will never have the privilege of having him hold on to my arm for support as I lead him to the booth and listen to him talk about the medical things that are ailing him or hear him tell a story I’ve heard dozens of times before. 

You can probably guess what happened next... I turned in to a blubbering mess right there in Culver’s and had to make a hasty exit to retreat to the safety and solitude of my car for a good cry.

I guess you could say I’m not a person who really believes much in chance. I tend to think things happen for a reason and when I’m in the midst of the most complicated or even the most seemingly simple of experiences, I often find myself wondering, “what does this mean? What is the message I’m supposed to be getting here?”

So as I sat and cried in the car while my custard was melting, I searched for the significance of the moment. I never really eat at Culver’s and if I do, I certainly don’t go in and sit in the restaurant by myself. So why had I done all of that tonight?

The gift of time. 

The luxury of growing old.

The reminder that no matter how much we appreciate it and soak it in, we never have enough time with our loved ones.

And suddenly, I knew.

We are on the cusp of a summer family vacation that will include a long road trip. We are a busy family with a hectic schedule and as such, we tend to welcome the slowing down of time that a long drive together brings. So while most people think it sounds awful to drive 18 hours with 4 kids, I am like a kid on Christmas with anticipation for the journey.

But I haven’t had such a great attitude about the drive home. You see, this vacation is going to be spent with my in-laws. They are flying to our destination but decided they’d like to drive home with us instead of flying back.

And I’ll just be blunt: I have not had a good attitude about this “plan.”

To begin with, it just didn’t make sense to my logical loving brain. Our car will seat us all, but just barely and not comfortably. Part of the key to success for long road trips for my kids is that they each have their own corner of the car to retreat to and namely that they not have to be touching each other. With all of us in the car, that won’t be possible.

This plan has meant an entirely new set of logistics for us to work out - now we need a roof top luggage carrier, we’re not sure if we’ll stop along the way or drive straight through (because we potentially have another driver now), and then there is the matter of getting my in-laws to their house, which adds a lot more time to the trip.

And I couldn’t help but wonder if my in-laws had really thought through the ramifications of driving 18+ hours with the 4 grandchildren they had just spent a week with?

I’ve told lots of people about this plan. It’s made for a great story as I made new friends this past weekend and gotten a lot of laughs and good luck wishes. I was trying to adopt a good attitude about it, but I was kind of failing.

I’ll admit it.

But now - message received. It will be ok. It will be precious, special time that my kids will get to spend with their grandparents. Time spent together isn’t always convenient. It rarely happens without effort and even sacrifice. My children may retreat to their rooms and collapse in a frenzied state of relief when we return home and they may be miserable for much of the drive.

But they will always remember the trip, and the time spent together and if we’re very, very lucky - there will be lots of stories they’ll have to tell as a result.

Moving, Moving, Moving

I am not a runner. In fact, I am not an athletic person at all. Growing up, the only sport I really participated in was swimming and really I only did that in the "I swim on the country club's summer swim team mostly so my parents can socialize" kind of way.

I didn't like balls coming at me, or balls that I had to chase (really? what's the point of that?) and so I just avoided most sports completely and willingly accepted myself as "non-athletic."

As a mother with children who are athletic (and of course now I'm also the wife of a soccer coach), I have learned to appreciate sports but still mostly in the "I'm just here to sit on the sidelines and socialize" kind of way.

And I was fine with all of this.

But earlier this summer, a friend who is helping to organize the Pekin to Peoria St. Jude Run (a satellite event to the Memphis to Peoria run) tried to convince me to sign up. At first, I just laughed but she insisted the event isn't about running, it's about raising money. And she insisted anyone - runner or not - would be able to participate. But still, I balked. Too many other things going on this summer. I didn't need one more thing to fill my schedule.

But then I had two friends who unexpectedly found themselves St. Jude parents. One of them was the friend working so hard to convince me to join the run. Another has a 4-year old diagnosed with a brain tumor. In the back of my head, I kept hearing a voice.

"Why are you resisting? So running is hard, so what? It's no harder than what these kids are doing. Don't turn your back from this opportunity. You have something to give, and you have something much larger here to receive. Do it."

So, I signed up. And in the roughly two weeks since I started "training" (boy, do I use that term loosely!) I have racked up about 16 miles. That is approximately twice as many miles as I have run in my entire lifetime prior to this point. (Probably not as exaggerated as you may think. :) )

And guess what? I like running. Or more specifically, I like the way I feel after a run. I like that I have discovered I CAN run, a lot further than I ever imagined - up to 3 miles at a time without stopping so far. I like the quiet time to myself, and I like the camraderie of running with friends.

I do run slowly though. Partly I think because I am such a terrible runner and partly because I have a lot of slower music on my iPhone. I like to pull up the playlist and hit "shuffle" and then get lost in the songs that show up and the meaning they have in my life.

There are a lot of songs on my phone right now that relate to my dad.

Earlier tonight, I was clipping right along in my run... just about to reach the 2-mile mark and only a few blocks from my stopping point. I was doing great, focusing on my breathing, enjoying the spirit lift that comes when you know a good workout is coming to an end.

And then the song on my phone changed and suddenly Josh Groban's "To Where You Are" began to play.

Who can say for certain
Maybe you're still here
I feel you all around me
Your memory, so clear

It's such a beautiful song, and it speaks right to my heart.

And right there, I stopped running and started sobbing. In the middle of the block, right there in the street, sweat pouring down my face amidst the tears. Gut-wrenching, ripping your heart out sobbing.

You see, just before I left for my run tonight, I got a text that my little sister is engaged.

:)

This is GREAT, happy, WONDERFUL news! It's the kind of engagement that makes you say, "finally!" because you've known it was coming for many years now. My dad knew Ben, my dad loved Ben, my dad knew Ben and Tiffany would get married one day.

But now it's happening and my dad isn't here.

And I jump back on the grief roller coaster again.

I felt the same way last May when my other sister graduated from high school. There are certain life events that you just *expect* your parents to be present for. High school graduations, college graduations, and weddings are not out of this realm. Many people take them for granted.

I never did.

With each passing milestone in my life, I thanked God for the presence of my family. My dad started chemotherapy two weeks before my wedding and as he walked me down the aisle, he brushed away hair that was just starting to fall out from his eyes.

But he was there.

I don't have any pictures of myself with my dad at my college graduation (an unfortunate slip-up that still haunts me to this day) and only one of us together at our house before I left for my high school graduation.

But he was there.

And when my first three children were born and I was miscarrying my second baby in the emergency room of the local hospital, my dad was there. The hand holding mine in the photo just after Elisabeth was born (while I braced for a shot for stitches) was my dad's.

Again and again and again, my dad was there. Because he wanted to be.

And I know he'd want to be here for my sisters too. And sometimes, I just get so mad at the unfairness of it all. It's not fair to them, it's not fair to him. It's not fair to my children.

Fly me up to where you are
Beyond the distant star
I wish upon tonight
To see you smile
If only for awhile to know you're there
A breath away not far
To where you are

It's not fair.

Damnit.

And I feel guilty too. Guilty for the experiences I got to have that they won't. Guilty for wanting more. Guilty knowing some people don't ever have the kind of relationship we had with a parent, let alone get to have it for 34 years.

Are you gently sleeping
Here inside my dream
And isn't faith believing
All power can't be seen

As my heart holds you
Just one beat away
I cherish all you gave me everyday
'Cause you are my
Forever love
Watching me from up above

Just yesterday, I was emailing with a friend who lost her father a few weeks ago. As I explained the concept of "grief bursts," I thought about how long it had been since I'd experienced one. They're the sudden, unforseen things that suddenly set you off and they happen when you least expect it. I cried when I heard a stranger whistling at Wal-Mart, but did just fine when my 10-year old son made sure to include his Papa Tebben's birthday on his new planner. Sometimes, the happiest of events are the ones that evoke the strongest, aching longing deep in the soul.

That's how I'm feeling tonight.

Life is moving on. And of course I know my dad is watching and smiling. I know he's even smiling as he watches me, the emotional one, work through and process all of this with excitement, tears, and finally... writing.

I know he'll be there. I suspect he will even make his presence known.

And I know he's proud that we all keep moving. That we all face the challenges in our lives and keep moving, moving, moving, trying new things and not shying away from the things that seem hard.

We all just... keep... running.