It’s Christmas Eve. I have cookies baking in the oven and Toffee cooling on top of the refrigerator, tasks that normally would have been completed weeks ago. Somehow this year was different. Work, busyness, and some issues with my back have consumed the days and weeks usually given to Christmas preparations. Some traditions were sadly neglected this year. 

The exterior lights remain in their boxes in the basement. Instead of platters of Christmas goodies, we will have a couple of selections. Plans for handmade gifts were shelved and replaced with store boughten. I have a list of Christmas blog posts that remain unwritten and unpublished. 

It’s the tension we all experience. We work to make the Christmas celebration special and in doing so, almost lose the real meaning, the real magic. 

Tonight, four of my five children and my son-in-law will sleep under my roof. Tomorrow, my house will be filled with family. Like you, we will open gifts, share meals, laugh, play and probably even take a nap. 

This had been a difficult year for our family. We’ve walked a road we never expected to walk. It’s left us battered and bruised. We’ve experienced fear, hurt, anger, and disappointment. Failure has shouted it’s accusations. 

But as our family gathers, the Christmas preparations I didn’t manage to get done this year will be forgotten. All of the busyness and chaos, the disappointments and failures, the things that threatened to overwhelm us this year, those things that challenged our faith, stole our hope, brought tears to our eyes and forced us to our knees will fade.

We will allow peace, joy, and love to take their place, to bring healing where we’ve hurt and hope where we’ve felt hopeless. And overwhelming gratitude will fill my heart … for precious loved ones and for the one who humbled himself to be born in a manger, the Christ child, Emmanuel, God with Us. The one who knows our brokenness and loves us still. 

May your hearts be filled with hope this Christmas.

“Mom, do we have room for one more?”

In a few days, family and friends will gather at my house and around my table. My mom and I will cook our traditional Thanksgiving favorites, almost exactly the same way we do every year. We rarely deviate from the tried and true recipes that have graced our family’s Thanksgiving table for generations. 

The cranberry relish is the same recipe my great, great grandmother made and I will serve it in the same crystal bowl I’ve served it in for 26 years. The potatoes, eggnog, sweet potatoes and pies will be prepared the same way I’ve done them for all of my adult life, the way my mom did them when I was a child. Every now and then the menu will change slightly, but not often and the changes are rarely drastic. 

Sure, I’ve tried experimenting, but my kids do not want any part of that! The protests were loud and unwavering. They like our traditions. Some have been passed down for generations while other, newer traditions we’ve created together.

Whether new or old, traditions are important. 

Traditions bring us together and give us a sense of belonging, an identity.  There are things we do that are unique to our family. They are a part of who we are and they help to define us. 

Traditions provide a sense of stability and continuity. They unite the generations within a family. Every time I prepare Cranberry Relish I think of my great, great-grandmother who first prepared it. I never knew her, but I feel connected to her all the same. 

Then my mind takes me back to my own childhood. Standing next to my grandmother in her kitchen as she taught me to prepare the relish. She’s been gone for over twenty years now, but every year, as I put cranberries into my food processor she’s right here with me. 

Often, this task is now delegated to one of my daughters. They measure ingredients, add sugar and oranges and all of the things needed to make this a family favorite. They talk and chat. We laugh and tease. In their minds they are making relish but I know it’s so much more. 

In those moments we are connected to something bigger than ourselves, to more than just the here and now. It unites us with the generations who came before and those that will follow. And I think, “Gram, you should see these kids. You’d be proud!” Then I quickly swipe at my eyes, hoping no one noticed. 

Traditions are important. 

They serve as a vehicle for passing down our beliefs and values. 

One such tradition in our family is that of hospitality. It’s never much mattered if it were a holiday or the most ordinary of days. Friends, family and strangers have sat at our tables and shared our food.

More often than not, Sunday afternoon dinners at my Grandparent’s house included a few faces that were not part of our family, and often unfamiliar to me.  I’ve watched my mother and my aunt carry on that tradition. Each of them have prepared numerous meals for countless people. Family. Friends. Acquaintances who find themselves far from family and without a place to spend a holiday. Sometimes, even strangers. 

Time and time again, I’ve watched these selfless women prepare food, change beds, and set out fresh towels for the guests they would receive. I’ve watched my dad and my uncle set up extra tables and chairs then swing the door wide open in welcome. 

And I’ve tried to do the same, simply because I didn’t know any differently. Our family traditions taught me that this is what we do. This is who we are.  We welcome people into our homes. We share in their stories and offer food and friendship, compassion and companionship, and sometimes strangers become friends and friends become family.

Often, I’ve heard my children say that one of the best parts of their childhoods were the guests who regularly sat at our table. People from different cultures, different economic backgrounds, and different traditions. 

This is the practice of hospitality. As one of the truest, purest forms of religion, it’s more than rhetoric and religious dogma. It’s love in action. It’s putting other’s before ourselves. It’s allowing our abundant blessings to bless others.  It’s life and service and connection. And in serving others, we find ourselves deeply changed. 

 

So when my children ask, “Mom, do we have room for one more?” The answer is always and unhesitatingly “YES!”. 

Early this morning, even before the night-time darkness had finally relented, the call came. No school today. Snow day! 

In our home, snow days have always been special, even when we home-schooled. When the snow fell deep enough that neighboring schools were shuttered for the day, we too would take a day off. 

I’d bundle the kids up and help them out the door. 10 minutes later they’d be back, wet and cold. Boots, gloves and wet clothes were shed and left in a pile by the door. Cold, little fingers wrapped around cups of hot chocolate and icy toes were stretched toward the fire burning in the fireplace. 

I’d put their wet clothes in the dryer, knowing it wouldn’t be long before we’d do it all again.  

Later in the afternoon, we’d gather around the fire and play a game or two. We’d play and laugh and I’d try to keep the peace as competitive little souls tried to learn how to lose … and how to win … graciously. 

Last winter we only had one snow day, late in spring. We didn’t know it then, but last winter, dry and warm, was a precursor to the drier summer that would result in massive wildfires across Colorado. Just south of us, the Spring Creek Fire would consume 108,000 acres, (or 170 square miles) and 130 homes making it the 3rd largest fire in Colorado’s history. 

 

Livestock died or were sold as ranchers struggled to find enough grass to fill theirbellies. A line formed at the water station as people were forced to haul water to meet their needs. 

I watched as the water in our creek slowed and eventually dried. A kind neighbor hauled water for our horses and calf while I dealt with a well that was struggling to produce water in these drought conditions. 

Late summer brought rain, and we dared to hope that the drought would lose it’s grip. Even then, we knew that winter would tell the real story. Rain was welcome and needed but only snow, and lots of it, could free us from the drought and it’s destruction.

Today is Halloween. Our little town will close Main Street and kids and adults alike will fill the streets. We call it Halloween Town and it’s a festive, annual tradition. Businesses and homes will offer candy, hot chocolate, cookies and cider. This year the fall decorations will be obscured by snow and winter coats will hide carefully chosen costumes. But, the cold can’t dampen the warmth of a community. People will brave the snow and cold and laugher will echo off of the mountain.

I don’t know if we will get the full 12” of snow predicted by the weather report. And I can’t predict with any certainty whether or not winter will continue to bring the snow we so desperately need. But there’s snow on the mountain and snow in my yard and sometimes, snow is more than just snow. Sometimes snow is hope. 

The house is quiet today. A lazy dog dozes in the corner. A cat stretches and yawns, content her in little patch of sunlight falling across the floor. Sitting alone in the silence, I take this in. I notice the dog hair on the floor in the next room and think I should get the vacuum. I don’t. Instead, I sit and listen for I know that often, silence speaks loudest. 

On Monday morning she called good-by, the door slamming behind her. For the first time, she drove herself to school. Only one more first day of school before this last child too will leave childhood behind, much like the forgotten doll, shoved into the corner of her closet. 

In the silence I remember.  

A box of books arriving from Sonlight Curriculum. Excited kids gathered around while we unpacked the boxes, examining the books and science and art supplies. 

Other days of school. 

Together. Five children and me. Little bodies cuddled up to me on the couch or sprawled across the floor as I read. Reaching the end of that day’s reading and kids begging for just one more chapter. The daughter who, I later learned, would sneak the read-aloud books and read ahead because she just had to know what happened. 

Fresh baked bread in the oven and it’s tantalizing aroma. Science experiments spread over the dining room table. Protests over Latin and why do we really need to learn Latin anyway. Tripping over shoes left in the middle of the hallway. 

Constant talking, laughter and siblings bickering; the music that filled our home in those days. Gone now. Only silence but for the soft snore of the little Border Collie across the room. 

Some days the silence hangs heavy, oppressive. But today, it’s soft and gentle, inviting me to remember. The memories come like a flood. Setting countless tables, braiding hair yet again, folding laundry, peeling another potato. One more bath. Exhaustion at the end of the day. The holy things of life masquerading as the mundane. 

The silence grows loud and insistent. “Remember!” it demands.

 

 

Picking apples together in the fall. Soccer games as the leaves turn gold and red and dance in the autumn sunlight. Sunday afternoons playing the Farm Game. Kids enamored with the soft, yellow baby chicks or a new litter of kittens. Teaching the little ones to pray.  Answering a plethora of questions. Saturday afternoons at Grandma’s pond.

“Alright. I heard you.” I speak into the silence and lose myself in the memories. “But why? Why this insistence on remembering?” 

The answer now soft, barely a whisper, but instinctively I know. 

As the memories flood my mind and fill the room around me, almost tangible in their clarity, thankfulness threatens to overwhelm me and with it a keen awareness of the miraculous that is our lives. 

Thankfulness for the children I’ve been privileged enough to mother, and awe at the miracle that is their very existence. Eternal souls, known and loved before the creation of the earth, entrusted to me. 

Gratefulness for time, for the time we’ve shared, and for those miraculous moments when time stood still. 

Thankfulness for grace, prodigious and vast, covering my multitude of mistakes. Failures that would stand in accusation only to be silenced by the overwhelming miracle that is the essence of grace.

Gratefulness for family and friends and for those experiences that have filled me with hope and joy.  Gratefulness even for those times that have threatened to overwhelm me, that have shaken the very foundations of my faith and finding there a miracle of hope, and life and redemption. 

Remember. Give thanks. Love. Appreciate. Choose joy. Look ahead. Grow. Change. Live! Find the Holy in the Mundane. Search for it if you must. Cherish it! Know that as life changes, and evolves and transitions, the Holy remains. Waiting. Calling. These were the words shouted in the silence.  

Sometimes my creativity is firing on all cylinders. I’m full of ideas and energy. Then there are those times when it’s as elusive as rain in this Colorado drought. That’s where I’ve found myself the past couple of weeks. Ideas wouldn’t come and if they had I would not have had the energy to implement them anyway.

I’m pretty sure I know why.

Anna, Abigail, my dad and I spent the morning cleaning out the horse trailer. This was the 4th of July, Independence Day. I love the 4th. I love what it stands for. I love the history and I love this country. I still believe in the American Dream, still believe that what our forefather’s fought and died for is worthwhile.

But this year was different. This year, though the heat was suffocating, we closed all the windows in the house against the smoke that burned our eyes. This year we watched the sky, orange and eerie with smoke. We worried for those closer to the fire, those whose homes and businesses were being destroyed.

We checked Facebook, and other sites for updates on the Spring fire burning south of us. We read reports of 300 foot high flames  rolling north like a giant tsunami, firefighters powerless against it. We calculated it’s distance to us, and tried to remember what, if any natural defenses existed, then realized the dry the conditions and dry lighting posed an even greater threat.

I talked to the girls about how we would evacuate if needed, where we would go, how we would reconnect if separated, and we put plans in place. Because I’m a planner and because I refuse to go down without a fight, I contemplated plans for saving our home should the fire reach us and I ran my plans by my firefighter brother. I know this is unlikely, but my girls depend on me and I’d rather over prepare unnecessarily than find out too late that I was overly optimistic.

So on the 4th, we cleaned the trailer. It was still full of construction supplies from a renovation. I was hoping to clean out the garage and make some shelving for lumber before tackling that task but the pre-evacuation line was now just a mile or so away from our home. With two horses, a calf, two cats, two dogs and almost 40 chickens, we needed a plan, needed to be prepared. That meant the trailer needs to be ready and available.

When reports came of rain in the fire area, I cried. When the rain reached us, I stood outside and with the rain falling on me, I cried again. Never mind that it lasted less than 5 minutes and wasn’t enough to make mud. It was rain and with it a promise that maybe this drought would not last forever, that someday my creek and pasture might return.

Two weeks ago, we’d celebrated my parent’s 50th anniversary. It had been a full week. Family arrived from out of state. The 30’ x 60’ tent was erected in my backyard. A dance floor was built, lights hung, and food prepared. A old friend agreed to sing, play guitar, be the DJ for special requests and provide sound equipment. The porta-potty was delivered. Invitations had gone out weeks before.

It was perfect. “Like  a scene from Parenthood,” my daughter Katie said. And it was. Nearly 70 friends and family gathered. We ate, danced, sang, and reconnected with some we’d nearly let slip away. At 2 o’clock in the morning, when I finally fell into bed, my heart was happy and full, but my body was exhausted!

The next day, with a houseful of company, I realized my well was having serious issues. Rather than pumping water, it was pumping sand, then it quit pumping all together. I was fairly certain the bottom of the well had caved in, but all of the well guys were busy. With very little snow this past winter and virtually no rain this year, mine wasn’t the only well having issues.

Five days and several hundred dollars later, we had water in the house again. It was a temporary set up, connected to a water tank that needed filled almost daily from 10 miles down the mountain, but we could exist. Two days after that, a well company arrived and confirmed my suspicions. The lower part of the well had collapsed. They were able to make some adjustments and within a couple of hours, the well was working again. Next week, in a effort to avoid further collapse, they will add a new liner to the well and we hope the well will continue producing enough water to carry us through the drought.

Fatigue and stress. 

These two, more than anything else can kill my creativity and I’ve had plenty of both in recent weeks. I was lamenting to my son, that while I’ve accomplished practically nothing since the party, my brother has managed to rip up carpet, remove tile flooring and lay a new floor. Joseph reminded me that dry wells and wild fires are not insignificant events. He’s right, of course.

Sometimes life is stressful and we do get tired. Things outside of our control invade our lives, thwart our plans and steal our energy. Fortunately, this is a temporary situation and I’ve found 5 strategies for re-igniting my creativity. Maybe some of them will work for you too.

1. Rest

Sleep. Be lazy. Putz around the house doing little things or nothing at all. Just rest. It’s fuel for your creative engine.

2.   Read

I’m a reader. I read to keep my mind sharp and challenge my thinking. I read to learn. I read for fun. I read to relax.

So when I’m tired and stressed, reading helps me unwind. I usually reach for one of our old Sonlight Curriculum read-aloud books. Reading out loud to the kids remains among my most cherished memories.  It doesn’t really matter so much what I read as long as it’s light and fun.

3.   Do something completely unrelated

When creative thoughts are difficult to find, it helps to do something completely unrelated. Sit on the porch and watch the hummingbirds. Go to a Demolition Derby, or a movie; anything to disconnect for a minute or five.

4.  Enjoy other’s creativity

I read other’s blogs, flip through magazines, browse Pinterest or watch HGTV. I let other’s creativity inspire my own.

5. Start

After I’ve rested, I just start. Usually, this involves a tape measure. I revisit the space I know I want to tackle. I measure, then re-measure. I might choose a fabric, paint color or flooring. It doesn’t really matter. I just start.

If I’ve allowed myself to rest and disconnect, that’s enough to open the spigot and the creativity starts flowing again. This time the bathroom was the object of my measuring and I can’t wait to get started!

 

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A hot, dry breeze rustles the curtains reminding me that we are in the midst of a severe drought. For a moment this morning, I dared to hope for rain. The sky was gray and overcast. Rain was not in the forecast but sometimes the weather service gets it wrong. “Oh, please let this be one of those times”, I thought.

One step outside, one deep breath and I knew they were not wrong. The heavens were not going to open and give us the rain we so desperately need. Rather, smoke from distant forest fires obscured the sun creating the haze and with it a cruel deception.

Where there should be green grass, there is dirt. Scrawny cattle search for blades of grass to ease their hunger. Crops suffer and with them the families who have given their lives to producing the food that feeds our population as well as much of the world. Farmers and ranchers talk with furrowed brows in worried tones. We need rain. And we humans are powerless to produce it.

The curtains rustle again, drawing my attention back to the woman in front of me. She sits up in bed with her left foot propped up on a stack of pillows. In spite of the pain I know she’s enduring, her face remains beautiful. I listen as she shares her story.

Surround by drought this story is almost incomprehensible. 13 years ago and 1200 miles away Hurricane Katrina wreaked havoc on all in it’s path. Then, like now, we were powerless against it.

Sadie’s story is the story of a mother forced to flee her home as a hurricane threatened her life and those of her children. It’s the story of survival, of resilience, of faith. It’s a story of community, and caring, of generosity and hope.

Before Katrine destroyed New Orleans and Sadie’s home, belongings and business, she owned a cleaning company. For eight years Unlimited Cleaning Services cleaned homes and business. It was hard work but Sadie is a hard worker and she was providing a living for her family.

On Saturday, August 27, 2005, two days before Katrina made landfall, Sadie packed her two children, ages 7 and 14 into her vehicle and commenced the 45 minute drive to Baton Rouge, finally arriving 7 hours later. Motels posted No-Vacancy signs. Gas stations were sold out of fuel, and traffic clogged the roadways.

Finally, Sadie and her children found an available hotel room. That room would become home for the next two months. Simple necessities, like food were hard to come by.

Food stamps were made available but it took a full 24 hours to make it through the line in order to obtain them. Even with the stamps it was difficult to find food and the food they could obtain was cold. Always cold and often military issued pouches. Finally, a church started providing a hot meal once a day.

With two children depending on her, Sadie struggled to survive, all the while worrying and wondering about her older two daughters. They had chosen not to evacuate with Sadie and in the aftermath of the storm, she could not find them. For 30 days she was left to guess at their fate. Finally, she learned they were safe. They’d survived.

Eventually, life in the hotel took on somewhat of a routine. Sadie obtained a job cleaning for the hotel that had become their temporary home. She was grateful for the added money but concerned about the children.

The local schools were overwhelmed and would not allow them to attend. With all of her mother love and determination, she approached a Lutheran private school, knowing full well that she did not have the means to pay the tuition. The school agreed to enroll the kids and to waive the associated costs.

The school then decided to help families, like Sadie’s, relocated and start over, if they desired. After completing the application process, Sadie was chosen for their program. The school identified a location, provided food, gas and hotel rooms for the journey west. That is how Sadie landed in southern Colorado.

Another charitable group arranged for an apartment for the family in their new town. They provided them with much needed winter clothing and filled their cabinets with food.

Furniture Row donated an entire houseful of furniture. They were allowed to choose three bedroom sets, as well as a dining room and living room set.

The Salvation Army learned of Sadie and her family and for three years they provided Christmas and birthday gifts and even paid off the loan on her van.

Fannie Mae allowed her to rent a foreclosed home for a mere $1/month for 18 months. People would see her Louisiana license plates and offer to help.

Little by little, with help and generosity of so many, they began to rebuild their life. Even still, it was hard. When her blood pressure was high enough that she needed to go to the emergency room, she realized that the only person she could list as an emergency contact was several states away. Sometimes the isolation was almost unbearable.

With little formal education Sadie needed a way to provide for her family. Cleaning had started taking it’s toll on her body so she considered other options. She obtained her CNA certificate and began providing in home health services.

In addition to providing an income, this helped ease the feelings of isolation.  And she was good at it! For a time she cared for my aging grandfather. We had used several different people from several different companies, and Sadie was far and away the very best.

In 2009 she began to develop pain in her left foot. Doctors performed a multitude of tests but could not reach consensus on the cause. Eventually, they determined she had rheumatoid arthritis. Though in constant pain, she continued to work and struggled to save, knowing she would eventually need surgery and she wanted to be financially prepared.

Finally, she could no longer stand on the foot and it became apparent that the time had come for the operation. Though she’d saved and prepared, scheduling the surgery took much, much longer than expected, depleting her savings account. Her car was repossessed when she was unable to make her payments, throwing her back into the dreaded isolation.

In addition to the financial burden, we soon realized that she would require 24 hour care for weeks following the surgery. Only one of her children still live in this area and he does not have the means to care for her.

This proud, resourceful, independent woman once again found herself in a desperate situation. She needed the surgery to be able to return to work, but did not know how to survive financially through the procedure and recovery.

There was also the issue of care. Who would care for her during the recovery time? The doctors made it clear that she would not be able to be alone as she would not be able to put any weight on the foot for many weeks.  With no family nearby, Sadie once again felt alone, isolated, and desperate.

My mom had met Sadie several years prior at church. Though sometimes described as bossy, my mother is generous and kind and a woman of action. She cares for people unselfishly and sacrificially when needed. It’s always been that way.

Our home always had a steady flow of people, some friends, some just people in need. She’d feed them, pay a bill, or provide a shoulder to cry on. When she learned of Sadie’s situation, she sprang into action.

Sadie had the surgery last week. It’s a long and painful recovery. The damage was extensive and the foot now contains all sorts of nuts and bolts. She will never have side to side motion again, nor will she be pain-free. The hope is simply that it becomes more manageable so she can return to work.

For now, she’s recovering at my parent’s house and trying to maneuver the painfully, slow process of seeking Social Security and other aid.

As I sat and listened to Sadie this morning she spoke of the day when she will once again be able to get a car, so key to ending the isolation she’s felt. She spoke of the kindness and care of people. “I just want people to know that people are kind. That they really do care,” she said.

But as she recounted her story, there was one theme that I heard repeatedly. Over and over and over again she said, “I am so blessed. I am so blessed.” No bitterness for the home that was lost or the things she’s endured. No hint of victimhood or entitlement. Just thankfulness, a sweet graciousness and a faith, tried as if by fire and found to be pure.

Note: My mom has set up a Go Fund Me page for Sadie. You can find it here.

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The ticking of the wall clock slowly calls me from my sleep. I can feel the sun and hear the birds through the open window. I resist opening my eyes. Something deep in my consciousness shouts that I don’t want to face this day.

Before sleep can return my heart starts racing with feelings of impending doom and all hope of sleep slips away. Slowly, it penetrates my consciousness. This is The Last Day.

Less than two weeks ago, I was in Arizona for my son’s graduation. I smiled, and laughed and celebrated his accomplishments. He’d earned his MBA. I was proud of what he’d accomplished and proud of the man he’s become.

I was relishing the time with him, keenly aware of how rare and precious these times have become. Then my phone rang. It was the first indication that there was tremor in the force, that my world was about to be shaken. Again.

My daughter, Anna, full of excitement and energy declared that she’d decided to get an apartment. She was moving out, just days after I return. What?!? I’d only been gone three days and she was making decisions that would change my life.

I knew this was coming. Eventually. It was inevitable and ultimately good, but like a punch in the stomach it took my breath away and I struggled to stay calm.

We’ve talked about this day, but it was supposed to be that day in the future. Next year, when she’d graduated from college, then she would move. I’ve started purchasing things I thought she’d want when she sets up a home of her own. But I thought I had a year. A year to prepare myself, to figure out how to do this with something that resembles composure. This feels too soon.

Still, here we are. The Last Day. The year of preparation, vanished like the mirage that it was. As I write, she’s still in bed. Soon, she will rise and finish her packing. We’ll load my pick-up with the last of her things. For now, I let her sleep. Her last night at home, in her bed, under my roof. I don’t want it to end. So I tip toe around the house, careful not to make noise that would wake her.

When you talk about the pain of kids leaving home, some will look completely and utterly puzzled. They simply can not understand the sadness. Some celebrate. One couple dropped their last child at college, turned and gave each other high fives. They’d done it. Finished. They’d raised their children. No sadness. No nostalgia. Just joy at a job well done.

I wish I were more like that. I want to be better at this. I want to walk through it with poise, strength and grace. It’s really nothing remarkable, kids leaving home. It’s comes with the territory. Somehow, knowing this does not make it any easier for me.

So I grieve. Where I want poise, I feel panic. When I reach for strength I find weakness. Instead of grace, there are tears.

Perhaps, with time and distance, in a half a dozen years or so, when all of the kids have left and I’ve had time to adjust, to create a new life, a new home, I will have words of wisdom to share. Perhaps, when the loss isn’t so new and the pain so fresh I will have something different to write, something with which to comfort parents who, like me, are smack dab in the middle of this season of life. Perhaps.

But today, I grieve. And the vulnerability feels scary and feels too much like weakness.  I’d prefer to stuff it in a dark corner of my heart, shackled and gagged, silenced and forgotten. I’m more comfortable wearing a mask of strength than this raw, reality of grief.

I’d ignore it if I could, even though I know that only by forcing myself to acknowledge the grief, to look it square in the face and feel it can I know the personal growth that follows.

Someday I will analyze this process of letting go. Today however, I will content myself with making a few observations.

1. It hurts.

For many of us, when our kids leave home, we are filled with grief. Yes, we are proud of our kids. We  know this is inevitable, even right. Of course  we are happy for them. We see their excitement and enthusiasm and we want to rejoice with them. But the thing is, it hurts.

We know that the life we’ve spent decades building is slipping away. It’s changing. We will no longer share the silly little day to day things. We will no longer wash our faces and brush our teeth together as we get ready for bed at night. I won’t hear her car pull into the drive at the predictable times, or jump at the scream from the other room as she encounters a tiny spider. A thousand other simple, seemingly unimportant little things will change, things I used to take for granted.

It’s not that it won’t be good, but it will be different. Gradually, Anna became my friend. For twenty-one years she’s has lived under my roof and I will miss her fiercely. Tonight, when I go to bed and walk past her empty room, I will know a season has passed, never to return.

It hurts.

2. Comparing my sadness to other’s does not help.

I know mothers who have lost children, spouses who have lost wives, parents dealing with addictions and mental illness. I know my situation pales in comparison. I know this. In my head. But my heart, that’s a different story. Reminding myself that someone else’s pain is greater should lessen my mine, but somehow it doesn’t work that way.

3. Their presence lingers.

In her article on empty nests, Susan Bonifant put it like this:

“When the kids leave, they leave that behind – a feel and rhythm in the house that took years to evolve. The sting of empty nest is sharpest when that feel still exists after the activity from which it evolved is over.

Know that it isn’t just a change in what you do and who you see that will move you back to the center. It’s the new feel and rhythm that will grow around you.”

Hmmmm. It’s not something we can just get busy and fix. I’m not good at waiting. I’m a fixer, but this takes time.

It doesn’t happen overnight, nor once and for all. When the first, then the second left the nest, it took time for our family to evolve, to feel normal again, to find a new rhythm. This time is no different and remembering that brings me tremendous comfort.

4. I haven’t lost them. 

The relationships are different, but not lost. They are still my kids. I am still their mom. I can still love them, enjoy them and know them. Every once in a while they might even still need me.

Raising these kids is the single greatest joy, honor and challenge of my life. It utterly astounds me. These children were entrusted to me. Me!!  I was given the magnificent privilege of knowing them, of loving them, and that privilege remains. Love does not have an address.

5. I will be ok.

I’m still a couple of years away from an empty nest. Age has taught me that two years will come and go in the blink of an eye. Tonight I will go to bed keenly aware of the room sitting empty next to mine. One by one the others too will leave.  They will build their own lives and make their own marks on the world.  It will be hard. There will be tears, but I will be ok.

I won’t try to avoid the grieving process. I will allow myself to feel all of the feelings. When the silence becomes loud and oppressive, I’ll listen for the echos of the family that once was.

I’ll breathe deeply. I’ll count my blessings. I’ll reflect on the chapters of our life and family. I’ll rejoice in the family we still have, even though it’s different than it once was. I will find a new rhythm, a new feel and I will be ok. Better than ok.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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It was an impromptu dinner. I’d been working on installing kitchen cabinets at my current project and didn’t realize it was getting close to dinner time. I thought I’d better at least check-in with my girls.

The house I’m working on is located in the mountains. With 20 acres of pasture, pine trees, a canyon and a creek, it’s breathtaking and serene. And the cell service is terrible.

It’s not at all unusual to miss calls or for texts to go undetected. Today was no exception. My mom had texted to say the girls could eat with them and she’d send dinner home for me. She knew I would probably be working late and could use some food.

As it turned out, I needed a plumbing fitting and the hardware store was closed. So I unplugged all of the tools, made sure everything was ready for the carpet installers first thing the next morning and went to join my family for dinner.

My parents live in a quaint little cabin, surrounded by pine trees. Though the towering trees obscure much of their view of the mountain, the air is heavy with the scent of pine. It’s the clean, crisp, piney smell that makes you want to pause, breathe deeply and give thanks that you are alive.

This night, however, I did not take time to stop and breathe. I hurried into the house, drawn by the thought of my mom’s enchiladas and the indistinct voices of my family. They’d started without me. Dark would not descend for another two hours and it never occurred to anyone that I might call it a day before then. They know me, know how I get when pushing to complete a project.

My sweet mom fixed me a plate while I washed up, then I joined my parents and three of my daughters at the table.

I intended to eat, clean up the dishes and then head home. I was tired and a long list of neglected tasked awaited me. But I didn’t do this.

Instead, we laughed that night. Deep, belly laughs that made us double over as tears filled our eyes. We took turns in the massage chair. We ate ice cream. The girls played Xbox with Grandpa. We inspected Grandma’s latest quilt.

We played Tripoli, a card game, meant to be played with chips. But in keeping with our family tradition, we played with pennies. I used to wonder if I was teaching my kids to gamble, but I’ve learned to lighten up. As a child, sitting next to my Gramps and serving as his banker, I learned to play the game. Gathered around a table, talking, laughing, teasing. Always teasing.

These are the threads, woven together that form the fabric of our family, creating something that is at once strong and yet soft and warm, something we can wrap around us, for protection, for comfort. It’s both cozy and fun.

The Dutch have a word for this. Gezillig. (Pronouned He-zell-ick) It’s widely considered to be untranslatable. In English, we simply do not have an equivalent word. Even descriptions somehow fall short. Perhaps the closest word in our language would be “cozy”. But even that can’t capture the essence.

The evening spent with my family was certainly “gezellig”. It was cozy, comforting, homey and imparted a general sense of well being. Gezellig can also mean “fun”. In that sense too, our evening was gezellig. It can mean quaint, friendly, or nice. It connotes togetherness. People, places and situations can all be described as gezellig.

It’s an inviting fire in the fireplace, good food and good conversation around a table. It’s lying in the bed of a pick-up truck looking at the vast array of stars, or holding a new born baby. It’s an inviting living room or restaurant. It can be a party, with laughter and dancing. A wedding. The most ordinary of places, even cold, stark places can be made gezellig by the people who share it. It’s another form of beauty.

I am certainly not a linguist, and my Dutch friends might think I’ve got it all wrong, but it seems to me that gezellig describes the feelings evoked by a person, place or situation more than it describes the actual things. It’s feelings of contentment, comfort, home, safety, fun, joy, and belonging.

Maybe defining “gezellig” isn’t really the important thing. Maybe finding it, making room for it, creating it is; silencing the tyranny of the urgent, both externally in our schedules, and internally in our souls.

For some, this may come easy. But for others, like me, it requires intention. It takes discipline. Gezellig isn’t found in the busy and driven nor in our “to-do” lists or the tasks that demand our attention.

I hear your protests. They roll off of my own lips too. I know the dishes need done, laundry needs folded, bills need paid. I see the dust on the buffet. And these things would define my life if I let them.

But life is fleeting. One day, my parents will no longer be with us. The girls, those still at home, may choose to make their lives elsewhere. Impromptu dinners and game nights at Grandma’s house will be but a distant memory and times together might be reduced to a few vacation days once or twice a year.

In those days, when I recall the distant days of my life, I am confident that I won’t remember the laundry that should have been done, or the door knob that needed fixed. No, the memories that last will be gezellig. Time spent with family or friends, eating, laughing, sharing, playing. I will see those faces and hear those voices once again. I will be thankful that I made time and space for these gezellig moments.