When Helping Hurts

A few years ago I heard about a book titled the same as this blog post, and I remember thinking, "what a stupid title for a book!" I mean, how does helping hurt? Who does it hurt? Who is being helped? Who is helping? Well, turns out the authors wrote about how to help  alleviate poverty without hurting the poor, all from a Christian perspective. Never read it myself--I am not in missions or dedicated to alleviating poverty, so it never appealed to me. However, when I sat down tonight to blog more about the situation in which I am embroiled right now the words "when helping hurts" seem to be the perfect intro.

Everyone needs help, whether they want to admit it, ask for it, accept it, or not. When I was growing up the radio was filled with songs about it: Simon and Garfunkel built a Bridge over Troubled Water, the Beatles could always Get by with a Little Help from their friends, Bill Withers told us to Lean on Me , Louis Armstrong croaked about What a Wonderful World we live in, and Carole King assured us You've Got a Friend.  (Yes, I am dating myself with those references, and I am sure there are more current ones...but I am comfy with the oldies but goodies.) 

Not only will everyone need help with something or someone at some time, but most of us in the human race want to help, especially those we love, the less fortunate, victims of disasters. Most of the time we offer our help sparingly, rationing out whatever resources (time, advice, money, energy, shelter, physical needs, etc.) we can give without hurting ourselves, and then go back to living our lives. 

But what about when someone needs more help than that? More than the clothes I outgrew, extra canned goods from the pantry, a couple hours a week, or a few dollars I would have spent on some silly Amazon purchase? What if someone needs all of me? What if I have to completely shift my focus, redefine what is important to my life, rethink my goals, and retool the vision of my foreseeable future? What then? How do I put the brakes on my life, my wants, my vision, and my (yes) selfish, comfortable habits and reroute my life without resentment, grief, anger or pain? And, more importantly, how am I going to hide all those feelings from the person(s) I am helping? 

When helping hurts. 

Lamenting and grieving...both are intertwined with any changes we make, buit especially with sacrificing oneself for another. To not recognize how essential and natural grief is would be pointless, creating resentment or providing ineffective, inadequate help. Helping by sacrificing ourselves, our wants, our needs, our dreams, does hurt, and to deny it is just plain stupid and hurtful to ourselves; it would be like telling people at a funeral to not cry, or to dismiss the sadness a friend feels when he does not get the job he wanted. So I count my blessings, yes, but I also count my griefs, my losses, my sadness, and ask God to help me give them to Him to relieve--because God knows. We have no farther to look than the cross, the place on Golgotha where God sacrificed His only Son to help us to realize how much that helping hurt God, Jesus, and those around him that day.

Not only does helping hurt the helper. Helping often hurts the person being helped: guilt, shame, embarassment, depression, a sense of failure, anger...all of these emotions bubble up to the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest hint of an offer of unsolicited help, even help that is desperately needed and sincerely wanted. If you have ever been the recipient of a truly heartfelt, selfless act or gift, you know what I mean. We want the help, we know we need that help, we appreciate the help, but damnit we would much rather be the master of our own ship, and do everything ourselves with no help unless we ask for it, and then only from those who have no problems themselves (ha!). It boils down to pride. Simple human pride and our obsession with wanting to be in control. Accepting help takes away the control, bruises our pride. 

When helping hurts. 

What am I learning through this season? That sacrifice is hard, helping unconditionally ain't easy, and I am not as magnanimously unselfish as I would like to think I am. Change is hard, I am stubborn, and I still have a few idols in my life. When someone I love hurts, helping her hurts us both. We both need help from above to resolve it by giving it to Him.  That is the hard part...giving up the grief, the hurt, and the loss. Humbling--the more I grow, the more I realize how prideful I can be, and how often I try to tell God how this "helping thing" should look.  

Just celebrated my 70th birthday, too...you'd think I would know better by now. 

"And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it." (Luke 9:23-24)

Dealing with the unexpected

Life. It throws all kinds of things at us--good, bad, horrible, wonderful. Does not matter who you are, where you live, your age or your income, life will sneak up on you and take your breath away. At times you may be amazed and excited and can barely speak because of the blessings. But other times, you get dealt such a horrible blow, it knocks the breath right out of you like a punch in the gut, or like an elephant sitting on your chest. Everything seems okay, something happens and you think you are handling it, that it will all come together, when BAM! Life turns completely upside down, your world is on the brink of collapse, and you have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Your situation is hopeless, you are lost, there is nothing you can do. Even Christians with strong faith get sucked into the pit of despair. 

The past 18 months have been a test of our mettle, stretching our faith to its absolute limit. And right now, I am having trouble holding on. And lost as to what to do, how to help, unable to wrap my head around this. This new family crisis threatens to crush all of us.

Our son-in-law, husband of our daughter, father of little Sophie, is in the Navy. He has been stationed out west on an unaccompanied tour for nearly two years while his family is in Mississippi. Last year he thumbed his nose at some Navy regulations, covered it up, and when he was discovered, tried to delay the inevitable punishment by committing a crime. A crime of which he thought he could manage the consequences, but it got worse. He got caught, and has been on administrative hold for nine months and faced a court-martial this week. We could not do anthying to fix it, to mitigate it, other than be with him this past weekend, testify on his behalf, and then wait for the outcome. 

That outcome came this evening. His sentence: 12 months confinement, reduction in grade (rank) from E-7 to E-4, and a fine of over $30,000. Although we were prepared for it, and though we knew it could have been worse, that news has knocked the breath out of us, especially his wife. The financial burden is cataclysmic, let alone the shame, embarrassment, and anger over his actions and its consequences. The impact on their marriage, their relationship will be huge, and can only be healed with time and lots of talking. And prayer. 

We knew 9 months ago this day was coming, and struggled with the decision of how to help, how to be there for our daughter who now had to get a job, find healthcare and benefits for her and her daughter, and rethink her entire life. We thought about the issues she would face, and face alone. We knew what we had to do; we simply did not want to do it. Not now. Not in retirement. 

Then we remembered we are only here for the blink of an eye, a moment in time; we are here to help others, especially those whom God has given us to love and raise. So we are buying a house in Mississippi, four minutes from our daughter, so we can go back and forth and help wherever we can--childcare, daily chores, home maintenance, finances, and most of all, to be the light to lead her out of the darkness of this horrible situation.  

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth give way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling." (Psalm 46:1-3 ESV)

Mother’s Day revisited

Today is Mother’s Day. At least for another 118 minutes here on the West Coast. I’m spending Mother’s Day this year in Bremerton, Washington, with my husband and son-in-law. We had coffee at a nice little cafe, then lunch at an Indian restaurant. When I couldn’t get a contact lens out of my eye I asked them to drop me off at an urgent care (where I was able to remove it), then took a short nap while the guys explored the area. Later I enjoyed a margarita and queso dip with chips while the boys ate good Mexican food in downtown Bremerton. Good margarita too. 

But I’m not here to eat food or sightsee. Not here to shoot the shit about life in the military. My son in law, the husband of my youngest daughter and father to Sophie, faces the fight of his life in two days. Alex and I are here to support him, to go through this with him, to love him and let him know we are here for him. 

Mother’s Day. In Britain it’s called Mothering Sunday. And mothering is a bigger calling than nurturing our own children. It’s about recognizing those who need nurturing and support. Filling in for mothers who cannot be there even though every fiber of their beings ache to be. I’m here for Ben’s mom today. Because she cannot be. 

On being a stepmom

What I wish I had known before becoming a stepmom:

1. Step-parenting is not natural. It is common. But it is not natural. Establish good boundaries and get your husband on the same page. Talk often about concerns and fears and misgivings. Stepdads are cool and fun. Stepmoms are, by definition, uncool and no fun. Ask Disney.
2. Be their friend before you are their mom--your stepchild is confused and scared, and in their eyes it is your fault Daddy doesn't live with them anymore. At best your stepchild will be ambivalent about your marriage.
3. Blended families do not exist. Blending implies smoothness. It's more like a chopped salad. With nuts. If your stepchild does not live with you full time it is much harder than if they do and working out summer visitations is a logistical nightmare even FEDEX would struggle with.
4. No two families raise their children the same way, and if you are the stepmom,  your way is wrong. You cannot fix what you did not break but you will be blamed for breaking it. Your rules and values in raising your own kids will be different than those of your stepchild's mom. Funny thing? If you are easier on your stepchild you will be told you don't care about them, but if you treat them the same as your own children you are too strict and don't love them.
5. Your husband will take his child's side when you least expect it and your husband may have a closer bond with his child than with you. You will argue with him about parenting, so just take a step back and let Dad handle things with his child. 
6. Just assume it is always the stepmom's fault. You will feel guilty for not doing enough, you will be told, "You are not my mom!"; things you say will be misconstrued, you'll be resented, and your stepchild will break your heart--often. Accept it. The emotions will drain you--buckle up; find other stepmoms to talk to. And drink wine. Prozac helps too.
7. Stepmoms do all the things real moms do. Without the credit, and you can do all the mom things but still not be on the emergency contact list. No matter what you do, you will not be appreciated. 
8. You have to try harder with a stepchild than with your own child. You will not love them the same as your own children. But you are not allowed to say that out loud.
9. A mom can say she needs a break from her kids without being judged, but if a mom complains about her stepchild she will be judged. And if you give your husband time alone with his kids you will be blamed for not caring.
10. You will have no control over a lot of things in the relationship. Actually, you have no control. Period. Forgive yourself. Daily. And remember, there is no right or wrong way to stepparent.

Bottom line: Don't lose yourself or your faith in the process.

  

Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future 

Reminiscing

After my parents divorced in 1964, we visited Dad every other weekend (when mom would let us) and for two glorious weeks each summer. Those summer vacations were a welcome escape from a less than pleasant childhood, and some of my most precious memories. Every summer Dad would drive all five of us kids to Florida for two weeks of sun and tourist traps and sunburns and cheap hotels (all named the Pelican or the Sand Dollar or the Seafarer or the like), and each year we’d end up in a different city.  

One year it was Treasure Island, where we visited the Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg (formed by one of the huge sinkholes that frequently plague south central Florida.) We saw the replicas of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, and attended a great dolphin show at the local outdoor aquarium where trained porpoises jumped over bars and leapt high in the air to grab fish out of trainers’ mouths, and seals thrilled audiences with their comical belly slides and rollovers and flapping of flippers. We went to Busch Gardens and sampled beer when Anheiser Busch was still American owned,  and attended a  bird show, watching in wonder as trained parrots, cockatiels, and parakeets slid down slides and pushed tiny wheelbarrows around a stage, and beautiful pink flamingos stood on one leg and peacocks showed off their magnificent fantails.  Another year we visited St Augustine, where Dad made sure he took us to every single, historical building: the oldest school, church, jail, courthouse, fort, etc, making sure to take movies at each one.  Dad’s penchant for taking a movie of the historical signs, moving the camera back  and forth as if the camera was “reading” the sign always made us laugh.  

A visit to Daytona Beach had us marveling at cars driving on the beach, and of course we collected tons of seashells and even rented a paddle boat to trek out to a sandbar for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, though, paddling back to shore was a lot harder than paddling out, as we were going against the tide, so my sister and I had to get out and swim to shore; I got the worst sunburn that year and spent most of the rest of that trip pouting, wearing a long sleeve shirt and putting vinegar on my blisters.  

Yet another year found us in central Florida at Cypress Gardens watching pretty ladies in swimsuits waterski across blue waters, and later we would be traversing lakes in glass bottomed boats, our little faces plastered against the glass to see manatees and fish and alligators. We visited Weekiwatchee and watched, enthralled, as “mermaids” performed underwater and waved to us.  Walt Disney World was still a dream in Walt’s head, and Orlando’s biggest attraction was Gator Land, where kids could feed live gators, and watch big, burly trainers throw sides of beef to crocodiles as audiences screamed in mock terror. We saw beautiful birds with feathery plumage: snowy egrets, great blue herons, pelicans, and shorebirds.  

The trip down was never boring, albeit five kids in a car for two days got a bit noisy at times, and there were the requisite tussles and spats.  The interstate wasn’t completed all the way from Ohio to Florida back in the 60s, so we’d have to take US 41 through the Tennessee Valley, but we loved stopping at all the roadside stands, where locals sold handmade quilts, pillows with pom-poms, freshly made jam, and local honey; seeing all the dams created as part of FDR’s New Deal was quite the educational bonus.  Then there were stops at Stuckey’s, home of the famous (and deliciously sticky sweet) pecan log, the various welcome centers at the borders of each state we entered, and overnight motels. The Florida welcome center served fresh squeezed orange juice back then, and we’d eagerly line up for cup after cup; now all they have is vending machines. One year we even stopped at Rock City in Chattanooga, TN, and spent three wonderful days exploring the caverns and magical gnome dioramas; if you’ve ever seen the words “See Rock City” painted on the side of a barn, you’re seeing roadside marketing at its finest.  Then there was the year of the ham:  Dad decided he’d buy a huge ham to help defray meal costs.  We had ham and eggs, ham sandwiches, ham soup, ham and beans, even ham and potatoes; it was like the Bubba Gump of Ham, and we never let him live that down.  

How my dad managed to retain his sanity for two weeks taking care of five children (four girls and a mentally handicapped boy) is a mystery—our ages the first year were 2, 5, 7, 9, and 12, and believe me, as we grew into puberty it didn’t get any easier. We all had our share of temper tantrums and teenage angst.  One year he did hire a college girl, a daughter of one of his friends, to help him wrangle us girls—two of us were adolescents and he did not want to deal with questions about feminine hygiene products or processes 

One of the stories Dad loved to recount concerned my stubborn insistence on ordering the soup du jour for lunch, even though I had no idea what that meant-it just sounded grown up, and at 14 I really wanted to be grown up!The soup arrived at the table:  clam chowder. I hated clam chowder, so I just refused to eat it and demanded a hamburger instead.  Dad told the waitress no way, and told me I had to finish that damn soup; I did, and I learned a valuable lesson that day: know what you’re ordering, and eat what you get. Dad never tired of regaling my friends and husband and kids with  that story. 

As far as I can recall, Dad never alluded to the cost of anything, or denied us souvenirs, or neglected to take us to any attraction in the city being visited.  He let us be kids.  We’d climb on fort walls, shoot imaginary cannons, swim in the hotel pools until we were waterlogged and had bloodshot eyes, and build countless sand castles.  Somehow we’d all make it down and back safely, and we’d wait with anticipation until the next summer.  The days, weeks and months seemed to drag on and we thought summer would  never arrive.  But it inevitably did.  

Those cherished memories will always be with me, and I count myself blessed to have experienced places and things and events of yesteryear. Busch Gardens no longer showcases  cool bird antics,  and the old Busch clock tower and beer gardens are overshadowed by modern roller coasters. Legoland sits where Cypress Gardens once was, and the pretty ladies waterskiing are long gone; only a few acres of the botanical gardens remain.  Most of the open air aquariums and amusement parks in Florida have succumbed to the “progress” of giant corporations such as Seaworld, Disney and Universal, and the quaint pink and blue Sand Dollar and Pelican and SeaFarer motels are gone, replaced by shiny modern, towering condominiums and resorts. Little did I know we were receiving a priceless education in history, zoology, geography, and the like, but isn’t that always the case with children? Experiences taken for granted then  are that much more  appreciated now, both new and old, and I’m all the more complete  to have experienced both.  Divorce is never easy—for parents or for children. But my dad made sure he made the most out of every moment we spent with him, and for that, I am eternally grateful.  

Giving Thanks

For me, Thanksgiving has always been synonymous with family; as far back as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been a day for family to travel from near and from far to gather round the table and eat and talk and make memories. When I was little, it was with grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the kids were always relegated to a small folding table to the side of the big table where the adults sat. Later, after I had gone off on my own, I would always travel back to my dad's house and celebrate with him and my stepmom and my brother, along with some of the same aunts and uncles (a bit older, of course); we would have the same fare, and watch football, and talk and laugh and relive Thanksgivings past. One year I even flew from Cleveland to Cincinnati in my then-boyfriend's plane, arriving at the house just in time for dinner. As the years went by, and I was married, then had children of my own, our house became the gathering point for those memorable turkey dinners--sisters, nieces and nephews, parents, and sometimes even friends would gather round the table and in the living room afterwards, reliving the experiences of Thanksgiving Days past. Even when my family suffered fractured relationships, and some no longer joined us, we continued to gather--my parents, my in-laws, our kids and their kids--we would celebrate that special day, and plan ahead for the following Thanksgiving Day and discuss the details: who would host it, who would come, who would make the pies. Then, in 2018, we celebrated our final Thanksgiving with my parents--just me, my husband, and my brother gathered around my parents, holding hands, and giving thanks for the years past, the memories we shared, and later partaking in a catered turkey dinner picked up from a local restaurant.  Six months later, both my parents and my in-laws had died, gone on to celebrate a heavenly Thanksgiving. The next year, neither my husband nor I could bring ourselves to celebrate the way we had in the past--the pain was too fresh, and the memories only brought tears. Now I sit here on another Thanksgiving Day, remembering all the Novembers I have had, the memories pouring in and cascading through my mind as tears fall down my face. Today we have simple plans, no extravagant, giant turkey in the oven, or myriad of sides, or even the ubiquitous pumpkin and apple pies.  Acoustic praise and worship songs are playing on the TV, Alex is cooking up a double batch of goetta, and I will be planting 150 spring blooming bulbs, and then we will have a simple dinner at Cracker Barrel with my brother. 

Looking back, there are memories and laughter; I can hear the voices of people long gone, see the smiles of loved ones unable to join us, smell the familiar aromas wafting through the house. 

Looking forward, there are memories to be made, laughter and the tears; Thanksgivings will be different, and we will reminisce about the holidays past, but we will have no regrets. 

Looking up, I praise the author of Thanksgiving and all the days, and I am thankful, for every day is a day of thanksgiving, no matter who we are with or where we are or what food we prepare. 

Family Tree

Have you ever noticed that only the really young and the really old care about the past, the family history,  and what Grandma did for fun when she was little? Our grandkids are constantly peppering us with questions about their parents as little kids and what we did "back then" for fun. The young ask the questions, the old answer them. Now in no way do I consider myself really old (not yet, anyway), but I find myself suddenly engrossed in researching my and my husband's ancestors, and trying to go back as far as I can. I have never really given it much thought before, but suddenly I am in danger of turning into one of those crazy, old, blue-haired aunts that can regurgitate family names, marriages, number of children, and spicy stories five, six, even seven generations back. 

It all started innocently enough--I couldn't sleep, so I decided to organize the basement cedar chest--the one with the scrapbooks, memorabilia, and baby books.  As I was sorting it all into piles--one pile for me, one for Alex, one for each of our children, and a big box for grandchildren's artwork--I came across some things I had not seen in a very long time. One of those items was a handwritten genealogy of my dad's family tree, all the way back to my great-great-grandpa: twelve pages of meticulously documented names, birth and death details, marriages, burial locations, even their professions and nicknames. I sat and stared at it, then began to study it, closely, until finally, I just had to plug all those names and dates and data into an actual family tree so I could see it all spread out in beautiful, magnificent flowchart fashion. Voila, problem solved with the discovery of an extremely user friendly program; I could plug in the data, and it automatically searches existing genealogical data and gives suggestions, sources, dates...in short, everything. After one night I had a family tree that, in some areas, extended all the way back to the 1700s. Mind boggling, seriously mind-boggling the amount, complexity, and detail of the data at our fingertips. A tad bid scary as well. All I did was type in the information of five generations in my dad's family tree, and suddenly, little blue boxes and notifications were popping up next to all the names on my family tree, telling me there were more sources, more data to digest and validate, more details, more, more, more, more.  I was hooked, maniacally digging for more data, more dates, more names, trying to "complete" our family tree, but every time I thought I was finished, yep, more notifications, more little blinking blue boxes, being spit out by computers and the cloud and whatever else generates all this data stored in cyberspace. I would never be finished, some data was just too hard to find (like my husband's ancestors in Spain--I am convinced that Spanish surnames actually are a family tree in and of themselves). 

So I stopped. And then it hit me. One day, 50, 100, or 150 years from now, one of my descendants would ask her grandma what it was like when she was a little girl, and her grandma would talk about life, share memories, and perhaps even show her a family tree with my name in a little white box six generations before the little girl was even born. What would the computer sources have spit out for my name? What little fun details would be listed? What stories could that grandma share about me with my future great-great-great-great-great-great to the nth degree granddaughter? What will I have accomplished, said, demonstrated, or lived that would leave a mark on the world, especially on that little girl's life? Will I be known as someone who loved and followed Jesus? 

All those white boxes and lines on my chart, filled with names and dates and places where they lived--but that is all they are. Boxes, two-dimensional shapes on a screen. The living, breathing people who came before me made a difference, in their lives, their community, my grandparents' and parents' lives, and ultimately mine, because someone in my family tree told me about Jesus, about my heavenly  Father, and because of that, I am now grafted onto the ultimate, eternal family tree. 

Let that be my mission, my passion, my goal in life. Out of the box.

Celebration of A Life

Celebrate a life.  Prepare for death.  But celebrate life.

Too many times I celebrate me, or things, or achievements, and I forget to celebrate life.  I get all bogged down in life’s distractions and details and I forget to celebrate life.  About a month before she died, Sheila told me "Barb, I just don't want a big formal mass like your dad had, with everyone all awkward and sad and crying and all quiet.  I want everyone to be together, to remember me and your dad, to be joyful.  I want it to be a beautiful, happy occasion.  We have had way too many sad moments over the past couple of years".  And that is why we’re all here.  To celebrate a life well lived, to rejoice in our sadness and loss because it means we loved deeply.    And perhaps, hopefully, to stop and breathe and celebrate this gift of life our God has bestowed on us.

About a month after my dad died, Sheila finally acknowledged she was really, truly sick, and had been for some time.  Over the next five months, I spent a lot of time with her, nearly weekly in person, and at least twice a day on the phone.  I was there with her when she got the awful diagnosis of cancer, and held her hand as the doctor told her "if you do nothing, you have 3-6 months to live."  He was wrong.  She’d already lived her life.  Fully and without reservation. Now, she had the chance to prepare for the end of her life--he was just too much of a coward to say it.  He knew it.  I knew it.  And I know now that Sheila knew it.   For the next 12 weeks Sheila and I handled minuscule details and talked about the past, and how much we missed Dad.  And although she was frightened, and in a lot of pain, and trying to hold onto life, in actuallity she was relieved and looking forward to being with her husband again.  We would go out for dinner and margaritas and not even think about calories, and we would eat ice cream for lunch and consume an entire box of chocolate covered cherries while we watched Pawn Stars or Animal Planet.  We would cry, and laugh, and get angry, and fret, but all along, we both know what was coming.  We spoke about God and family and forgiveness and heaven and sins and holiness and if we would be found wanting when it was our time to be judged.  All facades and silly trappings fell away, and if I brought up anything about past hurts or misunderstandings, she'd bluntly tell me, in her own straightforward way, "Bullshit.  Let it go."  I think that pretty much sums up how she lived her life for  78 years.  Letting all the trivial stuff go.  

Sheila was quiet but had a way of getting your attention when it was important.  She was the most honest person I've ever known, and would never compromise her beliefs or her values for expediency or popularity.  And she loved with her entire being.  She had a way of getting along with anyone and bringing out the best in people, and helping others see themselves how she saw them, and, more importantly, how they could grow.  She married the love of her life, and never wavered in that love, and took on a ready-made family of five children without even a moment's hesitation.  She was devoted to her mom, her siblings, and all of us, and she was the glue that held us all together.  She saw through every crazy teenage lie I told her, and let me know that she knew the truth without saying a word, and without blowing my cover.  She helped me through trials, rejoiced with me when I rejoiced, and was always there to offer common-sense advice about marriage, parenting, grand parenting, and life.  Sheila was just the kind of mom who you wanted to please, who you wanted to make smile and laugh, and above all, the person you wanted in your corner for every step along the way.  She loved all her step kids as if they were her own, and adored her grandchildren and later her great grandchildren, and she made all of us feel as if we were her "favorite."  (Of course, everyone knows that I am THE favorite).  She impacted our lives in so many ways. I’ll miss her always, and I’ll love her always.  And I celebrate her life.  Today. Tomorrow.  Always.  Till I can join her in eternity to celebrate eternal life   

Letting Go

I miss these people, these parents of mine. So so much. It has been such a rough weekend, starting with that all too familiar drive through the gorge from our house to Knoxville. I couldn't help but cry because this trip is so different, so final. Weird, because I have made at least 25 or so trips over the past 18 months that were ten times more urgent--Dad at the ER, Dad getting worse, Dad dying, Sheila getting sick, an emergency admission. But this one? Driving to their old house to clear it out, to sell and give away their belongings. Friday night it seemed overwhelming, a Herculean task, as if I would never be able to empty it. Sorting through their things, emptying drawers and closets, moving books and dishes and trinkets and clothing, pricing furniture and odds and ends. How in the world do you put a price on a lifetime of memories? 

Finding odd little things that made me catch my breath and cause actual pain in my heart, like my daughter's wedding invitation and the corsage Sheila wore, pressed into her Bible. Or my dad's high school yearbooks and a pile of Father's Day cards he'd kept for the past 60 years. Even in the garage--crazy mementos, such as the disposable ponchos you wear at Niagara Falls when going on the "Maid of the Mist" boat--they actually kept them! And everywhere I turned I could feel my parents, smell them, sense them, hear Sheila tell me "jiggle the toilet handle or it won't stop running." 

Then the actual "garage sale," and dealing with strangers touching everything, critiquing things, asking about sizes, or age, holding up an object and asking for a price, and I would look at what they were holding and could only see my dad's face under the ball cap in their hands, or smell Sheila's perfume emanating from the familiar grey poncho being held up. Not wanting to haggle over prices, but at the same time not wanting to just throw things away, I spent two days watching their home become just another house, as one thing after another got loaded into a truck or a car. Marveled at the kindness of these strangers who paid me more than what I asked, who thanked me, and blessed me, and even helped me clean up; one really kind woman even brought me some fruit. 

Then, without any warning, suddenly the house was practically empty, with only a few things waiting to be given away. I walked through all the rooms, turned the thermostat back up to a respectable, Dad-approved setting, and went outside to close up. Suddenly, a golf cart pulled into the driveway and a friendly older couple waved and asked innocently "hey where's the lady of the house?" And I had to tell these former neighbors, who had moved away six months ago, that it was too late--she'd gone. We talked for 30 minutes, and amazingly enough, I didn't cry, or even tear up--it was as if I was unloading my heart, and I wanted to be gentle, to tell them they did not shock me or hurt me. 

I do regret neither of my sisters were here to help, to grieve with me, and none of their children, my parents grandchildren, even bothered to reach out, to say well done, or thank you. But in a way, it was better this way, to be alone, alone with my feelings and memories and emotions. And I know Dad and Sheila are together again, and they are no longer hurting, or worried. And I know they loved me, and that they knew I love them. And I am ever so honored they trusted me to take care of things for them in the end. 

Love you both. Thanks for all the memories.

More is Less

Our lives just became infinitely more complicated yet glaringly more simple. 

More complicated because there are suddenly four generations in our house, ages 3-78. Plus four dogs and a cat.   

Simpler because now we know where everyone is and all the rooms are full.  

More complicated because my brother is mentally handicapped,  my stepmom has advanced bladder cancer, my daughter and her little girl are in limbo waiting for hubby/daddy to return from deployment, and me and Alex?  Well, we are just trying to catch our breath. 

Simpler because we are family and together and we love each other.   

God has orchestrated it all and will continue to do so.  I have been praying for guidance and discernment and wisdom and relief from a need to be in control.   He has thankfully answered all these prayers as only He knows how.  Not the way I thought He would.  Not even the way I would have chosen.   But of course, the only perfect way.  His way.  

Complicated.

Simple.

I love you, O Lord, my strength.

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The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. (Psalm 18:1-2)

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday--always has been--and possibly my parents' favorite as well. To me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with family, and all the baggage that comes with throwing 10-30 related but totally different individuals into a room with lots of carbs.  Of all my memories over the past 63 years, I have the most memories (good and bad, sad and funny) from Thanksgiving celebrations.  There was the time my crazy biological mother threw the turkey into the bowl of mashed potatoes because she was, well, unbalanced.  Another Thanksgiving found us in a Holiday Inn in North Dakota the day before Becky had a bone barrow biopsy during her cancer treatment, and more than a few when Alex was deployed overseas, and on a remote tour in Korea.  One year, my dad flew out to Minot, ND, alone--seems he was in the dog house again.  That was also the year Scruffy the cat walked all over my freshly baked sweet potato pies and I was so mad I threw the pies at her and got pie filling all over the kitchen.  And one year, we got a call to pick up a new foster daughter from the juvenile psych ward--an hour before we were to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner.  We've celebrated at our house, at our parents' homes, at the homes of our grown children, and once on the beach.

We have had smoked turkey, roasted turkey, deep fried turkey, brined turkey, and even just turkey breast one year--sometimes the cook even remembers to remove the wax-coated bag of innards from the inside before putting it in the oven (not naming names here, girls).  Cranberries are always the REAL kind, the whole berries, not canned, but the rest of the sides vary depending on who is hosting the meal and how receptive the hostess is to input.  Sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes with gravy are pretty much a sure thing, and of course there is the stuffing (although the stuffing ingredients and method of baking, i.e. in the bird or not in the bird) is variable.  Vegetables, however, are the wild card--peas, green bean casserole, beets, Brussel sprouts, and even squash with pecans have shown up.  Pies?  Too many to mention, but always yummy, with whipped cream or Cool Whip or ice cream or even plain.  The one constant, though, that makes it a day of giving thanks, is the presence of family, namely my dad and my stepmother.  If they are present, it is Thanksgiving.   

I've lost count of how many Thanksgivings we have shared with them--they are both so much a part of our Thanksgiving tradition that it doesn't really seem like Thanksgiving if we aren't together.  A week before each Thanksgiving, every year, you can bet my dad will ask me "what are you doing for Thanksgiving next year?"   Every year we watch the stupid Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV, followed by football.  Then, when all the food is presented on the table, of course someone must take numerous photos of the feast before we can even begin to eat--heck, he even used to take movies of our Thanksgiving dinner table...movies.  Of food.  That does not move.  It's a tradition.  Just as it is a tradition that he brags he is the only one who knows how to carve the turkey, or that someone will make a construction paper pilgrim hat for him to wear, or one of the children would make some crazy centerpiece out of Legos and dead leaves and sticks and we have to say how beautiful it is before we make room for all the dishes.   

A meal that took a year to plan, two weeks to shop for, and 48 hours to prepare, is gone in less than 30 minutes.  We talk about whether this year's turkey was the best, whether we should cook it upside down next time, and if speedy buns are better than crescent rolls.  We sit and pick at the little pieces of turkey on the platter and dream about that turkey sandwich with mayo that we will have in a couple of hours, and we protest how we couldn't eat another bite--until the pies come out.  Then we watch more football, kids go off to play, and we all sit around and talk or play cards or charades or fall asleep in recliners.  And we talk about the logistics of next year's Thanksgiving--where, who, what side, who is going to bring pie, etc.  

Last year, we had Thanksgiving at our log home in North Carolina--me and Alex, his brother and a friend, my mother-in-law, my brother, and of course, my parents.  Dad at the head of the table, and Alex at the other end.  During pie we planned for 2018--we will have it at our place again!  Same company!  Awesome!  A month later, my dad nearly died--took him four months to recuperate--and my brother moved in with us.  By spring, we planned tentatively to celebrate at our house, or even at their home in Knoxville.  Then my mother-in-law got too ill to travel, so we talked about having Thanksgiving at her assisted living facility.  

She died September 23rd.  

We did not even feel like celebrating Thanksgiving at all, not 60 days after a funeral.  But, we gingerly and cautiously started thinking about having my parents to our home--then, after he had a major setback, at their house.  A week before Thanksgiving, though, my dad fell, and could not get up--he was now completely bedridden, and they did not even feel like celebrating.   I arrived four days early to help care for Dad, who was now in a hospital bed in the living room, and Alex and David drove out Thanksgiving Day.  No one cooked a big turkey, or made cranberries the night before.  There were no arguments over which sides to make or whether stuffing should be traditional or cornbread, or if sweet potato pie was better than pumpkin.  Nope, we picked up a "feast for five" from a local BBQ restaurant--turkey with most of the trimmings, cranberries (canned), no sweet potatoes, and a pumpkin cheesecake.  I transferred all the food into real dishes to make it more like the real thing,  and, yes, my dad asked me to take a picture of it all. 

But this year, there was no kidding about carving the turkey (it was already sliced), or whether the Detroit Lions would actually win this year, or how great the house smelled all day.  And for grace, we held hands around my dad's bed, my brother said grace, and then three of us ate in the dining room alone, while Sheila fed my dad what could very well be his last Thanksgiving meal.  

Yes, I said it.  Perhaps his last Thanksgiving with us.  Heck, it could even be mine, or Alex's, or David's.  But still, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, even this year.  It has been a rough eleven months--illnesses, broken relationships, arguments and conflict, and a funeral.   I am thankful, so very thankful, for every day, and especially thankful for all the memories of Thanksgivings past--some painful, when thinking back on what was and now is lost, and some poignant, like the ones with three or even four generations around the table.  But all of them, for all of them, I give thanks.  Because thanksgiving is not about football, or parades, or food, or Black Friday savings, or even health or good times, although for all those things I give thanks.  Thanksgiving is, by definition, giving thanks.  

Thank you, God, for all of the memorable Thanksgivings I have shared with my family.   And thank you, Dad, for teaching me how special this day can be.

A Matter of Life and Death

Life. The meaning of life. The gift of life. Life's lessons. Live life to the fullest. Life is too short.  Life in the fast lane. It's a wonderful life. Enjoy your life.  Live laugh love. The best years of my life. Living' loving' it's just a woman. Life's savings.  Life's work. A life well lived. Don't waste your life.  Today is the first day of the rest of your life.  Life without parole.  I want my life back.  Live out loud. Making a living. Happy wife, happy life. Life is an adventure. Life goes on. Get a life. It's my life.  

Life. Yes, it is a miracle, a gift, a wonder.  Life can be thrilling, boring, fulfilling, and disappointing. It can drag on, or pass quickly.  While we are living it, at times we barely notice it. We cling to life and all its trappings fiercely.  We spend so much time living our lives, watching other people's lives, and fitting more into our lives, we forget that life as we know it is not eternal. I know I have. Then, one day, it suddenly hits you--life does end, will end, for you and everyone else. And when that happens, everything else grinds to a halt.  

For some, life ends unexpectedly, suddenly, tragically, and with no warning. For others, life begins to fade slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, until one day, life is no more. Regardless, we are not used to facing the inevitability of death. We don't talk about it, even though we worry about it, and try to forestall death. We use euphemisms like "pass away," "kick the bucket," "buy the farm," "go to our eternal home"--anything so we don't have to say someone DIED. We stage illnesses to avoid saying anything like "terminal" or "end of life."  When someone is dying, or has died, the most talkative, understanding person becomes speechless, and it is all we can do to mumble our condolences, or nervously fidget and say "sorry" and then hurry off, back to our lives.  

My dad is almost 94 years old. He is an amazing, exasperating, frustrating, and at times a self-centered man. He has lived an amazing life, and is still full of life.  He has never really been sick, he still has all his marbles, and he is glad to give you a piece of his mind, even if you don't want it. Sometimes he makes me crazy, and sometimes he makes me laugh, but mostly he is a huge part of my life.  My family's lives. Together we've experienced births, deaths, weddings, divorces, birthdays, graduations, and baptisms. We have traveled around the US, to Italy, England, and to Niagara falls. We spend at least two holidays a year with him, if not more, and I have been calling him every Sunday at 8:00 pm since I can remember. Hell, we have shared so many memories with Dad and Sheila, they have become an integral part of the fabric of our life. I thought he'd live forever. I mean, I know that is impossible, but life, though it prepares you for many things, does not prepare you for the end of it.  

Thanksgiving, 2017, my parents were at our home in North Carolina, eating turkey dinner with all the trimmings, just another holiday memory for the photo albums and slide shows. Two months later, I am here with them, in their home, watching my dad die of lung disease.For the past four weeks, my world has been turned completely inside out and upside down, and my life before this is a distant, blurry other-world.  He is still my dad, still the same pain in the ass at times, but still the best father I could ever ask for. I love him like I love breathing--I take it for granted most of the time, but there are those precious moments, like now, when nothing else really matters except him. Days are extraordinary in their routine sameness.   We talk, eat, manage the mundane medical and hygiene tasks, and we are together.    I don't take care of him, or do a lot for him. I just bask in the honor of being here as his daughter, to share this very private and precious time with him and his wife.  We talk about dying, we talk about life, our lives, and we talk about life after death.  And while I do not know when his life will end and death come, I do know that I would not have missed the honor of sharing this time with him, not for all the money in the world.  

Taking the time to face our mortality, to prepare for death, to be with someone who is staring death in the face...such a precious, precious gift. Nothing else matters.  I have no fear, no regrets, no indecisiveness.  

It is a matter of life.  And death.