I apologized

I am hesitant to write this post because I don't want to appear to be seeking, "Atta Girl!" comments from my loyal friends.  Mostly, writing this out is my way of working through my feelings.

Brad, who has struggles of his own, suggested I pray about how to work with his family situation.  I admit, though I do pray for them, I really was getting sick of it all.  But to honor my husband, I prayed.  A week ago Wednesday, I woke knowing I needed to apologize for my behavior.  I came to my computer and quickly but thoughtfully drafted two letters.

Keeping them short, less than a page at 14 point font, I told his daughter (and husband) and son (and wife) I was sorry for things I had done to make the relationship with their father more difficult for them.

Then, I mailed the letters.

It felt really good--a calm and peace came over me.  As I slipped them in the mail slot, I knew it didn't matter if either was answered, that I had said my piece. It didn't matter if the letters were mocked, ignored, or if they stirred up anger.   I didn't do it to be the "better person," or to make a calculated move because this is no game.  I did it because it seemed to be the right thing to do. I did it because it was best for me.  So in that way, I was being selfish. (Therefore, no pats on the back.)

I still have moments of wanting to detail each hurt and wanting to defend or at least explain myself.  I'm not so good at the all encompassing forgiveness.  There's my ugly confession.   Still, all-in-all, the peace is what remains strongest.

His daughter answered my letter with an email.  I'm not sure what's next from here, I'm not sure there needs to be a next.  I think that's peace again.

I like it.

Allow Capture

Here's another repeat, this time from December 2008.  As women, this is something to keep in mind.

Today, I had the pleasure (strange word perhaps) of attending a funeral. The woman who died was the mother of John who attends our church, Community Christian Church. He asked Brad to officiate at her service. I went along for three reasons: respect for John and his wife Madeline, to be Brad's navigator (we only got turned around once), and to see my husband in minister action.

He offered such comfort to the family--I was sitting behind them, and as he spoke they nodded their heads at times, laughed at times, and wiped their eyes at times. I did too. What Brad provided them, with the gift God has instilled in him, was needed and important. I was proud of him.

After his talk, Brad stood at the casket as people walked up to see their mom, grandma, sister, friend, and neighbor one last time. I hung back, waiting until the room emptied to look at the photos the family had collected.

There were school portraits from back in the 30s. Miss Mavis was an anti-aircraft gunner in her native Britain in WWII when she met her American soldier husband. So there were striking photos of the two of them together. But the photos that pulled at my heart were all the candid snapshots that included generations of her family.

It occurs to me that many of you who read this blog are moms. I feel compelled to share this with you in particular.  Family pictures of others are beloved by us, but pictures including us, pictures of us will be essential to our families one day. 

I don't mean to come of macabre, I'm not only speaking of filling a funeral planning need. There will be other times of reflection when they will need to see us.  Don't hide behind the camera only taking the pictures. And, the next time someone takes out a camera, don't worry about your hair or your make-up, your weight or your outfit. Let the person behind the camera capture you.
 

When I looked at the boards filled with photos, I didn't notice Miss Mavis's hair, make-up, or even her wrinkles. I noticed love. How blessed they are to have all those visual memories to add to those memories stored in their hearts.

Let's allow our families to create plenty of the same.

Table Project

Last night, I spent about an hour going through family photos in order to find a picture of...a table.

I came close dozens of times, but for all the decades--six--this particular table has been in our family, it has managed to elude my camera pretty well.

In the 60s, counter space was at a premium in my parents' little ranch home.  One day, my father brought home a counter height butcher block table for my mom.  Brand new, he spent all of $5 on it.

In May of 1969, our family moved across town, and that table was cut down and used in our family room, first in that house and then in our Naperville house.  Purpose served from 1969 to 2001, family room end table. In all the years our dog Schnapps was around, he hid under it during every thunderstorm and 4th of July.   In 1988 though, my car loving boy took over that table, and while it still held a lamp and magazines, it also became his "carsandtrucks" table.  He played on it for hours a day.

When my father died and we sold the house, Mac and I got the table which we used as an end table in our condo.  See it there at the end of the couch? (This photo was snapped only weeks after moving in because those blinds went soon after!  I can't help but dig the treadmill in the living room...eek!)

I married Brad in 2007, and the table was then used in Mac's ISU rental house and NIU apartment.  It resided as a coffee table for three grad students in Baton Rouge for two years, and just this month it returned to Illinois in a stinky rental truck.  Water stained and marred, I was itching to glue the top,  which had been split for about ten years, and then refinish it.

Needing some big clamps, We took it to our friend Walt's house, put it up on his workshop bench and saw much more damage and some flaws we'd missed.  Since it now belongs to Mac, he has opted to shed its mismatched and falling apart legs and frame.

Frame--a mystery wood when compared with the top.

With Walt's help, and a little of mine, he has decided to salvage the top and find a table redesign for it.  They biscuited the top back together, then they sanded, and sanded some more. (I helped a bit.)

Not an after, but a "so far" picture.  

Once a design is chosen, supplies are purchased, and time is set aside to work, it will become a table again. 

As I composed this post, I was reminded of Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree.  This table has served us--from my mom through Mac--well, and it remains important, even in its yet to be repurposed form.  Mac might not like the expression of this, but it is my hope another child races cars across it.  In time.

I Wrestle

This morning, I was up early checking email, and found myself looking through some documents to send someone a copy of my Social Security card.  Don't worry, it wasn't a scam artist!  While trying to find my card, I went through a slender file that holds many important identifying papers.  I didn't find the card, but instead I found an email, dated 2005, from an aunt.  I had not forgotten about the email, but I had forgotten I kept it.

I took a few moments to read it, it stung, and the wound is reopen and the guilt is fresh again.  She ended our relationship with that email, and in doing so, the domino effect touched so many others on my mom's side of the family.  You know, when the matriarch decides you're out, even when she doesn't tell anyone else--that was a promise she made--it subtly touches every other family member.  It left me floundering.  I immediately, of course, was no longer invited to her home.  Though she came to my wedding shower and ceremony, it was awkward, and I found myself pulling away from my cousins because it's just too hard to know about their lives without knowing them any longer. 

My other aunt, who read at my wedding, has pulled away, and now my wedding album is a reminder of this fractured family.  Two of my uncles did not come to my wedding.  One, who was a dad to me after my own dad died, did not come.  From him, I didn't get a card or a note, only a well wish after I sent him a few snapshots of the day.  I felt his absence.

I guess it still hurts because my eyes leak as I write this.

I'm not blaming her, her decision and the events that have or haven't transpired because of that decision, was my fault. She wrote that I said hurtful things.  Apparently I did so often and over many years.  And though my tongue can be sharp, I truly and callously didn't realize the damage I was doing.

But I did it. It's done. I attempted to repair it, I apologized and meant it, I won't tell that story as it leaves me grasping and my heart hurting.

Since then, I have married, and my husband's family has chosen to not like me.  In moments like this, I think, "Well, no wonder, so much of my own family doesn't."  And it all makes sense. 

But then I am bewildered.  I work with people who know me so well, really so incredibly well.  They are my friends.  They share my ups and downs.  They come to my home, they celebrate with me, they are quality people.  They are important to me.  They know me, warts and all, and they are incredibly loyal and true. And I, losing humility here for a moment, am the same to them. I am a good friend.

It is true, not everyone will like me.  That's been proven, but the who and the whys still stymy me.

Changes

My son has returned from LA, not L.A., and soon my niece will be moving to her new (and very own room) at my brother's home.

Today I spent almost my whole day finishing up laundry (who am I kidding, it's not finished), and then this evening I ordered a bunch of photos for Alice.  She has so few possessions from her childhood, I thought it would be fun to get some family photos made for her.  I went through albums, and I scanned some photos, then I uploaded them to facebook and snapfish to order them.

This is one I had forgotten, and it's goofy and precious at the same time.  My dad with all his grandchildren.  They're are being so silly, and he's just putting up with it in a way that makes me think he's about to laugh.

So far, this one has been "liked" by two of my nephews, Mac, and Alice.  I hope they found seeing it a treasure, just like I did.

To the Dads in My Life

I have been blessed to know many good dads.  I encounter them through my work; my students have some great fathers, and I have peers who are wonderful caring dads (Brad, Walt, Dwight...)  My girlfriends are married to valuable men who are gifted fathers (Pete, Phil, Tim, George, Jeremy...) Men I have met through church (Eric, Bob K., Pastor Dale...)  My brother Jeff and my uncles have been such priceless role models for parenting, from them I have learned much.

 Jeff with Mac (flipping of the camera!) Christmas 1988

The dads who touch my life daily remain steadfast in my heart.  The work they have done, and the love they have shared are precious.

My dad:

Oh I miss him so!

My husband:

A loving and caring stepdad!

My son's father:

A constant and supporting influence in Mac's life.

On this Father's Day, I am thinking of and thankful for them all.

First Friday Fragments of the Summer!

Here goes nothing...

My niece Alice is staying with us for a while, and last night in Target she suggested we buy a dog bed and then accessorize it with a dog.  I told her to talk to Uncle Brad on that one.

I got the cutest note from one of my 4th graders Wednesday, their last day of school.  In it she/he thanked me for being such a good teacher and a good Catholic.  It was unsigned, surely an accident, and I'm not Catholic, but still...cute.

Baked instead of hard boiled?  Works fabulously.  Thirty minutes at 325.

Yay!  My husband has finally acquiesced and I can have a white comforter!  I am currently loving this one.  I've decided we need to spruce up our bedroom, the builder beige is getting to me.  Since I'm not Martha Stewart, I don't know if I'll share photos, but I'll take them just in case.  It's our summer project.

My short hair is driving me crazy.  After two years with a "you look like a boy haircut" (credit goes to my tutoring student B), I'm ready for a change.  But this in-between stage may last all summer.  Right now it's too mullet-like for comfort...

My brother volunteers with the Miracle League of Central Illinois, and they're having an auction fund raiser next month.  My friend Erin of Unrepeatables loves baseball, so she sent a donation of her fabulous jewelry, and with it was one of her rings for me! She makes them out of nail polish, and she remembered that my favorite summer shade is Dim Sum Plum (OPI), and therefore the ring:

Sunday, Alice and I are driving down to Bloomington-Normal for a game. I hope I can get some decent photos to share here on Monday.

This great picture showed up on Facebook today, and I fell in love.  It's one of Mac's "non-traditional" classmates fixing his hood right before the diploma ceremony.  I love the happiness on his face, and I love that someone there stepped in at moments to be his "mom."  I'm sure this wasn't the first time...

Speaking of master's degrees, I have to start looking into working on a second one.  It's, sigh, time.  Now all I have to do is find a program, find some way to pay for it, and find the time...

Mrs. 4444 opens up a link each Friday so we can share the little things on our minds...and I thank her!

Anchor for the Soul

I go by Stewart, but my married name is Seaman.  I think that's one reason I'm drawn to anchors.  I went to Biblegateway.com a while back and searched "anchor," and I found Hebrews 6:19.  Hope is my anchor, I have felt this since becoming a Christ follower, but only when I read this (for the how manyth time) did it stick with me.

So when I saw this at the flea market this afternoon, I considered it.  I hesitated, and in my hesitation, Alice bought it for me.

Brad loves it, we only have to discern where to hang it.

  ¹⁷ Because God wanted to make the unchanging nature of his purpose very clear to the heirs of what was promised, he confirmed it with an oath. ¹⁸ God did this so that, by two unchangeable things in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled to take hold of the hope set before us may be greatly encouraged. ¹⁹ We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, ²⁰ where our forerunner, Jesus, has entered on our behalf. He has become a high priest forever, in the order of Melchizedek. 

Dean Paskoff, Thank You

When Mac applied to LSU, I know we had a discussion about his going to school so far from home, and that chances were I wouldn't get down there to visit or attend his graduation. This past January, talk of his graduation came up again, and both he and Brad couldn't remember my ever saying that.  Both of them wanted me to be there for the ceremony.

Hm.

So when April rolled around, and once Mac knew he was graduating, I planned a trip to get us to Mac's campus for May 18th.

I am so glad I did.

This diploma ceremony, a commencement celebration for the School of Library and Information Science, was held in the LSU School of Music building.  It was small and intimate with only about 30 graduates.  The speeches were brief and on point.  The grin on my son's face was to be treasured.  Like I would have at a school chorus show or band concert when he was younger, I focused solely on him.

I wish I had taken another photo with Mac and his dean.  She is an important person in his life story.  Right after Mac was accepted, he received word from the university that the MLIS program was ending.  He was told to forget about coming to LSU because he wouldn't be able to finish his degree there and to hurry and apply elsewhere.  He was crushed, and he started formulating a different plan, one that would have delayed him leaving for school for six months.

After a quick lunchtime google session just about two years ago, I learned that this dean and others were fighting for the program, so I picked up my phone and did something I hadn't really done much in Mac's school career, I called her.  I left a message, and she returned my call at the end of my school day.  At first, she was somewhat reticent to talk.  I think the 630 area code convinced her that I was not a reporter, that I was being truthful. I didn't tell her Mac's name, he was after all an adult, but I did tell her I needed her guidance to counsel him.  I don't think I'll ever forget standing outside my classroom door on the stoop while holding my cell phone to my ear with my shoulder, and taking notes against the brick wall.

She told me how much the program served the state, told me their national ranking, told me it was essential it stayed a part of LSU.  And then I asked her the $40,000 question, "If your son had his heart set on leaving Chicagoland and going to Baton Rouge to earn his master's degree, what would you tell him?"

She said, "Go."

I chose to believe her.

I called Mac, told him all of the conversation, and he opted to stick with his first choice.  He wound up having Dean Beth Paskoff as an instructor and as a customer at the drug store where he worked; he liked her in both settings.  I met her last summer, and I thanked her personally for her care.  As one might expect, with all the calls she received at that time she didn't remember mine.  That's okay.  She fought hard, he worked hard, he graduated, and I am so thankful to her.

Teachers, at all levels, make such a difference in our lives.

Out of the Box

This morning, I saw Dani's post about shoes, and all I thought I had in me blog-wise was to write a comment.  "I  tried on, but did not purchase, a similar pair at TJ Maxx a few weeks ago.  I would have worn them with jeans, dress trousers and long skirts."

Yep, I saw some sandals I loved and Brad loved three weeks ago at TJ Maxx.  Then two weeks ago I showed them to my niece.  She told me I should buy them. Brad said he wondered why I didn't buy them.  Hello? Impractical, that's why, and I tend to be fairly practical about my shoes.

Later today, I was out running errands and went into TJ Maxx to look for a purse to bring to Mac's graduation.  As I looked at blue purses--bought two and have decided red is best, so they're going back--I thought, "If those shoes are still there, I'm getting them."

They were.  I did.

After finishing my errands, I brought them home and put them on.  Now the fun part begins--the photo taking.

 No contrast against the beige carpet, and my ankles look fat. 

 Bend over and try a side shot.  Um, not quite.

 Second effort, cut off the ball of my foot, but at least my ankles don't look fat.  Although, yes, yes, my skin is that dry and pasty white.

 Still bending, camera rested on floor.  My skin looks like elephant skin doesn't it?

Sigh.

 Perhaps with the contrast of the desk behind them?  

Ugh fat ankles again!

 Side shot against darker desk (and floor).  Wrinkled feet.  Lovely!

 The casual cross over?  NO!

 How about a shot of them the way I first saw them.  The way they caught my eye?

Yes!

Details:  Franco Sarto, originally $99, first TJ price $49.99, one markdown undetermined, I paid $32 for them, the same price they were three weeks ago.  

But here's my real TJ Maxx story. There were two gray haired (in a chic way) sisters shopping with their tiny little mom.  Sisters had to be in their 60s, Mom in her 80s.  I could tell she was tired, but since we kept running into each other in the shoe and dress area, we chatted a bit.  (Like about how it would have been super if that navy and white dotted Evan Picone was there in my size!  It was so "Audrey.")  

Her daughters kept showing her things, and she'd poo-pooh them.  

We met up in the fitting room again where her daughters and I were all trying on. We would chat and offer opinions when we stepped out of our cubicles to view our selections in the three-way-mirror.  She loved a dress I put on, one she had poo-poohed for herself, and I teased her about that.  Each time I closed my cubicle door, her dear comments left me smiling but sorely missing my own mom.

I shopped a bit more, and when I got in line to pay, she must have been leaving.  I didn't see her at first, but then I heard her calling to me, "Which dresses are you buying?" she asked as she all but chased me down.  I showed her, and she encouraged me. I showed her the purses, and she asked where Mac was for school.  Sweet thing.  I missed my mom more and less in the very same moment.

What a blessing it would be to have those mother and daughter outings.  I wanted to tell those women that, something I hope they already knew, but there was no way.  And I didn't want to burden the joy of the precious time they were all sharing.

Thanks Dani!

Twisted

I have written before about the importance of "thank yous."  I like to get them, and I love to give them.  I'm not 100% in the fulfillment area, meaning some gifts go without a thank you, but for the most part, I'm on target for expressing appreciation.  (Well, except to God for his abundant blessings, but that's for another post.)

This post, this is a right here post.  I'm not so sure God will smile down on this post.  I wonder if this is a petty post.  This post will garner an, "Are you sure you should have written that?" comment from my husband.   This post has to do with family.  Because it's all about family, it may be garbled, and I may leave it that way as an attempt to show just how mixed up, how twisted up, I feel about this "topic."

Brad and I have been married five years.  Our first fifth anniversary was just this week.  I love being married to this man.  While it saddens me to know his first marriage, a marriage of length, ended, I am still thankful he wound up so firmly planted in my life.

My son has a great respect for his step-dad.  Brad is a part of Mac's life, and Mac a part of Brad's.  Brad says it's because they both share a strong love for me.  I suppose that's true.  To evidence that respect, I will share this. Last week, when Mac learned he passed his master's level comprehensive exams, he left a voice mail message for me, one for his dad, and then he called Brad to share the good news. Brad happily told me of the joy that came through in Mac's voice.  I know he felt special due to receiving that call.

I love that about my son. I love that he included Brad in his excitement of this passage.

But I was also jealous.  Ugly, but true.  Why jealous?  Because I don't have a relationship with Brad's kids.

I look at the relationship Mac and Brad have, and I want just a little of that with any one of Brad's kids.

That's where the thank yous come in.  And I think I'm just using those as an illustration for all my jumbled up feelings.

Brad sends gifts to his grandchildren (8 of them) for their birthdays, for Christmas, and for little holidays along the way.  The primary gifts have been books. He loves to give them books.  To honor him, at his request I spend time choosing books that I think each child will like. This is tough because I haven't spent time with any of his grandchildren for more than three years, and there are a few I have never met.  When I write to their moms to ask about interests or reading levels, I get vague replies.

So I guess.

The books are packaged, a trip is made to the post office to mail them, and then we are usually left to wonder how they are received.

The wondering is because it is rare that he gets (we get) a thank you.  One of us will send  "a package is coming" email, and there is often no response to those.  When we know the package has arrived, at least according to USPS estimates, we wonder. We miss out on the expressions of the kids opening the gifts, we miss talking about why we chose the gifts we did, and we wait to hear...

Often he has to ask, "Did the gift arrive?"  That's embarrassing too.

Then I wonder if the gifts just don't hit the mark.  Are they so inappropriate that a thanks would be seen as encouragement for more stupid trinkets?  Are they trying to dissuade us?  You see, we really don't know. 

Earlier this year, Brad pleaded with the parents to send an acknowledgement because I spend so much time and thought on choosing gifts.  I was embarrassed to know he did that.  Last week, I sent a quick note explaining that embarrassment but enforcing how much he appreciates acknowledgement. He pours over every photo of his grandchildren and his children!

He loves them, I'd like to know them.

I don't know if they really get that.

Often times, God has encouraged me to repair these relationships. I hear Him, I do.  I have expressed that.  I am not the world's best "Dad's wife," I have made mistakes.  But I just feel so unconsidered.  And I see a bit of taking for granted aimed in Brad's direction, and that hurts my heart.  What I'm trying to do here is not grumble or criticize.

I'm sorting, and here's what I came up with:
I'm jealous.
I care.
I feel a lack of consideration.
I need to get over myself.
I need to send a gift for the sake of sending a gift--to give with no expectations in return.
I'm not sure I'm good enough to rise above this.
I am ashamed.
I'm hurt.
I hurt for him.

I'm clicking on publish...

Keeps Me Motivated Monday, 3

On Friday, Mac called and left a voice mail message sharing he'd passed his comprehensive exams, and he will be graduating in May with a master's in library science as planned. This is cause for celebration! Not because I had any doubts, but just because we can be certain it will happen.

On the way home I called him and left him a message telling how proud I was of him.  (Eventually we did actually talk!)

A few moments after touching "end call" on my phone, I saw an Audi.  One I hadn't seen since a few days after Mac left for Baton Rouge and graduate school in August of 2010.

Now remember, we live in suburban Chicago.  So the first sighting of this LSU alum's car 20 months ago was a surprise and a comfort, and then Friday's glimpse of the same car in rush hour traffic--its purple and gold tiger eye fleur di lis so apparent as it turned to drive south--just made me smile due to the timing.

When I went into my facebook photos on Friday night to find the car photo, I found another that made me remember too.  Just a few short days before Mac moved, we went to Brookfield Zoo with our friend Megan and her daughter Maeve.  Maeve and Mac like each other a lot, and he spent a lot of time in "uncle" mode carrying her around and talking to her that day.

Megan said to me, "Wow, Maeve will be three when Mac graduates."  Looking at her little one-year-oldness made that seem far away, but sure enough when I saw this photo Friday night:

I made note that Friday was also Maeve's third birthday.  Again, the timing was so right.  A little story told.

That's what motivates me this Monday.  Full circle stories, happy endings that aren't really endings at all.  Promises no one can be sure of.  Blessings.

Niece Shoes

I like these flats.  But I like more what, no, who they remind me of.

Alice.

My niece.

She of the homeless mom.  Alice is living with us now, for a time, while she's waiting to move in with my brother Jim who is finishing up her bathroom at his house.  It is my hope as she becomes more a part of my life she stays a part of my life.  Her mom kept her from us for too long.

Al works for Shoe Carnival. Her first weekend here, we stopped in the local shop, and I bought these flats with her discount.  For a total of $14 I am now the proud owner of orange floral flats.  They make me smile.

I'm also doing things like having mother-daughter talks--beyond weird for the mom of a 25-year-old son, but I'm good with it.

Shoes, Unlisted.  "Our Price," $34.99.  

The fact that they are super less than symmetrical?  

I like that more than the orange!

 Thanks again Dani for the link up!

Love in a Box

For our little Super Bowl "big game" get together, I made a pulled chicken recipe using my crock pot.  I also had to use molasses, something I bought for this recipe only.  Now that I have a jar of molasses that's just a couple of tablespoons shy of full, I've been looking for other ways to use it.

Cookies come to mind.  My Gramma Rose, my father's mom, used to make molasses cookies.  I didn't like them, but my brothers did.  So I want to make them for my brothers.  As I looked through recipes on line this weekend, I was struck by a memory so clear and strong.  I should say it was a series of memories.

We didn't see our grandparents all that much, perhaps only three time a year.  They lived in the far south suburbs, we lived in the northwest suburbs, and Grampa Lee didn't drive.  When they did come over, Gramma would always come into the house her arms stacked with at least six shoe boxes filled with baked treats.  She made peanut squares (we fought over those, Dad won most of them), oatmeal cookies, chocolate chip cookies, and molasses cookies. The latter were dark, crunchy and sprinkled with sugar. I was not a fan.

In the days when plastic wrap was novel and people used Tupperware, she used shoe boxes and wax paper.

It's only now, at 51 (shame on me) that I recognize how much work she put into packing those boxes.  It's only now that I think of how much joy our excitement over the contents must have given her.  It's now that I finally understand the love she baked for us.

Two of my brothers have said they will sample any molasses cookie I make, but my goal is to find one just like hers. My friend Chris sent me a recipe for one that looks likely, and truth be told, if I were to look into my Betty Crocker cookbook I might just find the same one Gramma leaned on.  I don't see my brothers often, so our deal is I will make the cookies and freeze them until I we get together.

I have a shoe box set aside just waiting for that day. 

photo source

my sister is homeless

It's true.

I need to write about this, but I must take care.  Her life is her story to tell.

But I can say this.  A wicked sense of humor, loyalty, love, and depression all run in our family.  It's the depression that has both brought us together and torn us apart.

This is about the tear.

My brothers, I have three, are older than me.  We grew up together, the four of us having been blessings to our parents within a period of six years.  Almost nine years later our sister was born.  Gosh we adored her.  But she grew up more like an only child at times, missing the big family vacations of our youth; then taking nicer ones with just Mom and Dad when we were all too old for such things.  And by nicer, I mean they flew on planes versus being packed into the station wagon.  Her suburban life had a little posh to it.

She adored us too.  I know this.  I do look back and see it.

Skipping ahead until adulthood, I must because I am being cautious, she moved back in with my father.  I cannot fault her for this because I was there too, raising Mac, going to school full time, and working.  Her motivations drew her in different directions.

When my father was dying, I would tell him of my plans, tell him about my finances, and he would say, "I know I don't have to worry about you, El."  Inferred was he was worried for others, about my sister and her daughter. I tried to talk with her about this.  Long story censored, after his death and the house being sold, she began editing us out of her life and her business--it was me first, though I lived closest to her, I rarely saw her or my niece.  My sister was angry at me--but would never share why.

The money she was given from my father's estate ran out. She lost jobs, she found jobs, she relied on the kindness of many friends until their patience wore thin, and she was evicted seven times in ten years.  She borrowed, always from friends, never us.  We had an intervention of sorts during this time.  Things got better for a while, things worsened.  She refused guidance. Her efforts to be well struck intermittently.  She refused contact.  If I had to detail it all, it would take great energy to make an accurate timeline.

This past fall, her resources depleted, she moved to a local homeless shelter.  It was a shock but not a surprise. It was the next step on the path, and we had seen it coming. Still shocking because it's not what anyone wanted.

As I sensed her state worsening based on things reported by friends last summer, Madonna's brother was in the news for being homeless.  An acquaintance on facebook lambasted the performer.  I commented, "We don't know the entire story. We cannot judge."  She wrote back, "If someone in my family was mentally ill I would buy him a house where he could live even if he couldn't work."

I was judged without her even knowing it.

I cannot buy my sister a house. I don't know that I would.  Please know I ache at the knowledge or lack of knowledge about her whereabouts--no one has heard of her since December.  I crave the thought of having a sister in my life to hang out with and be myself with.  She is ill. She will not see it.  I cannot make her.  It is my hope someone can.

Her daughter, now 18, has completely pulled away from her mother after living in this vagabond vortex.  My brothers and I are working on improving our niece's situation. We are just getting to know  her again; she has been kept from us for too long.  And, she is angry with her mom.  Though I recognize that anger, I counsel her that we cannot begin to understand the things her mother does because she is not well. There is no logic, there are no reasons--except for one.

My anger has been lifted.  My sadness has not.  As a Christ Follower, it feels wrong to not help her in a worldly sense, but I know I cannot help her beyond prayer.

I ask that you don't judge me. I love my sister.  My sister is homeless.

Missing Mac and Moving On Monday

Mac is back in Baton Rouge.

And yep, these pictures are on facebook,

but I like having them here too.

I am so blessed to have him for a son!

He's a distance away but he's not far.

He will accomplish much in these next few months.

So we begin to save for a quick trip to see him graduate with a 

master's degree.

Feel free to pray for him, I do daily.

(On a very shallow note, I was having a bad hair day because someone has swiped my shampoo--you guessed it, HE did!)

Christmas Can Still Change the World

This is the Advent Conspiracy's video from 2008.  So it's nothing new, but some of it was news to me.  The dollar amounts are staggering stated, and the overall message is powerful.
(The rest of this post will make no sense if you don't watch the video first.)

Because of our ages and time in life--no small kids in the house and tighter finances, we don't do a whiz bang Christmas.
I'm okay with that, I still love this holiday and all the reasons for it--particularly the original one.
This year, we'll have Mac home and my niece Alice here.
Spending time together as family, baking and making things, only stockings for the "kids."

But the most impactful part of the video is the water part.
I watched it and had to donate.
Will you?

How does Jesus want us to celebrate?

(As a side note, I learned of this particular "cause" from a Jewish friend on facebook.  God at work through all of us with a church that goes beyond four walls.)

Mom's Photo

I've kept this photo handy with the intention to scan it for months now.  I was going to wait to post it closer to Christmas, but then yesterday,  on Thanksgiving, an acquaintance of mine died.  I was sad for her kids, and in a way Julie died on an anniversary I was not celebrating--the 20th anniversary of my mom's death.  I am still so thankful for Mom, so I scanned the picture and included it on facebook as part of my month of thankfulness status posts.  It just seemed like the right day to do so.

My mom died suddenly on November 28, 1991--technically the anniversary is on Monday. But that year it was on a Thursday, and it was also about an hour or so into Thanksgiving.  So you can see why Julie's death was, well, familiar to me.  We opted to meet as a family that day, to not spread the news because though we were in great shock, we didn't want to bruise any other hearts on a day devoted to joy.

But that's not what I'm writing about today, not really.

Today I'm writing about a ring.  I'm writing about this particular photograph.

My mom gained weight throughout her marriage to my dad.  She had to stop wearing her wedding set because it no longer fit.  She didn't trust jewelers, but then my friend Gerry started working for one. So, in 1989,  my dad and I sneaked her ring set to Gerry to be resized, and my dad also bought my mom an anniversary band--one that I picked out, that's how he shopped!

The photo is of her opening the box with the band.  The wedding set came next.  She loved them both, and she wore them for almost two years--the wedding set on her left hand, the gold and diamond band on her right.  When she died, my sister got my mom's wedding set, and I was gifted with the anniversary band.  I had it sized and wore it on my right ring finger until I met Brad.

When we decided to get married, I asked him if I could wear it as my wedding band, and when he agreed, silver-loving me went out with him looking for a yellow gold engagement ring.  Solitaire found, we announced our engagement.

My left ring finger is more slender than my right, so the band had to be resized again. When we took it to the very same jeweler, we were told it was too fragile after 16 years of daily wear to amend to that degree.  So I had to pick out a new band.

I selected something similar, and we ordered it.  When we returned to pick up the new ring, it was pretty, but it wasn't Mom's.  They gave me the carcass of her old ring in a tiny plastic bag, and I walked away from the counter and wept by a corner display.

You have to know me.  I don't cry much over "stuff," but this really upset me.  Getting married to a lovely man without either of my parents was hard, and I think this just pushed me over the bridal edge--though in every other way I was a completely laid back bride.

That Christmas, 2007, I opened my gifts and found that Brad had taken a piece of jewelry he owned and extracted diamonds from it.  He took the carcass of Mom's ring back to the store and had them fashion the old ring into two earrings that hold those stones. Again, I found myself crying over "stuff," but this time I cried happy tears.

There's no picture of me with my earrings from that morning, and I'm not going to take one for this post.  But I am going to tell you that 20 years after her death, I carry my mom with me.  I think of her daily.  I talk about her all the time.  And I know she would approve of the soft-hearted man I married.

I also know she'd be really mad at me for posting her photo (in her housecoat!) for all to see.

Past 59 If I Have Anything To Say About It, But I Don't...

I will be 51 on Friday.  My mom died at 59.

Each year I get closer to the age she died, I think, "What can I do to stick around to meet my grandchildren and see them grow up?"

Now I understand Mom is in THE most glorious place. But I AM one to question God's plan.  My mom died of a massive heart attack nearly 20 years ago.  She didn't take care of herself.  One of my friends has tried to make clear to me that that was clearly "her time."  But, if she had taken care of herself, would He have chosen a different time?

Yesterday, I was thinking, "She has missed out on knowing Mac.  She would have adored him past the five years they shared on Earth."

Science tells us there are things we can do to be healthy, and the Bible tells us to take care of the temples in which He dwells--our bodies.  Is that the lesson to be taken from her death?  Be healthier?

Today I tried another 5K.  Running/walking/running/walking--to that 3.1 miles finish line.  And with each step I took, whatever my pace, I though of getting past, well past, 59.

(I finished 778 out of 899 runners, but with my personal best time!  And no shin splints! Back to treadmill training...)

Piecey

 See below for what's up with these cookies, 

but they're like these I made for Thanksgiving last year...

So I haven't joined Friday Fragments lately, but yesterday I decided to make it a goal.  Ta da.  I'm publishing my Friday Fragments on Saturday...

**************

Stepped out of my comfort zone twice in the last 48 hours.

One, I tried out for a musical at my former church even though I don't sing or dance.  I wasn't nervous until I crossed the threshold, and then I was a basket case.  We'll see what happens...

Two, I went to my first IT committee meeting (instructional technology).  This attendance was forced on me, but still I did okay.  There are some tech geeks (jealous) on the committee (including two brilliant HS girls), but I think the director also wants some less than tech savvy folks. He's got one in me.

*************

This past week, a young teacher at work said to me, "You do EVERYTHING, you are amazing."  This was a "just in passing" comment.  She's so kind, I was flattered but more than a little confused, so I asked her to tell me what "everything"  meant.  Really, it was nothing stellar.  Just to clarify, I am not amazing and I don't do everything.  (I'm really good at sitting on my buns; sure wish I could find more time for that.)

However two things came from this comment:  One, me counting all the ways I'm not amazing and mentally marking off the things I don't know how to/can't do.  Two, the memory of one of Brad's daughters-in-law telling me I'm a know-it-all.  Allowing all these thoughts in hurt me.  Why did I do that to myself?  For Pete's sake, a sweet young teacher complimented me, shouldn't I just accept it and not question it?

I did go to her later to see if it was a good thing, I told her about the know-it-all comment to let her know I wasn't fishing for more compliments.  So now she knows how insecure I am.

 ************

Confession:  I am a sucker for thank you notes.  I think it's important to send them.  I got the nicest one from my friend Helen's daughter this week.  A few weeks ago, I went to a baby shower for her, and she sent a cute, thoughtful, addressed-by-her-note.  

I need to send out some thanks.  As I've written recently, I don't do it enough.

************

Opened my mouth in a different work meeting this week, and now I find myself having to read a book I was only thinking about reading, implement the practice, and then teach others.

Right now, the only perk I see to this is that I don't have to buy the book as my principal is buying it for me.

*************

My class is a group of young ones this year but I think we're beginning to grow on us. This is the last week of the quarter, and I'm hoping we do some fun things to take a break, and I know we're going to start on our first service project.  Deadlines to meet?  Sure.  Fun to have? Absolutely!

(Science unit to wrap up, science quiz, writing to publish, compost bin to assemble, art for the too blank walls, witches hat birthday treat, Operation Christmas Child begins...and for me lots of grading and report cards!)

************

Best thing about this week, my son came home from LSU for a short visit.  We've managed to see quite a bit of him between his friend time.  (And we've seen his friends too.  Bonus!)

Thanks Mrs. 4444!