It’s no surprise for anyone who knows me well…I’ve been pretty down ever since my grandma’s death.  I haven’t felt like posting much.  I grieved this for a very long time before it happened (since she gave up on life about 5 months ago), and when it actually happened, I embraced my grief fully.  I even took a brief foray into medicating it, with Ativ@n, but…it’s not for me.

I will say, while I didn’t feel the meds made a big difference, I was able to get through the funeral without breaking down.  I made the photo montage video – and while the rest of the family said that was the hardest thing to watch, I had already seen all the pictures enough that I was able to look at them and smile.  I love the light in my grandpa’s eyes as he looked at my grandma.  I was able to look at that and cherish that love – rather than falling back into the abyss of grief – missing them both.

They were a huge part of my life, and I miss them, and will miss them, as long as  I live.

My husband has patiently allowed me my time to grieve, waiting for his wife back.  It’s been a chore and a half for him, I’m sure, because aside from the normal grief that comes with losing a grandparent, it has been a perfectly awful time with my mom, uncles, and aunt.  They were all EXHAUSTED when Grandma passed.  My mother had cared for her for months, around the clock in the last month.  One aunt and uncle stepped in a couple of days each week while my mom worked, but that really never allowed her time to rest.  Add to that the emotion of losing your mother, with some pretty horrendous nights up at the end, and – well – it’s not hard to be liberal with the grace when you’re not the one who was there going through all of that, but with each other, they …well…they just lost it for awhile.

Things are a little better now, after 2 weeks, some time away from each other, and with the reality starting to set in.  We’re dealing with the house and her belongings, figuring out what is going to whom, and all in all, it’s just…the sum of my grandparent’s life and marriage doled out in bits of belongings.  It’s really hard to comprehend that she’s gone, and that I can’t just go over and see her any time I want.  I can’t make dinner for her any time I want.  I can’t stop over and just sit and talk with her, or show BonBon off to her, or help her to believe the choice we made for Cheesecake’s next year is good.

Speaking of which, Cheesecake was accepted into the Leadership program she applied to at church.  She’ll spend her first year after high school devoting her life to serving in the church, learning to teach English to non-English speakers, and going on an extended mission trip.  And she won’t be living with us!  It’s hard to imagine.  I am sure she’ll rock it, but it’s going to be a huge change for both of us.  We’ve always had each others’ back…but I am so excited to see how God uses her, and molds her, and opens up her whole world.

Hubs and I attended a Marriage on the Rock conference this past weekend, led by Jimmy and Karen Evans of Marriage Today.  It was really, really good.  We attended one last February as well, and I think Hubs and I both agree that we need that yearly (or even twice yearly) tune-up for our marriage.  It just brought about a lot of open discussion about areas we both felt needed work, and renewed our commitment to each other.  At the end of the second day, you do a vow renewal – which by far was my favorite part last year, and this year.  I just love hearing my husband say our vows, and staring into his eyes as I say mine.  I love putting our rings on each other again, and having our ‘first kiss’ all over again.  Even if it’s in a crowded room full of people…I just love being with him.

I don’t know if I agree with EVERYTHING Jimmy said, but that time invested in working on us was definitely a plus for us, and I highly recommend it, no matter how fabulous your marriage is.  You just never know when that one little piece of advice is going to really take you from medium to super awesome!

Anyway, that’s probably enough rambling.  I have about 8 bajillion things to get done.  I am determined to get our budget back on track this month, which means more menu planning, and the job search is on for both Hubs and me.  (Bleh.  Really wish I could find something to do from home, so I don’t have to leave BonBon.)

Hope your Valentine’s day is filled with a million thing to love, and most of all, the understanding of God’s love for you!

My grandmother died 54 hours ago.

I am having a really hard time keeping that time in perspective.

It feels like 100 years ago.

It feels like 5 minutes ago.

I look at the obituary, and I can’t believe it.  That’s not her name there.  It’s some kind of joke.  It can’t be.  My grandma is at her house, sitting in her robe in her favorite chair.  She’s drinking coffee and watching Fox News and waiting for whoever has chosen to visit her today.

She’s not dead.  She can’t be.

She can’t have been that shell of a person I told goodbye 3 nights ago.  Whose unresponsive arm I rubbed, as I told her I loved her, and said goodbye.  She can’t be gone.  Because she’s my grandma.

I see solace in her home – in sitting in her space – only to have it torn apart.  Physically, by an aunt who is on a mission to get what she wants and get back to her own home.  Emotionally, by words flung in anger between siblings – all exhausted and grieving, because they just can’t agree on things and don’t want to be having to make these decisions anyway.  She can’t be dead.  She’s their mom.

There’s no solace anywhere.

Light and salt are so hard to be when all the salt’s being cried out in tears.

No hugs are being given.

No hearts are being comforted.

It’s just all cold.

Cold. Rejection. Anger. Hurt…on a beautiful day when she’d only been gone for one.

Now it’s two.

I can’t be there anymore.

But I can’t be here.  Can’t stand to have my eyes open.

Can’t stand to face the reality.

Reality of a body lying on the side of the interstate…cars passing by…gawking to see what happened.  That wasn’t her – it was another life – cut short on a joyride after too much alcohol, apparently.  But still dead.

I have a munchkin looking up at me.  ”I need you Mommy.  Want Peter Pan.”

Me too, Love, me too.  I want Peter Pan, where nobody really dies, and everybody flies, and Tinkerbell can make everything better.

Today, at 4:37 AM, my grandmother passed from this world, on to the eternal one in which I hope to meet her again someday.

Well, 5:30 if you look at the official death certificate, based on when the hospice nurse could get to her house and officially declare the time of death.

I take some small comfort in that.  For a time, my grandmother’s body sat here, in her home, with her children.

My mother called around 7 to tell me.  I was third on her list, after my brothers.  I’m not sure who told my uncle, who also lives here in town, but had chosen not to stay the night.

When I got to her house shortly after 9, it was a flurry of activity.  My aunt has never been one who could sit and do nothing.  For days, she has been cleaning, tidying, throwing things out outside of my grandmother’s room.  She drew the limit at that – being intrusive.  Apparently she and my grandmother had already done a great deal of purging, when Grandma was still well enough to be up and about somewhat.

This death, it wasn’t unexpected.

But that didn’t make the morning’s activity seem any less like a betrayal.  I couldn’t help but feel …her body’s not even cold yet, and you’re going through all of her stuff, tossing this, claiming that, making a pile to go to Goodwill or the homeless mission without a care.

Of course, some of the items will be given to various family members.  For years, my grandmother has tagged everything she has been given with the name of the giver – as she intended to have it go back to them on her death.  Odd, huh?  But, it is what it is.  She remembered that years ago I had given her a cardinal snow globe, matching a Pfaltzgraff dish pattern she had, and mom noted today that she remembered it was to go to me.

I’m sitting here now in her dining room – a room I rarely spent time in as it’s where all of the ‘adults’ always sat for holiday meals.  Everyone is gone but Bonbon and me.  Bonbon is napping.  The tv is on, but the silence still screams in my ears.

She’s gone.

I will never hold her hand, or talk to her, or tease her, or feel her disapproving glance, or bring her a frosty ever again.  Not in this life anyway.

I’m trying to be ok with that.  I really, really am.  But I miss her already.

My husband has been away since Sunday morning.  He went 8 hours away to attend the funeral of his grandmother.

His grandfather was taken to the ER as soon as the funeral was over.   He is ok, but was just recently treated for a collapsed lung, so…I fear we may be making another trip up there soon.

My grandmother…well…my grandmother wasn’t expected to make it to today.  On Saturday, I was told maybe 48 hours.  Now my mom says she said a week – she didn’t – but it’s neither here nor there.  It is impossible to tell, other than to say that death is imminent.  We had communion with her yesterday, with all those who could make it crammed into her bedroom, sitting on the floor around her.  My cousin is a pastor, and did a great mini-service, just as Gram wanted.  My aunt arrived from Texas shortly before we began, and we think that is all she was waiting for.  She does seem to look for more news of anyone coming as another reason to hang on a little longer, but I suspect it truly won’t be long now.

I am…

I know it is good she will be out of pain.  I know it is good she will be with Jesus (and I truly believe she will be.)

But, selfishly, she won’t be HERE.  She won’t be at every birthday party.  She won’t be at Christmas.  She won’t be sitting in her day room any time I want to see her, and stop over there.  She won’t be sitting there wanting a frosty any more.  She won’t be here.

So, selfishly, I am a little destroyed by that.

I feel myself sinking into a pretty big hole, and I know, it’s only as deep as I want it to be, because Jesus is right here with me.  But the hurt of knowing she won’t be there…it makes me just want to hide, and sleep, and not think about anything.  Not my husband, or my kids, or me, or my mother who will very much need me once this is over.

Cheesecake is sitting next to me on the couch, filling out her application to attend a leadership school sponsored through our church.  It’s interesting…as she worked through the application, she came to a question that was running through my mind just last night.

The question asks to what extent they have been involved in alcohol, drugs, the occult, sexual activity, or same sex attraction.  Now…for the most part, I get to brag extensively about Cheesecake.  She has never consumed alcohol, she’s never smoked or tried illegal drugs, she’s never even had someone she was really interested in dating (regardless of gender), so none of that applies.

There is one glaring omission there.

Years ago, when we practiced an ecclectic collection of pagan beliefs, Cheesecake was a tween/teen who was also trying to figure out who she was.  As with many children, she wanted to do what we did.  Admittedly, our pagan practices were generally fairly benign and limited to positive things – usually just to acknowledge the equinox or solstice.  Regardless, we were NOT Christian, and we certainly were not educating our children about Jesus. 

As I thought about it last night, though, I remembered something.  At some point, Cheesecake had decided she wanted to be pagan too, and I took her out to purchase a pentagram necklace to wear.  At the time, I brushed it aside, but I very distinctly remember feeling slight horror at it.  I couldn’t tell her no – it was the faith I had chosen, and proclaimed to love.  How could I NOT want her to participate?  I bought her the necklace, educated her here and there about our beliefs, and gave every outwards sign that I was happy with her choice.

I was anything but happy about it.

Somewhere in the deepest, darkest corner of my brain, a verse was nagging at me. 

“Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea.”  Mark 9:42 (ESV)

I knew what I was leading her into – and I think, even then, I knew I was wrong in my belief.  I wasn’t ready to lay down my own ego, my own ‘self’ yet…but there was a part of me that knew teaching my child to turn from Jesus was wrong. 

Years later, when I was finally broken enough to realize I couldn’t control my own life, Cheesecake never batted an eye.  When I went back to church three days later, she went with me.  She became heavily involved in her youth group, and a few months later, gave her own life to Jesus. 

We have never, at any point, told our children what they had to believe.  We have allowed them to walk their own spiritual journey.

Two and a half years later, I am thrilled at the woman she chooses to be.  I am thrilled at the choices she makes.  She has decided that, after high school, she would like to spend 10 months in our church’s leadership school.  That means eight months of intensive training in ministry, serving, and even physical fitness, followed by two months serving internationally in different global outreach opportunities. 

I try not to sit and marinate in ‘what could have happened’, but the reality is, it could have turned out much, much differently.  The people we associated with ‘back in the day’ were often people who chose to live by a different, far less socially acceptable manner.  She could have fallen in love with that lifestyle, and chosen to pursue that.  And really, how could I have told her she shouldn’t, when I had? 

Many years ago (18 years ago, approximately), when I made the decision, as an unmarried 19-year-old, to keep my baby, I cried out to God.  I didn’t cry out to some pagan diety, I cried out to the ALMIGHTY GOD.  I asked Him to make her an easy baby, because I had no idea how I was going to handle a difficult child.  To be honest, I didn’t like children.  Years of my mother running a daycare out of our house had convinced me that I NEVER wanted to be a parent. 

And yet, here she is.  I am sitting here next to a beautiful, intelligent, loving, courageous, servant of the Most High God.  At 17, when I was getting kicked out of my mom’s house, moving in with a boyfriend, eventually dropping out of college and having a baby…she’s making the decision to devote everything to God.  It just…could have turned out so differently. 

I know there’s no point in rehashing the past…I can’t do a thing to change it, and who knows, even if I could, that the outcome would have been better.

God has blessed me with her – far beyond what I ever could imagine, and far beyond what I ever deserved.

My father-in-law?  Yeah.  He’s a donkey.  A really, really big donkey.

A friend of mine from church posted on her facebook today that she’s trying to decide what to do about Santa in regard to her 2 year old daughter.  Do they go the traditional route, and pretend Santa is real until she’s older, and one day has her sweet childhood reality ripped to shreds by a classmate, or do they tell her from the start that Santa isn’t real? 

I grew up believing Santa was real.  Every Christmas Eve, Santa (who sounded an awful lot like my grandfather) visited our family in person, with a gift for each child.  As we grew older, Santa’s voice changed (puberty?), and he started to sound more like my uncle.  But he would visit us each year, give us our gift, and then go back on his way.  Overnight, though, he would drop off toys and fill our stockings for a nice surprise in the morning. 

I believed, for the most part, until I was 6 or 7.  My bedroom window was at a 90 degree angle from our family room window, and I remember sitting up, looking out my window, and seeing my mom and stepdad stuffing stockings and putting santa presents into each of our piles.  I suppose it wasn’t much of a shock – I had suspected as much (thanks to the kids at school, and having MUCH older brothers), but that confirmed it.

I became a parent at 19, and I will admit – I was on a mission to keep all of those little charming childhood mysteries alive for my daughter as long as I possibly could.  When it was just the two of us, it was easier, and I delighted in every little tradition (including the long standing family tradition of Santa visiting on Christmas Eve!).  After our family grew to 4 children, we tried to maintain it, but the older kids did eventually spoil it for our youngest son.  However – now we have BonBon, and the question of what to do comes up again.

We were driving home last night, just Cheesecake, BonBon, and me.  A few of the houses and shops around our neighborhood have their Christmas lights up, and she delighted in each, yelling “KWISSMAS TWEES!” every time we passed one.  I asked her, Chloe, why do we have Christmas, and she yelled “SANTA!”  Yeah, not exactly what I was hoping for.

So it’s a decision now…do we keep that childhood fantasy going (as the world would say), or do we drop that altogether, and focuson the real ‘reason for the season’.  We want her to know Christmas is about Jesus – the greatest gift ever given to those of us in this world. 

I think what we are really against is promoting Santa to further the “Getmas” mentality.  We don’t want Christmas to be all about what we want in the physical.  While the real story of St. Nick, the original footprint for Santa Claus, is debatable, one of the common stories is that he was a young man, from a wealthy family, whose parents died, leaving him a wealthy young man.  Through various acts, he gave away his wealth, trying to remain anonymous, to help others in need.

THAT is a concept I would like our children to understand and embody.  Giving to help others – with the credit going to God’s provision.  I don’t see much in modern Christmas that shows that.

So what will we do differently this year….

Well, the bigger family Christmas will be the same – I can’t change them, but I can change what we do for our own family.  I think we will still have the children make out their Christmas list, but rather than just a big list of ’wants’, we will divide their lists into 3 categories - NEEDS, Wants, and wish.  Three things they need, 2 things they want, and 1 wish.  I also want each of them to research and present to the family one new tradition they would like us to do as a family – something that we can do each year to make Christmas time special for all of us – and hopefully that will carry on to their own families. 

I struggle with how Christmas will change, as the inevitable happens with my Grandmother.  In some ways, it will be freeing somewhat – it will be time to start these new traditions with my children.  But I will mourn the old traditions. 

And I will look forward to the new ones, and to the little girl who is going to be so excited over everything she gets to discover this Christmas – in particular that it is the day we celebrate the greatest gift we were ever given…Emmanuel.  God with us.

I’m having a hard time blogging lately.

I open the browser.  I write.  Sometimes I even write a lengthy post.  Then I stop, look at what I’ve written, and either leave it in the drafts unfinished, or just delete it entirely.

Everything I write seems like just so much drivel lately.  I used to love blogging, and would do so several times daily, as I came across articles, or had thoughts, that I thought would be entertaining enough to blog about.  I’m sad, actually, that I am not finding as much to blog about anymore.

Then again, I don’t find a lot of things as entertaining as I used to, thanks to the work God has done in my life.

In the last week or two, we’ve decided that it’s time for me to go back to work.  It’s not what I WANT to do, but doing so will alleviate a lot of stress financially, and with Hubs’ job.  Things have gotten stressful enough at his job that today, chest pains brought us to the ER for a nice, long visit, and then an admission for overnight observation.   A couple of the jobs he’s considering are consulting jobs, that would include out-of-town travel, and better pay, but the benefits are super expensive.  Me working ensures better benefits, and, if necessary, a paycheck while he finds something less stressful.  It’s a leap I am not thrilled to be making, but I know God will work it all out for good.   I KNOW that.  Doesn’t make it easier to think of leaving my baby, even with family and friends, all day while I work.

Since making that decision, I’ve made a few other choices.  I have dropped my BSF class, which is sad, but it was also two hours worth of homework .  I skipped Hearts and Moms the last two weeks, instead spending time with my Grandma, and helping a friend out who needed someone to watch her kids while she went to a doctor’s appointment.  Strangely, it felt really freeing.  While I missed some of my friends, I didn’t miss getting up, rushing to get to church, and then feeling like 1/2 my day was gone.  Plus, my house was really clean.  Clean house equals happy me.

I thought, to some extent, I would feel more separated from God, without that ‘spiritual food’ to keep me in sync.  Strangely, not at all.  I’ve actually kept up on my Bible reading, and felt more relaxed, and therefore closer to God – so maybe He has taught me a lesson here.  Less is more, do what I like to do (media), and don’t stress about the other stuff!  We’ll see what that means in the future, especially as I go back to work.

And now, I’m actually going to hit publish on this post, despite it not being anything I’m thrilled with, and go back to watching America’s Funniest Videos for the 5th hour with my hubby.

Why don’t they make hospital chairs more comfy???

It started out a while back.

She stopped wanting to eat.

She stopped sleeping.

She had this wracking cough – horrible to hear, worse to see, as her frail body convulsed and she gasped for air.

Night sweats followed, as did the complete lack of interest in continuing to live.

She lost weight.

Her children came…meetings  were had, tempting meals were made, final decisions were legalized. 

And then she perked up.  She got better.  She reacted to the meds and the attention.  Things looked better.  A little more time was stolen.

On Monday she was put on oxygen full time.  I haven’t been to her house to see.  In my mind’s eye, I see the image of my grandfather, tethered to an oxygen hose that was long enough to reach from his bedroom, to his chair in the living room, and into the kitchen.  He would walk a few feet at a time, stop to rest, and continue on…a pale image of the rugged man he once was.  A pale image of the grandfather, cigarette in hand, who had stepped in and been the only real father figure I knew growing up.

Now she has the same sentence.  Oxygen, at all times.  She didn’t want to leave her house before – too much hassle, and too easy to sit in her chair, reading or watching tv. 

On Friday, a different call.

Lung cancer.  She has lung cancer.  She doesn’t know yet.  The call was courtesy of my mother, who has medical POA, and also works with the doctor she saw.  So no timeline yet, no difficult conversation with my her yet, but the rest of the family knows.

Ironically, my grandfather never had lung cancer.  60 + years of smoking, and he died of emphysema and COPD.  It was a horrific death…his lungs collapsed on several occasions, and the chest tube to help them reinflate was horribly painful for him.  In the end, that was what led to his death – he refused to have it done again.  He made them let him slip away – the opposite lung unable to compensate.

I can’t help thinking how he would feel…to know the woman he was married to for 49 years is dying of lung cancer.  She never smoked – and sure, there are lots of ways to get lung cancer, particularly when you grew up in the generation that found out a little too late that asbestos was bad. 

But let’s face it.  She was around his smoking every day for 49 years.  What are the odds?

And so the bumpy road begins.  When my mother and I talked yesterday, I was too in shock to take in her emotional state.  My husband immediately asked how mom was doing – and I realized my insensitivity.  I called her, and immediately asked  how she was.  She instantly broke down in tears.  There she was, not my mom in that moment, just another woman facing the death of HER mommy.  She is terrified of the suffering she knows is coming.  She is a respiratory therapist…she sees this every single day.  She doesn’t want her mother to go through that.

But this is the road we are on.

My grandmother mused a few months ago, when this was initially starting to happen…what if she didn’t hear God’s voice after she dies?  We’ve struggled with that – was it a statement of lack of faith?  Was it just a silly musing?  Is she really worried? 

As one younger in the faith, in a family where we are all firmly convinced we know the correct answer and everyone else is wrong, I’ve been hesitant to ask her.  She has her own image she wants me to see…one firmly and unwaveringly faithful…a life given to Christ at the age of 9…but I don’t know.

She’s my grandma, and this is going to be a rough road.  My mother had projected, before this diagnosis, that Thanksgiving was unlikely…Christmas EXTREMELY unlikely.  And I don’t know.  I don’t know what that looks like.  I know our family (Extended) has decreased in closeness quite distinctly since my grandfather died.  I know it will be worse when my grandmother goes.

So I mourn her life light dimming, and I mourn what is to come.  I mourn my family, and the end of traditions that were a mainstay of my life growing up. 

We can make new traditions, as difficult as that seems.

But my grandma…not being part of them…I just don’t know how that goes.