pieces and ponderings

The last couple of weeks have been crazy with a college graduation, postponed from the spring because the town where my son attends  school was recovering from a deadly spring storm and moving him back to finish his graduate degree;  school  starting for children 3-5, leader training for a Bible study that I participate in, AND child number 2 preparing to leave home for college.

Tomorrow is the big moving day.  We leave early in the morning…child number 2, her daddy and I.  Boxes and luggage await to be loaded into her car and Bryan Darling’s truck as I write this.

I’m thankful that I took a break and checked my email earlier this evening and found a message from my Aunt Barbara.  Her words met my heart right where it is and gave my distracted thoughts a place to rest just for a while and find encouraging sentiments.

Once again she understands where I am and what I am feeling.  Here is a portion of our exchange.

“Dear Donna,

I guess tomorrow will be both a giggly and busy day.  I am tickled to death, as I am sure all of you are, that Amy is moving into the dorm and meeting new people and starting new classes and loving it all. But I’m also thinking that it may be a quiet drive back home. It is weird to me how history repeats itself in a way. (CAUTION ALERT! Here comes another “when-Barbara-was-a-little-girl” story). Mom and dad worked really hard to find a school where I could live on campus. And they moved me and my book case and my bed chair and a couple of stuffed animals – – plus clothes, shoes, and a card table – – into Mynders East about this time of year 53 years ago. I was scared stiff – – afraid that it all was going to be more than I could manage.  It took me a long time to realize that that day took a lot of courage on my parent’s part. And it has occurred to me this week that that same scenario is happening all over again for y’all.  Sorta.  I used to watch you, Donna, with your grandmother and see how complete she looked with you. So many things about you remind me of her – – your reserved nature, your naturalness (though she did love that lipstick and fingernail polish), your faith.

And there’s another weird thing about today. Your mom just called, after I had written that first part above. I think I’ll let her tell you the story. Ask her about the “pocket dictionary.” I really do not want to get completely loopy in my last years, but I am more and more persuaded that there are no accidents.   Just patterns.  Patterns that we pass on from one generation to another, with God’s grace.

Love, Aunt Barbara

And here is my response:
Aunt Barbara,

Your story encouraged me greatly!  We have had a good day…Amy and I running last minute errands and gathering those last few items for dorm life.  I am very excited for her, but cannot fathom leaving her.

We got all of her medication packed this evening and it will be hard for me to not have some control over that…the measuring and reminding.  I probably will still remind her every once in a while via text message.  She does a good job remembering, but still “Amy, did you take your medicine?”  has been a regular part of our nighttime conversations for over two years now.   It feels funny that the 7-day medicine container will not be a part of the kitchen decor now.

I know that she is ready and I am cheering really hard for her.  Just the same…I will need to make sure that there’s a box of Kleenex in the car for the ride home.

much love,

donna

This is where I am tonight.  Early in the morning, I will be travelling with my girl and her daddy…cheering her on as we go.

(author’s note: My Aunt had polio as a child, which paralyzed her right arm completely and she has limited use of her left arm.  She is one of my heroes.  My daughter was diagnosed with epilepsy at the age of 17.  She is also my hero.)

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My family took many photos this last weekend.  It was my firstborn son’s graduation from college and we documented the event with lots of pictures.

When you arrive a couple of hours early so you can get a seat, you have a lot of time on your hands.  You read the thick graduation program.  You look for your adult child’s name under the college from which they are earning a degree.  You take pictures of empty stages and large screens that announce that you are at the commencement exercises for the 2011 spring and summer graduates.  You wait.

We took lots of photos during the ceremony…of our son standing and sitting and walking and smiling.  We took pictures of some of the people that he began his college adventure with four years ago…classmates from his high school.  They all finished well.

And we took photos after the ceremony…with his siblings…with his parents.  Photos of him standing…walking…smiling…sweating (it was a hot day!).  We even took a photo of a plaque that bore his name, which hangs on the wall of the college where he left his mark.  We took photos at receptions…photos during the reception…photos leaving the reception.

We are proud parents…we took lots of photos.

But there is one image that I can only carry in my mind’s memory.  I wish I had had my camera.  I wish I had gotten a digital image that I could transfer into a print image and put in a frame and place in my home.  But my camera wasn’t hanging around my neck when my mind’s eye captured this image.

Our three oldest sons had gone ahead of my husband and I and our youngest to breakfast the morning of the graduation.  I knew children 3 and 4 had gone down before us…but for some reason I thought child number 1 was still behind us.  I walked into the hotel’s breakfast area.  It was crowded…with the hotel hosting two different family reunions.  I looked across the large crowded room and a young man caught my eye.  He was handsome and well-dressed with a bright white dress shirt and a crimson tie that went well with his gray slacks.  He was looking back at me…he had a twinkle in his eye.  He smiled and I realized that I knew this young man…this grown-up man.  He belonged to me.  He was the reason that we were there…celebrating his hard work.

I think that a little gasp escaped from my lips when I realized who the man was that met my gaze.  I was so happy to see him (he had arrived later than we had the night before and I had not seen him in two whole days).  Four years of memories of his college years began passing through my mind.  The memories would continue to flow throughout the rest of the day…and I realized that there we were…making new memories.

We finished making our breakfast plates and pouring coffee into cups and sat down side by side.  That will be one of my favorite memories from this past graduation weekend…the image that will linger in my mind…but not in a frame in my home.

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Yesterday I shared a little bit about my Aunt Barbara.  I did that so I could share a portion of something that she sent me the other day in our circle of writing life (see previous entry).  My Aunt Barbara has taught me much about endurance in life…I think you will see why.

“For a while now I have thought of my receiving polio as akin to my picking up a basket partially filled with odd looking items which I could not name.  The basket was not attractive, but it seemed to be what I needed.   As I went along, it gave me a handy place to put the “stuff” I picked up along the way.   Pretty things like colors and children’s laughter and the feel of wind in the Dodge with all the windows down on Interstate 81.  At some point I realized that the Dodge had been in the basket from the beginning, and in a way so had those children. Along with everything else I love.  It took me years to figure out that the basket held what I would need later on.  They would be there when I needed them.   I had known since a child that God had made the basket especially for me and sent it to me along with the promise that it would be okay.   I thought that meant that I would learn to sacrifice, to do with less, but that God would pay me back somehow.  Tenfold.

Gradually, and I’m not sure when, I began to understand that the basket itself is a treasure: I enjoy it.   It makes me giggle.   It helps me cry.   It makes me slow.   It requires that I think.   It shows me the success and failures of human love.

So, Donna, when I read about your gratitude for last year, I read in part that you are grateful for what seemed like a terrible thing happening to your child. I know that Scripture teaches us to seek in His name and we will receive.   Still, I am convinced that we must first be at a point of Need in order to see what he has already prepared for us.  What’s already in the basket and that we can have as soon as we learn how to name it.   And I don’t mean by this rambling that Amy’s seizures were in any way a means of teaching her or her family a lesson.   Just the opposite!   They were a gift, a cloverleaf off a crowded interstate to Another Place.   Hard as they were, she found good in them.   You found good in them.   I found good in them – – through you.  Am I making any sense at all?”

Aunt Barbara, you make perfect sense to me.

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My Aunt Barbara is a huge part of the reason why I enjoy writing.  She is a huge part of why I enjoy many things…funny movies, flying kites, singing silly songs, hot pastrami sandwiches, paintings by Van Gogh, Weimaraners…the list goes on and on.  She has been a huge influence on my life and one of my favorite people.

When I was eight-years-old, I began visiting my grandparents and aunt for two weeks every summer.  It was always a special time.  My aunt was a college English professor and when I visited I would go with my grandfather every day to the college where my aunt taught to pick her up from school…I loved doing that.

My aunt contracted polio when she was a child.  She survived the disease but it left her with no use of her right arm and limited use of her left arm.  The virus had affected her body in other ways too, but none that I would really understand until many years later.  The polio seemed to only slow her down a little from my perspective.  With encouragement from my grandparents, her parents, she learned to do many things.

To me, the fact that my Aunt Barbara’s arms didn’t work was just a part of life.  She let me do things that other grown ups didn’t, like carry her billfold when we went places and take out money to pay for things…that was a big deal to a little girl.

In the early 1970’s my Aunt Barbara received a miracle…a car that she could drive, steering with her feet.  The car had a huge disc in the driver’s side floorboard with a shoe mounted on it.  Aunt Barbara would get into the car, slide her foot into the shoe on the steering disc and off we would go.  I thought it was marvelous…she had to think it was one of the most incredible things ever in the whole wide world!  It gave her a new kind of freedom and she LOVED driving!  My summer visits only got more adventurous now that Aunt Barbara could drive.  We went all kinds of places.

From my earliest memories, my Aunt Barbara has always told the most wonderful stories about the goings-on in her life.  Her stories ALWAYS made me laugh!  Listening to all of her stories made me want to tell stories too…stories to make people laugh.  So she is one of the reasons that I write…to tell stories…to make others laugh…maybe.

My Aunt Barbara reads my blog and that in itself is a blessing…and when she reads what I write she writes her own thoughts back to me.  It’s a circle of writing life that we share…and I am most grateful.

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My kids make me laugh…they make me laugh a lot.  Last weekend…during all of the furniture re-arranging (see earlier post)…was one of those times.

This is a cabinet that was moved during the re-arranging.  It belonged to my grandparents…an old-fashioned television cabinet, which housed their first TV.  Later on, when they replaced that first television, my grandmother had shelves made for the cabinet because she liked it so.  I like it too, and have filled the shelves, storing nick-knacks and trays and pictures, etc.

The cabinet was in our dining room, but got moved with the re-arranging.  It’s now in the room where my grandparents’ parlor furniture sits.  I like it there, too.

After children, numbers 1and 3, moved the cabinet; I walked through the room and noticed that child number 1’s kindergarten picture and two of his college debate trophies sat atop the cabinet.  It made me laugh.  His high school senior portrait is also in that room and he calls the room his shrine…so he just added the memorabilia to his shrine, he informed me.

While he was explaining this to me, child number 2 was listening…she cut her eyes at me and I knew what would soon be happening.  When her older brother went back to his room…she headed to get all of her trophies.  The next time I walked through the living room…her awards had replaced her brother’s.

Child number 4 was not to be out-done.  As soon as his older sister’s attention was directed elsewhere, his recently-acquired-math-competition trophy (the biggest trophy in the house) was centered between his sister’s accolades.

When his older siblings realized what had happened there was much laughter and kidding one another.  The trophy shrine has remained the whole week…and has made me smile every time I see it.

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“Peace in the land”…that’s what the baby name book listed as the meaning of the name we would give our child number three.  When I looked up name meanings yesterday, I found similar meanings for the name “Jeffrey”:  “gift of peace,” “God’s peace.”

“Peace” is the key word in our son, Jeffrey’s, name meaning…it’s why he bears the name he does.  As I’ve been thinking about him this week with the taking of senior photos and all (see earlier post), I remembered choosing his name.

Child number three is named after his father and his paternal grandfather.  He has three names that come before his last name…two middle names, (which make filling out official documents and forms loads of fun).  But his dad and I felt like this would be a child who could carry all of those names well.  And though he bears reminders of his lineage in family names, we call him by the middle name not handed down from previous generations.

I’ve always liked the name “Jeff.”  I had a childhood friend by that name.  He lived across the street from my grandparents and aunt inVirginia.  He and I spent hours playing outdoors every summer during my two-week stays with my grandparents…pleasant memories.

And when I was all grown up and expecting baby number three, the name “Jeff” was on our list of possible names for our son.  Way back then…when I read the meaning of that name…I knew it was just the right one for our baby.

The time of my pregnancy with child number three, was not a peaceful time in our lives.  After 35 years of marriage, my parents were separated and heading toward divorce.  It was a painful time.  It was like a huge earthquake shook the foundations of my family of origin, ripping it in two.

I longed for peace.  I prayed for peace.  I hoped for peace.  Our son, Jeffrey, would carry with him in his name a promise of peace…a promise that when everything around you is shaking and quaking that God is still there…giving peace…being peace Himself.  “Peace in the land” was the perfect name for our third born.

Many years later, when our family was facing a crisis of another kind, my world being shaken again as my daughter suffered from seizures, “Peace in the land” would step forward again and again with calm steadiness to lend a helping hand wherever might be needed.  It was Jeffrey who called 911 when Amy’s first seizure rocked our world.  And then he called my best friend to ask her to pray.  I was going into shock, but he was calm and steady.

He has grown into his name well, and I am a proud momma.  He continues to be a big reminder to me that God’s peace is always available.  There can be “peace in the land.”

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Today was senior picture day…again.  This time it was child number 3’s turn to smile in front of the camera while I looked on.  Of course, child number 3 is perfectly capable of having his pictures made without his mom…but, this mom is NOT capable of child number 3 having his senior portraits made without me.  So just like child number 1 and child number 2 before him, I tagged along.

First was the formal shot…him all dressed up in a tuxedo shirt and jacket, complete with bow tie.  He looked good in the tuxedo top.  He looked very handsome.  He looked grown up.

“He’s a big boy,” commented the photographer as he reached for the bigger sized jacket that hung on the apparel rack.

“Yes,” I nodded in reply.  He is a big fellow.  He’s inching out his 6’ 4” dad in height.  He’s big in more ways than just in physical size.  He has a big heart.  He is big on kindness.  He is big on courteousness. He’s big on thoughtfulness.  He’s big on helping his mom in a myriad of ways.

As child number 3 posed…I reflected.  It’s what I do while my seniors are having their pictures taken.  I think about how the years have flown by.  I think about the ways they resemble their dad or me or a grandparent or a sibling.  I think about the short time ago that I was looking on as child number 1 stood against that wooden fence back-drop.  I remember child number 2’s photo-shoot and the many changes of clothes and the make-up and the hairspray and the four-inch heels that made her look even taller than she is…and the bright eyes that went with her bright smile.

And I thought about this child number 3 that stood before me…the teaser in our family when he was a little boy.  This young man with a wry sense of humor, who teases me incessantly when I do something stupid like spend minutes looking all over the house for the purse that is hanging off my shoulder (that’s the story I reminded him of today to get him to smile for the camera).

That’s why I have to go with my children when it’s time for senior pictures…to make them smile…to watch them all grown up…pose in front of the lights and the camera…to hear the camera’s shutter as it clicks away…catching those whom I’m most proud of, in digital images that will be transformed into portraits that hang on my wall.

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   Surrounded by a sea of parental “no’s,”  like “not now,” maybe later,” “please, stop that,” “I don’t think so,” yesterday I had an opportunity to say, “Yes” to one of my children.  Actually, I think I say “yes” more often than they think I say “yes,” but you know how that goes.  Sometimes I think it does a child and a parent good, when they look at you with big eyes and give a request and you just say, “Yes.”

The big-eyed request came yesterday morning, as my youngest and I sat on our back deck and I watched him eat a plateful of powdered donuts with a couple of chocolate covered ones to boot (dad had said “yes” to the indulgent breakfast item purchase).  He had asked me to join him outside while he ate his breakfast and I had grabbed my coffee and sat in the chair next to his.

It was a cloudy day and a light rain was beginning to fall.  It was just him and me enjoying the beginning of the day and I was about to head into town to help with a project at our church, something I was looking forward to.

We talked and I watched him as some of the powdered sugar stuck to his face and some fell like snowflakes onto his plate.  He asked me when I was leaving and I told him what time I was supposed to go.  “Don’t go,” he said, “stay here with me and we can read our books.”

I don’t think he expected me to abort my plans for the morning and stay there on the back deck so we could read books while a gentle rain fell.  I think he would have been okay if I had gone on.  But there was something about his big gray/green eyes when he  looked at me and made his request.  There was something about the vulnerability of his asking, putting his heart’s desire out there for some time with mom.  I realized that perhaps there was a potential mother/son memory that could be created.  I realized that I had an opportunity to say, “Yes.”

Eleven-year-olds don’t stay eleven very long.  They skip on to twelve and then sixteen and then twenty-two rather quickly.  He may not remember that summer morning on the back deck, with donuts and rain and books to read, and mom in the chair next to his…then again…he just might.

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Twenty-two.  It’s my youngest son’s favorite number.  I’m not sure why it’s his favorite number, but it is.  It was the number on his baseball jersey last season, which was nice…because it was his favorite number.

Twenty-two.  It’s now one of my favorite numbers also…at least for the next 365 days.  Today, my oldest child turns twenty-two.

Lots of memories can pile up in twenty-two years.  Lots of smiles…lots of laughter…lots of firsts…lots of adventures…lots of time spent getting to know someone.

I remember twenty-two years ago…the days before he arrived…waiting to meet him…our firstborn.  I looked so forward to seeing him face to face…instead of just feeling the hard kicks within my abdomen.  I remember wondering what he would look like…what color would his eyes be…what his personality would be like.  Twenty-two years later…I know…and I couldn’t have come up with a better idea for a firstborn son than the one God gave to us.

“Gift from God,” that’s the meaning of his first name, Matthew.  We knew, even before meeting him, that he was a gift to us.  He was appropriately named…he is a wonderful gift to his parents and his family.

He didn’t really want to be born on that Monday…two weeks after his due date, when my doctor said it was time for this baby to come on out into the world.  He is to this day; a procrastinator and I guess it began way back at his birth.  And once he did arrive, he liked to keep his mom and dad up late at night…he is still a night owl.  I guess some habits begin early in life.

He was a happy little fellow and that’s still true today.  He was the leader of his siblings…teaching his sister the alphabet and numbers and deciding what make-believe places they would travel to for the day.

We read so many books together, watched so many movies and listened to so many hours of radio shows…we still quote lines from them all.

Sometime today I’ll probably pull out picture albums and relive some of those memories of our little boy growing up.  I’ll show the photos to his brothers and sister and talk about how much our youngest looks like our oldest.

We spent so much time together…him and me, and I’m so thankful for all of those minutes that before you know it has added up to twenty-two years.  And the boy is now a man…a wonderful man, whom I’m proud to say, is my son.

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I went for a walk with my daughter yesterday…well, kind of.  It was a walk of sorts.  I had mentioned to my children who were gathered in our kitchen (their favorite place to hang out) that I was going for a walk.  But it was damp and wet out, from thundershowers, so I decided that getting on the elliptical was a better way to go.  My daughter piped up, “Oh, I want to go with you on a walk.”  I explained to her that I was actually going to spend some time on the elliptical, but she followed me to my bedroom anyway, and plopped down in the rocking chair that sits in a corner as I turned on a cd that she had recently made for me.

I climbed aboard the piece of workout equipment as the latest from “Owl City,” began playing on the stereo.  As I began walking, Amy informed me that when I was finished I could sit in the chair while she took her turn on the elliptical.  That seemed fine with me.

As different “Owl City” tunes began to play, Amy would say things like, “Oh, I like this one.”  Or “Listen to these lyrics.” Or “This one is funny.”  I’ve had that cd for about a week, but hadn’t listened all the way through it, and it was fun hearing my daughter share why she liked this and that song.

I finished my time walking and Amy hopped up and stepped onto the elliptical.  I didn’t sit in the chair, but lay down on my bed instead.  Unable to reset the “shuffle” control on the cd player, Amy had gotten her ipod and plugged it in, so we had even more “Owl City” music to listen to.

Throughout our “walk” we talked back and forth just like we would on a real walk.  And I eventually dozed off as I lay on the bed and she walked on the elliptical…not what would happen on a real walk…but I awoke after a few minutes and she was still going, so we talked some more.

I really enjoyed that time together…walking.  In ways it was a snapshot of our time together over the last year.  Because of problems associated with her epilepsy, Amy didn’t go away for college after graduating from high school.  She did her first year at a local community college close to home…12 minutes from our house…and that was far enough for her to go in her parents’ opinion.

I remember her first day of class last August…a Monday after seizure symptoms on the previous Sunday.  I had taken her and dropped her off for her classes and went back home and spent the morning cleaning anything and everything as I prayed that she wouldn’t have any epilepsy-related problems.  She made it through that first day and we began to make the adjustments to her being in a bigger place, where her health issues weren’t known as they had been at her high school.

She learned how to talk to her teachers and counselors about her health and I learned how to encourage her to do so.  As I write this, she is in her third term and is able to communicate her hard health situation with more ease and even humor.

This past year…this extra year we have had with Amy at home…has been a gift to her daddy and me.  She spent Saturdays working with her dad.  We had weekday afternoons together and many special Friday lunches of fruit smoothies and waffle fries, our “Yay, it’s Friday” treat.  She was able to rest when she needed to and we learned to offer support and begin learning to let go.

So when this August rolls around and it’s coming quickly, her dad and I will travel with her to the school she has chosen and help her unpack her belongings.  I can’t imagine what saying good-bye will feel like.  I’m not going to think about that now.  I’m just going to jump at any chance I have in the next month to go on walks with my daughter.

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