Angels on Earth

Several years ago, the country swooned over the movie, The Notebook.  Girls cried together on couches, promised themselves they'd wait for a love like that, and told their husbands they'd go in peace just like in the movie.  I didn't have to watch the movie or read the book.  I already knew the story.  It was the story of my grandparents and while my grandfather has certainly outlived both of his wives, a piece of him has died each time.

 

I have tried several times to bring to life his story; one of loss and love.  I've tried to eloquently write of the challenges he overcame with the loss of his first wife and finding love again, just to have it taken.  But the words, no matter how many times I write them or start over fall terribly short.  Maybe, just perhaps, there aren't enough words; for no words could describe the utter despair of losing his wife and the mother to his four children.  A wife that not only suffered from schizophrenia, a mental illness that challenges you and those around you to the core, but later from breast cancer which would ultimately take her long before we ever expected.

 

My mother once wrote about my grandmother.  She said she couldn't edit it or even read it over because it was too painful, too emotional.  How can you put in to words a person's life?  How can you give value so that others can appreciate your loss?  How?  I don't know how my mother did it, but she did.  It's a short piece and offers just a glimpse to the life my grandmother had and the profound impact she had on others.  You can read her story here as a guest post on Mom-in-the-Moon.

 

 And while all seemed lost, my mother fulfilled my grandmother's last dying wish and introduced my grandfather to a beautiful and charming lady; Pat.   Grandma Pat was a woman that would become a wife he adored and a grandma that spoiled the rest of us rotten. To my younger cousins, she was the only grandmother they ever knew and to me she was the grandmother I knew my grandma always dreamed of being.  Still, it was hard, growing up missing Grandma the way I did and at times feeling guilty for loving Grandma Pat just as much.  But my grandfather was happy, we were happy, and life seemed to once again be as it should be.

 

I spent nearly every Sunday curled up on their couch after church, which I've written about here.  Every Sunday I learned more life lessons, heard the same old stories, and indulged in all things chocolate.  It was comfortable, it was simple, it was our life.  Then, my grandmother started to forget simple things, things were uncomfortable, and life got real.  She was diagnosed with cancer and later with Alzheimer's.  If God only gives you what you're able to handle, my grandfather must be a saint.  I watched him cry when things got tough; how he helped my grandmother to the bathroom, get her dress, take her around the block becuase she refused to be in a home that wasn't hers.  What broke my heart was watching the woman he loved forget who he was.  She'd get angry and demand to be taken home, but she was already there.  He never left her side.  Not even on her last day.  He loved her like he loved my grandmother.  And with every kiss, every story, I knew he not only saw his new wife, but also the one he lost many years ago.

 

No, words can't begin to explain it.  Any outsider, trying to understand, would just nod in kind gesture, never fully grasping the love my grandfather had for his wives, a love he shared with us.  And while, pictures are worth a thousand words, even they seem to fall short.  At any rate, the following pictures, capture just a glimpse at the love my grandfather had for my grandma. 

 

 Just a few months after Grandma Pat passed, I traveled home to see my family.  I asked Papa to take me to the farm to see it one more time and to stop by Grandma Pat's grave.  He grabbed the keys and we were off.  Before we left, he asked if he could just go and say goodbye one last time.  I sat in the car, but found myself following quickly behind him as I watched him grab grass seed and fertilizer from his trunk.  Happy to have had my camera, these pictures show how much he loved her.

 

"She would have wanted her grass to be the prettiest."

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

Fearless

Despite the fact that I travel quite often, either for work or for fun, and have been for several years, I still get anxious when approaching the airport.  If I'm being honest, and I try to be, it starts the minute my bags hit the trunk of the car and it doesn't end until I'm on the plane.  The moment of ultimate fear is when I stand in the line, without my shoes, trying to toss all of my items on the conveyor belt and waiting for the inevitable machine which forces me to raise my arms that now have embarrassing sweat stains because I'm THAT NERVOUS.  Recently while traveling on business to Dallas I was granted the opportunity to walk through all the security clearances (don't ask me how I got that special clearance, it just showed up on my ticket and I didn't ask questions).  Not having to wait in the "show me your ID" or "empty your suitcase and take off your shoes" line took that usual anxiety away.  And it hit me,  I'm not a nervous person afraid of flying, I'm a nervous waiter.  And so, it got me thinking. 

 

How many of us are nervous waiters?  You know, worried and wondering what comes next, when will we get there and what will it be like?  Worried about what we'll have to take off or let go of and anxious about the steps that we'll be made to take and the line we'll be asked to walk.  And well, if you're like me, these little things don't seem so little and well, it's nerve wracking.  The unknown is painfully and brutally distracting. 

 

Lately my friends, all quickly approaching their 30s and a few unfortunate ones like myself, inching closer to the next decade, have found themselves in the corral line moving slowly through back-and-forth lines where little progress seems to be made.  Once they reach what they believe to be the next step in reaching their ultimate goal, they're stopped, stripped clean of everything, and are left standing there while everyone else moves forward.  So, how do we stop from being anxious?  How do we become fearless?

 

I don't have the answers.  If I did, I wouldn't be the one standing in line with sweat stains.  But maybe you do.  Maybe you have answers or maybe, just maybe, we're all a little nervous and being fearless is nothing more than putting on a brave face and pretending that everything will be okay even if we don't know it will be. 

 

 

Let me tell you a secret...

If you don't have George Strait's lyrics running through your head then you cannot claim you're from the south. Period.  No, don't try to talk your way out of this one, because I'm telling you, once you here the words "Let me tell you a secret..." you should immediately think "...about a father's love".  Luckily, for me, I get to hear this song at least twice a week.  It's the song that plays, without fail, every Sunday morning on my husband's phone and it's always about the same thing: a father's love.  I can't remember the first time I noticed his calls, but I've come to expect them.  And in the rare occasions that they don't come through, it doesn't take long before my husband picks up the phone. 

Sometimes my husband's job takes him away from me for periods of time.  And considering we're still in our honeymoon phase (just coming up on three years), anything more than a day seems like an eternity. (Unless we're fighting over which of us is supposed to do dishes next.)  Prior to one of his trips, his father came to visit.

My husband's father is a simple man who doesn't say much.  He reminds me a lot of my favorite sweatpants, the corner spot on my grandparent's old couch, and that blue chair I'd sit in as the waves washed ashore.  He brings peace and a sense of calm.  He's comfortable.  He's not a man of many words, but he doesn't need to be.  His father remembers things, like the fact I have to have a Coke every morning and when he visits, he brings me a 6-pack just because he remembers things like that.  He knows I like Italian food over Mexican and my total dislike of cooking (though I've managed to keep both my husband and I alive on it so far).  And so, when we were faced with what to do with dinner just after saying goodbye to my husband, he knew just what I'd need- Italian food and a Coke!

We found ourselves in one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall, been around forever, so old you're not sure if it's even clean anymore Italian places just off the coast.  Remember when I said he was a man of few words?  Well, you never would have known that night.  Nope.  He talked my ear off.  And it was the kind of conversation you never wanted to forget.  The kind that makes you really know a person.  The kind that made me think of my husband and see him, for the first time, as a man who was loved by his father so much he'd risk it all just to give his son the world.  It was a man who did take great risks in life, went against the grain, and provided for his family of four.  I wish his children could have heard him and the way he spoke of them both.  It was the way you wish all parents spoke of their children and for the first time I felt less like I was talking to my Father-n-law and more like I was talking to my own Dad.  His eyes did that Santa like sparkle when he spoke of his children, his wife, and the life he had chosen.  It was refreshing and I found myself with even greater respect for the man sitting across from me eating his spaghetti.

During the time my husband was gone, the song didn't play.  It was weird missing something so small, yet so powerful.  His father did call to check on me and despite our attempts to catch up, weather, timing, and the fact we were always miles away from each other kept us from sharing a Coke and stories.  We did however talk often and every time it was the same; he asked about his son, asked if I had any new news on where our adventures would take us next, and whether there was anything he could do for us (though really, I know he was meaning his son).  This continued until my husband was home and I knew, without asking, his father would follow shortly thereafter.

I can't explain what it's like watching a father and son reunite.  I'd like to think it mimics that of when I first hug my mom after being away for a period of time.  I tried to capture it this last time, but my husband hates pictures, so I was left with trying to hide it by snapping a picture from my phone at my hip.  It's blurry, grainy, and all things wrong, but at the same time, it is all things right.  You can't see his father's face, but I assure you, he was smiling like a kid on Christmas.

This morning I woke up early with my husband who was heading to work with breakfast for his co-workers.  I sent him a text shortly after to let him know how much I loved him for the things he does for others.  (And let me be clear, he will be none too happy that I've posted what he did in such an open outlet.  He does things because he believes in them, not for anything else. And so, I just hope he doesn't read this last part as I'm sure I'll get a talking to.)  For the things he does for others wasn't learned in college or through his current job, but from years of being raised by a man who loved his family. 

Love goes a long way.  It shapes who we are as people and has the ability to impact thousands of people indirectly, not to mention the hundreds of people we interact within our lifetime.  So parents, while I realize I have no children of my own and little to stand on, I ask that you love your children.  But more so, I ask that you let them know you love them.  Even when your children are grown, have left your home, and have started their own family, call them.  Interrupt their lives with visits, emails, and phone calls.  These are the things that remind us all that love still exists in this world and it effects the way we treat others.  We are a direct reflection of our parents, whether we like it or not.  Love your kids.  And kids, love your parents. 

Thank you, John, for raising your son the way he is.  Every day I wake up and know that I am lucky and I am reminded of it in so many ways.  Your son loves me the way a husband is meant to love their wife and I am proud to be the one he comes home to.