Grocery Stores and Dirty Floors

 

Dear Kori Jane,

In the two years between Daddy and I’s wedding day and you crashing our party, I used to love going to the grocery store. Perhaps because I’d lived with my own mom right up until that very moment, so the thrill of being in charge of filling a refrigerator and pantry with whatever my heart desired (and our meager budget allowed) had not yet worn off. That and the fact that our two small but steady incomes provided enough to afford not only the basics needed for nightly dinners for two, but also a week’s supply of the Mountain Dew, Nutty Bars, and Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream that rounded out your Daddy’s daily calorie intake. While filling a grocery cart made this young newlywed feel accomplished and domestic, I hated coming home from the store because that pantry and refrigerator I enjoyed stocking happened to be inside our third-floor apartment. The trek up and down the stairs with as many grocery bags as I could possibly carry would always leave me covered in sweat, tears, and deep divots up and down both forearms once the dozens of plastic bags I managed to get up two flights of stairs were hastily dropped as I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. I eventually learned to only go shopping when your father was around to help unload. I also eventually learned that while he was a huge help when it came to carrying groceries up and down stairs, he was of no help whatsoever when it came to doing shopping of any kind. I am fairly certain that he deliberately brought home the wrong brand of cheese, rotten fruit, or completely forgot the most important thing from every shopping trip I ever sent him on, just so I would quit sending him. I eventually gave up dragging him along simply for his company once I realized that there is nothing pleasant about your father’s company at a grocery store. Just in case his incessant complaining about my need to walk up and down every aisle was not bothersome enough, he would be sure to add the most ridiculous items to the basket every time I turned my back, and then proceed to loudly question me about why we needed the pigs feet, adult diapers, or a Barbie doll. I spent way too much time shushing him or having to return random items to their shelves, and still we would always end up with something ridiculous hiding in the bags when we got home. Once he started cartwheeling down the aisles, tossing packages of toilet paper from the next aisle over, or hiding behind the marketing displays in his never-ending attempts to startle or embarrass me, I quit guilting him into tagging along and learned to enjoy my solitary trips to the friendly neighborhood Kroger in peace.

That is until you arrived on the scene. Thankfully by then we were no longer living in a third floor apartment as I cannot imagine having to lug your baby carrier up and down several flights of stairs every single day, but I did have to learn to lug it along on many of my grocery trips. Later when your siblings joined the party, I had to really get creative in order to keep the four of you from filling my basket with random things, cartwheeling down the aisles, or otherwise loudly proclaiming our presence. I must say that one of my most brilliant mothering tactics was the invention of the grocery store game “Compliment Collection”. The goal of course was for you children to collect as many compliments as possible from the strangers we passed, as we walked up and down each aisle. If by the end of our shopping trip we had met our goal, then each of you could choose one thing to add to the basket- usually a sugary cereal I typically avoided, the pink and white circus cookies covered in sprinkles, or one of those silly bottles of juice that had a favorite character head with a drinking spout poking out the top. The only rule was that compliments had to be about your behavior. Anything related to how adorable our family was, or the daily exclamation that your mom’s hands sure were full, did not count. You were not getting credit for being cute or for my full hands. So, when those statements were made you all began to smile widely, echoing a chorus of “thank yous”, in hopes that the stranger might add- “cute AND polite…wow!”

Not surprising Kori Jane, you were the very best at this game. Any game really. There is nothing like competition to motivate the likes of you.  Even as a toddler you seemed to always understand what it would take to be the best or win the prize in any given situation.

You inherited both your competitive spirit and your dislike of shopping from your Daddy, so it would always make me laugh to watch you lay your cheesiest smile on every stranger we passed, seeming to indicate that this shopping trip was the most fun you’d had in years. And if that didn’t work, you would spontaneously say just loud enough for them to hear, “I love you mom; do you need any help?” During this hour or so a week we would be shopping, siblings would hold hands more often and speak more kind words to one another, and I would get more “yes mams”, “you’re the bests”, and “thank yous” than in all other hours of the week combined.

Of course, these compliments were nothing more than part of a game, and they in no way reflected who we were as a family or who you were as individual people. It was fun and funny, but more than anything it kept us all (mostly me) from melting down in the middle of the store.

I remember one especially long day of errands when you were about 3 or 4 years old.  You and your two younger siblings were not likely old enough to be expert compliment collectors yet, but still I had promised you a small toy for being such a big girl and helping me juggle your little brother and baby sister as we drove and shopped all around town. Like your Daddy, you have never taken longer than necessary to get in and out of any store, and this was no exception. As soon as we arrived at the toy isle of “Big Lots” you spotted a tiny red and black toy broom just your size, and determined that was to be your prize.  I remember trying to convince you to look around a bit, but even as a toddler once your mind was made up not much was going to sway you.   

That was likely the one and only broom you have ever clutched with such joy and eager anticipation, and honestly you could probably still use a refresher on the lessons I tried to teach you that day in proper sweeping techniques.

When we finally got home, I set to work unloading the babies and all their gear from the car, while you set to work sweeping as soon as you stepped through our front door into the entryway foyer. While you tired of this game quickly leaving your broom to be tripped on by the next person to walk through the door, you eagerly retrieved it as soon as you saw me in the kitchen with our full-size broom in hand.

I was making a meager attempt at tidying up while Baby Einstein played on the TV and our gourmet dinner of frozen fish sticks, canned peas, and box macaroni and cheese sizzled and simmered. I immediately regretted not trying harder to get you to reconsider your choice of toy as you planted yourself right in the middle of the toddler crumbs and dirt that I had just swept into a nice pile. You proceeded to wave the broom to and fro in wide strokes redepositing the mess all over the kitchen. I took a deep breath and bit my tongue forcing a smile as you beamed with pride at how helpful you were. I assigned you to a different part of the kitchen, as I reswept and got as much into the dustpan as quickly as possible. It did not take long before you reinserted yourself in my space determined to help me finish the job. Hand over hand, I helped you maneuver the miniature broom in small steady strokes so that at least some of the mess did indeed land in the safety of the dustpan. Thankfully your dad arrived home right at that moment so off you darted in delightful squeals because your evening playmate had arrived. I was left alone to clean up all the mess you had missed as well as all the mess you had made in your attempts to use your new gift!

Once Daddy hugged you and threw you in the air enough times to satisfy your required daily dose of doting, you proudly dragged him by the hand into the kitchen to show off the floors that you had just swept to perfection!

I remember laughing out loud as you beamed with excitement while Daddy praised the clean beautiful kitchen floor tile! While not currently covered in loose dirt, this tile undoubtedly had not been mopped in a few weeks and was anything but clean and beautiful. But there I sat more than happy to let you take full credit for a daily chore that you had managed to complicate to the point that it took me twice as long as usual.

These are just some of the many memories that have been flooding my mind in the last several weeks leading up to your high school graduation. I have spent these weeks marveling over the passage of time still convinced that it was just yesterday that you were starting kindergarten, loosing your first tooth, collecting compliments from the side of my grocery cart and eager to help me sweep the kitchen or greet your Daddy when he got home from work. But then last week came and you actually walked across the stage at Tully Stadium in your green cap and gown, and you received your high school diploma. There I sat beaming with pride at the beautiful, strong, determined, passionate, trail blazing girl I have raised. And then it suddenly occurs to me that raising kids is a whole lot like sweeping floors. Here I stand ready to claim the work God has done in and through you over the last 18 years as my own, when in reality you are but a reflection of all the ways that God has redeemed my grand attempts at raising you right. In fact, I am certain that He is still cleaning up my parenting messes even as I stand here beaming with pride and delight watching you prepare to spread your wings and fly.

I know He does not need me, and I often leave messes behind for him to clean, but He does delight in me, and He allows me to participate with Him in loving and caring for others. What an unbelievable gift that He chose me to be your mom, and that I’ve gotten to love and care for you up close for the last 18 years.

As you head out into this great big world I’d like to impress on you just a few things that being your mom has taught me.

First, use your gifts! Use them big even if that means you might make some messes. Kori Jane, write from your soul, sing and make music, lead with conviction, serve with compassion, inspire, create, and gather. But never forget that every one of these good and perfect gifts is from above. While He does not need you, still He delights in giving you good gifts, in being near you, in using you, and even in cleaning up after you.

Secondly, people really are born that way. You helped me understand that Daddy not wanting to go grocery shopping with me was never personal- like you, he really was just born hating to shop.  And the fact that your brother has not a single competitive bone in his body was by no choice of his own. Even still he held his own in compliment collecting, not because he is in anyway naturally polite (quite the opposite actually), but because few things can motivate him like the promise of a sugary snack. Just like you never chose to be confident, aloof, and comfortable in your own skin, neither did your sister choose to be a conscientious, thoughtful, people pleaser. Be slow to take offense, assume good will, always seek to understand, and leave the judging to God.

And finally, never forget that compliment collecting is nothing more than a game. Some people are just born good at it and others have grown up schooled in all the most effective compliment collecting strategies. Still others have never been taught the rules or just never quite seem to catch on no matter how hard they try. A person’s ability to collect compliments says very little about who they really are, and much more about the way they were born and the unique opportunities, sufferings, relationships and experiences they have had in life. When scripture reminds us that “the Lord sees not as man sees: for man looks at outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart”, let us keep in mind that the outward appearance is much more than a pretty face, a skin color, a hairstyle, or the trendiness of our clothes. The outward appearance also includes all the things we do or don’t do that might increase our collection of compliments or even our collection of criticisms. The longer I am alive the more convinced I am that not only does God not judge us the way other people judge us, but He also does not judge us the way we judge ourselves. Certainly, He does not judge us by the compliments or criticisms we have collected, the gifts He has chosen to give us, or the messes we tend to always make.

By the way, I think I finally figured out what I am going to get you for a graduation gift…a roomba.

Love always,

Mom

 

Junior Year

Dear Kori Jane,

You are 16.  A high school junior.  In fact, you have just started the second semester of your junior year.  We were warned that junior year would be brutal, and that right about now you would be ready to throw in the towel.   You are no doubt just as sleep deprived, over committed, under nourished and overwhelmed as all of your other high school junior friends.  A typical day for you begins at 6:00 AM when you rush off to Chi-Fil-A for an early morning study session before the first bell even rings.  Between classes you continue cramming for an upcoming quiz, or you are busy responding to the never ending stream of texts, emails and social media messages from family, friends and teachers alike.  During lunch you head to the school theater where you either have student directing responsibilities or you are busy rehearsing for an upcoming performance. I hope that you usually find time to swallow a few bites of the lunch I pack for you.  For years I made you pack your own lunch or you’d have to eat from the school cafeteria, but that was before the demands of high school consumed your every waking hour. Nowadays I have no concerns about you not having enough responsibilities, and instead I now worry that you have too many.  I also worry that you are not eating or sleeping enough, nor are you able to really take enough time to think about who you are or what life is all about. The least I can do is throw some food in a bag in hopes that you get enough calories to make it through another day. After school you almost always have additional school commitments- making up a test, a club meeting or most often another theatre commitment.  Once you finally get home you will only take a break from homework long enough to join your family for dinner, however the days of you leading our dinner games or our long heated dinner debates have been replaced by your desperate pleas to be excused within minutes of taking your first bite. While I’ve no doubt that you love your family dearly, you simply have little time to invest in meaningful relationships just as there is just no time for you to invest in your favorite interests and hobbies- no more craft projects for me to clean up, no jewelry making, poetry or short story writing,no reading for pleasure, no more political and ethical debates or family game nights, and no more kitchens covered in flour and eggs from Kori’s gourmet cooking and baking night after night.   And the only singing I regularly hear coming from your room is your stressed out attempts to hit the notes that might guarantee you a role in the next school musical. Afterall, everything depends on being cast and the competition is brutal. I’m not sure when high school extra curricular activities became more intense than most full time adult careers, but here we are. Sometimes I wonder if I am seeing your lifelong theatre passion dissolve into nothing more than overwhelming theatre pressure. Most of your theatre friends have been in private voice lessons, dance classes and have acting coaches on top of their daily tutoring, sessions with their college consultants, and test prep classes. I wonder how other families manage the price tags and time commitments involved, but perhaps the outside help they receive somehow lessens the stress and pressure they are under.  Being that I was a first generation college graduate that started at the local community college, I still struggle to understand everything that goes into college planning and admissions. We’ve dabbled some in SAT Prep and voice lessons for you this year, but I have yet to understand the value they have added to your already stressed out schedule.  

On a good night you will hand me your phone by 11:00, and turn out lights within the hour.  I know you hate turning in your phone each night, but I am so thankful that you are forced to disconnect- even if only for 6 or 7 hours while you attempt to get some good sleep.   Sometimes I wish someone would make me turn in my phone at the end of the day so that I too would disconnect from the onslaught of social media posts displaying your friend’s college visits or college acceptances, the school district texts and emails about the endless upcoming events and reminders, the news stories and blogs that tell me stress and busyness is the key to success, and the online shopping and brainless entertainment that allows my mind to disengage from the stress and pressure of the day. 

Of course while just laying there in your bed trying to doze off you are likely worrying about GPAs, SAT scores, what to wear to an audition or school dance, college applications, future careers and of course cast lists.    A day in the life of a high school junior in 2020 is NUTS!

I realize that I am painting a rather depressing picture of your life, when in reality you are anything but depressed.  You are truly thankful for your quirky family and your large but close knit group of friends. You recognize and regularly express gratitude for the abundant comforts and opportunities you have been given both in and out of school, and you find a deep abiding joy in your faith- even in the day to day chaos.

But today, in the midst of the chaos I noticed something (or someone rather) that woke me from this junior year trance that we are stuck in.  I saw something that took me back to memories of my own high school worries and chaos. Worries about getting a job at 16 to help my parents pay the mortgage, and worries about whether or not Dad would show up sober while often hoping he would not show up at all.  Today I was also flooded with memories of the stories my own mother told me about the worries and chaos of her high school years. Worries not about what she would eat, but rather if she would eat. Worries about whether her family would be relocating forcing her to be the new kid once again, and worries about how she could avoid any one noticing that she was wearing the same outfit for the third time that week.  Then I remembered her brutal junior year when she found herself pregnant and forced to actually throw in the towel, no matter how much she longed for a brighter future.      

Kori, this morning we slept through our alarms, or perhaps in the rush of getting to bed the alarm was never set.  Either way, we woke you up with only minutes to spare, so instead of packing your lunches I rushed around helping to get you and your brother out the door.   As you ran to the car with me chasing after with water bottles, I promised to bring you both lunches to school later in the day.  

In an attempt to supplement the fast food in your diet, I  boiled some eggs, sliced a perfectly ripe avocado and a juicy green pear, and toasted a grilled cheese.   Avocado still green and sandwich still warm, I walked into your high school expecting you to be waiting at the table just next to the front doors like you often are on the days I deliver lunch.  But it was not you sitting at that table. Instead it was a timid (dare I say petrified) looking girl sitting alone picking at her school lunch tray. Due to overcrowding in the cafeteria, students often seek refuge in other corners of the school including the front lobby.  In fact on this muggy January Houston day, the other tables and benches in the lobby were overflowing with groups of students laughing, talking and eating together. I could not help but notice her, and wonder why she was alone and what her story was. As I waited for you, I tried to catch her eyes so I could smile or even say hello but she was determined not to draw any attention in her direction.  There was something tragic about the look in her eyes as she stared at the half eaten chili dog and orange slices on her white styrofoam tray. Something about that look in her eyes caused me pain and made me wonder what her story was. Was it much like my story? Or maybe it was like my mom’s story? Was she new to the school, or had she just not found a place to belong? Would this be her only meal today?  Was she scared to go home or maybe was without a way to get home or even without a home to go to? I tend to think that she was not worried about cast lists or test scores. I wanted to ask her, to tell her that life would not always be the way it is today. I wanted to tell her that junior year will eventually end- that high school is really not the end of our story- that in fact it is barely the beginning.  

And when you had still not shown up to collect your lunch after several minutes, I decided to move a little closer to her table in hopes that our eyes just might meet.  I realized that some old lady’s attempt to cheer her up might be even more humiliating than allowing her to sit alone in silence trying to be invisible. So then I just started hoping that you might notice her when you finally showed up to gather your lunch.  I hoped you might notice her and share a smile or even a brief conversation.

But alas you rushed into the lobby, out of breath from running all the way from the theatre.  You smiled at me with your genuine grateful smile, and profusely thanked me for bringing you lunch.  You were there just long enough to inform me that you were in between practicing scenes and needed to get back to work, but not without first telling me that you loved me.  I love you too Kori- more than you will ever be able to comprehend.  

I hope someone loves that girl the way I love you.  I hope that she finds a place to belong. I hope that she will look up from her tray long enough to notice that there is more to life than whatever she is walking through right now.  This is still only the beginning of her story.

And I hope you know how much I love you.  I hope that you will forever remain thankful for the comforts and opportunities you have that are not common to all of us.  I hope that you will be the one to help others find their place of belonging. And I hope you will look up from your busyness once in a while and notice that there is so much more to life than whatever you are walking through right now.   

It is tempting to believe that life begins and ends in high school- that cast lists and score reports, college acceptances and event invitations determine not only our happiness today but our future success. Rest assured that junior year will end.  Life will not always be the way it is today. High school is not the end of your story, nor does it really determine what tomorrow holds. And as CS Lewis once said “there are far far greater things ahead than any we leave behind.” Believe that, live it and share it with the stressed, the hopeless, the hurting, the broken and the lonely all around you.    Lord knows that I am forever changed because someone looked up long enough to notice a floundering, lost high school girl, and because of that I found hope and a place to belong for all of eternity.

Love,

Mom

The Rain

Dear Kori Jane,

Twelve years ago almost to the day, you and I  were  heading to a little neighborhood carnival right by our home that we had passed that morning on our way to church.  It was nothing fancy, just some hand painted wooden games set out on card tables and a bounce house or two, but no party no matter how big or small has ever escaped your notice.    It was a couple of weeks before your fourth birthday and you were long overdue some fun quality time with your mom. When you noticed the gathering again on our way home, and through excited squeals begged to go play, I couldn’t say no!    After dropping your Daddy, your baby brother, and your baby sister off at home we headed back to see what exactly all those balloons, tents, and bounce houses were inviting us to. 

I circled some field a few times and ended up parking a good bit further than I wanted, but the joy and anticipation on your face as you bounced towards the crowd told me that nothing was going to ruin this day for you- certainly not a long walk to the entrance. Well almost nothing. Just as we finally crossed the threshold of the carnival (or the fair-never did find out for sure what it was) the first rain drop fell. I looked up and timidly kept walking forward, but when we reached the first booth the skies which had been completely clear just moments before opened up and a torrential down pour began. Within seconds people everywhere were running for cover. Booths, tents and bounce houses were being taken down at record speeds, and without a thought I grabbed your hand intending to start the long trek back to the car but at a much faster speed. You pulled in the opposite direction, and began to adamantly insist that we stay and play. It didn’t take me long to convince you there was no more fun happening as we were both standing in the middle of an ever-thinning crowd completely drenched to the bone- the rain had changed everything- in a moment.

When we finally got to the car, I could not tell where the raindrops ended and where your tears began.  It would not be the biggest heartbreak of your life, but I’m pretty sure it may have been the biggest thus far.  Or at least it is the first big heartbreak I remember, but that could be because I was struggling with processing a heartbreak of my own that day.  Well, as we joined the other cars in a race to get out of the crowded, wet field that had been transformed into a parking lot, your questions began.  You have always been full of questions.  Not the “but why” or the “what happened” questions but the deep, thought provoking, meaning of life kinds of questions.  There has always been a deep hunger in your soul for beauty, truth and meaning.   A passion for life like no other child I have ever known.

Through your tears you asked me “Mommy, why did God let it rain today?  Didn’t he know that we were going to have so much fun?  Didn’t He know that there was so much to do?  Why did He let it rain? Why?”

I tried to give you a little pre-school theology lesson and explain just how much God loved you, and how rain is one of the ways He shows His love and His strength.  I started to quote some bible verses about how He “provides rain for the earth” and how He is “a refuge from the wind and a shelter from the storm.”   I desperately wanted you to understand that God is good, and that He can be trusted even when the rain messes up our plans. That in fact He is the only thing this side of heaven that can be trusted.  But I quickly realized that you were still too young to understand all that quite yet.  You were not mature enough to see beyond your own little reality, and your ideas and plans for that moment were the only ideas and plans that you could fathom being good.  So I opted instead to let you ask why, while I started making promises of greater joys yet to come- other fairs and carnivals and even a world where all the princesses live that would blow those old bounce houses and wooden bean bag toss games out of the park.  And then we stopped and adopted a baby-doll who needed a new home from our favorite thrift store, followed by sharing a snow cone at the little blue snowball shack that sits in the parking lot of said thrift store.

By the time we got home you were back to your creative, passionate, playful self and ever ready to make up a game or put on a show for any willing audience.  The only hint of sadness left was the sadness you felt for the other baby dolls at Family Thrift who had not yet been adopted.  But for me, it was time for my daily visit with my sister.  Aunt Heather, diagnosed with terminal cancer eighteen months prior, had been moved to a hospice facility near our home.  Because she was so young and otherwise healthy, it took the cancer much longer to destroy her body than any of the doctors expected.  It was an impossible 18 months watching her slowly die, and the last two months were especially difficult as she desperately tried to hang on for dear life.  That day when I got to her bedside, she was in a particularly deep sleep.  When I pulled her beautiful long black hair out of her face and straightened her covers she did not even flinch.  So I sat down in the large arm chair by her bed, looked out the window and ever so quietly whispered the word “Why?” 

“Oh, God, why?”  “Don’t you know how young she is, don’t you know that there is so much fun still to be had?  Don’t you know how busy I am with three kids under the age of 4 that need me- why do I have to be here watching my sister die when she should be helping me teach them how to live?”

“Why cancer? Why suffering? Why sadness? Why death? Why?”

And even as I was still gazing out the window, asking my questions- the pelting rain started again just as suddenly as it had at the fair several hours before.    And with the rain came the reminder that He is “a refuge from the wind and a shelter from the storm.”   God is good and He can be trusted even when the rain (or the cancer) messes up our plans, and in fact He is the only thing this side of heaven that can be trusted.  And then I knew that like you, I too am not yet able to understand the whys.  I struggle to see beyond my own little reality, my ideas of what is right, and my plans for today.  I knew from my earlier conversation with you that asking why was just part of the grieving, but even in my asking and grieving the Lord too has made promises of greater joys yet to come. 

Two days after the rain ruined our plans, Aunt Heather got to see the promise of greater joy completely fulfilled as she took her last breath on this earth at the age of 31.

When I was a young child I remember thinking that real people don’t die.  People on the news or in movies sure, but not people you know in real life- and especially not people you love.   When I was in the fifth grade, my Uncle Jimmy died, and I remember that was my first funeral and the first time I felt real genuine grief.  Like the tangible grief that you carry around everywhere you go, even though no one else can see it.  By the time you were in fifth grade, you had already grieved the loss of four people that you loved.  Your Aunt Heather, a teacher at your school, and both of your grandmothers.   I do not have to tell you that you had two of the most amazing grandmothers that ever lived.  My mom was more like a second mom to you, and no doubt your favorite person on the planet.  We would laugh because most of your friends mom’s were closer to Nana’s age than mine, and often people thought she actually was your mom.  She was young, beautiful, and never ever lost her child’s heart.   Daddy’s mom was the perfect Grandma- broke all our rules and was the only other human I’ve ever known to have as much energy as you- which meant that she would get on the floor and play with you until we demanded you both go to bed.  She spoiled you rotten and loved you to pieces. 

Nana- age 53- and her four grand babies, two days before she went to Heaven.

Eventually in the midst of all the rain and storms that kept disturbing our family’s plans, you stopped asking questions and started writing journals, poems, and stories instead.  In fact, when you woke to learn the news of Nana’s death you did not ask a single question or shed a single tear.  You went to your room and you wrote a poem.  In the days and weeks that followed, I could not contain my tears and your lack of tears made me wonder if you were even sad at all- that is until I would stumble upon your writing.  I realize now that even at the age of 8, your thoughts were far too deep and your pain far too real for you to express without the help of a paper and a pen. 

Probably by Kori Jane age 8

Probably walking on water.

Probably walking through walls.

Probably laying on clouds.

Probably already bowed to Him.

Probably shaking His hands.

Definitely loving Heaven.

While I am walking on land.

While I am swimming though waters.

If you were me you’d understand- RAIN.

Not the kind of rain that falls from the sky.

It is when tears fly by.

Once again the line between the rain and your tears was blurred.  But your words even then assured me that despite your grief you were trusting in the promises of far greater joys.

There is no doubt that you understand rain.  The way it changes everything in a moment, the way it hurts and heals, the way it grows us and grieves us. How it can be both devastating and beautiful all at the same time.

You have certainly watched as it has changed me.  It’s no wonder that your tears no longer easily flow when you have grown up watching your mother’s tears flow far too easily.  In many ways you’ve had no choice but to grow up quickly. That first Christmas after both of your grandmas died, I was still trying hard to pick myself up off the floor, and figure out how to do holidays as the 32 year old matriarch of our family. But you were determined this would be the best Christmas ever starting with a spectacular lights display in our yard.  With your usual passion and flare you were tearing into the boxes that Daddy had dutifully brought down from the attic which were filled with decorations and lights.  You were handing out jobs to each of your three siblings and both of your parents, ensuring that not a single part of the yard was left bare.  As I was watching the lights go up, it became obvious to me that like usual, your big, bold, bright ideas were being executed without much planning or forethought.  That coupled with Daddy’s lack of designer instincts was stressing me out. The tree he was wrapping ran out of branches, so he decided that he would stretch the lights to a neighboring tree leaving a single strand of lights floating in mid-air between them.    I snapped and I said some unkind things to Daddy. I won’t go into details about the volume or tone of my voice- or the specific unkind words that came out of my mouth as that is not the point of this story!   The point is that you followed me to the wooden bench swing in our side yard and without speaking a word, gently sat down and placed your hand on my knee as I stared out into space allowing my tears to flow freely.   When one your siblings came to ask me a question you would answer for me as I continued to just stare off unable to find words with which to respond.  And when Daddy came over to kindly inquire as to what exactly he had done to upset me so much, you intuitively answered him by saying “Daddy, don’t you remember that Nana always hung the Christmas lights.”   After a while you drug me inside and insisted that we get busy on the Christmas Tree.   You were ten.  Wise and compassionate beyond your years-no doubt a wisdom and compassion that only can grow where there has been a lot of rain.

This month you will be sixteen and last month you went to yet another funeral.  I was so thankful to hear you mumble the question “why” when we told you that Grandpa was so near the end.  I worry sometimes that all the rain will make you angry or cold.  That you watching me through all my years of grief and tears will just be another storm for you to endure on your journey.   But when you asked why you had to loose someone else you loved- why you had to go to another funeral- why you had to be the only teenager you knew without grandparents.  I knew that all the rain had only made you stronger and more alive.  I knew that you did not really need an answer- just time and space to grieve and maybe a reminder that there are promises of greater joys yet to come. 

Thank you Kori Jane for helping me understand rain, for teaching me to dance in the rain, and helping me find the rainbows and flowers that the rain leaves behind.  Flowers which include your profound wisdom, tender compassion, intense passion and gentle strength.

I love you forever!

Mom