Stirring Up

Today the memories of my grandfather are so strong, he’s almost tangible.

They descended swiftly and violently and I was left breathless.

We are gardening this week and I think spending the days outdoors in the dirt and the sun acted as a trigger.

This morning as we sat around the kitchen table eating breakfast and planning the day, I thought of him stirring his coffee cup and looking out at his fields.

As I watched Matt raking the weeds in a cowboy hat and boots, I remembered Granddad giving me his blessing on my choice of husband.

Seeing Abby delight in digging for worms and planting seeds, I couldn’t help but think of how much she is like my grandfather and how much he would have adored her.

I can’t do it justice. The vast amount of remembrance that has assaulted me today. It’s as though all of my life with him was hidden in the earth, and each raking of the surface causes a memory to rise alongside the dark soil.

Riding with the truck windows down, stopping to eat a hamburger at a picnic table, the card games, the laughter, his hands, that thick, thick hair of his, the fishing and hunting trips, the nicknames, the hearing aids that whistled at pretty girls, the barbeque and root beer floats, the stories of simpler times, the cookie stash, the dancing, the music that he made on the organ, the bagpipes and the record player.

There are times when I have this overwhelming desire to create something for Abby. Some piece of myself that will remind her of me when she’s old and I’m gone. But then I have days like today when the simple act of tilling the land makes me relive a hundred memories of my grandfather. And I realize, I don’t need to make her a memory box.

I simply need to do what Granddad did: I need to live my life and let her live hers alongside of me. I need to let her watch me do the same thing over and over and let her help me with the simple chores and talk to her and be silent with her. And then one day when she’s grown and going about her daily life, she won’t have to go looking for me- I’ll already be there.

The Brilliance of Buttons

Sometimes I feel like I should write one of those posters that says, “All I Need To Know In Life, I Learned From My Granddad.”

He always wore a button-up shirt. My grandfather, that is. He always wore a long sleeve, button-up shirt.

Twills, cottons, and in the winter, flannel.

I can only recall three situations when he wore something different- funerals, church, and weddings. And at each of those events, he had a button-up dress shirt on under his jacket.

This morning as I struggled to get out of my pjs (a rather frequent battle of mine in the winter), I thought about Granddad and his shirts.

The shirts themselves didn’t mean much to me. I’d rather steal his plain white undershirts to use as nightgowns. But the act of him wearing the shirts is what I remember fondly.

Because no matter what he faced each day- gardening, fishing, changing a tire, grocery shopping, or just sitting at the kitchen table and talking with my grandmother- he felt the day was worth getting dressed for.

Not dressed in ratty old clothes, although he’d probably call them that, but dressed in a shirt that required buttoning. A shirt that took a little bit of effort.

I’m certain that he isn’t the only man his age that lived, and dressed, the same way. But he was the only man I knew who did.

I miss him, and his gentlemanly style, terribly.

Blog Buffet

It has been a very busy week. Personally, I blame it on the jazz fest leaving town.

I have lots of little things to say with big meanings that don’t necessarily relate to each other. Random ramblings, if you will. (Keri- you will, right?)

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Abby and I were out for a walk when we found a broken robin’s egg. It’s breathtaking in all the right ways- color, detail, delicacy, size.

It gave me a chance to talk to the little one about birds and eggs and nature in general. A science lesson on the fly.

It also allowed me to watch Abby realize the egg was broken and offer these words of 2 year old wisdom- “It’s okay, Mommy. Daddy can fix it.”

Huh. I’ve been rolling her words around in my head for days now and I still don’t have a handle on how that one statement is causing me so much emotion.

I love that she so completely believes in Matt that she thinks he can solve everything. I love how it opens the door to a conversation about God being her Heavenly Daddy. But I hate that at some point she’s going to discover that neither of her fathers can, or will, fix everything.

That sometimes, you have to live with broken pieces.

Simply because we live in a fallen world with sin and pain. And honestly, I’m terrified that I’ll be the one who has to tell her that. Or even worse, I’ll have to sit back and watch her learn the lesson for herself.

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We took a quick trip to the country this week. I’m always amazed that you can drive for seven hours and still be in Texas.

If you drive to San Antonio and take the exit that leads to the middle of nowhere, eventually you’ll run into Uvalde. Claim to fame? My family. Maybe not in the history books, but in my opinion that’s what Uvalde has going for it.

There is one unbelievable lady named Granny (trust me, I know her well) living there that we don’t see as often as I’d like. Add a Papa Wayne to the mix and you have quite the welcoming committee.

Are all grandparents’ houses places of wonder and discovery or is it only mine? Because as a kid I was just as thrilled with the random objects in Granny’s house as Abby was this week.

Within minutes of entering the place she had stolen relocated a pair of bronze deer from the living room to her bedside table. And I’m not going to lie- there were four adults in that living room and not one of us saw her snatch them away. The kid is sneaky. Quick and sneaky.

Other big ticket items- a sombrero, a candy bowl, an exercise machine, the bathroom light switch that was reachable on tiptoes, and the sugar bowl that Granny taught her to dip her finger into.

Sitting and talking with the adults would have been fine with me but that Abby is a girl of action. Must be moving at all times.

So Granny and Wayne willingly (and a little hastily) offered up their vegetable garden for her digging and planting pleasure. They thought she’d be content with 4 little tomato plants. They didn’t realize how much she loves gardening.

This summer and fall Abby’s mark on Uvalde should be apparent when all the random flowers, tomatoes, plants with no names, a mango seed, and a lemon (that’s right- a lemon) that she planted begin sprouting whatever they will sprout. I’m afraid we’ll need to go back for the weeding and harvesting of Abby’s labors.

That’ll be fine with us though. As soon as we got home Abby said, “Ok, now let’s go back to Granny’s house!”

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The other item on my agenda while in the middle of nowhere was to visit the cemetery. I knew and loved quite a few people that are out there. My Granddaddy being one of them.

Here’s the shameful truth. I haven’t been back to Uvalde since his funeral. Yes, I’ve had Abby. Yes, it’s a 7 hour drive. Yes, I was working and going to school and busy, busy, busy. No, those weren’t the reasons why I didn’t go.

I didn’t go because I couldn’t imagine entering the town and not seeing him. The idea that he would not be sitting at the kitchen table with his movie star thick hair, stirring a cup of coffee, and looking out at his chickens was incomprehensible to me. It was simply easier to not go than to not see him.

I figured since I’d made it to Granny’s house and hadn’t lost my mind or my handle on my emotions I could go out to see the headstone they put up for him. I went and bought some flowers. I drove out there alone. I thought I’d shed a few light tears but I’d be fine.

Truth? I hadn’t even parked the car before I was crying. Really harsh truth? As soon as I saw the piece of granite, I lost it.

It wasn’t the fact that there was a headstone or that I was at the cemetery. It was that my eyes went straight to the year he passed away- 2005- and I could not get control of myself.

2005? It’s 2009! It must be a joke, right? Because it is not possible, in any universe, that my grandfather has been gone this long. There is no way that I haven’t spoken to him since 2005.

I don’t know how to explain it. It was just such a slap in the face. The fact that Abby’s turning 3 next week and he was gone before she took her first breath. That in these years I’ve had a daughter, gotten another degree, started a new profession, sold a home, moved, quit my job, and simply lived. Throw in all the other things- my brother has started and finished law school, moved to Oregon, had another baby- and my head and heart wanted to explode.

The worse part was that I have spent all these years selfishly avoiding going out there. That I buried him, left town, and didn’t look back. I know that my grandfather doesn’t live in that place now, but the memorial to him does. And I felt like an ass for not going sooner.

Once I gained control of myself- mainly because the gardeners were huddled together talking and looking in my direction and I thought they might call someone to come get me- I started really looking around the place.

At his funeral, I was completely focused on this one butterfly that flitted all around us and over the casket. It was my sanity during that time. Well, when I stopped crying this week I noticed a butterfly near me. And although I’m not a big believer in signs, I couldn’t help thinking, “Oh look. It’s a butterfly again. Granddad must be trying to comfort me.”

I was feeling good until I turned my head and saw about 20 other butterflies. I couldn’t decide whether to cry or laugh. Of course I’d seen a butterfly. I was at a cemetery. With lots of flowers. A butterfly’s heaven. I felt like such a sucker. Obviously I’ve seen too many romantic tragedy movies.

So I sat and talked for a little while. Spent a lot of time trying to remember details and funny stories. Took a few pictures because I realize I could freeze up and not be out there again for a long time.

But right as I was saying my goodbyes and getting ready to leave, I turned around and saw a rooster. A red rooster. Hanging out in the cemetery.

It’s amazing how you can smile and cry at the same time.

My grandfather was a lover of chickens and roosters. I don’t know what it was about them but in his old age he could be found out in the back walking around talking to his pets. He’d tell funny stories about them. He’d name them. He did exactly what you aren’t supposed to do with livestock. He got attached.

I have no idea what Granny did with all the rooster knickknacks after Granddad died. There were tons of them. Clocks and figurines, magnets and pictures. Egg baskets. I imagine only another rooster lover would truly appreciate what was there.

I know I was in a country cemetery. Stranger things have happened I’m sure. But all I’m going to say is that seeing a red rooster there made me shrug off the butterflies.

Now I’m not looking to start a discussion on the afterlife. All I’m saying is this, if it was his choice, my granddad would comfort me with a cranky red rooster over a dainty butterfly any day of the week. And that’s only one reason I love him so much.

Why I Can’t Believe In Evolution

Last night I dreamt of my grandfather. It was a simple dream. No hidden meanings, nothing a shrink would want to dissect.

He was sitting in a room and telling a story. My uncle was nearby talking on the phone. And because my grandfather was talking loudly (as anyone with hearing problems does) my uncle was getting agitated. Which only made Granddad talk louder, just to spite my uncle.

Anyone who has spent time with my family knows that such a scene was commonplace. So normal it could have been a memory instead of a dream.

Except for the fact that even while asleep I knew my grandfather wouldn’t stay for long and so I tried desperately to get his attention, tell him a joke, make him laugh, watch him smile.

He’s been gone for nearly 3 1/2 years now. And yet when I woke up this morning, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Hard.

How do evolutionists explain emotions?

Grandfatherly Love?

This weekend Abby spent time playing hard with her grandparents. After watching four adults anticipate her every need and bend to her every whim, I started thinking.

So many times I have heard a message or read a passage that involved the concept of God as Father. And every time it has been presented to me, I’ve struggled to connect with it. I wasn’t a daddy’s little girl. I didn’t have a great dad. There were even a few years when I didn’t have a dad at all. But I had an amazing grandfather. And here’s the thing: I never, never doubted that he loved me. I never thought I wasn’t good enough. Never thought that if I messed up he’d stop loving me. Never questioned why he loved me or how much he loved me. I just knew that he did.

Most people think parents are forced to love you. How many times have we heard or said some variation of, “Of course you think I’m good enough- you’re my mom/dad.”? But grandparents don’t have the same stipulations. They didn’t choose to bring you into the world. They aren’t physically and emotionally connected with you from day 1. They can come and go as infrequently as they choose. They get to “give you back” to your parents when they’re tired. But in my case, my grandparents chose to love me. Not merely tolerate me, but to love me passionately and irrevocably.

Here’s the point I’m getting at: it may be nearly impossible for me to imagine God as my Father, but it seems to be pretty easy to imagine Him loving me like my grandfather did. If my grandad, who was human and made plenty of mistakes, loved me in spite of my many faults, then how much more must God love me?

So, maybe the title isn’t as important as I’ve made it out to be. Maybe every time the Bible and pastors and teachers mention God as a Father it’s because that is supposed to be a universal example of perfect love. Well, if that’s the case, I’m just going to start adding a little “grand” in front of “father”. Here’s hoping that isn’t too blasphemous.