Water under the bridge

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For reasons unclear, reasons never honestly shared with me, my younger brother hasn't spoken to me in more than eight years.

This past Wednesday, thanks to my mom and my sister—my brother's twin—my brother and I had no choice but to have lunch together.

Which turned out to be a good thing.

Sometimes the reasons people do the things they do make no sense.

And sometimes, after a while, those reasons no longer matter.

Perhaps what does matter is forgiveness.

And watching the water continue on its course beneath the bridge.

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

Though we've not spoken in years, I'd love to reconnect with _____________.

Grandma-shaped impressions

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As grandmothers, we influence and inspire our grandchildren in myriad ways, leaving grandma-shaped impressions on our grandchildren that may last a lifetime. Sometimes our influence is intentional. More often, though, it's not.

My maternal grandmother inspired me to communicate through the written word, though I doubt she consciously planned the impact she had on me. Especially as her greatest influence came once I was an adult, not when I was a child. During the first decade or so of my adulthood, my grandma and I regularly exchanged letters. I was honored she took the time despite her failing eyesight to share the this and that of her days and express concern about mine. Her handwriting—so tiny, tight, and perfectly aligned, thanks to placing a sheet of paper beneath each line then going back to add the tails to any Y, P, J, or G requiring such—illustrated the power of words to connect, affirm relationships, express love across miles. To this day, I'm far better at expressing myself in writing than in person. I attribute a fair amount of that to those letters from Gramma.

My paternal grandmother also unintentionally influenced my character. The grandma-shaped spot she left, though, was imprinted on me as a child. I loved my grandma on my dad's side, yet she and I weren't close by any means. She had oodles of children who had oodles of children of their own, and I'm pretty sure that to her I was just another one of the many kids who showed up at her place on weekends and holidays. I always remember that grandma as being sick or out of sorts much of the time. Not frail and bedridden, just impaired to some degree—and being quite vocal about the real or imagined injustice of her infirmity. From having often seen my grandma in such a disgruntled state, I learned to be quite strong—and usually silent—in the face of most illnesses or ailments. That's a good thing, I think, and I attribute it to wanting to do the very opposite of what I saw in my grandma.

MY GIRLS WITH GRANNY (LEFT) AND GRANDMA CARPENTER.

When I consider the ways my daughters were influenced by their grandmothers—my mom, my mother-in-law, my step-mother-in-law—I imagine the ways those women affected my girls, when they were little and now that they're grown. I've not asked my daughters about it, but I can see smidgens of the grandma shapes on them, attributable to each of their grandmothers.

The girls have seen their step-grandma, Jim's step mom, only a handful of times. Each time, though, involved doing a craft project, resulting in, at least partially, the girls' artistic streaks and BRIANNA AND ANDREA WITH GRANDMA (MY MOM).enjoyment of crafts. I see impressions of my own mom—a lover of animals, dancing, and offering far more food than necessary—on each of my daughters in their attention to animals, enjoyment of goofy dancing, and desire to gift food upon those they love. And I attribute much of my daughters' commitment to their faith to my mother-in-law, who was the most joyfully faithful example in all of our lives.

My grandmas and the grandmas of my daughters likely didn't consider how their daily actions and interactions would influence, possibly even inspire, the children birthed by their own children. Kids they weren't around every day, yet whom they affected in unexpected and unintentional ways. Ways that even as adults, continue to affect us, move us, guide us.

Which leads me, naturally, to consider how I might be affecting my grandsons in unexpected, unintentional ways. What grandma-shaped impressions am I leaving on them?

Like my own maternal grandma, I live far away from my grandchildren. Yet influence and inspiration knows no boundaries, and I have no doubt I impact them through even the limited interactions we have. The idea warms my heart. It also, though, gives pause to my heart as I think of which negative traits of mine might be ever so obvious, unattractive, undesireable to my grandsons. Now or eventually.

I hope that with any and all unseemly attributes of mine, my grandsons do as I did with my paternal grandma—the very opposite, improving themselves by seeing in me and my failings exactly what not to do.

As I continually strive to intentionally make a positive difference in the lives of my grandsons, I think it's also worth considering all the unintentional ways I might be making a difference in their lives. I hope that when they're adults, they can pinpoint specific acts and traits of mine that made an impression on them, shaped the characters they'd become.

And I hope they look fondly upon those impressions, for better or for worse. That they consider the grandma shape imprinted upon them as having inspired them to be stronger, more productive, more compassionate, more faithful, more loving—of others, of themselves, of life.

Regardless of whether such inspiration was intentional on my part or not.

Today's question:

What unintentional impression did your grandmothers leave on you?

The Saturday Post: Too Soon edition

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This song first stirred my soul several years ago, when EastMountainSouth was the opening act at a Tracy Chapman concert. I've loved the song ever since, yet never really in relation to one specific person. Until now.

This is for Margie, who left us Friday morning, far too soon.

What matters

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As I write this, someone in my family is dying. I told myself I'd keep this out of my blog, away from here. Because here is where I do my best to create an upbeat, positive spot for folks to visit. This isn't upbeat, positive.

Mostly, though, I wasn't going to write about this because it's her story, not mine.

But my story is that I'm struggling with this, need to write about this. This person I love, dying as I write.

I wonder what to make for dinner as she wonders if the breath she's taking may be her last. I pack for a trip, try to catch up on things that matter for my future, when she doesn't have one.

That sucks. So much.

That's my biggest thought, that's my biggest struggle.

My struggle, though, is nothing compared to her struggle. Or the struggle of her kids, saying goodbye to their mother. Or the struggle of her husband, who's trying to come to terms with his wife being told she has only seven more days to live.

And that was several days ago.

I love this woman like a sister, can't imagine our family without her. But we're not close. Unfortunately. She married into the family I married into nearly a decade before her. Though we've been part of that same family for years, miles kept us apart, distant. Thirteen hours worth of distance by car, I keep thinking, as Jim and I contemplate the logistics of attending a funeral.

She and I would send cards and photos at Christmas. Occasionally "like" something of the other on Facebook. Consider the good, the bad, the ugly, the sad of this family we both married into. For nearly twenty years we've done all that together yet seperately, from our own homes while attending to our own families.

She's only a few years older than I am. Her two kids are a few years younger than mine.

Her two kids who are now married.

Her two kids who have not yet had kids of their own.

She never got to be a grandma.

And that makes me so very sad. For her. For her kids. For her grandkids who will never know her.

And so very sad for her husband. My heartbroken brother in law. Her biggest fan, her greatest admirer. The one at her bedside—a hospital bed now set up in their home—watching this strong woman who changed his life die, decades upon decades before she should.

Not that anyone should die young, but this pillar of a person especially shouldn't. She's the best of the best. One who does what needs to be done. Cares for those who need to be cared for. Loves without limits. Makes the plans no one else feels like planning. She remembers and does and is. In all the right ways, at all the right times. Effortlessly.

She would have made one helluva grandma.

And that makes me so very sad.

Cancer doesn't care though. Doesn't care who's young, old, grandma or not. Doesn't care who it makes so very sad.

The last few days, I think of what she's doing as I'm doing what I'm doing. None of it makes sense. None of what I'm doing seems to matter at all, when what she's doing matters so much.

What she's doing just plain sucks.

So very, very much.

Granny's buttons

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I have two tins of buttons.

One is small and kind of boring. It's filled mostly with spare buttons in plastic packages, thrown into the can for safekeeping in the event a garment needs a replacement.

That small, boring can of buttons is mine.

Then I have a larger tin of buttons. It's filled to the brim with what looks like buttons, but they're actually treasures. Treasures from my mother-in-law, also known as Granny to most anyone who knows her.

Granny's tin of treasures became mine when she was moved into a nursing home a few years ago.

Inside Granny's tin that's now mine are hundreds of buttons. It's hard to imagine the years upon years of outfits losing buttons. Baubles and bits found in the washer or dryer on laundry day, buried deep in shag carpeting of long ago, or dangling frustratingly so by threads as one headed out the door to work, school, or special affairs.

Some of the buttons were surely from Granny's own dresses and blouses. Many more, though, likely wiggled their way off outfits worn by her six children, her first then second husbands, possibly even some from her nearly fifty grandchildren and great-grandchildren who stayed with her now and again.

Granny's tin also holds several cards filled with unused buttons, fancy bits never removed from their original packaging. Looking at them I wonder what plans Granny had for such treasures, plans she never realized for one reason or another.

I now have plans for Granny's buttons, for her treasures. I plan to share them with her many grandchildren. And her great-grandchildren, like Bubby and Mac, as well as her great-great-grandchildren, of which there are, surprisingly, already one or two.

I've not yet finalized the ultimate button-sharing plan, though, the projects I'll create to divide up Granny's buttons to be enjoyed by all. For now, I'm starting off small, passing them along to my children one by one, like this: 

When wrapping Andrea's birthday presents in July, I topped each with a button. One of Granny's buttons. One of Granny's treasures.

Brianna's birthday is this weekend. I'll be doing the same for her. Come Megan's birthday in December, she'll get treasure-topped gifts, too. Maybe my girls can start their own button tins with Granny's buttons.

I've pinned on my Pinterest boards several button project ideas and am still looking for more. Eventually I'll settle on one or two, then set to work sharing Granny's buttons. Her treasures.

In the meantime, I'll keep adding my own buttons and spare button packets to my own small, boring tin. Maybe eventually I'll need a bigger tin. Perhaps one day my tin will be like Granny's—filled to the brim with buttons.

They may look like buttons now, but they may one day be treasures. Treasures for my kids. For my grandkids and their kids, too.

Just like Granny's treasures. Just like Granny's buttons.

Today's question:

What do you do with your spare buttons?

Right versus real

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Bubby and Mac had the privilege of going to California last week. They saw the ocean for the first time, frolicking on the beach and splashing in the waves.

They visited Disneyland for the first time, experiencing the thrills and chills of one of the happiest places on earth. They rode rides at the recently opened Cars Land.

I'm so jealous.

I'm not jealous because I want to have fun in the sun or meet up with Lightning McQueen and the gang in Radiator Springs. I'm jealous because it was the other grandparents who treated my grandsons to the grand weekend trip.

I know, I know, I know: That's not right.

But that's real.

Believe me, I wish I didn't feel that way.

I wish I didn't look at the pictures Megan posted on Facebook—and graciously granted me permission to use—through the green-tinged lens of a jealous grandma.

I don't want to be jealous. At all. Bubby and Mac had the time of their lives, and I'm ever so happy for that, for them. I'm ever so happy the other grandparents are able and willing to do things Jim and I can't.

Yet, I'm jealous.

That doesn't mean, though, that I wish the trip wouldn't have happened. Or that it would have been a bust, that the good times hadn't rolled for one and all. I truly don't begrudge the boys, their parents, their other grandparents the delightful trip, filled with new thrills and chills and colorful fun beyond compare.

Being jealous also doesn't mean I gloated over the not-so delightful parts of their trip. The forgotten sunscreen and the subsequent burned grandbabies. Or the terrifying moments for Bubby when he rode a thrill ride with heart-pounding thrills he's not yet ready for.

Or the equally terrifying moments for Mac when he came face-to-face with the silly-but-oh-so-scary-to-a-one-year-old Sully.

I didn't and don't gloat over such things. I don't want my grandsons to experience pain or terror. Ever. I want nothing but good times, delightful times for them. And I'm genuinely thankful and appreciative their other grandparents—who are good and kind and loving people—help provide rich, exciting, interesting experiences for our mutual grandchildren, so the boys will lead rich, exciting, interesting lives.

That's what I want for the boys. Always. Without a doubt.

Still, I'm jealous.

That doesn't make me bad.

That makes me human.

Today's question:

When were you last jealous of the other grandparents—or your child's in-laws, if you're not a grandparent?