My husband and I have this thing we do. When life is just so sweet we have a hard time accepting it, we will turn to each other and ask, “Who are we?” Who are we to still be in love after three decades? Who are we to have a daughter with sparkly eyes that still wants us around? Who are we to have enough sense to notice a sunset? This practice has served us well. It keeps us grounded in just how good life is. Despite all of the clanging and trauma that says otherwise. But, our little practice has met its’ match.

It’s our new grandson. He’s just too much good to absorb. He has a fat little tummy that sticks out of every shirt he wears. He has a pensive little face that regards you so very seriously that you find yourself waiting for his advice. Minutes will go by and you realize you’re still gazing into that solemn stare hoping he’s going to share some wisdom. Then, you notice the tummy again and you’re laughing. And smiling. And letting go a little. Believing in the goodness of the world. Believing that God must love us all to put this little man here. Believing that you can deserve this little human. His love and laughs and kisses. Believing that God chose you to be this child’s grandparent.

Then you remember who you are and you realize that’s just crazy talk. You turn to each other and ask, “Who are we?” Only this time it’s said with reverence and a little bit of fear.

Seriously, who are we? To shape this child’s life. To be someone he’s glad to see come through the door. To affect the way he treats other people? To play a small part in the way he experiences Jesus? To teach him anything?

We are not so great. We have road rage. We sometimes binge watch an entire series in a week. Sometimes, if I’m tired, I don’t put things back where they go in a store. We are not the cream of the crop and yet God has blessed us with this abundance. This goofy, chubby, wonderful little boy and it just feels like too much. Too much for us. He is extra.

Extra in an already good life. An extra scoop of ice cream the young teenager doesn’t charge you for. A parking place in the shade on a Houston summer day. A gas light blinking that makes it to the service station.

Another grandson to add to the one we are already enraptured with. The big one watching over the little one and holding him sprawling on his lap with a look of duty on his face that melts your heart. Sometimes we are there to hear him say hello to his little brother after school in exactly the same way they will when they are in their thirties and coming home to mom and dad for Christmas. It’s a voice full of love and connection and family. It doesn’t matter that our littlest guy says nothing back. His brother knows he hears him. They’ve got a vibe going that the rest of us aren’t necessary to. Already. After only two months. Who are we?

I don’t know. But I’m there for it. All of it. I will take my turn every time it’s offered. I’ll change diapers and buy toys and go for walks. I’ll show up for holidays and school events and soccer games. I’ll do it all. And, someday, if the Lord is willing, I’ll have both those little boys at my house. We will eat popcorn and watch a cartoon and stay up too late. And, finally, when my husband and I are both exhausted and a little cranky and wondering why we volunteered for this they will fall asleep. Probably with their heads right next to each other whispering a secret and the little one’s tummy will still be hanging out and my husband and I will look at each other and one of us will whisper, “Who are we?”

And, as it so often is, that phrase will be a prayer of thanksgiving and wonder from two people well aware they don’t deserve any of it.

I watched a young girl the other day with shiny eyes and a sweet smile deliver a report on a court ruling about abortion. As I watched her, while spooning Captain Crunch into my mouth, I felt tears cloud my eyes. Before I knew it, they had escaped and mixed in with my breakfast cereal. The weird thing is, I would have been hard put to tell anyone why I was crying. No, that’s not right. The truth is I would have been hard put to tell someone each individual reason I was crying. I knew some of them. But others were deeper.

When did we become a society that talked about things like abortion with an exuberant voice and a twinkle in our eyes? Is it really a joyful subject? Really? I can’t imagine that it is for any of the real people experiencing it. I’ve sat on a scratchy couch in a dusk filled afternoon while my dear friend sobbed into a pillow. She was not joyful. In fact, for many many years after that my sweet friend was not joyful. It’s ok to say that–right? I mean these things the folks on TV espouse don’t always turn out great for us regular people. Maybe because we have to live the Tuesdays after the news break. The Tuesdays, and the one year anniversaries and the quiet moments in a car wash. Those are the times that big decisions like an abortion come back to say hello. I feel like somebody should say that.

Back to my tears. My day felt dark after that. You eat a salty bowl of cereal and your day turns a certain way. Not much you can do to change it. The next thing that happened was a heart breaking phone call with someone I love. She’s in the hospital. She’s in the hospital because she had an emergency surgery. It was a fluke thing that no one saw coming and when it did it came for her. So, now she’s laying there in the hospital and she doesn’t have all the tools she needs to fight as hard as I need her to. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want her to suffer. I need her to come back from this, but her body is more than a little tired. She’s been carrying around way too much extra weight for years. It has taken a toll on her. Not her spirit but her body. Inside she’s strong. Her body just struggles to manifest that. She’s asked a lot of favors from it over the years and it has granted them. And now, she’s asking again. I hope. I hope. Please let her body grant this favor too. It’s a big one.

And, I have to admit, I wonder if somewhere there’s an interview playing on TV with another bright faced youngster talking about body positivity and what a great thing it is. How we should all love ourselves not matter what size we are. If we were having a cup of coffee and a danish somewhere I would agree with that youngster, but then I would ask why there was nothing in that report about how your knees ache first thing in the morning when you’re carrying around extra weight? I would ask for a follow up report that talks about the folks I love who worry whether they will be able to buckle their airplane seatbelt. Or how it feels to try to shrink yourself into a chair so you don’t disturb the person next to you. Being overweight, even if you’re positive you love yourself, is not a great way to live your life. High blood pressure and heart attacks are not fun things. Surely we can say that to folks?

That day ended with me typing out a response to a post on my neighborhood chat board. You’ve had those moments. Somebody says something and you immediately want to respond. To zing. To exhibit your superior intelligence. To set them straight. This post was about homeless people. Should you give them money or shouldn’t you? Which is more loving? I was going to respond with what I felt was irrefutable evidence that would settle the question once and for all.

Yes, I am sometimes just that dumb.

Those conversations never end with a lightbulb on over someones head. Instead, they make us believe we have absolutely nothing in common with the folks on the other side of those little alphabet letters. Believe that they might even be the enemy. Believe it even though we wave at each other at the pool, we buy their kids’ chocolate bars and they buy our kids’ wrapping paper at Christmas. Believe it even though they’ve been known to pick up our Amazon package when we were out of town. Believe it even though we know it’s not true.

We should tell each other that. Right?

Something like this, “Hey, that zinger you’re about to shoot off is going to Harvey. You remember him? He’s married to Kathy. They have two kids and a big yellow dog. He had knee surgery last year and always volunteers for Trunk or Treat at Halloween. Do you really want to label him with that colorful expletive? It might make things awkward at the pool?” And when we answer that we don’t know this particular Harvey, that he isn’t our Harvey maybe we should reply, “Well he’s someone’s Harvey you idiot.”

That’s ok to say right?

I guess that’s what I am asking with this post. Is it still ok to tell people the truth? The truth that something is going to hurt them in ways they can’t imagine. Or hurt someone else? Or hurt everybody? That despite what the young reporter with the shiny bob says truth is truth.

Because America, some decisions can’t be undone. Some things shouldn’t be made pretty or palatable. None of us are as smart as we think we are. We should always have Harvey’s back–he’s one of us. And, most importantly, I think, what our mothers and Jesus told us is invaluable. When we are brave enough to speak it– the truth will set us free. All of us.

A few weeks ago my husband and I had one of those moments that I believe makes life and all of its’ machinations and madness worth it. It was a Friday afternoon and my husband was done with work early. You should read that sentence again because that almost never happens. It sure never happens when you think it might or plan for it to. No, on those days my husband’s work runs late and is extra sticky. On those days, I sit on the love seat in our camper with my lipstick already on and my purse in my lap waiting for him to solve whatever problem has just become the most important problem that has ever presented itself. Sometimes, I sit there for a long time and then we go. Sometimes, I’m still there two hours later eating a peanut butter sandwich and wearing pajamas. At some point, my husband will stop long enough to come over and drop a kiss on the top of my head, tell me he’s sorry and ask me to make him a sandwich too. This is the flow of our days. I’m used to it.

Actually that’s what I say when he apologizes for another late night or canceled plan. “It’s ok, I’m used to it.” I don’t always say that to be nice. If you’ve been married for more years than not you know what I mean.

In fairness, I don’t always mean it mean, but it always has the history of his job and what it requires behind it. I would happily tell you what he does, but I’m not even really sure I know. I know that gravelly voiced men with Cajun accents call him in the middle of the night from platforms stationed in the ocean and that is never good. I know sometimes his boss calls to say something is solved, or working or just not broken with some software somewhere and that is never bad. I know that some days he comes home and his shoulders look like my grandpa’s used to. Rounded forward and tired, but from a different kind of work than my grandpa did. But still a work with a toll.

Not that Friday though. That Friday none of that was happening. He was home early and we had nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Nobody that needed us. And, we were ok with that. Sometimes, on those rare days. we hurry to fill it with something fun. Something necessary. We go listen to a band or run to a restaurant waiting to be tried or we make the dreaded trip to Walmart. But not this day. We stood there in the middle of our living room carpet and felt the space of unplanned time fold in around us. And then, this man that I have loved for so, so long asked me to go sit outside with him.

Tell me I didn’t do just that.

Tell me I didn’t go outside and pull my chair over next to his and just sit there seeing the same world he was. Listening to the same birds. Feeling the same sun. It was as close to perfect as a moment can come. Or at least it was to me. It reminded me of the very last scene in St.Vincent a Bill Murray movie that everyone should watch. After all of the drama and learning and loving that unfolds within the movie the film ends with Bill Murray sitting outside with a water hose and a canvas lawn chair and a bunch of dirt. He’s watering the dirt indiscriminately and singing and he’s happy. One might even say he’s in the moment.

Don’t cringe. I know that’s one of those phrases that has lost all meaning. I think that’s kind of a shame. Because if you can be content watering dirt, or just sitting next to someone and enjoying the same air I think things are going your way. If you can actually realize that it’s happening in the instant that it does it smoothes over so many days that head a different direction.

So, here’s to Friday afternoons that unfold unplanned. To movies that end with Bill Murray singing. To men that come home with rounded shoulders from a hard day’s work. To the blessing of still enjoying each other after all of the drama and learning and loving that happens in life.

I hope you find yourself in the same place soon If you do, you oughta take note. And, maybe a picture. It will give you something to look at while you eat your next sandwich on the couch with hopeful lipstick and your purse in your lap.

I went on a hike the other day and when I got back I pulled my shoes off and just spent some time in my lawn chair looking up at the wind blowing in the pines. Besides the awareness of a blister forming on my left heel, it was kind of a moment. I got teary eyed. A part of my soul poked its’ head up in that moment and made me aware of how nice it will be to be home. Not a home here on this beleaguered earth, but home home. With the Good Lord. Don’t misunderstand I’m in no hurry to make that happen. My bucket list is long and ever evolving. However, I am aware of what an amazing feeling it will be to be somewhere there is no bad. No blisters. Nobody worried about money. Nobody sick. Nobody with bad intentions. Nobody we have to guard ourselves around. Nobody we have to protect anyone from. That will be a moment. A moment worth everything. I imagine it will be a moment similar to one I have relived in my mind for years. A moment from my childhood. It was a family vacation. Five siblings and my folks crammed into a sub-compact car. Fights and tears and smells. Feet in my face and my fingers stuck out a window for some fresh air. Stops for hamburgers in greasy paper and cokes with melted ice. The smell of my mother’s cigarette, the rumble of my dad’s voice singing and the highway stretching out endlessly. It was waking up in the middle of the night still in the car with my little sister’s sweaty head on my leg. Moving her, making her cry and hearing the snap of my mother’s fingers in the darkness. Swallowing the surge of anger that I should get in trouble for wanting that heaviness off of me. It was the feeling that it was never going to end. That that trip would just go on forever and I would always be stuck in that cramped, sticky car. With people I loved but, also, a little miserable. It was the moment we finally got there. Vera and Ernest’s house. A kind couple that took my mother in as a child and, later, when she had five children loved them too. Put the fourth of those children in a grocery cart and talked to her all the way through the store like everything she said was important. Bought her a drinking cup shaped like a little bear and told everyone back at the house it was just for her. The kind of people you don’t have to guard yourself around. And the feeling of finally being there. Our little car in the driveway and their white house in front of us. Neat and small with a porch that ran along the front. There were two metal chairs out front. One with a blanket draped over the back. There were metal pails to snap green beans into and a black wire screen door. And framed in that screen door was Vera. Waiting for us. After that it was a mad search for our lost socks and bookmarks that had fallen. It was my dad telling us to gather up any food and trash. It was my brother’s elbow as he climbed over me trying to be the first one out. It was the ache of my knees as they unbent after hours spent folded sideways beside me. It was the smooth wood of their front porch and the feeling of my tennis shoes hanging from my fingers. It was her gathering me into her arms. Being smashed against her soft shirt that smelled like flowers and her strong arms patting me on the back. Pushing me away from her so she could see me. Her fingers smoothing down my wild hair and wiping something sticky off my face. Her hands pushing me into her little living room where I stood grouped with my brothers and sisters waiting for instructions. The instructions were to strip down. One at a time in her big yellow bathroom. There was a stack of clean white t-shirts and each of us put one on. Then, it was a bed. A pull out on a couch with the whitest sheets there ever could be. They smelled like flowers too. A crisp case covered a soft pillow that crinkled when I laid my head down. The luggage would be unpacked later. Baths would be needed. Admonishments to not roughhouse in the tiny house with so many pretty things but, first, rest. I fell asleep that afternoon completely contented. I wanted nothing. I needed nothing. I just wanted to nap in that pleasant house. To spread out as much as I wanted. To reach my toes down to the cool part of the bed not yet touched. I wanted to listen to the sound of the gentle rain falling and grown up voices visiting. The rise and fall of what they were saying creating the best kind of background noise. I burrowed into my crinkly pillow a couple of times, flipped over a couple of times and then I slept. Really, really slept. This is what I imagine part of the experience of heaven will be like. A much needed period of rest after a long and difficult trip. Warmth and clean clothes and the sound of loved ones voices nearby. All of it existing because of the goodness of the person who owns the house. A person who loves me and will gather me in for a warm hug and wipe away some of the dirt from my trip and send me in to gather with my equally tired family. Thank the Lord for people like Vera and Ernest. Hospitality and kindness are the bellwethers of heaven. Thank him also for the feeling of longing. For intently listening to me and knowing just what I need to remember that I am still traveling. Still on a journey home to him. Crisp pillowcases and a blister and worries and wind blowing through the pines. God is, indeed, good all the time.

The world is scary.

People are scattered.

Things seem a little crazed.

Anyone want to argue that? Anyone having a different experience? If you are, can I come to your house to stay? I’m a great houseguest and can make a decent meat loaf. Promise I won’t be any trouble. I’m not scary or crazed. Maybe a little scattered.

I’m rambling. Let me start again.

Has anyone seen the kid’s show The Incredibles? Remember the scene where the teenager daughter creates a safety bubble over her family? One minute, they are in danger and the next second they are all sheltered under an impenetrable force field. I love that scene. If someone showed up to offer me a super power I would take that one. Please. I don’t need to be super fast or super strong. I just want to protect my people.

Am I rambling again?

Probably.

There are a lot of things going on in my world right now that I don’t like.  They are happening to people I love. I’m trying to mitigate them and make them better and do what I can, but it’s not going so well. The middle of me is having to accept that there’s only one me. I can’t be everywhere. I can’t do everything. What’s a worrier to do? How do I accept that?

When you are a caretaker what happens when you can’t take on anymore care?

I can answer that.

You stumble. You falter. You fret.

On some days, you find playlists on Spotify that are full of melancholy and angst and you watch the trees sway, and the rain fall and you cry. But not always. That wouldn’t be productive.

So, you get up each morning and just bang on through everything that is happening and wear yourself out wondering if you are doing enough. If anything you are doing matters. If you, perhaps, are the least guardian of all the guardians.

Thankfully, sometimes, when you are in that spot life gives you a mint on your pillow. A little smiley face on your windshield. A glowing performance review from a boss that really matters.

Recently, I got just such a wink on a quiet morning. A morning that was spectacular because it was replete with normal.

How rare is that?

Our little guy had come to stay for a week. It was story books read at exactly 8:30 in the evening. Always a mad hunt for Daddy Bear when he was missing. Baseballs and red cars with their own keys. It was toothbrushing and time spent working in the yard with his granddad. It was a quick trip for an ice cream cone and finger-painting on the kitchen table. And then, on that Tuesday morning, it was him sitting quietly in his chair eating a bowl of cereal and me at the kitchen counter cutting strawberries because he wanted some. It was so quiet.

You know those mornings?

The clock is ticking and and there’s a fly buzzing on the window sill and, in the distant, there is the muted sound of a dog barking. It is just a morning. A morning we will probably all wish for when they are gone. And into that stillness my grandson dropped five words.

“Grandma, I’m happy with you.”

Matter of factly and without a pause in his chewing. Wasn’t a big moment on his side, but at the counter, his grandma stopped slicing strawberries. Felt tears gather in her eyes and her shoulders drop. She breathed that sentence into the parts of her that needed it.

Somehow, despite my fears, I was hanging in there as a guardian. I was force fielding this little man. He was at his grandma’s and he was happy. The world was right. Things were good.

He was free to eat his cereal and plan his day. He would ask for a grilled cheese later, with no crusts, and it would be made. For a walk to the park and it would happen. His little life, in that moment, was within the bubble of his grandma’s reach and we were both so, so glad.

I took another deep breath and resolved to keep on keeping on.

I can’t be everywhere. I can’t fix everything. I’m not a super hero. Still don’t have a forcefield at my fingertips. But, through my decisions and actions, I can create little moments for the people I love.

I can slice strawberries and send planners and make phone calls. I can give the code to my door and a bed with fresh sheets to someone who needs somewhere to be for a night. I can take phone calls even when I don’t really want to talk. I can smile in the grocery store and be kinder to rude people than they deserve.

And, when I can’t, I can take a day off.

On those days, someone I love will be a forcefield for me. The world will send me a lunch with a dear friend, my husband will make my plate of food and bring it to me with a napkin folded on the side, my daughter will call me with laughter in her voice to tell me something funny. My grandson will say,

“Grandma, I’m happy with you.”

And so later, when I’ve had a rest, I will put on my helmet and strap on my shield and venture out to do what I can.

The only other option is to find those of you whose life is always ok and offer you a meatloaf and my company.

If only.

The world is scary.

People are scattered.

Things seem a little crazed.

Anyone want to argue that? Anyone having a different experience? If you are, can I come to your house to stay? I’m a great houseguest and can make a decent meat loaf. Promise I won’t be any trouble. I’m not scary or crazed. Maybe a little scattered.

I’m rambling. Let me start again.

Has anyone seen the kid’s show The Incredibles? Remember the scene where the teenager daughter creates a safety bubble over her family? One minute, they are in danger and the next second they are all sheltered under an impenetrable force field. I love that scene. If someone showed up to offer me a super power I would take that one. Please. I don’t need to be super fast or super strong. I just want to protect my people.

Am I rambling again?

Probably.

There are a lot of things going on in my world right now that I don’t like.  They are happening to people I love. I’m trying to mitigate them and make them better and do what I can, but it’s not going so well. The middle of me is having to accept that there’s only one me. I can’t be everywhere. I can’t do everything. What’s a worrier to do? How do I accept that?

When you are a caretaker what happens when you can’t take on anymore care?

I can answer that.

You stumble. You falter. You fret.

On some days, you find playlists on Spotify that are full of melancholy and angst and you watch the trees sway, and the rain fall and you cry. But not always. That wouldn’t be productive.

So, you get up each morning and just bang on through everything that is happening and wear yourself out wondering if you are doing enough. If anything you are doing matters. If you, perhaps, are the least guardian of all the guardians.

Thankfully, sometimes, when you are in that spot life gives you a mint on your pillow. A little smiley face on your windshield. A glowing performance review from a boss that really matters.

Recently, I got just such a wink on a quiet morning. A morning that was spectacular because it was replete with normal.

How rare is that?

Our little guy had come to stay for a week. It was story books read at exactly 8:30 in the evening. Always a mad hunt for Daddy Bear when he was missing. Baseballs and red cars with their own keys. It was toothbrushing and time spent working in the yard with his granddad. It was a quick trip for an ice cream cone and finger-painting on the kitchen table. And then, on that Tuesday morning, it was him sitting quietly in his chair eating a bowl of cereal and me at the kitchen counter cutting strawberries because he wanted some. It was so quiet.

You know those mornings?

The clock is ticking and and there’s a fly buzzing on the window sill and, in the distant, there is the muted sound of a dog barking. It is just a morning. A morning we will probably all wish for when they are gone. And into that stillness my grandson dropped five words.

“Grandma, I’m happy with you.”

Matter of factly and without a pause in his chewing. Wasn’t a big moment on his side, but at the counter, his grandma stopped slicing strawberries. Felt tears gather in her eyes and her shoulders drop. She breathed that sentence into the parts of her that needed it.

Somehow, despite my fears, I was hanging in there as a guardian. I was force fielding this little man. He was at his grandma’s and he was happy. The world was right. Things were good.

He was free to eat his cereal and plan his day. He would ask for a grilled cheese later, with no crusts, and it would be made. For a walk to the park and it would happen. His little life, in that moment, was within the bubble of his grandma’s reach and we were both so, so glad.

I took another deep breath and resolved to keep on keeping on.

I can’t be everywhere. I can’t fix everything. I’m not a super hero. Still don’t have a forcefield at my fingertips. But, through my decisions and actions, I can create little moments for the people I love.

I can slice strawberries and send planners and make phone calls. I can give the code to my door and a bed with fresh sheets to someone who needs somewhere to be for a night. I can take phone calls even when I don’t really want to talk. I can smile in the grocery store and be kinder to rude people than they deserve.

And, when I can’t, I can take a day off.

On those days, someone I love will be a forcefield for me. The world will send me a lunch with a dear friend, my husband will make my plate of food and bring it to me with a napkin folded on the side, my daughter will call me with laughter in her voice to tell me something funny. My grandson will say,

“Grandma, I’m happy with you.”

And so later, when I’ve had a rest, I will put on my helmet and strap on my shield and venture out to do what I can.

The only other option is to find those of you whose life is always ok and offer you a meatloaf and my company.

If only.

I thought a lot about getting married when I was a little kid. It was always such a strange idea to me that I would grow up and live in a house with a person I didn’t even know yet. Would I really want to go with him to the annual Christmas parade instead of my parents? Would I wake him up at night when I felt sick? Would he buy my birthday presents or would my mom?

As I grew up, I started to understand a lot more about marriage and I still had questions. I started to think about what kind of man would I want to be “daddy” to my kids. I wondered if I could marry a Cowboy’s fan if I met one. I wondered what I would do if I happened to fall in love with a man that liked hunting and wanted to hang dead heads on my walls. I wondered if I could even love said man. I wondered if I could pull together an impressive dinner party for my future husband’s boss if an important deal hung in the balance. Could I make salmon croquettes? Ever?

However, the one thing I didn’t really do a lot of wondering about was my future husband’s family. Why would I? I was young and immature and had my own family. And, even though they were an odd bunch, I loved them. They were my family. I couldn’t imagine any other.

How silly was I?

It turned out when I did grow up and find my person he came with a whole host of people that would find little nooks and crannies of my heart to fill. I struck gold. Hit the jackpot when it came to my bonus family. I have spent hours with them laughing and vacationing and riding boats and eating queso and becoming family. I now know that one of the greatest gifts you’re given when you marry is your spouse’s family. Or at least it is if your new family is like my husband’s. And if one of those family members is Sharon.

Sharon is my husband’s first cousin. When I married him, I already had thirty first cousins of my own. Turned out I needed Sharon in that collection.

I’m sitting here with my fingers hovering over this keyboard trying to pluck the words out of whatever pool I draw from to help all of you understand what Sharon meant to me. But, bigger than that, to my husband. Have you ever had someone who just liked you? You were their favorite? The person they most wanted to see come through the door? That was my husband to Sharon. Every time we showed up anywhere she was a big deal was made. About him.

He’s not the kind of guy who invites that kind of attention or knows what to do when it happens. He’s just this quiet, steady man that doesn’t have a lot to say about himself. Now imagine that guy with an entire dinner prepared just for him. Or a huge silver tin full to the top with mint chocolate fudge–again prepared just for him. She never forgot his birthday. She never failed to come see him. She loved him. And, she showed it. I think that’s an anomaly in a lot of ways. Lots of people say they love us, but how many of them will melt chocolate and turn it into fudge every time we come to visit? How many people will make sure someone gives it to us after they leave so the fuss won’t be about them? Sharon’s kind of people. The best kind of people. And, I think, it’s a special kind of person that does that for someone who just needs it. Turns out quiet guys who don’t make a fuss about themselves really need that sometimes.

I’m stuck now. All of those words above go a little ways towards showing y’all Sharon, but they don’t quite do her justice. I need more. Maybe this will help.

Years ago, when my husband and I were a young couple, we threw a party. I think it was on the 4th of July. And, this wasn’t just any party. This was a perfect party. At least it was to us. We had just built a new redwood deck that we were beyond proud of. My husband’s band was there that day and there was the sound of guitars being tuned and drums being set up. It wasn’t too hot and our huge oak trees were shading the whole area. There were kids darting in and out eating cherry popsicles and challenging each other to tricks on the trampoline. There was lots of food and cold beer and every friend we had in a hundred mile radius. It was perfect. And then, Sharon showed up. She and her husband were on a trip and went out of their way to stop and see us. I remember standing on my deck watching everything go on around me with such a bubble of happiness inside my chest and then hearing someone call my name and turning to see Sharon walking down my driveway and feeling instantly and, crazily, infinitely happier. She just added happy to my happy to my happy. I screamed hello, jumped up and down a few times, and then quickly turned to find my husband. No way was I going to miss his extra happy.

And, that’s who she was. Through three decades of marriage she has consistently been someone who made us happier every time we saw her. Who always had time for us. Time to take us on drives to find every house my husband’s family had ever lived in, in the town they had all always lived in. That’s a lot of houses. Time to open her home to host a party to surprise family when our daughter got pregnant and our son got engaged. Time to sit out on a patio on a flowered lawn chair and talk about the old times. The family memories. The bits and pieces that matter. Time to make prune cakes.

What? I haven’t told you about the prune cake. Oh goodness. Guess there are more words to land here. More words about Sharon. I’m happy to do that.

Turns out when you’re a kid with thirty first cousins there’s not a lot of room to be a favorite. Or to have a fuss made about you. I think I was twelve years old before I remember having my own birthday party. My mom always just did mine with my sisters. We were all summer birthdays so it made sense. I feel you triplets. And, I think you just get used to things like that in your life and you don’t even take the time to realize that they bother you. Not a lot, but enough.

Sometimes, you don’t realize it until it’s the day after Thanksgiving and you’re on your way home from a visit to your bonus family. You’re looking at an eleven hour trip and your husband is tired and so you pull out the taped up brown sack that Sharon sent with strict instructions to open it on the road. You open it expecting to find a tin of mint chocolate fudge. And you do. But, at the bottom, you also find a prune cake wrapped in that waxy paper that just makes everything taste better. The kind your grandma always wrapped sandwiches in. You find that cake and you know that Sharon must have stayed up until the early morning hours baking it just for you after you raved about it the day before at dinner. Seriously, only she could have made a prune cake taste that amazing. You picture her standing at her stove after what was already a long day of pies and turkey and dishes and you feel what that cake means to your very middle.

I ate that cake with tears of exhaustion and gratefulness and with my husband watching me nervously from the driver’s seat. It had taken a lot to get my little family there that year. To find the money, the time and the energy. My mom had cancer and I was running on fumes. Sharon saw all of that and gave me my own special shout out. Raisins and cinnamon, prunes and love. It was, without a doubt, one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.

I feel like the words are done with me now. When I read this years from now, I will get a flash of Sharon. Short, curly hair and a wry smile. Not a hugger, but a cake baker and a fudge maker and a spotlight shiner. The real deal. One of the blessings of marriage and a bonus family that I never saw coming.

Double happy.

What a huge damn thing.

A lot of decades ago, I was a little girl. I had four siblings, goats, dogs, cats and a stuffed purple bull named Lucky that I loved.

And I had an aunt. My Aunt Dee. She wasn’t very tall and she gave the best hugs a kid could hope for. Full, warm, squeezy hugs that pressed my face into whatever shirt she was wearing. I would stand there breathing in the scent of laundry soap and food while she hugged me increasingly tighter and rubbed my back at the same time. Then, as quickly as it had started, it would end. She would release me and move onto whoever else was standing close. But, as she was hugging them, she would look over at me and smile so big I could see both her dimples. Shirley Temple dimples. On my aunt. I loved that. And, for added measure, she had the curls too. Pretty much, she was the best.

A trip to her house meant that I would be the star of the show. As soon as I got there, she would ask me what I wanted to eat. More than once this question caused my kid brain to shut down. I lived in a house of seven people and it wasn’t a typical occurrence that my desires were relevant. Like ever. So, if I asked my Aunt Dee for Neapolitan ice cream ( why isn’t this everyone’s favorite?) a bag of Doritos and two snickers bars they would appear in the middle of her bar later in the day. I always felt like I had just won a kid’s version of the lottery. It was at her house that I first tried onion dip. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to try less, but she teased me until I did and I loved it. I still do to this day. I never open a container of it that I don’t think about her.

Her house was also where my cousin Susie lived. As much as I loved my Aunt Dee, I loved Susie more. She was fun and always had the best toys and shared them freely. She was my age and, most important, she wasn’t one of my siblings. She was the different I needed coming from my crowded home. I spent many hours with her under her bed, laying flat on our backs, and staring up at the Valentine she had tucked under her bed frame. It was from the boy she loved and we both thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. We knew she would grow up and marry him. We knew her wedding would be absolutely beautiful and we knew I would be there. It would be a dazzling day of yellow and parasols and happiness. The only thing we didn’t know was that none of it would happen. My family moved away to Texas and our relationship became summer visits full of walks and bus rides and begged-for puppies.

Then, years later, when I was a young girl and at my Grandmother’s house the phone on the wall in the kitchen rang. It was a hot summer afternoon and someone answered it. Of course they did. Why wouldn’t someone answer a phone ringing on a Sunday afternoon? I was sitting at my Grandma’s peeling formica table when I heard my mom start screaming. There’s not really a reference point for your mom screaming when you are a kid. It’s just terrifying. It was that day too. What came next was worse. My cousin was gone. Susie. She was gone.

That’s what my mom kept saying over and over again. “It’s Susie. She’s gone.” At first, I thought she had run away, but I couldn’t imagine that I wouldn’t have heard about that. Surely she would have called me first.

The next thing I knew my Dad’s heavy hand was on my shoulder. “Jean Ann, go pack the suitcases. We have to go.”

I went to the dark air conditioned room where all of our stuff was scattered and tried to pack like a grown up. I couldn’t. My dad found me sitting in the middle of the floor crying with clothes covering my lap. He put his hand on the top of my head and left it there until I stopped crying.

After that, it was a long car trip with my mother sobbing softly in the front seat while I pushed my face as hard as I could into the hard window. So hard that my nose felt bruised by the time we pulled up to Susie’s familiar house.

I hung back as my parents went to the door. I didn’t know if this was a house for me anymore. Where would I go? Sit? Be? But then, my aunt met me on the sidewalk and I was smooshed into a blue plaid shirt. She held me forever. At least it felt that way. When she pulled back her dimples weren’t there, but her kind brown eyes were.

“Come in,” she said. “Come in and let’s find you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

I didn’t really think my answer mattered, so I just followed her and ate whatever she put in front of me. I ate and ate while the grownups cried. Eventually, I understood that my cousin had drowned. It was a freak accident on a camping trip and it was forever.

That was the part that I couldn’t figure out. The forever part. It seemed so unnecessary, I was willing to live this new life for a while if I had to, but forever? That was too big.

Eventually, one of the grown ups asked me if I wanted to go to Susie’s room. I did not. I wanted to do that less than I had ever wanted to do anything in my life. I couldn’t imagine that room without my cousin. Without us. I froze in the middle of my aunt’s kitchen with an empty paper plate in my hands. Froze. Couldn’t have moved for anything. My aunt swung around from the casserole dish she was serving and announced that there was no time right then to look at Susie’s room because I was going to the movies with my cousin David.

My cousin David looked at me and I looked at him. We really didn’t have a relationship. There was no need. He had my brother and I had Susie. But, my brother wasn’t there and Susie wasn’t either. So, I went in the bathroom and brushed my hair and got in the car with my cousin. An awkward car ride with him was better than opening that second doorway on the left. I knew that. We didn’t talk much, but we did stop and pick up his girlfriend and another friend. A boy.

This boy climbed in the back seat with me and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. How had I come to be in a back seat with a boy? My first thought was that I wanted to tell Susie. My second thought was that the world had gone crazy and I couldn’t tell Susie. So, we went to the movie.

It was E.T. I sat in that darkened theatre and watched Elliott and E.T. forge their relationship and, somewhere in the middle, that boy I was sitting next to held my hand. It was me. I was in a movie theatre holding someone’s hand and I was biting the inside of my cheek to keep from sobbing. Life is weird.

When we got back to my Aunt’s house she was there to greet me. Again. With a hug. She fed me more food and I still didn’t go to that second door on the left. I couldn’t.

Instead, I hung out in their family room and played with my little cousin Rona. I knew how much Susie loved her and and how glad she had been to finally be a big sister so I tried extra hard to take care of her. I played every game she wanted to play and sang every song. I helped her get things she couldn’t reach and basically made myself her chief care taker for the rest of the day. It was something to do while I processed that I was in my Aunt’s house without my cousin and that a boy had held my hand.

It was because of my helpfulness that I was given charge of my little cousin the next day at the cemetery. It was me holding her hand while her mom sobbed and threw herself on her daughter’s coffin. It was me showing her flowers while people led her mom to the car and it was me that played with her the rest of that day too. I just wanted to help my aunt. I wanted to make her smile. I wanted to see her dimples and her eyes light up. I didn’t want to lose my aunt and my cousin. I didn’t think I could handle that. I didn’t want to handle it.

Finally, on the day it was time for my family to go back to Texas, I walked down that hallway by myself. I walked into my cousin’s room and I dropped down and looked under her bed. The Valentine was still there. I whispered into the dusty emptiness and told her my last secret.

“Susie, I held a boy’s hand and I miss you so much.”

That was the last time I ever went in my cousin’s room. In fact, I buried all of these memories. Put them in a room in my brain and closed the door.

I still went back to visit my aunt and she still hugged me tighter than anyone and fed me as much as she could get me to eat, but our relationship was infected. It was infected with sadness and it made being together painful and jagged.

When I grew up and got married we exchanged Christmas cards every year and she always began them, “Dear one.” I loved that. It was how she made me feel. Like I was dear. How many people in life make you feel that way? But, sadly, because of moves and miles and a greater distance than either of us could really travel we didn’t get to see each other much.

Then, the other day, my phone rang again. Not on a kitchen wall, but the message was the same.

Loss.

My aunt was gone.

Gone from me, but reunited with Susie. I hope they are hugging. I hope Susie’s face is squeezed against her mom’s shirt and that they have days and years and an eternity to not let go.

And, I hope these words help me remember. Remember what it feels like when someone makes you feel dear. Remember that you can do that with something as simple as a tub of onion dip and a warm hug. Remember that awful and wonderful sometimes show up together. Remember that many decades ago I was a little girl. I had four siblings, goats, dogs, cats and a stuffed purple bull named Lucky that I loved.

Remember that forever is forever.