When we moved in 2015 we wanted to be closer to our adult children and grands. I thought downsizing our belongings and the square footage of our residence were going to be the only changes in my life. As if. There’s been a lot of little things adding up since I turned 65.

I had knee replacement 10 months ago. Did well until I fell in September which took a toll. My balance was way off and I ended up using a cane for 3 months, plus I lost much of my knee range of motion. (I’m back for more physical therapy). But it was when I started feeling better that I recognized other differences. Number one was my morning walks, which have been sporadic since we moved. First I hurt my left knee which took physical therapy and a year to feel somewhat better, then I fell and hurt my right leg necessitating replacement. I desperately wanted to start walking everyday “with purpose” like I did for 15 years.

I’ve come to the conclusion there have been many changes in my life since I was a young whippersnapper in 1998. I was then 75 pounds heavier and had finally found the willpower to diet. Along with limiting my food intake and dropping unhealthy pounds, I discovered a walking addiction. At my peak I was walking about 5 miles a day in 70 minutes. Now I use a walking stick and have just bumped my walk from 1-1/2 miles to 2 miles everyday our streets/walking path are dry and clear. Two miles takes about 38 minutes. And that’s me working hard. I have managed to shave 7 minutes off my total since December, but it’s still pathetic.

I stopped at my favorite shopping Mecca (Meijer) for groceries a few days ago. Meandering through fruits and vegetables I spotted fresh blackberries, a 6 ounce carton for 50 cents. Wow! Blackberries normally run about 3 bucks. Sweet berries about half the size of my pinkie. Just a few years ago I would have instantly cased the joint for marauding thieves trying to move in on my territory, while wrapping my arms around the entire display with a heady, “my precious.” Then walked out the door with a hundred boxes and a big smile on my face. I’m not exaggerating, I’ve done this numerous times during the last 25 years of my canning obsession. Not anymore.

Now in my defense, a few years ago I was still giving my canned goods away at an alarming (but good) rate. As Parish Visitor for an aging congregation those I visited on a regular basis who remained in their own home or independent living always got jars of my home canned jams, pickles and beets. Plus I donated dozens of jars to the United Methodist Women who sold them after church services (a sin on Sunday according to my Dad) for their mission fund. But after retiring I no longer have a reason to can 1,200 jars a year.

So instead of berry pouncing, I decided to pick up the items I came for and decide if and how many cartons of blackberries to buy (which goes directly against my first instinct to empty the shelves). Several months ago blackberries were on sale for a buck a box and I ended up canning about 30 half pints of seedless blackberry jelly (my second favorite next to apricot jam). The second reason I hesitated is the thought of standing by my stove for any length of time. Haven’t been able to do that since surgery. But really folks 50 cents a box is crazy! And I have a lot of trouble passing up crazy.

Not even a decade ago I routinely canned 80-100 jars of jam in a day. A day! Now I realize there’s no way I can stand in one spot in my kitchen for more than a couple hours in a stretch. I walked back to the fruit and grabbed 2 cases (24 boxes). Enough for 3 batches of jam totaling 30 half pints. I did lament to myself about how wimpy that was but it is what it is.

No more trying to do it all in one day like Super Woman. On day one I washed and smashed the berries, dividing them up in 5 cup increments and stashing them in the fridge. The next day I brought up the jars, lids, rings, sugar, pectin and water bath canner from the basement and washed everything. A day later I canned 30 half pints of jam which took a little over 2 hours. Felt odd/different and got me thinking how much my life has changed during the last decade.

And suddenly decided I’m looking at my life from the wrong direction.

Instead of pissing and moaning about the things I can’t do, the once simple project which now takes me longer, or the copious amounts I used to do, I gotta start being grateful for the THINGS I STILL CAN DO.

1. I’m older and slower. It’s about time I own that statement. My legs aren’t ever gonna feel the way they did when I started walking 22 years ago. I’m fairly certain I won’t ever jog again.

2. Does it really matter that my 2 mile walk now takes me 40 minutes instead of 28? The walk’s definitely still good for me. I continue to derive enormous satisfaction from lumbering along. (Those wacko endorphins feel fantastic). Listening to funky music while singing off tune with my own version of lyrics because I don’t understand the words still gives me pleasure (and strange looks from passers by and cars-I do not care) Deaf walker in the house! Who cares? Not me.

3. A big issue for me has been work. Haven’t worked in 14 months and I still miss it way too much. It gave me purpose. I miss little baby breaths on my neck while rocking one of them to sleep. I miss their unique smell, soft hair, toothless smiles and coos. It’s gotten so bad I miss spit-up and poopy diapers. I haven’t come to terms with this just yet. Kinda feel like there should be a part time job out there somewhere that would benefit from a sarcastic but empathetic grandma so maybe it’s time I start looking. This I care deeply about. I need more meaning in my life.

4. Giving thanks for what I’ve got in my life. Great family, warm house, easy access to doctors. Fridge, freezer and pantry filled in case of a zombie apocalypse.

5. In all seriousness though I’m truly blessed and grateful for another day on earth. Here’s to less complaining, less negativity and taking my life for granted. Start focusing on all the good in my life. Thanks God…

Mom and Dad started going to Calvin Christian Reformed Church in 1952 because all 3 of us (Mona, Larry and me-the straggler) were baptized in 1953. But Dad would be the first to tell you he didn’t give his life to Christ until late 1958, a few weeks after Larry died. That’s when his life was dramatically changed. Dad was quite vocal about the changes in his life after Jesus saved him. And soon the seeds God planted started to sprout. I believe Dad’s first fledgling good work’s ministry were his tracks in the early 60’s. Dad built little wooden shelf racks (track racks) which held an assortment of palm sized inspirational snippets of scripture on 10 tiny pages or less. Mom bought a rubber ink stamp pad with his name and address. He’d stamp every little booklet in case the recipient of one of these booklets wanted to talk to him and learn more about the Lord. He displayed the shelves in hospitals, nursing homes and both gospel missions in Sioux Falls and Sioux City. Every time he visited, he’d refill his track rack.

About the same time Dad felt obligated to share his compelling story with others, so he wrote his testimony. A short booklet on his life. How he found the Lord after losing Larry. By then Mom and Dad had transferred their membership to the First Reformed Church (At my insistence. I was 11). The transition was smooth for 2 of us. Mom, not so much. She really did better in a small church environment. First Reformed was at least 3 times as big. Dad dove right in, teaching Sunday school, getting elected to the consistory as an elder, visiting folks in hospitals and local nursing homes. He was busy and making a difference. And his lay ministries were morphing. Dad was insistent and precise when talking about his conversion. His good works should never be misinterpreted as a means into heaven. “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not of your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”

It started small. Dad joined a group from church who made mission trips. Most were to gospel missions or prisons within a hundred mile radius of Rock Valley. Someone would play piano, a couple of people with great voices would sing, others had a prayer or read scripture. Then ‘Brother Rich’ would preach. Dad was a New Testament guy so his messages were about the life and times of Jesus. How to get your life in order so you could have eternal life, with a splash of fire and brimstone mixed in to hold your attention.

Maybe it was Dad’s tiny biblical tracks relaying the message that inspired him to construct billboard sized signs to reach a bigger audience. He asked local farmers for permission to erect a sign in their fields all over Sioux County. Dad spent countless nights out in the garage, hand painting a verse or thought provoking one liner to get people thinking while driving on highway 18 or 75.

Dad was drawn to those who didn’t have the freedoms the rest of us take for granted. That morphed into South Dakota’s M2 program. A one-on-one ministry with an inmate from the Sioux Falls penitentiary, which became the focal point of his good work’s ministry for decades. Weekly one hour visits, learning about the life of Jesus, plus listening to their concerns. Dad worked with an incredible number of guys over the course of 25 years, and many of those men stayed in contact with Dad long after they were released from prison with phone calls and letters.

Soon Dad started a weekly Bible study class at Sioux Falls prison. That’s when he realized the significance of each man having a Bible of their own. It wasn’t enough to study scripture with a dozen guys for an hour a week. If lives were going to be changed it was important for each man have a their own Bible. Giving them access to God’s word whenever they wanted. Which then launched his Bible outreach ministry.

Dad tithed but that wasn’t enough. Every single side job, (painting houses, tearing down buildings, shingling, small home repairs, usually for the widows around Rock Valley) the majority of the money was used for one of his missions. (He’d always treat Mom to a restaurant in Sioux Falls once he got paid from a job). With his once a year bonus from IPERS (the state retirement fund he paid into for decades) he’d use 10% to buy something he needed. And 90% of the time he used the money to buy Bibles. King James, NIV, New Testaments, The Psalms. He even found a company who offered a special Bible for the incarcerated. (Although during my life I literally saw this version of the Bible stacked up at Dad’s place hundreds of times, I never looked inside to compare how they differ).

When Mom passed away in 2004, Dad sold the house and moved to Michigan at age 88. I had spoken to the chaplain at Muskegon’s prison and given him multiple references for Dad, allowing him easy access as soon as he was settled. He preached once a month and taught a Bible study every week. It wasn’t long before I was proofreading his sermons and ordering Bibles for the masses. Those 3 years of teaching and preaching were probably the most meaningful years Dad ever had. He had purpose and was needed to fulfill God’s promise of eternal life for all who believed.

After Dad moved to Michigan, I ordered the Rock Valley Bee so we could keep up on what was happening in our not so little town anymore. The place he had called home for 88 years. In March it will be 12 years since Dad passed away and I’m still getting the Bee. When the paper arrived this week, one of the stories held a special meaning for me. I was crying by the second paragraph. It was just SO DAD! A chaplain working at a Recovery Center, asked a friend who’s a teacher at a Christian High School if they had any spare Bibles. Would they consider donating some to his facility? The teacher, in turn asked her 20 Church History Class students what could they do to help out the chaplain (but really help those who needed a copy of their own Good Book).

Endeavors like this either fizzle or snowball. This one blossomed big time. The class decided their goal was 125 Bibles, with each student promising to donate 2 Bibles. Then they asked their respective pastors if their congregation could help. An anonymous donor promised if the 125 Bibles from the school came to fruition, he would match that adding another 125. Last count was 565 Bibles, with more arriving every day. THIS would have been one of my Dad’s pet project 20 years ago. Achievable goals, looking at a successful outcome for the people receiving the Bibles.

Although we were never real close, when I read stories like this I really miss Dad. It warms my heart when others (and teens-which gives me so much hope) slide easily into replacing some of my Dad’s favorite ministries. I think he’s looking down, satisfied and very proud…

I never thought I’d be a collector, at least not of antique furniture. What little we could afford during our first years of marriage went specifically for necessities. By our first anniversary we were expecting Shannon and trying to set up her nursery on one thin dime. (though we didn’t know it was a her. The only baby whose sex we knew ahead of time was Adam and that was a couple hours before he was born) Hubs happened upon an old dresser at a garage sale on his way to Channel 4. Stripped, without drawer handles but the price was right for our tight budget, five dollars. We refinished it, set it in her room along with a 5 dollar used, brightly painted yellow crib. From that day on, I was hooked on antiques.

After that bargain buy, we actively sought out old furniture instead of new, though for a decade (minimum) the only pieces we could afford were the ones haphazardly placed in the back of the antique store. Most pieces were used for parts because they were in such bad shape. Lopsided, missing a leg, door, glass was broke (like us) or with 20 coats of paint were the ones we could afford to bring home. Might take us a couple months to make the piece suitable but we got pretty good at stripping, repairing and refinishing. We were both hung up on oak and it was rare if we bought another type of wood. At the time (mid 70’s through the 80’s) walnut was the premiere wood choice for antique furniture. We never got on walnut’s bandwagon though, always preferring the grain and color of oak.

By the mid-80’s we had a houseful of antique oak and all but a couple of pieces were refinished by the Hubs and yours truly. We loved working on them and every piece was not necessarily in the junk department of the store anymore. In 30 years of actively collecting, I’d have to say the majority of our antique explosion was while we were living in Davenport during the mid 80’s. And not very many came from antique stores, but garage sales with my bestie, Mary Ellen. She knew that metropolis like the back of her hand. Which streets had alleys, where to park, who had the best sales every year. We never went to Bettendorf or across the Mississippi to Illinois, just hit the garage sales in Davenport. She’d have her list written in her neat, tiny script. What time each sale opened and the route we’d take, eliminating backtracking. Damn she was good.

While I was always on the hunt for neat oak pieces, sometimes the oddest items caught my fancy and would soon be loaded up ready to go to their new home. Like the blue/gray pedal car called Kiddilac which weighed as much as I did. The boys were already too big to ride it but I had a real soft spot for old toys, especially if they were metal. Or the large box of old comic books all priced a nickel each. (I was trying to instill the love of reading Shannon was born with to our 2 boys who’d much rather play outside. But hey the comics did the trick-Hubs was right. That was in 1986. When the Hubs was right I mean). Cubs paraphernalia, kitchen gadgets, wooden boxes with advertising. I liked looking at everything, but nothing made my heart thump harder than when I spotted a gorgeous piece of oak, begging to be repurposed and find a home with me.

One day I spotted a small school desk with the lift up wood flap where you could store paper, pencils and crayons. Not oak, maybe birch. The desk part connected to a swivel chair made with enough iron to dent a floor. It was adorable. It was just the right size for Adam who was about 4. The price was right, only a couple of bucks but really needed work. The hinge which allowed the desktop to flip up was broke so John put on a new one. We stripped it and gave it several coats of polyethylene because well, he was a rough and tumble kid. John painted the ton of iron with a couple coats of black paint.

Adam loved that desk. Coloring, Matchbox storage, racetrack, watching TV and eating. Every breakfast/dinner/supper/snack he could eat at his little desk was a win for him. He did everything at that desk but sleep. After he was too big for the desk we put it by my old toy collection for a couple years, then stuck it in storage because I couldn’t get rid of something that was such a big part of his life.

Fast forward 20 years when Adam became a father to our 4th grandchild. We lugged the desk over for Graham to play with when he was about a year. Their house was quite small but I don’t think removing Adam’s/Graham’s desk has ever been an issue. G uses the desk even more than his daddy did, although the writing is on the wall. Graham’s legs no longer fit ‘under’ the desk but are splayed on each side. (Every time we leave their much bigger house, Hubs says, “I gotta adjust the chair and desk for Graham.” Because we’d like him to use it until he graduates ha-ha). We hope one day Graham’s son or daughter gets to play with our 3 generation desk.

It wasn’t long after my school desk find when I came across another small desk at an estate sale. It was on the landing of the staircase and I stopped dead in my tracks. This piece had my heart hammering like I was nearing the end of a marathon. A child’s size oak S-curve roll top desk (the S-curve is very rare, more common is the C-curve). With a matching chair. I was a goner. Had to have it.

It was more than I wanted to spend but if I ever wanted my pulse back to normal it had to come home with me. This was a piece the kids would not play with. It was too fragile and if the kids put the roll top up and down countless times it wouldn’t last. Adam already had a desk and Joshua and Shannon were too old to give 2 hoots about another antique I’d drug home while wearing a huge grin, bursting with pride.

One of the side boards of the desk was cracked all the way across and had been repaired, but otherwise it was in great shape. It had such dark patina you could barely see the oak grain. (Sorry folks, you’re not gonna win me over to “don’t touch the patina” mantra of antique die hards. Not the way I want my furniture to look. On the bright side, we refinished the desk about 35 years ago so it has some new-old patina forming).

I was thrilled to death with this little piece as the Hubs and I started to strip the old varnish off. John was unsure how to do the actual roll top and decided it had be taken apart so we could lay it flat and strip in between the slats. The chair and the body of the desk were stripped when Hubs made a fantastic discovery. When the roll top is all the way up, it’s hidden behind the pigeon hole compartments and the back of the desk. After Hubs got it apart, he found five recipe size cards and a pen in the seldom used hidey-hole.

Oh. My. Stars. My little desk had been used in school during the late 1920’s. The recipe cards were actually Davenport Public School enrollment cards. Can you just imagine a school room with 20 little roll top desks filled with 3rd graders sitting on the chairs, listening to their teacher and studying? Wouldn’t I love to have a picture of one of those class rooms?

The enrollees, Aubrey, Elmer and Roland (Roland had 2 enrollment cards going from 3rd to 4th, then on to fifth grade the following year) were all born in 1919. Over one hundred years ago. Amazing. Helen Mae was born in 1920. All list their birthday, address and whether or not they had been vaccinated. (None had any shots). Plus their father’s name and occupation. One farmer, one gardener, a city fire fighter and an employee of the Linograph Company (they manufactured typesetting machines. The building is now listed as a Davenport historic property.

The pen we found is a dip pen. It has no reservoir to hold ink so you had to keep dipping it in an ink well to keep writing. (A big thank you to all the kiddos who used drippy ink but never spilled a drop on my pristine desk). The pen was made by the Eagle Pencil Company, established in 1856. (I had to get out the magnifying glass) We noticed the end of the pen (wooden) has some teeth marks. Nice to know kids haven’t changed their habits of gnawing on pencils during school through the years.

One last gem about my little desk. Under the pigeon hole compartments is a handwritten price and number for the desk. # 40 $6.75. Guess Davenport School’s procurer ordered a minimum of at least 40 desks. With some wheeling and dealing managed to get them for the rock bottom price of $6.75 each. I’d say worth every penny…

I don’t know what it is about the women in our family. We’re just kinda bunched together. A few days before my Mom’s 24th birthday, I was born. Two days after I turned 20 Shannon was born. Three days after my granddaughter Ariana’s 26th birthday, her daughter Jovi was born. So Ari celebrated her own birthday spending the day getting ready for Jovi’s party.

I think a person’s birthday is really special. I’ve always felt we should do less gifty stuff on Christmas, instead going all out on their birthday. It’s the one day a year that’s truly theirs. A big deal. This hasn’t always been the case though after I became a mom. Much of my early birthday party qualms/fears when my kids were small revolved around money-or the lack of it. Parties were expensive. Cake, invitations, decorations, food, party favors, plus all the presents. And I wasn’t much of an event planner (it’s been rumored I might have bribed my own kids a time or 2 with cold hard cash-NOT have a party on their big day. Just a rumor, no need for a mutiny).

I can only remember having one birthday party when I was a kid. Don’t know if that had anything to do with my party reluctance after I had kids. Mom was an introvert and wasn’t comfortable with a bunch of noisy girls invading her space. Another reason was probably celebrating anything in our house after Larry’s death seemed disloyal and phony.

Family parties for your kids were different though. There weren’t games to plan or prizes needed. Both sets of grandparents showed up, plus a couple aunts and uncle’s and their kids, so a meal was in order. Something easy like cream chicken buns or Taverns with potato salad and a homemade cake. The kids played together, the adults visited until it was time to open presents. The presents were fawned over, thanks given and everyone left for home. Easy. Enjoyable and not too much work.

A kid’s party with peers was much more work. There had to be a theme, and face it, the kids either wanted tacos or pizza. Homemade food didn’t impress any of them. You were actually part referee/guard/chaperone and had to be involved every minute, defusing spats, judging games for potential prize winners and making sure no one got hurt. While parties were a lot of work, when you looked around at all your little guest’s faces you knew when their special day rolled around, all the responsibility was on their parent’s shoulders. And you’d breathe a big sigh of relief.

When I was a young mom my week, geez my whole month was MADE when one of our kids was invited to someone ELSE’S party. Celebrate good times-come on!! Because when they attended a party there was this feeling-something akin to euphoria. Fleeting but felt pretty awesome. You bought a present, drove to the party kid’s house, (always coming to a complete stop). If you weren’t pressed for time you might even walk them to the door. (These small allotments of freedom were scarce, but hey-safety first).

Several years ago kid’s birthday parties morphed into more than “just family” oriented. It seemed you no longer invited 10 of your six year olds best friends. Now the family from each invited kid comes along. Crazy right? I can tell you right now, 40 years ago when one of our elementary kids went to a birthday party there was no way John would contemplate attending that party for one solitary second. Hubs standing around watching a bunch of 7 year olds run around the house while he sipped a glass of wine. No. Way. Not even for a beer.

With 3 kids ranging 9 years apart, when one was invited somewhere, the remaining 4 of us celebrated just as hard as the kid going to the party. Once again there was an equal adult/kid ratio. It’s all about balance. You fit in a regular booth without adding a chair at the end. It’s not that we didn’t want 3 kids (and mattered even less which one of the kids was gone). In our parental minds there were several, solid, valid reasons to celebrate when our family shrunk for 3 mere hours. I know it sounds crazy, but lame or not, much of our entertainment system was based on when one of the rugrats was elsewhere. They were safe, having a good time and the magnitude of your parental responsibilities was a bit less.

(Does anyone else think it’s odd when guys are invited to a baby or bride to be shower? I know they’re a huge part of the equation in both celebrations-but. This is another recent addition in our ever changing society I just don’t understand. Part of the party allure for me was bringing the gifts, silly stories, embarrassing gaffes home and sharing them with Hubs-to-be/daddy-to-be. The last baby shower I attended included a game with the focus on a newborn pampers with “fake poop” inside and you had to figure out what the fake baby ate before dispensing fake poop. It wouldn’t have mattered what was inside, had that been passed around to John, he would have gagged and made a real mess for someone to clean up). Now where was I?

To (birthday) party or not. The way we celebrate one’s birthday is different for each of us. Some parents would feel remiss if their child’s birthday wasn’t celebrated as a lavish affair with all the trimmings, bouncy house, pony rides, splash park. Others grew up with having relatives only come over their birthday and want to continue that tradition with their own children.

Lately my birthday has been a big deal (internally/emotionally). As I grow older and reflect on those no longer here on earth. Just think of all the friends and family who will never celebrate another birthday. That alone is reason to pause, give thanks and be grateful. I love birthdays and hope to celebrate many more. I’m just not real big on the party part. Whether birthday parties are a huge deal in your life or you’re inclined to indulge in a fancy dessert and call it good. The important thing is to celebrate life. Even when it’s not your birthday…

We were young, financially strapped parents of a precocious toddler. We never wanted to deny her anything but we simply didn’t have very much money. During those first years I’d like to say we lacked nothing though at times we were barely squeaking by. We always had food (tuna, tuna, and more tuna) but I can’t remember a time we couldn’t go away because we were out of gas. We did however suffer a couple winters where we had no heat in the house for a week at a time. Shannon and I would go to Rock Valley for the week and stay with my parents. When Hubs got paid, he order a tank of fuel oil and come and get us. Good times. Most of us went through similar times in the beginning.

While it seems we were in dire straights, we actually were lacking very little. We were broke (bills and collectors of aforementioned was the biggest stressor in our young marriage) but we were happy and healthy. We had some great friends and lived within an hour of most of our relatives. My mom bought most of Shannon’s cute, ‘sometimes unnecessary clothes.’ I was responsible for, let’s hear it, white high tops (one of my favorite stories, High tops & Onesies, May, 2017) undershirts and play clothes, (Health-Tex) from Bellas Hess or K-Mart. Mom bought Shannon’s outfits (Carter’s or better) from Younkers and Shriver’s.

My parents weren’t big toy gifters. For all three of our kid’s first birthday, each got an oak rocking chair (the kind you buy at a furniture store). We bought the latest Fisher-Price toys we could afford. The little dome shaped push toy with small wooden balls inside that ‘popped’ when you walked it. Or the little telephone with the googily eyes she pulled along behind her. Her first little FP record player which included some original vinyl (as in hard, colorful plastic) which played nursery rhymes tunes. Most of the toys were geared towards keeping those toddlers moving.

We bought a more expensive/long lasting gift for Shannon’s birthday and Christmas. The first biggie was the rocking horse from hell. She LOVED it. Scared the snot out of me but neither she, her brothers or our grandchildren ever fell off or flew into another room while riding that wild stallion. The second biggie we bought was a small round, brown wooden table with 2 chairs. I can’t remember how much we paid, (30 bucks is rattling around my head which was exorbitant considering how little we had). Just assume it was more than we could afford at the time. For awhile it was in our dining room, then the living room or bedroom if her room was big enough. She’d play house, color, paint, serve tea and be a mommy to her dolls using the table and chairs. I’ll bet that table and chairs set has been moved to 20 different houses over the years.

Kerrie, Kelli and Shannon, Christmas 1971…

We bought Shannon’s table set right before we moved from Hinton back to Sioux City, Iowa in early 1973. It was where Shannon would have her first best friend, a little sweetie named Katie. Katie lived a couple houses west of us. At first I was insanely jealous of Katie’s mom, Randi. A stunning gal about my age who seemed to have it all. Soon after we moved in, Randi got a job at a western wear place near the Stockyards and asked me if I’d be interested in watching Katie while she worked? (That woman had at least a dozen pair of fancy cowboy boots, each paired with a different outfit. Probably the reason she never had money to pay Katie’s sitter-namely me). The girls played together everyday anyway and it was an easy way for me to earn a few dollars. Katie was absolutely no trouble and the girls spent hours playing house/kitchen/mommy with the new table set. Soon there were serious signs all was not ok at Randi’s house or her marriage and we had Katie at our house more than she was home. John and I both felt every hour Katie was with us was less stress for everyone (but I never got paid).

Josh played with the table and chairs a lot too. He’d zoom his Matchbox cars, plastic trucks, Star Wars action figures, racing them across the top, watching them fly through the air like Evel Knievel. With Adam a few years later it was castle Grayskull sitting on top of the now scratched, dented, nicked up table while his hero He-Man battled evil Skeletor.

As the kids got older and eventually quit using the table and chairs, it continued to make all the moves with us. I’m not sure why. So did the wild rocking horse and most of the big metal earth movers and farm equipment from Ertl toys. What is about certain possessions from our youth or our children’s childhood that are virtually impossible to get rid of? I tossed so many of their toys and never gave it much thought, but it was the first ‘big’ toys that cost us an arm and a leg which are the ones I’ve never been able to dispose of. Seems like we sacrificed so much to get those special toys for the kids it would hurt me to pitch them. Crazy.

Well the years flew by and it’s now 1992. Shannon is mom to our first granddaughter, one year old Ariana. Out comes the dilapidated table and chairs set. John clamps and glues some loose spindles and slaps on some Old English Scratch Cover on the table tops worst boo-boos. It’s a mainstay in Ari’s room for several years, only to be shoved in storage again. Shannon had just as much trouble throwing it out as we have all these years.

Three years ago our great granddaughter Jovi was born. What that perfect little girl needed was a beat up old table and chairs set her Gigi got 45 years ago when she was 2. Goodness. We now have toys that are tipping the scales in the direction of antiques or at very least, vintage. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought the wooden table set would be passed down through 3 generations of Van Berkum/Gerritson Dutch girls. How freaking neat is that?

Jovi had her 3rd birthday party this weekend. Of course sitting in the middle of the living room looking like it’s been rode hard and put away wet is the old table and chairs set. Yet somehow it looks just perfect and belongs right there. Where did Jovi’s little besties sit while they all were eating their birthday donuts? The sturdy little table and chairs set that refuses to be thrown out.

What seemed like an extravagant, over priced, unnecessary purchase 45 years ago has now touched the life of every kid in our family since 1972. Not a family heirloom by any means but Shannon’s little table and chairs set’s worth just seems to climb with every passing year. Positively the best 30 bucks the Hubs and I ever spent…

If you’re familiar with my blog, you’re aware I’ve had some issues with the church. I’m trying to remember when it started. Suffice it to say it’s been over 10 years. Good grief, time flies when you’re troubled. No reason to rehash, if you want more details, read some of my older stories.

I haven’t gone to church for years and didn’t think I missed it (or really even needed it) except when I reflect back to my blog posts. Although I let the church building/congregation (well, we did move but I have not looked for the last 4 years either) simply fade from my life, I’ve written about it quite often and thought about it even more. I’ve come to the conclusion that cutting ties with the church bothers me. A lot. Some of my friends are incredible Christians without entering a church. They say it’s not necessary to ‘go’ to a building every week to be saved. I believe them. They’re sincere and full of faith.

But I am a weak sinner. I talk to God in prayer and conversation while I putz around the house. This however, is insufficient and does not leave me feeling fulfilled. I’m running on empty. I need more than what I have to offer.

A few friends are concerned about my fruitless search for a church home and a closer relationship with God. (They know I need all the help I can get. I truly appreciate their empathy and compassion plus their steadfast faith that I will get turned around before it’s too late). In the past couple weeks I’ve gotten articles on the popularity of big screens used in churches, (ugh) and the drastic decline of hymnals, organs and bibles used during services. The hymnals are no longer needed because of the big screen (really, do any of us need more screen time in our lives these days? (double ugh) What’s a gray haired great-grandma’s supposed to do with that kind of depressing information? Still I prefer staying informed and current so thanks for that Allan. And much of it was already known, just denied or ignored.

Even more recently I got an article from Alma, written by Lisa Appelo on 5 reasons I (this was meant for anyone in general, though God clearly intended it for me) need to go to church-every Sunday. One of the reasons struck a chord when it implied I might not actually LIKE the church because I’ve been hurt (why yes I have) by staff who should have known better (bingo) so I’ve decided to keep Jesus but not the church. Sounds a lot like me.

But I need church. A church. Being around Christians who believe in the Lord and belong. Communion, baptism, Lord’s Prayer, Apostle’s Creed, a sermon from a God fearing preacher. And once again, at the top of my needy list are good old fashioned hymns. Seems petty and downright unchristian but to this Calvinist, hymns are gonna be a deal breaker. There I said it. I own that statement. Old-fashioned-church-hymns-matter.

I finally came to the realization months ago that I needed to find a home church. But actually walking into an unfamiliar sanctuary is daunting. I don’t want to be ignored nor do I want inquisitive folks asking too many questions. My goal is to stay on the down low. My first visit was a bust, so I waited a couple weeks until my courage returned. Sunday morning, ten minutes before the service starts and my Jeep is one of 7 cars in the lot. Lord help me. Why I felt compelled to get out of the car and walk in, I haven’t quite figured out yet. I could have just as easily started the car and drove away-but did not.

The parking lot was icy, sidewalks not much better and I was still using a cane from a recent fall on my brand new knee, so it was slow going. Though general lack of bubbling enthusiasm may have accounted for much of my hesitation. I walked in, saw less than 10 folks in the narthex and asked someone for a bulletin. He said, “we’re running them off now.” A kid hands me one and I walked into the sanctuary. A 4 piece band was playing music I didn’t recognize, loudly. (Are you there God? It’s me, Neese. Help). But God was busy with more important matters than my discomfort, which He believes is good for my soul occasionally.

Thirty worshippers were seated throughout a couple of dozen pews listening. Minister walks in sporting a chartreuse golf shirt. I’m really ok with casual clothes at worship. God doesn’t care how I’m dressed. He wants me to be a better Christian. (But chartreuse?) I didn’t know one song. Not a one. I was cornered when the service was over. Where did I live? How long have I been in Jackson? Married? Was I interested in going out for breakfast? My urge to fight or flee was strong. I chose flee as carefully as I could without taking another spill. Ah, that wasn’t so bad. (Yes, it was).

After I started my car (and locked the doors eliminating the background check, firstborn giveaway and fingerprinting) I spotted another church as I drove out. Lots more cars, bigger building. I literally stopped in the street to read their sign. Join us for worship. Two services: TRADITIONAL-9:30, Contemporary 11. My interest was piqued. I’m in.

I do better when I’m dedicated to an idea. I laid out my clothes on Saturday night and knew what time I had to be showered and out the door on Sunday morning. The traditional service would probably not be large but was hoping for more than 50. I was greeted warmly by Dawn as I walked in the back door, who gave me directions to the sanctuary. I was greeted again at the entrance to the sanctuary and handed a bulletin, (ink was already dry) a prayer concern sheet and a page of sermon notes for the message today.

Cindy walked up on the stage, greeted us and asked us to stand for a hymn sing. This was early December so the songs were all Christmas carols. I knew every song without looking at the big screen. (Choose your battles wisely Neese, the screen isn’t one of them). She told a short story, had a prayer and sat down. A man I assumed was the pastor got up and read the scripture lesson, had a short prayer and sat down.

A guy in his mid-30’s walked up to the lectern wearing blue jeans, shirt and tie with one of those wraparound microphones. Joseph was the subject for the sermon. Happily engaged, looking forward to marriage when Mary tells him she’s pregnant, yet never had sex with anyone. Right. Joseph, being a standup guy and faithful to the Lord, does the right thing. He and Mary get hitched then travel for their family’s head count in Bethlehem.

This is where I had an ‘aha’ moment. (I didn’t know the preacher’s name but have since learned it’s Devin. I’ll just call him Rev/Dev). Rev/Dev pointed out how uncomfortable Joseph must have felt. His engagement to Mary was like a year long but they were essentially already married, though not living together or having sex. (I hope I remembered that right). There would have been serious consequences (stoning) had he not manned up. Then Rev/Dev said, “I just went through an uncomfortable moment.” He flashed a picture up on the big screen. A selfie with lots of background. Behind him tons of U of M fans, milling around concession stands at Crisler Arena. On the top of Rev/Dev’s head perched an Iowa Hawkeye hat! Oh. My. Word. It’s a sign I tell ya.

As I’m walking out, Dawn handed me a Cornerstone introduction packet and thanked me for coming. I told her I was from Iowa too. “Oh, don’t mention that to him. He talks about Iowa ALL THE TIME and thinks he’s the only fan here in Jackson.”

So I’ve been back to the Iowa Hawkeye church, listening to Rev/Dev a couple times. No one’s applied any pressure and I’m enjoying the sermons and hymns tremendously. We shall see. I’ll leave you with a verse, not from a hymn but a band I really enjoy on my playlist when I walk called Train.

Just in time, I’m so glad You have a one-track mind like me.

You gave my life direction, a game show love connection, we can’t deny.

Hey, soul sister….

I simply didn’t pay attention. All those years with Mom and Dad (who BOTH loved to reminisce although Dad said very little about his grandparents). You know how it happens. Visiting your parents with small children. The littles are occupied when your mom or dad says something about when they were young. Or a story about their parents as youngsters that was passed on decades ago. You listen, nod, maybe even ask a question or 2, but then a fight erupts and you scoot to make peace among the kids.

But what about all the years following the visits with small children? I drove or flew to Rock Valley for years by myself to stay and help Mom and Dad. And we talked a lot. Yet very few of those old family stories are written down or stuck in my memory bank. Something I’m very sorry about now-when it’s far too late to glean parts of my Dutch heritage from my folks.

I have much more material embedded from my mom’s paternal side which is odd. Don’t want to say Mom was exactly estranged from her father but for many years they weren’t close-at all. Mom’s dad, Gerrit (nicknamed Lakey) was 10 years older than his beautiful bride in 1924. Lakey was the big prize winner in that marriage at least in his eyes. Coba was gorgeous, educated and loved him. She became pregnant in the spring of ’26 and gave birth to my mom, Florence and her twin brother, Floyd in December. Coba died 2 weeks later, complications from their birth a couple days after Christmas. Lakey was devastated, heartsick and bitter. He wanted no part of his newborn twins, though both sets of grandparents raised their hands to volunteer in rearing the babies.

I told a story about the mild squabbling involved between both sets of grandparents before the dust settled and Lakey’s parents, Guert and Jantje ended up raising the twins. The grandparents lived a few blocks apart from each other so it wasn’t like either set wouldn’t be a big part of their young lives. But one home would have the babies the majority of the time. This home was bigger and there were no other children in it which they felt was an advantage. The other set of grandparents had raised more children and still had 3 at home which they felt was a bigger advantage for the twins.

The paternal’s (Wanningen’s) had raised their 2 children already and lost their only daughter Jenny and newborn grandson by the time babies Florence and Floyd moved in. Lakey stayed for a bit but the constant reminder that those squirming, squealing babies were the reason he no longer had his beautiful wife by his side proved too much and he moved out. He was 30 and ready for whatever came next in his life, but raising twins didn’t figure into the equation.

So this is what I know about Mom’s maternal side of the family. The Berghuis bunch. Pieter Berghuis was born in the Netherlands in 1862. When he was 19 he immigrated to the United States. He was sponsored before ever touching soil at Ellis Island. The way mom explained it, sponsoring an immigrant included a family vouching for him. Helped him find a place to live, assured the authorities that Pieter would have a job waiting in northwest Iowa when he arrived.

Aafje (Effie) Beukelman was born in 1877 in the Netherlands and immigrated with her parents when she was 7. The Beukelman’s were sponsored by another family in northwest Iowa, so much of the pressure/stress was missing by the time they got to Sioux Center. There was housing and employment waiting for them, the biggest barrier probably resulting in language. This part of northwest Iowa was (still is) predominantly Dutch so it wasn’t hard to communicate. And the children learned English when they attended school. (My Mom spoke Dutch before she learned how to speak English).

Now how 30 something Pieter met and married teenage Effie in the mid-1890’s remains a mystery. Maybe the marriage was arranged. I know they were devoted to each other throughout their marriage. Mom told me that Effie and Pieter teased each other and were very affectionate. (The Wanningen’s were more stoic with their words and showing affection, however Mom adored them and they felt the same way about her and Floyd). But it was during frequent visits to the Berghuis house where Florence & Floyd realized they weren’t sinning or bound for hell when they made a batch of Fudge or Penuche with Grandma Effie-on a Sunday afternoon. Oh. My. Word. That would never happen in the Wanningen home. The Berghuis family were no less religious or faithful to the Lord-just a little less rigid. (Both women peeled their Sunday dinner potatoes on Saturday! Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work, but the 7th day is the Sabbath to the Lord your God, on which you must not do any work). Yet grandma Berghuis didn’t think it was wrong to make a batch of candy with the grandkids on a Sunday. God love her.

Into this Berghuis family 7 children were born, starting with Alida in 1897, followed by Abraham in ’98, William in 1901, Lena in ’03, my grandmother Jacoba (Coba) in 1906 and twins in 1910. Oddly enough, the boy/girl twins were named Floyd and Florence. The twins were sweet 16 when their 20 year old sister Coba gave birth to her own set of twins. She and Lakey promptly named them Florence and Floyd. Like there wasn’t another set of twin names that would fit them in the universe. My goodness.

After the death of their mother at the end of 1926, the twins lived with their paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, but were also very close to the whole Berghuis family. Lena didn’t marry until she was almost 40 so she and my mother were very close. The oldest sister Alida married and moved a few miles outside of Sioux Center. Mom and Floyd and spent much of their time at Aunt Alida’s house. Alida’s children were just a bit older than than the twins. My mom learning to can/preserve several hundred jars of meats and vegetables every year with her cousins and aunt. Floyd helping in the fields and with the animals. Although Effie Berghuis was a decade younger than the other 3 grandparents jointly raising Mom and her brother, much of the twins practical life lessons/experiences came from the Berghuis’ six siblings, especially Alida and her kids. Mom said it was Aunt Alida who told her about the birds and the bees, and what to do when that first period arrived. By the time mom and Floyd were nearing their teen years, the grandparents raising them were closing in on their 80’s.

Not as detailed history on my great grandparents as I’d like but what I do have I hold dear. Actually have quite a few pictures of my greats over the years. Much of this I think is because having twins was a big deal, plus losing their young mom within a month garnered a lot of attention back in the mid-20’s. This Christmas I made a couple batches of fudge using great grandma Effie Berghuis’ simple (but not so easy) recipe. I have to make it exactly like she (and Mom) did. No candy thermometer, soft ball tested on my finger, no pan-always poured on a buttered plate. Carrying on with their tradition-sometimes even on Sunday…

Anyone reading my blog probably realizes over the years I’ve used my grudge app on occasion. I don’t really consider myself a spiteful person but the grudges I’ve accumulated over the years have been difficult for me to let go move on. As I age I’m more content with my life, thus more forgiving. My Christmas grudge only lasted 15 years which I view as a short term success story.

Some of this Christmas skepticism is the result of my upbringing. I’m not exactly a Scrooge type character, just wasn’t raised very Christmasy. Growing up I don’t remember Christmas being a big deal. Doesn’t mean there weren’t festive times, I just don’t remember them. I do remember the Christmas following the death of my brother Larry in October, 1958. That one I recall vividly because there was nothing to celebrate (sorry about your birthday Jesus). No tree, no presents. I was 8.

There are many things I’ve grown to love about Christmas over the years. My collection of stockings for each family member. You can easily see the changes in stocking patterns over the years. Our first 5 are smaller (except for Joshua’s which is way bigger than all the rest), patterns were simpler, not as sparkly with sequins or detailed (or as puffy, I started making the first one in 1984. When the pattern called for filling, I used dryer lint. I know-hopeless, so I convinced a bowling buddy, Mary Lou to finish the first 5). The last few are works of art. (Dread the day when they actually go to their rightful owners, but that too is part of life). But my tree is probably my favorite, or more specifically the ornaments on my tree (although actually putting the tree up is far more work than I remember when I was 40, 50, even 60). I caught the exotic Christmas tree ornament bug (there is no cure) from my sister-in-law Elly. She had the most beautiful, completely loaded tree with stunning, unique, gorgeous ornaments I’ve ever seen. Many from all over the world. After enjoying her tree every Christmas during our early years of marriage, I learned instead of buying a box of ornaments, I would purchase one of a kind ornaments. After decades of collecting, I don’t think I have any duplicates on my tree.

Hubs and I were raised totally different. My parents were more somber and strict, John’s family was loosey-goosey. Hubs was the last of their 5 kids. He was as unspoiled as I was a total brat. His folks didn’t worry where he was or if he didn’t show up for supper without calling first. He could whip up fried egg sandwiches topped with ketchup when he was 6. I attempted boiling water the day after we eloped. (Epic fail). And the Van Berkum’s went all out for Christmas. Being the last of 5 kids, his sibs were older and had kids of their own already. Their large, boisterous family would have presents stacked up to the ceiling when they all came home to celebrate on Christmas Eve. The Gerritson’s didn’t celebrate Christmas. New territory for me when we were dating, newlyweds and new parents.

I was befuddled how irked I was with someone who was fictitious! I’ve got some issues. I should have directed my resentment towards the Hubs. At least he was a living, breathing entity who could duck and find cover. This Christmas discord started in the mid ’70’s after a few years of marriage. We were now parents of 2, Shannon 7 and Joshua, 2. Hubs was an engineer at a toy company (don’t be mislead and think this was a hap-hap-happy place to work. It was run by 4 unruly brothers who tried to out crazy each other-and were highly successful in their endeavors) in eastern Iowa (350 miles from both sets of parents). He was working 60 hours a week for a pittance and I was home with 2 littles and no car. Good times. There just was not enough of anything to go around. Except bills.

Shannon and Josh had worn the pictures off the pages from the toy section of the Penney’s and Sears Christmas catalogs. They were normal kids and wanted it all. But we were seriously lacking the proper funding to make this happen year after year. Trying to make young children understand they couldn’t literally have every toy on multiple pages was impossible. But the Hubs was the worst offender! He’d come home from work and while I was making supper (yes I had learned to cook real meals) or cleaning up the kitchen and getting ready for the kids’ baths, Dad would eagerly help the kids peruse the Christmas catalogs.

Instead of gently putting the brakes on their outrageous requests, Daddy would simply say, “why don’t you ask Santa for that?” (Are you out of your ever loving mind)? They both asked for twice as many gifts than what we could afford. After scrimping and saving, penny pinching, utilizing lay-away, giving up a couple dollars from the grocery money each week and using my birthday money so we could buy what they had their little hearts set on, we (I) never got one iota of credit or satisfaction for buying them any of the cool gifts. Every present that was a hot ticket item of the season, each new fangled toy on the market that was circled because they couldn’t live without it–was from Santa. The novelty, cheesey, mundane dollar toys/stocking stuffers were from us. Yay. The too expensive, hard to find toys were from Santa. Every. Time. Every. Single. Time.

So I’m being brutally honest in admitting from 1972 until 1987 (Adam was finally 8) I resented the ‘whole enchilada’ concerning Santa with his uncanny ability to bring my kids all the best presents. (Hubs didn’t do himself any favors by siding with Santa either. I think he still believes). Hubs would go so far as buy special gift wrap each year and kept it hidden from the kids (because Santa would never use the same wrapping paper as us mere mortal parents. Duh). Sounds petty as I’m writing about something so trivial but truthfully the whole Santa thing bothered me a lot. Guess I was selfish to want the credit for what I considered blood, sweat and tears shopping for Christmas because I doted on my kids when along comes the fat guy in red and steals all my thunder.

I see some similarities between how I responded to the silliness of being one-upped by Santa for a spell and Christianity, which is sort of odd. Instead of freely giving with a full heart of happiness to the glory of God, the grinch in Neese was not ready to give freely. It didn’t matter to Shannon, Josh or Adam where the presents came from. They received great gifts and for a few years believed in something magical (which caused me angst because I wanted the kids to appreciate the high cost of those gifts. Which was selfish and childish). Lesson learned. Maybe it’s time to tackle the rest of my grudge demons and see how exhilarating that might feel…

A lot has changed since I stopped working. I still get up fairly early (though not at 4 anymore) but no longer hop out of bed and head to the shower. While I like being up early, I now enjoy lounging around for awhile before my shower. (I do not miss showering before I’ve had a quiet cup of coffee).

As dawn finally made an appearance the day was proving to be the kind where you’re just grateful you don’t have to go out. It was cold, snowing and blowing. But we had to go out. Ugh. It had been a week since Hubs’ cataract surgery and he had an early post op appointment. We head to the ophthalmologist office just after 8. His vision has improved so much they popped out the left lens of his glasses, then scheduled surgery for his right eye and soon we were back out in the snow and wind.

It was still early and I wasn’t ready to go home for what awaits me. My day of Christmas decorating. Yay. While I love seeing my tree up, I wasn’t as excited about literally hauling everything up from the basement. Until I remembered crawling around on my hands and knees (which I haven’t even attempted since knee replacement) in our 40 inch high basement for 20 years in North Muskegon, looking for all the tubs of decorations. Yup, this is much easier. Grateful for a full, deep basement again.

We decided to eat breakfast out first. A place we used to go to often had just changed hands. They served the best waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. Probably should have ordered that but I was hungry for eggs. The eggs were done right but that’s the last good thing I can say for the place. Toast was like eating a dry rusk bun, and the sausage links and home fries were cooked in the French fryer! The sausage lacked nice brown grill marks and I was sorely tempted to ask for ketchup for the steak fries. At 9 am. Umm, no and another big no.

After that little fiasco I convinced John we should stop and buy a couple Christmas gifts. I know, he was shocked too. (We usually just give cash but this year have actually had a couple brilliant gift ideas). An hour later I couldn’t think of any more excuses to avoid going home.

I went through our Christmas tubs first to determine what had to come up. (I swear this is the year I’m gonna get rid of everything Christmasy I no longer use-but after Christmas). I probably have 200 more ornaments and I do want to keep some of them. Several are sorely missed on my tree. I need 50 of the what’s down there. And my mission is to go through absolutely everything before I condense my tubs and donate copious amounts of Lenox and Precious Moments to some place or someone.

Truth be told, I’ve had this talk with myself for the last several years-get rid of what I never put up anymore. But when I’m decorating the tree I just want to be done so I can enjoy it. After Christmas I’m twitchy to get my house back in order and can’t wait until everything’s put away until the first of December next year. And to a certain extent I have given away and donated a lot of the bigger miscellaneous decorations I had. But I struggle with the ornaments. I. LOVE. ORNAMENTS. At one time I had 150 Precious Moments ornaments. So many that I bought an extra tree and set one up specifically with only Precious Moments in the family room, then our big tree in the living room. Plus a huge hanging spiral. Goodness. Maybe this is the year I declutter and condense. I’m hopeful-and way off topic. Focus Neese.

Hubs checked the lights and stuck our angel on top (that’s the extent of his help besides hauling everything upstairs). I’m the fluffer of branches and decorator. But when I get to this point I’m having fun and get all nostalgic. Very few of my ornaments are new and the older they are, the more they mean to me. The ornaments that aren’t in separate boxes are wrapped in tissue paper, paper towels or bubble wrap. It’s almost like opening gift after gift. And I know where most of them belong on the tree, year after year. My own little tradition.

Besides missing the nifty 50 that clearly deserve to be hung, I’m enjoying my tree up and done once again. Hubs is reading and listening to the 25 mile an hour winds howl when he pipes up with, “sure would like a mug of hot chocolate. Any idea where you might have hid it?” “Umm, cleaned out that cupboard this summer and noticed your canister was out of date by a couple years, so I pitched it. Sorry.” But it got me thinking.

Mom (who kept her pots and pans in the oven) finding a small saucepan, filling it two thirds full with whole milk, turning the gas burner on low. Measuring Hershey’s Cocoa and sugar in a tiny bowl and waiting for the milk to get very hot, but not boil. (She never forgot to scoop off the preacher’s coat. Ha-ha-ha. I can still see her standing by the stove removing the preacher’s coat). Grabbing a soup spoon, dipping some of the hot milk out to make a syrup of the sugar/cocoa mixture, then slowly adding the syrup to the milk. What was the ratio? Hmmm. Mom wasn’t fond of real dark homemade fudge or hot chocolate (but did like dark chocolate candy-odd). I think it was 1 to 3. One teaspoon of cocoa to one tablespoon of sugar for a good sized cup of hot chocolate.

I think that might work. Heat up the milk (2% in this house), measured out the sugar, cocoa, mixed in some hot milk and dumped about half back in the milk because I was afraid it might get too chocolatey. It was barely beige, so poured the rest in and waited until I saw tiny bubbles near the edge. (I searched high and low for my preacher’s coat but have come to the conclusion there’s not enough fat content in my 2% milk or my eyes are really bad). Poured the works in mugs and topped with a healthy (I lie) portion of miniature marshmallows and brought a cup to Hubs. You’d thought I’d discovered the the fountain of youth instead of a cup of hot chocolate.

It’s hard to describe how delicious that cup of hot chocolate tasted (never called it cocoa in our house). How much better it tasted than the prepackaged pouches of hydrated/artificial this and that on the grocery stores shelves these days. And why after a week I’m still thinking about Mom’s 3 ingredient hot chocolate. In a saucepan-on the stove-covered with a thick covering of preacher’s coat. Some things, no-many things were just so much better when I was a kid. Thanks Mom…

Whenever I watch a courtroom drama on TV the first rule for the lawyer is don’t ask the question if you’re not sure of what the answer will be. I’ve tried to maintain that philosophy since I started blogging in 2014. Write about what I know (which isn’t much). This is my story to tell from my perspective. The exception here is I don’t know ‘everything’ concerning this shining star of my story. But I’ll do my best.

Terry, one of my former classmates, started sharing posts from a young mom and dad who were friends with Terry’s son Justin (Justin passed away about 4 years ago). Aaron & Chrystal, their 2 children, Gavin and Alexia had moved from Iowa to Montana and Chrystal was pregnant with their third child. I’ve never met Aaron, Chrystal or their kids, and probably never will. Yet I feel like I’m a member of their extended family. Perhaps Evy’s odd, eccentric great aunt.

Although I only know a fraction of the story, nothing has piqued my interest or captured my heart with more empathy than reading the daily journey on little Evy (Evelynn). She was born in June, 2019. From what I’ve read, Chrystal’s pregnancy and Evy’s birth appeared routine. That changed one week later for this little peanut.

Medical personnel couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with Evy, so she was airlifted to Spokane, Washington with an unknown infection. After thorough testing, a genetic defect was found caused by a mutation of the gene MYH7. Meaning where an A should be, Evy has a G. One of only 3 known cases in the world.

What this meant for little Evy’s heart in medical terms: non compact left ventricular dilated cardiomyopathy. Laymen’s term was just as chilling. Evy needed a new heart and was added to the transplant list. By mid-July accommodations were found for the family at the Ronald McDonald House because it was gonna be a long haul before Evy would be going back home to Montana. Evy was moved to a Seattle hospital awaiting a heart.

When I started following Chrystal’s story I was amazed how much knowledge mom expressed about all aspects/complications/medications on Evy’s condition. I didn’t know how to pronounce half the terms Chrystal was using as easy as everyday language. She was like Superwoman. Although she is remarkable, Chrystal’s also an RN with a bundle of degrees. Some of her heartfelt posts were upbeat accounting for small victories, others a bit discouraging (and rightly so). One day she’s advocating for a different size IV line, or pleading for a few more hours to see if Evy’s body will rectify something on her own before more pokes, prods and jabs. While none of these days have been easy, Chrystal has remained full of faith, knowing God’s got her back. That does not however negate her normal mom frustrations, anger, helpless, and hopeless feelings at times.

Mom’s posts usually include pictures of Evy or family members enjoying snuggle time with their dimpled, blued eyed doll. On particularly low days posts, she explained, “what I’ve chosen not to share is Evy, her skinny legs rigid, back arched, writhing in agonizing pain,” while I sob beside her because I can’t fix this. “I’m emotionally, physically, spiritually tired, and my soul is weary. But God is good. I will finish my ice cream, my popcorn and laundry because the hospital staff frown on nudity.” (What a great attitude Chrystal. Just when she felt empty and spent, God gave her a refill).

In September a heart became available and Evelynn underwent the transplant. There aren’t many posts where Chrystal doesn’t acknowledge and pray for Evy’s heart angel and her family. This holiday season is going to be especially hard on them.

By the end of September, Evy was on anticoagulant, anti-rejection and immunosuppressant meds (some of which will continue for the rest of her life). A few weeks later her surgical scar is barely noticeable. As time passes, I notice more of Evy’s personality starting to shine through. She’s got ‘this thing’ for maneuvering her nap blankie over her face (maybe trying to suppress the urge of those who are snapping pictures). She’s been pritnear naked (but for a diaper) most of her short life, and isn’t fond of wearing clothes, plus with all the lines and tubes virtually impossible to dress.

Evy’s worn newborn mittens to curb the yanking/pulling/ripping out everything foreign stuck on her face. She has become quite adept at removing the tiny oxygen tubes from her button nose. “I want my face naked just like everyone else!”

There’s been some highs and lows since Evy underwent surgery. She had to be intubated again for a spell because she’d become so distressed and inconsolable, she’d hold her breath until she turned blue/purple and pass out (which was terrifying for mom and dad). A cooling pad underneath her has helped a great deal. She also has severe acid reflux. Poor baby. Chrystal noticed one of Evy’s legs was swollen and the staff discovered an infection. Trying to wean her off some meds, plus adding others can be tricky and traumatic for everyone. Sometimes it’s one baby step forward, 2 bigger steps backwards, however Evy is making progress by leaps and bounds.

I don’t know all the technical terms but Evy is finally showing off her beautiful face, now completely unadorned of medical paraphernalia. No more yanking out her oxygen. They have transitioned from the intensive care unit to a regular floor. Mom and dad are working with Evy’s team to learn how to give her medications. And there’s a ton of them.

As soon as Evy is discharged, (and it’s getting closer) the family will not be able to go home. Sigh. They will live at Ronald McDonald House for several weeks, staying in close contact with Evy’s medical team as they tweak medications, and continue with her physical and occupational therapy. But there is light at the end of the tunnel as Evy adjusts to life with her new heart.

God equips people with special gifts when they become parents. I remember fretting about my kids when they were small. Chicken pox, measles, fevers, teething, childhood accidents. He gives us more coping skills and abilities when they become teenagers (because that’s when we really need them). But how do parents prepare/adjust when life and death issues spring up right after the happy occasion of welcoming your newborn? What kind of strength/faith does that require? I just can’t even imagine.

I look forward to reading more (maybe writing Chapter 2) daily posts on Evy’s story as she grows. My prayer is in the near future Gavin, Alexia, Mom and Dad will be playing in the backyard watching (tiny spice) Evy run around, squealing with delight. About the wonder of dandelions gone to seed, ladybugs, birds and mud puddles. May God continue to bless and hold this family ever close…