August 3rd

*My mom, sister, and aunt always tell me that I need to put warnings on posts like this so they don't read them at work or in a public space. Since I sobbed while writing it, consider yourself warned. 

Monday, August 3rd, I thought a pregnancy test may reveal the results I was hoping for. Monday, August 3rd, I woke up preparing to bury Grandma Pat. Here is what I sat down and wrote to our third child at the end of that emotional and beautiful day:

August 3, 2015

Today we said goodbye to your dear Great Grandma Pat. Today we grieved her passing as we buried her, and rejoiced in the hope we have in a faithful God and the promise of heaven; we rejoiced in her unwavering faith in Christ. Today I found out that you would be joining our family in April of 2016. One life ends, another begins. The beauty of this is not lost on me. Our heavenly Father brought us joy in this day as those two pink lines appeared, and we could only marvel at His timing. I had only told one person in our family that we were trying again-- she was the best secret keeper-- and it seemed fitting that as I plucked a yellow rose from her casket I could whisper one last secret about your presence. 

When I let Grandma Pat know that your dad and I had decided to be open to the possibility of another child, she simply and with her whole heart said, “Oh, I think that will be good.” And I do too. My heart is sad you won’t know this woman, and you’ll be the first great grandchild that she will not know in return. But let this be your first lesson in life: The Lord gives and takes away; Blessed be the name of the Lord. I would love to see her hold you, read to you, teach you dominoes, and give you crackers and coffee. But more importantly I would love to see you learn to love the God that Nini Pat loved. 

In my first breath when I saw that line appear, I said, “Thank you, Jesus.” You are already prayed for, and it is God knitting you together in my womb. That miracle should astound you. And someday if you or your wife are lucky enough to experience this, I know that you will feel first hand the complete awe of this time. And the gratitude. Oh how deeply grateful we are. 

I wanted to document this day for you: this day of great sorrow and great joy. Because this is life with the Lord. And these two deep emotions can sit side by side when you find your all in all in Him. Your heart can break and heal at a moment’s notice. There is an old hymn that says, “When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul.’” And so today, as we hold death and life in our hands, we can say of both, “It is well with my soul.” 

I am so excited for our journey together. I love you already. 

Most of the family the day of Grandma's funeral…the day we found out number three would join us. Her legacy only continues in these wonderful people. 

[Side note: August 3rd was also the first day of softball practice and the first day of my new job at the church. It was A DAY, let me tell you]. 

saying goodbye

Tomorrow I'll write more about why I haven't written much lately, but today I need to write. I need to write for Grandma Pat. I need to write for my heart.  When my Grandma Schoon passed away five years ago, it was so cathartic for me to write THIS. So I wanted to write something now, after Grandma Pat passed away two weeks ago.

The morning she passed away, there was a man playing the piano down the hall. Brent's aunt thanked him, letting him know how much Grandma loved the piano, and soon he had wheeled the piano just outside her hospital room door. There he sat and played for two hours. I'm thankful she got to hear some music that day, due to that kind man's heart and gift. And now Brent wants to fully learn how to play the piano. We want tangible ways to hold on to her. But we can't. That's not realistic.

It still doesn't seem real in a lot of ways. At her visitation one of the granddaughters said, "I really thought she would outlive me!" And I think we all did. Last February I packed up the girls and a crockpot of soup and we buzzed over to Grandma Pat's house to wish her a happy 89th birthday. I asked her if she thought she would live to be "SO OLD!" and she laughed and dismissively waved her hand, "My land! No!" Brent's sister recently asked her how old she felt mentally, and she said, "Oh, probably 20." A few months ago Becks was playing with a toy and it rolled under a dresser. Grandma sprawled out on the floor, flat on her belly, and retrieved it. And so the fact that someone so vitally with us is now not with us is hard to comprehend.

With 10 of what was then 13 great grandkids [before Becks]

Ever since I started staying home three years ago, I really made a point of driving the twenty minutes to visit with her. And three things always happened when I entered her little yellow house on the corner: Grandma made me feel like we were the only thing on the agenda that day, the conversation and coffee were great, and I didn't ever quite want to leave.

I don't have a lifetime of memories with her like her grandkids have-- I only have eleven years-- but it didn't take long at all before she felt like family to me, because the instant Brent chose me, Grandma Pat trusted him wholeheartedly and chose me too.

It's funny because this past week I was able to talk with so many of the family members, and everyone felt like they had so much in common with Grandma Pat. I thought about that a lot, because we're all very different people. And I decided the reason: We all felt like we had so much in common with her because she learned about us, and she talked about things that interested us, and poured into things that we enjoyed simply because she enjoyed us. And that is a remarkable thing. That is a selfless thing. The family asked me to write her obituary, which I was honored to do. It was cathartic and tangible, and I knew she wouldn't have liked it because she wouldn't have wanted one at all. I sat down and wrote it quickly, not because her life wasn't meaningful, but because it was so meaningful and there was just so much to say.

Blythe LOVED playing with the dollhouse that Nini Pat's dad had built her when she was a girl

Grandma Pat and I always shared our love of books. On those little trips to her house I would bring a stack for her, and leave with a new stack from her endless shelves. The next trip we would swap back and discuss. She was up for any genre, any style of writing I threw at her. In return she introduced me to many books I may never have picked up, and one [East of Eden] made its way to my top five list. I now have her collection of Steinbeck books on my shelf, and I can't wait to share them with another book lover someday. The last book she loaned me was "Gone with the Wind." She couldn't believe I had never read it, and ensured me I would love it. She always said it was her favorite movie, too, as she thought the characters were wonderful and because Clark Gable was in it! I started it about a week or so before she died, and I am almost finished. I normally fly through the end of books, but I am savoring this one. Each page is like one last moment in my Grandma Pat book club, and knowing I can't discuss it with her when I finish will be one more step in grieving for me.

We didn't just discuss books, we also talked a lot about her childhood and all the history she experienced in her life. She was born in 1926, and I remember one morning asking her to share her experiences with me from the times when she learned about Pearl Harbor, JFK assassination, and 9/11. It was fascinating to think of living through each of those events. And, of course, she vividly recalled each one. [I wrote about her Pearl Harbor experience HERE]. I knew her vast memories were a treasure, and I wanted to collect them and write about them sometime. Somedays I took notes, somedays I recorded our conversations with a hand recorder, but most days I just kept asking questions and walked through her scrapbooks and photo albums with her. I am so grateful for these intentional conversations I had with her and the memories she entrusted to me. [I wrote only a couple stories: here and here.]

She was a bedrock in the family, and someone we all trusted explicitly with our secrets. One of her childhood friends once worked at the grocery store with her, and she always joked that if Pat were working in the front of the store and there was a fire, she wouldn't have gone to the back of the store to tell her friend about. She wasn't one to gossip, or share news that wasn't hers to share. This was another reason everyone felt at ease around her. We laughed when we were all together last week, wondering what untold secrets are buried with her.

In May she was healthy as always, down on her knees showing Becks how to put coins in her new piggy bank at her first birthday party. In mid June she was more tired than usual, and began feeling weak. Her blood counts were off. She had to go off of one of her meds. On July fourth, most of the grandkids were visiting, as well as most of the great grandkids. She didn't have as much energy as usual, but was still in the mix with everyone. By mid-July she was sleeping a lot, and still couldn't get her blood counts right. On July 24th, I got a text from Brent's dad saying it would be a good day to visit her. Brent decided to come, and we buzzed over with the girls. She was on the couch, and was clearly weak. It was the first time I'd seen her not look capable of making a meal for twenty people. We visited awhile, and then the hospital called and said it would be best if we brought her in. Joan and I helped her get ready, and her hairdresser came to cut her hair, because she hadn't been able to get to an appointment and she was not going to go to the hospital until that happened. I helped her back to the couch and gathered a few items for her to take. I asked if she wanted to bring a book with her, and she said no. I knew then it was nearing the end, even though it had just begun. Beck, Joan, and I helped her out the front door of her house for the last time. She passed away at the hospital six days later.

It was so fast. And it seemed so sudden for someone who had been so healthy her entire life. But she was 89. And she was ready. Grieving is such a hard process. It's so necessary and messy. I've read C.S. Lewis' "A Grief Observed" a couple of times, and he begins by saying, "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep swallowing." I kept thinking how selfish my grief was-- I wasn't sad for Grandma Pat, I was sad for me. I am sad for my girls. Lewis mentions the scripture that Paul wrote, "Do not mourn like those that have no hope," and reflects, "What St. Paul says can comfort only those who love God better than the dead, and the dead better than themselves." And in light of that, I mourn like one who has hope. Beautiful, life-giving, abundant hope. Hope that whispers to my soul, "It is well." My heart was heavy in saying goodbye to Grandma Pat, but it was also so very full. Full of all the good that she brought into my life. Full of all the memories. Full of all the games of dominoes she played with Blythe, and all the "coffee-milk" she poured for her. Full of all the songs she sang. Full of all the love she gave. Full of hope. Full of that blessed assurance that she is with our Savior now.

I don't know what heaven is fully like. But I know Jesus is there. I know all I will want to do is worship Him. I know I won't worry about running around and saying hi to all the people I miss in this life. I'll just want to be with Him. So I don't know that I'll see Grandma Pat again in heaven-- I don't know how that works, and I don't think it matters much. But I know that I'll see the God she loved and served while she was on this earth, and that is what truly matters. And so to honor her and who she has been to me, I will pour into my family and serve them and try to do it as selflessly as she did. But mostly I will tell them about the wonderful Lord their Great Nini Pat knew and loved.

All of the family after the funeral, minus three great grandkids and one grand-spouse

calm

pinterest

It's that time of year again: School is right around the corner and everyone is trying to soak up the last official days of summer with vigor and sunscreen.

As I see my teacher friends posting ideas for their classrooms, it still hits hard a little bit that I don't have a classroom of my own to return to in a few weeks. [read about my decision here and here] I absolutely do not regret my decision to be home with Blythe in this season of life, but I do miss teaching. And I know I will until I return. And that is okay.

One of the best things about my decision to be home though is that I'm more flexible with how I get to use my time. It is interesting however, that though I'm obviously still doing a ton during my days here with Blythe, I still feel the need to fill up my time table or at least make it sound like I'm busier than I really am so people don't doubt that I'm still working.

Which is why this quote struck me the other day. "It's okay to be happy with a calm life." It is? That's not what everything and everybody around me tells me. I feel like everyone is supposed to appear busier than they are, which means if they really ARE busy they have to make it sound like they can barely stand on their own two feet because of their exhaustion. And we are supposed to think they are really great because they have so much on their plate.

You know what? I'm calling bull honky. You wanna know why? One of my favorite people this side of heaven is Grandma Pat. She is one of my favorites for a lot of reasons, but one of the major reasons? She never acts like she is busy.

She always has time to have a cup of coffee or share a slice of pie or sing a song to her great grandbabies. And for a woman in her late 80s, I would consider her life fairly busy- she usually has one to two doctor's appointments a week, not to mention all the others that she drives her friends to. She meets with several ladies in town. She never misses church. You get my point? She can fill up her calendar just like the rest of us. But when I call, she answers. She is never too caught up in the middle of something to let it go to voicemail. When we stop by, she sits and actually carries on a conversation, for hours if we want, regardless of what she was in the middle of when we rang the doorbell. I know, I know, I know. She's retired. I get that. But she is happy with a calm life.

This season of my life, of being home with my little, will not last forever. And though I am doing laundry and making meals and wiping a bottom all day, it is, for the most part, calm. And I am putting my foot down and I am going to be dern happy with it.

Join me?

milk, coconut, and coffee

I'm truckin' on with my Grandma Pat Project. I have decided to set a goal to write one story a week, and see where they all lead me. They won't necessarily be chronological, but they will be written down, and that is the point. Here is LAST WEEK's.

__________________________________________________________

Even before Daddy died, I didn't have a strict bed time. I can recall my mother once pushing me off to bed and I declared, "But it's not even MADNIGHT!" Such was the routine in our house. 

One morning we slowly got around, having slept in like usual. Mother went to the front door to retrieve the milk and, like many other days, we hadn't gotten up early enough to save it from the morning's cold fingers and it had frozen since being placed at our doorstep. The milk, having no where to freeze but up, was standing at salute out the top of the bottles with the caps crazily resting on top. Barbara and I set them on a towel on the kitchen table, waiting for them to thaw before we could have our breakfast. Waiting was worth staying up late and sleeping in. 

I suppose all the coconut is what made me thirsty for milk. 

Barely taller than the bushes out front, I would throw on my jacket and walk up town. Daddy didn't like me to cross the highway, but to get to the grocery store and the restaurant I didn't have to. And it wasn't like I was the only five year old wandering around town. 

I rattled the bell as I heaved the door open and tumbled into Clarence Pickart's store. I meandered through the aisles, but knew where I was headed. I stopped by the baking goods and saw it, like freshly fallen snow. I scooped up the coconut and headed to the counter. Daddy never used money at the grocery store, and that seemed to be okay. He would just show them his items, they would scribble a note, and out of the store we would go. So that's how I bought my coconut. 

I sat on the sofa, my book in one hand, my bag of coconut in the other. I would take a bite for every page I turned. I was on page 17 when Mother walked in. 

"What are you eating?" It didn't take her long to notice. 

"Coconut." It seemed rather obvious to me. 

"And where did you get this coconut?" I guess she did know everything that was stacked in that crowded pantry after all. 

"Pickart's." I turned back to my book, assuming the conversation was over. 

It wasn't. She informed me that I could no longer "buy" coconut from Clarence's store, or any of the grocery stores in town. She said "buy" funny, drew it out a little longer than the other words in the sentence.  And that was that. I didn't bring coconut home anymore. 

The next time I bought some, I put it in a brown grocer's sack. Taking a few pinches of the fluffy, sweet flakes, I made my way to the corner of our street where a culvert jutted through the ditch. I licked my fingers and carefully rolled up the sack. Dropping down onto my belly, I scooted into the culvert up to my shoulders. I reached forward and dropped the sack. 

It was always there when I needed a little snack. 

And Turk was always there when I needed a little coffee.

Around the time my coconut could be found in the town's drainage system, I could often be found at Daddy's restaurant. Barbara and I spent many hours upstairs, roller skating around on the wooden floors while customers were served below our spinning wheels. But I'm not referring to those times; I'm talking about the times I needed coffee. 

The dark liquid, with it's unequalled smell, had been present in my house since I could remember, but Daddy and Mother didn't let me have my own. I suppose they believed the old axiom that it would stunt my growth and figured I needed all the help I could get in that department. Even though I was just five years old, they must have been able to tell height was not to be gifted to me. 

At the restaurant I would climb up a barstool, tuck my feet under me, and plop my elbows up on the counter. I watched Turk, one of Daddy's employees, fly around on the other side. When he wasn't busy though, I'd ask him to pour me a cup of coffee, please. I made my voice confident and sure, so he wouldn't suspect that I never drank it. 

And on that barstool I learned how to appreciate the bitter taste; learned how to grip the warm mug in my small hands. 

And on that barstool was the only place I drank coffee for three years, until I was finally allowed to start drinking it at home. 

a date that will live in infamy

In January I mentioned that I was undertaking a new "PROJECT." I have been collecting stories from Brent's Grandma Pat, in the hopes of writing some down. I've always envisioned this to take shape in first person, but I feel like it's almost blasphemy to try to embody such a wonderful person. I've only
recorded one story on my blog, HERE. And I'm going to try to change that. So on this gloomy-trying- to-be-spring day, I wanted to write about how I envisioned her listening to FDR's speech declaring war in 1941. She shared that they were ushered into the Study Hall to listen to the President's address, but that it didn't really register with anyone.

_______________________________

As a freshman girl who had read nearly every book in my small school's library, I was a little surprised there was a place I had not heard about. But ever since yesterday the teachers and everyone at Clarence Pickard's grocery store, and I'm assuming at his brother's grocery store up the street, were sloshing the word "Pearl Harbor" around in their mouths.

My brown curls bounced about my shoulders as I followed my classmates up the stairs to study hall where every student in the building was being herded. I spotted my friend Meredith, one year my senior, and made my way to her. Before I could say anything we were hushed to silence and the familiar crackling of the radio was turned up a little louder.

And then I heard our President's voice, a slight pop in the speakers. I remembered his voice well, having spent some evenings washing dishes while listening to his fireside chats on our small, brown radio. But here, in the crowded study hall room, President Roosevelt seemed to be coming at us from all sides.

Yesterday, December 7, 1941-- a date that will live in infamy-- the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked…

I nudged Meredith, raising my eyebrows and pointing to the radio, as if to say, "Infamy? Where is Pearl Harbor?" She shrugged her shoulders at me and we leaned in to hear the rest.

No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people, in their righteous might, will win through to absolute victory. 

This all seemed so distant; so far removed from my little life in U. Star, Missouri. If I would have looked directly into my math teacher's eyes though, I would have seen the trepidation they held.

I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japan Empire. 

And then the radio broadcaster came back on. The president hadn't even talked for ten minutes. Low rumblings began on the outskirts of the room and slowly rippled their way throughout: conversations about Christmas break and number 14 on the math assignment.

Our principal stood up and told us we were to report back to the class we had just left. And with that I followed the small throng of high school students, shorter than everyone not just because I was a freshman but because I was a Woolery. As my hand found the banister and I headed back down the stairs, I thought briefly about those poor people in Hawaii that must be scared about what this attack meant for them. I was glad it was far away, and that I would never know the underpinnings of war.

And as I crossed the threshold into my science class, I walked past the desks of two boys who, in their righteous might, would be strapping on uniforms in a couple years.

under a street light in January

My last trip to Grandma Pat's house, partially for THIS project but mostly for her apple pie, resulted in a conversation about marriage. 

Not knowing much about her wedding, I asked her if she and Grandpa Bill had been married in a church in town, so others could come. She nearly guffawed at the thought of such extravagance. "Oh heavens no," she smirked as she gripped her now lukewarm coffee. I took another bite of my pie and she continued, "I didn't want lots of people there… I didn't really need anybody there. " 

She got married at a very, VERY simple ceremony, if one could even call it such. And that was that. 

She continued to sip her coffee and talk about how weddings were. "You know," she said, "nobody had big weddings. They got married by a minister but…nobody had big weddings. I think girls just want a big wedding and the rest of it…" she threw her hands in the air and shrugged, "if it doesn't work they just get a divorce."

I echoed my agreement, said something about how our culture has lost focus, saying girls are more concerned about being a bride and not a wife. She said, "That's exactly right." And then I sat back and listened to another wonderful story.

"I knew a girl, Imogene, who wanted the Presbyterian minister in town to marry her and John. But there was a three day waiting list to get their marriage license. Well they just went over to Kansas and got their license. They came back here to get married, and…well, I remember that January it was cold and the snow was up to here: Imogene had on four buckle overshoes with her long white dress. 

The minister couldn't marry them because they had to be in Kansas for him to sign the license. So they piled into his car, and drove over to Elwood, Kansas. 

He married them under a street light. 

They came back to town and the minister's wife had fixed a little supper for them and then they went home." 

I don't know about you, but I think that is just one of the most romantic, most beautiful wedding stories I've ever heard. I can just picture them, fresh flakes of dove white snow landing in Imogene's hair, John's frigid fingers clinging tightly to hers. I can see the preacher, his worn fedora shoved firmly over his graying hair, his hand clinging to a bible and a folded piece of paper. 

I can picture Imogene hiking up her white dress, tromping through the three feet of snow back to the car. I can see the preacher's wife, lovingly setting the celebratory table, steam pouring from the pot of soup in the center of the table. 

They couldn't wait three days to get their license because they wanted forever to start as soon as possible. Imogene didn't need a string quartet, fresh flowers, or an expensive photographer; Imogene needed John. 

because she still calls him daddy

I have started a new endeavor. I had this idea a few years ago, and Brent finally pushed me into actually getting started this year. So last week I packed up Blythe and headed over to Grandma Pat's house. Brent's grandma Pat was born in 1926, remembers EVERYTHING, and is so fun to sit and share a cup of coffee with and listen to her life stories. 

I thought it would be cool if I could somehow collect her stories and memories and history and then weave it into some sort of narrative/book. If nothing else, I just don't want her unique childhood to not be remembered. Last week I recorded a tape and a half of our conversations, have since typed up four pages of notes, and am looking forward to the next visit. I already have some amazing stories: like the time she and two other girls packed their bags and were going to run away to Europe, only to be found on the edge of town by a man named Snake Huff riding bareback on a white horse, or when her freshman class was herded into study hall to listen to the radio about some place called Pearl Harbor, or how during the great depression a family traveled to their town to put on some shows and her mother enlisted one of the girls to teach Pat and her sister how to tap dance. I am looking forward to writing these stories and can only hope that my feeble attempts will somehow capture this amazing woman's life. 

She still refers to her father, who passed away when she was nine years old, as "Daddy." And long after our coffee is gone and the tapes are filled up, she will still have more stories to tell. I think that is a beautiful thing. So I want to DO something. It may not amount to much, or I may spend years trying to capture her life perfectly. Only time will tell. But I'm doing something about it right now. I don't know if Blythe with remember her Great Nini Pat, but I can be certain she will know all about her.