The Complexities of Grief

My mother has left this world.  For a better one, to be sure…but even knowing that, it is so very sad and so very strange, surreal even, to believe that she is no longer in this one, where I can see her, touch her, speak to her.  Losing your mother makes you feel untethered. After all, she is your first home.  It just feels wrong to live in a world that doesn’t have her in it.

But my mother’s death has affected me in ways I could not have foreseen.  My father died in 2016, and over the years since then, the grief I felt at his passing has lost its sharp edges.  I can think of him these days with fondness and peace, and only every once in a while do my memories bring tears. Now, however, it’s all come back to me: there's that stabbing pain again; but this time around it has an even greater force, because my mom was my last surviving parent.  I fear the grieving process will be much longer and more complex this time around.

I knew that at 89, Mom didn’t have too many years left. Even so, I didn’t like to dwell on the possibility of losing her.  But the unthinkable has become a harsh reality.  

Grief is a funny, unpredictable thing.  It’s sneaks up on you and catches you unawares.  It strikes at times when it doesn’t seem to make sense, and then stays hidden when it seems it should be brought into the light.

This morning when we got to church for Mass, a few of our fellow daily Mass friends asked how I was doing, and I was able to answer them dry-eyed.  I headed over to our usual pew, worried that I might seem cold to them, too “doing okay” for a person who’s just lost her mom.  But minutes after kneeling to pray and then settling in my seat, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears, brought on by a random memory.  

I cried copious tears during the week and a half that I spent with my mother during her last days on earth—but usually when alone, or with just my husband present.  And I cry often these days when my husband and I say our daily Rosaries aloud together.  (I’m a private griever, perhaps?  Could that be it?)

After the initial trauma of that awful time in the hospital was past and she’d been gone about a week or so, I found that I was crying a good bit less often throughout the day, and I worried that only a very hard heart could “get over” a mother’s death so soon.  Ha!  As if.

Each day, it seems, I am hit out of the blue at odd times with an image or a memory that brings tears to my eyes: when I think of how happy my mom always, always was when my husband and I arrived for a visit, for instance—and the extreme delight she took in our sons (and even more so, in their children, her beloved great-grandchildren)…when I remember the way she reached her hand out, from her hospital bed (on one of the days before she became unresponsive), and grabbed mine, letting me know that she wanted me to lean in for a kiss…when I think of how one night as we were leaving the hospital, I said goodbye but then went back in to give her another kiss and tell her, “I’m glad you’re my mom,” and in her weak, quiet voice, she replied that she was glad, too.  (It would be one of our last conversations, because not too long after that, she could no longer move or talk.)  I tear up when I realize that when we are up in NY for the summer (where we go every year, to escape the VA heat and manage our Oyster Haven VRBO house), I won't be seeing her, bringing dinners for her, going for girls'-day-out lunches or shopping trips with her and my two sisters. Sometimes, all it takes to get me crying is looking at an image of Our Lord or Our Blessed Mother.  It’s a very fragile time for my emotions, even though I’m sure it often appears to the world as if I’m a rock, extremely stoic and handling my mom’s passing with more than the usual amount of equanimity.

I’m trying not to worry about how strange my brand of grief seems to be.  It is what it is, I guess.  One of my dear loyal readers, Madeline, left this comment on my last post: “Be gentle with yourself—there’s no right or wrong way to process a death.”

Those are words that I needed to hear right now, as I navigate through this confusing maze that is the grieving process.  Thank you, my friend.

(Please dear readers, pray for the repose of the soul of my spunky, funny, one-of-kind mother.  She was the bee's knees, she really was.)

My Mother Has Passed Away, May She Rest In Peace

Please pray for the repose of the soul of my mother, who died peacefully on March 1 at the age of 89.  She passed into eternal life with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, just minutes after she heard our absent brother's voice on speaker phone.

After many illnesses over the past year that landed her in and out of the ER (including a stroke in December or January, which went largely unnoticed because it didn't incapacitate her; followed my a number of mini-strokes or seizures afterward, also misdiagnosed because they were so mild), she was hospitalized in mid-February. After tests, and about a week in the hospital, it was determined that it was time for palliative care because there was no more that they could do for her.  Within days of her hospitalization, she could no longer eat more than a few bites of soft food or drink more than a few sips from a straw, and even then, she had to be reminded to swallow.  And then she could no longer even do that.  She was as weak as a kitten in many ways; her digestive system began to shut down.  She couldn't move, speak, or open her eyes.  But the one kidney she still had was functioning and her heart was still beating strong.

It doesn't surprise me at all that her heart was still strong.  My mother was all heart, and a fighter, a woman of fierce determination and legendary energy.  It was so hard to see her brought to such a weakened state. But let me start from the beginning.

My husband and I had been in the Nashville area for two weeks, meeting the newest of our 23 grandchildren (born on January 30).  We had just returned home on February 17.  We knew that my mom had gone to the hospital and had been there a few days, but we were planning to rest up for about a week at home in VA before we headed north to see her.  Even though she was pushing 90, we had every confidence that she would pull through and go back to her new mini-apartment at an assisted living home, where she'd moved in December (after living with my youngest sister and her husband for seven years, until she required a higher level of care and could no longer be left alone in the house for even a short time).  Mom always pulled through; we'd already been through two stretches where it looked like we would lose her: once in 2008; and again in 2016, right around the time my dad died.  But she bounced back both times, living up to her "Energizer Bunny" nickname.  We liked to joke that she had nine lives, and truly, she had regained her health and vitality at times when no one thought she ever could.  In 2008, she got down to about 89 pounds and had to have a feeding tube.  In 2017, she needed almost round-the-clock aides at my sister's house, because she couldn't even get out of bed on her own anymore.  But just last summer, in July 2024, she looked like this:

My baby sister (Mom's caretaker for 7 years), Mom, and me.

So we thought this most recent setback might be the same sort of thing.  I fully expected that by the time we got up there, she would be settled back at the assisted living home and that's where we would be visiting her.

But this time was different.  The news from up north was grim.  Make sure you get a priest in to see her, I told my baby sister.  And my husband and I decided to cut our time at home short and get up there to see my mother as soon as we could. We left early on Wednesday, February 19, and while we were on the road, my sister texted me a video she'd taken of Mom receiving Last Rites and Holy Communion that morning. In this video, her face was infused with the innocence of a small child, and she mouthed all the prayers along with the priest.  That was the one thing I wanted to see happen--for my mom to receive those sacraments before she died--and watching the video made me cry happy tears.  It was so beautiful.

My husband and I arrived at the hospital Wednesday afternoon, after a 10-hour trip from VA. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we spent long days with Mom. She was still eating and drinking (although not more than about 300 calories a day) and still lucid, still talking happily to my children and grandchildren on FaceTime (albeit softly and with great difficulty).  On Wednesday night, she lit up when our toddler grandchild (son #3's youngest) kept saying, "Hi, Mimi!" and, "Miss you, Mimi!"  And when he asked, "Okay, Mimi?"  she answered, "I'm getting to be okay."  I believe she thought she was going to win this latest health battle, like she always did. And her sense of humor was intact.  In her airy, diminished voice, she told son #2 about how she'd been flirting with a male nurse, calling him cute.  When he told her he was happy to see that she hadn't changed, she joked, "I'll never stop flirting."  She was completely herself, in spite of all the injuries to her brain.  Still engaged, still knowing the names of each and every great-grandchild, still very much loving life.

During our long visit on Friday, February 21, my husband blessed my mom with holy water from Lourdes, which my older brother had brought for her.   And he put a brown scapular (an old one of mine) around her neck.

Friday night...my beautiful mother, teaching us all a lesson about humility
and detachment. I will never forget that last week-and-a half-with her.

Mom's room that night was filled with her children, with visiting and laughing, with my older brother and me spoon-feeding our mother like she did for us as babies.

Every doctor and nurse told us the same thing: Mom could have days, or weeks, or perhaps even more time. These sorts situations were hard to predict.  My husband and I thought we might have to prepare for a longer stay up north, so we left to go back to our home in VA on Saturday morning, planning to stay a week or so and then head back up to NY to be there however long was necessary.  But while we were on the trip south, we got word that my mother had declined radically and was no longer responsive.  My younger brother (the family rock star, who I half-jokingly refer to as her favorite) had come that day with his whole family and played his guitar and sang for her, and even that didn't evoke the smallest response.  She wasn’t opening her eyes anymore and looked like she was in a deep sleep.  If my mom couldn't rally even for her grandkids and great-grandkids, things were getting very serious. When we got that news, we decided to turn right around on Sunday, February 23 to head back north, because it looked like she could have very little time left.

As it turned out, she had only a week.  While we were in VA on Saturday, I got the first class relic of St. Therese of Lisieux that had belonged to my mother's mother and had come to me a number of years ago, so we were able to pin that on Mom's hospital gown when we got back.  I also got my Rosary-making supplies, and on the trip north in the car I made a mother's Rosary for her, with each of her five children's names spelled out in letter beads on it, one name in the middle of each decade.

My siblings (along with my husband and one of my sisters-in-law) and I all rallied and made sure that our mother was rarely alone--even often having at least one sibling staying overnight with her.  We spent many hours in that third floor room letting her know how much we loved her.  Also praying Rosaries and Divine Mercy Chaplets and the Catholic prayers for the dying, telling her how happy we were that she was our mom, but also that if she needed to go, we would be okay. (And reminiscing and laughing and getting a lot of comfort out of being together at this difficult time, gathered around our mom and having a sort of family party—something she loved so much.)  Even though she couldn't respond, we have every hope that she heard everything we were saying.  Eventually my two bothers and one sister-in-law had to head home (one brother lives five hours away from the hospital, the other two hours), but my two sisters, my husband, and I were still around, spending as much time as we could at Mom’s bedside. 

I don't think I could ever adequately describe how extraordinary the care my mother--and even all of her visiting family members--received was during those grueling last two weeks of her life.  It was worth it to have her at that exceptional teaching hospital in VT rather than the one closer to her home, even though it meant many ferry rides back and forth across the lake to visit with her.  The nursing staff brought a cart of coffees, fruit, and all kinds of snacks to the room.  One of the nurses who so lovingly cared for Mom during her last days remarked to my baby sister, "Y'all are making me want to have children.  It has been a pleasure serving your mother and your family."  We were told by other nurses that the constant gathering of family in our mother's room was not typical, and that many of their patients die alone.  Also that grown children of elderly patients often argue about their care, which we didn't do--thank God!  We were all on the same page: we just wanted to be with her and we wanted her to be comfortable.  Her pain was managed so well by the staff at this wonderful hospital that every time a doctor or nurse came in to check on her, they assured us that she looked comfortable.  We would know, they said, if she felt pain; but there was never even the slight furrowing of a brow or the hint of a grimace.  Mom did look at peace, and for that we were very grateful.

Mom got Last Rites a second time--I forget which day it was, because I wasn't there yet when it happened.  

On Friday, March 28, my youngest sister, my husband and I were at the hospital with Mom in the early afternoon.  (My other sister had been there through the night and had gone home to shower and get some sleep.)  We were getting conflicting opinions: it could be hours.  It could be days.  It could be weeks.  We decided to go home and sleep and come back in the morning. Her breathing seemed a tad more labored, but none of the staff who'd seen her that day had spoken of any new concerns.  But when she heard we were all going home, the nurse who'd been on duty with Mom that day said to my sister, "I think you should stay.  And you should call your other sister."  Suddenly, we had a feeling that it wouldn't be much longer.  So my other sister was called to come back, as well as the brother who lives two hours away (my older brother and his wife had had to travel out to Ohio to babysit for grandchildren and would not be able to come).  Once the four of us were all there, we decided that we would stay overnight with Mom.  I almost went home across the lake with my husband, because I worried the room would be too crowded, but he encouraged me to stay with my siblings and I will always be so thankful that he did that.  The nurses had already removed the second bed in the room to make space for Mom's many visitors; now they set up four recliner chairs for us and we had the most significant sleepover of our lives.

On the morning of Saturday, March 1, it became noticeable that my mother's breathing was much more labored.  

About three hours before my mom died, a lovely young nurse of Irish descent, who had the voice of an angel, sang Danny Boy to her while she turned her and administered her meds.  And then about an hour before she died, another nurse who'd taken care of her earlier in her stay stopped in to see her.  And In the softest of voices, while tenderly stroking my mother's cheek, this nurse leaned down and quietly encouraged Mom with these amazing words (which I've transcribed from a video my sister took, because I simply can't share something so private here in this space):  

"You and God, you've got some business.  You're working it all out, and you're taking care of that business.  And until that business is dealt with, I think you're going to stay right where you are. That's what I think.  But try to rest.  Relax. Your whole family is here, everybody that loves you is here.  And the person that loves you more than anyone is God, and He's wrapping His Holy Spirit around you, and He's going to wrap His Holy Spirit around all of your children.  They're going to be perfectly fine.  They're going to miss you, because they love you so much.  But they're going to be okay.  Because they know exactly where you're going.  You're going to go to Heaven, you're going to be with Jesus.  Just try to relax.  Think about all of that love--the love of your family, the love of the Lord, the love of Mother Mary and all the saints.  All right?  And we're all going to see you again.  Okay?" 

Then this nurse told Mom that she was going to pray for her in church the next day.  Let me be clear: this is a secular hospital, not a Catholic one.  But Catholic nurses kept finding their way to my mother's bedside.

When Mom's breathing really started to change, we thought of what several of the nurses had told us during those final days: that some dying patients seem to be waiting for everyone to leave, while others are waiting for someone to arrive.  Four of my mother's children were gathered around her bed that Saturday morning. The only one who wasn't there was her oldest son, who was out in Ohio.  So we got our brother on my sister's phone and put him on speaker, and he said his good-byes through tears.  Then about fifteen minutes later, with a tear rolling down one cheek, she died.

My mother had not been able to open her eyes for a whole week.  But right as she took her last breath, she opened them.  

I believe that my mother was seeing those people whom that nurse was talking to her about just an hour earlier: Jesus, and Mother Mary, and all the saints.  

As if this post doesn't already describe a passing from this earthly life that is so very beautiful, so filled with the love of God...I need to tell you about one other thing that happened, which we all believe was divine intervention.  I said above that on Saturday, February 22, my mother's condition changed drastically and she was no longer responsive, and it was determined that they could do no more for her than keep her comfortable.  At that point, we were faced with keeping her in the hospital on palliative care or taking her home to care for her in hospice.  The four oldest of us immediately thought that the transfer to the ambulance and the long ambulance ride across the lake to NY, etc. might kill her in her diminished state.  We also loved the kindness and efficiency of the hospital staff, who were always so gentle and patient with our mother, always said her name and spoke to her when they were taking care of her.  And we worried that we would not be able to keep her as pain-free as she'd been up to that point if we had to take her off the IV morphine (IV's are not allowed in hospice care, we were told).  My youngest sister, however, felt strongly that Mom should go back home to her house, where she'd lived before going to the assisted living home in December and where she still had a hospital bed in her old room.  The rest of us decided that even though we'd thought that our mother should stay where she was, our baby sister had been her main caretaker and health care advocate for so many years, and she deserved the make the final decision about where Mom would die.  We all agreed to have Mom go "home" and take care of her ourselves.

On February 24, the very morning when my youngest sister would be signing the papers to schedule the ambulance and the transfer and my mother's discharge from the hospital, her daughter sent her a text.  My niece was pregnant with her second child, nine years after the first, and she was scheduled for a C-section on March 4 unless the baby decided to come sooner.  She texted my sister to say that she was having contractions two minutes apart, but not to panic.  She said that she would text again later with updates after seeing the doctor.  But when the hospitalist arrived with the transfer paperwork shortly after the text, my sister said, "Hold on.  There's been a development."  My sister and her husband were the ones who were planning to drive down to MD to help out when the baby came; now, it looked like it might happen early, even that very day.  Maybe it was better if Mom stayed in the hospital, my sister thought, so she could be ready at any moment to make that trip south to meet her new granddaughter and know that Mom was in good hands.

The funny thing is, once the decision was made to keep Mom in VT at the hospital and all five of us siblings were in perfect agreement about her care, our niece never had another early contraction.  Not one.  Each day my sister would check in on her: no news.  Nothing happening.  Mom died on March 1, and my sister was in MD on March 3 as planned all along, so that she was in place to watch her older granddaughter while her daughter was in the hospital giving birth to her new granddaughter by C-section on March 4.  Amazing, isn't it?  Do you think God might have had a hand in how it all turned out?  I certainly do.

And talk about the circle of life!  My mom loved the role of "Mimi" to her 17 grandchildren, and she was so incredibly proud of being a great-grandmother to so, so many!   Shortly before her death, great-grandchild #35 (our youngest son's second daughter) came along; and shortly after her death great-grandchild #36 (my sister's second granddaughter, whose timing was practically miraculous) joined the family.  God is so good!  All the time!  And I know that Mimi is smiling down on all these young ones in the next generation, many of whom were fortunate enough to know her.

I will always miss my mother.  In life, she was one of those "larger than life," "life of the party" people. Dressed to the nines for every occasion in bright colors, with earrings and necklaces to match each outfit, Mom always looked like a million bucks.  She was a friend to everyone she met and was loved and admired by many. As she grew closer to death, I feel like she became a small child again.  Helpless and weak, with no possessions anymore (except the hospital gown on her back and the wedding rings we had to remove from her fingers), it was obvious that she'd left the world behind and all she cared about was the love of her family and of God.  It was tough to be there as she lay dying.  But it was a privilege as well, and the lessons I learned from that experience--about detachment, and acceptance, and childlike innocence, and trust in God--will be with me until the day I die.  

Twinning in 2021, when Mom was 85 years young.

Heaven on Earth

Is this what Heaven might be like for me?  Snuggling a beloved baby, whose precious sleeping face is resting on her Grammy’s shoulder?  I sometimes think so.

Of course, I realize that this is only the sort of Heaven a mere mortal's brain would conjure up. Being in the presence of Our Lord, seeing the glorious Beatific Vision, is reportedly something so incredibly beautiful, so awesome, that it's beyond my feeble human ability to imagine it.  I hope to see it when my life on earth is over. God have mercy on my soul, let me see it!

But in the meantime, there are infinitesimal glimpses of Heaven here in this earthly life, I believe.  And mine do look like this.

By the way, these photos were taken by my daughter-in-law as we sat on the couch together while the baby’s big sister napped, re-watching “Downton Abbey” and passing that little angel back and forth.  The new mom has been very generous with that darling baby of hers, sharing her easily with me when I know how attached she must feel in this early stage of her daughter's infancy.  I have the best D-I-L's, truly I do.  I always hoped that our boys would bring us lovely young ladies to love like daughters, and did they ever. 

I saw this X or IG post recently and thought I'd share it here; it's a must-read if you are raising a son who might take a wife someday.  It's perfect advice for any Boy Mom.

You too might have a slice of Heaven here on earth, when your son marries, if you heed those wise words!

P.S. Who is that old lady holding that baby?!?!  She kind of reminds me of my Grandma!

P.P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️

Welcome, Little Pearl #23!

The last time I was here, in mid-January, we were a few days away from having our oldest son and his family (including seven of our grandchildren!) arrive from Wisconsin to spend the last week of the month visiting us (and also the three brothers’ families who live near us in VA).  Grandchild #23, our youngest son’s second daughter, was due on Feb. 8, and we were planning to head to Nashville a few days ahead of that due date to be in place to help out and take care of their almost-2-year-old.  The timing between our firstborn's visit and our trip to our baby's house was going to be close, but it looked like it was going to work out perfectly.

We had a great week with our Wisconsin Pearls, including a family get-together with four of our boys and their wives and children, minus one D-I-L and two wee grandsons.  (We resorted to Chipotle catering, because Grammy was feeling a bit daunted by the prospect of cooking for almost 30 people, while simultaneously having nine people staying with us for the week!) 

Son #1 isn't a fan of showing his kids' faces on the Internet (which I totally respect), so those are the only two photos I'll share from that visit.  But I think they tell the story of how much these cousins enjoy each other's company--and how they can make fun happen wherever they happen to be, even in our relatively small house with its relatively small yard.

Our oldest son and his gang left VA to head back home on Jan. 29, and little #23's older sister had been born about a week past her due date, via induction, so we figured no problem—it seemed safe to believe that she was probably at least a week away from making her appearance.  The timing was going to be about as close to ideal as it could be.  We would get all the beds remade and the house cleaned up, pack our bags, and be ready to start our road trip to son #5’s house within a few days’ time, arriving well before baby.  Our plans were set.

But if you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans!  I woke up at 6:30 a.m. on the 30th to this text from our son (which he’d sent at about 2:30): 

“Looks like baby’s coming early.  _______ is about 5.5 cm dilated.”

Hoo boy!  We had already committed to watching son #3's youngest child that afternoon (thinking no way would our presence be needed in Nashville quite this soon!) while he and his wife were with one of their girls, who was scheduled to have an oral surgery procedure.  I texted son #5 to see if we should try to find a replacement to watch his little nephew so we could hit the road ASAP, but he assured us that his firstborn daughter was being well cared for by a beloved and trusted friend, so we could keep our plans in place and wait until the next day to make the drive.

Our sweet new granddaughter was born in the morning on Jan. 30, and bright and early on the 31st we were Nashville -bound, anxious to meet this latest gem to be added to our long and ever-lengthening string of Pearls! 

We have already been with this darling little family of four for over a week now, and we plan to stay for the baby’s Baptism after anticipated Mass on the 15th.  The next morning, we’ll head back home to VA.

It has been grand, and we are honored to have been asked to be the first on the scene to help out.

If you’re reading this, and your children are still little and gathered about you all the time in your house and sleeping safely under your roof every night, and you can’t imagine how in the world you’re going to fill your days when they’re all grown and gone…I’m here to tell you that when you make it to your "empty"-nesting years, you might find that you are even busier than you’ve ever been before.  I know that those child-rearing years of ours were incredibly busy and full, but truly, there is never a dull moment these days.  It’s different as a grandparent, of course; but it seems like it’s just about as physically and emotionally tiring as it ever was.  

And thank God for that! I can’t imagine how we got so lucky.

Okay, now for the requisite photo dump!

Our newest grandchild is a living doll, and we are so enjoying getting to know her.  Her big sister has adjusted remarkably well to having to share the limelight with a needy baby sibling.  And rest assured, she's still getting plenty of attention.

We FaceTimed with our middle son and his kids last night, and his 5-year-old daughter complained that she didn't like it when we were "out of town" (her words).  I guess she likes it much better when we're just a few towns away from her in VA and close enough to see her often, as we usually are.  How sweet it that?It's nice to be missed!  And we miss everyone back there, too.  But at the same time, it will be exceedingly difficult to say goodbye when we leave here on Sunday.  

The older I get, the more I realize that your heart can be in many places all at once.  And sometimes dividing it up so that it can do that is unspeakably painful. However, as that wise philosopher, Winnie the Pooh, said to his good friend Piglet: 

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

[Sniff]  That's enough for today, I think.  That'll do, Pig. That'll do. 

[Sigh] Yes, I've just jumped from using a WTP quote to a line from the movie "Babe."  Time to sign off before this post goes in all kinds of unplanned directions. Until next time, dear readers...

Heartache and Joy

Before I begin this post, I have a prayer request for an 18-year-old boy named Christian (the oldest son of our daughter-in-law Ginger's brother) who is battling a particularly aggressive form of brain cancer.  Doctors feel that they have done all they can for him and at this point he needs a miracle.  I know there are powerful prayer warriors who stop by here, so if you have a minute, please ask God to help Christian (he could not be more aptly named, I assure you)--ask Him to give Christian courage and peace as he carries his unspeakably heavy cross, and to heal him completely, if that is His will. 

I've been thinking a lot lately about how unfair it often seems, that some people are asked to carry such tremendously unbearable burdens in this life on earth while others--like my husband and myself--get to live a life of relative ease and comfort.  My heart goes out to everyone in Ginger's family who loves Christian and is suffering alongside him.  As grandparents ourselves, my husband and I can imagine the tremendous heartache of Ginger's parents, who are bowed down under the weight of their beloved grandson's illness while also dealing with other family crises that have arisen (because as any parent of grown children will tell you, parenthood doesn't end when your children become adults.  Not by a long shot). And it wasn't that long ago that they had another young grandson battling leukemia--which he has beaten, thank the Lord!  Why is one family asked to bear such pain and another, like ours, given so much more joy than heartache?  Ginger's parents have five children and more than 20 grandchildren, just like we do; and yet, thus far they have suffered so much more than we have.

We have been ridiculously, inordinately blessed, and I would not trade places with another living soul; but I know that those who more closely share the burden of Our Lord's Cross are much closer friends of His than we are, and I look on those people with awe and admiration.  Through such trials, great saints are made!

I'm sure you've heard the story about St. Teresa of Avila, who suffered many trials in life.  Whatever the circumstances, she would hear Jesus say to her, "This is how I treat my friends," to which she would reply, "If this is how You treat Your friends, it is no wonder You have so few!"  I love St. Teresa, her sense of humor is so endearing!  And whenever I see people going through particularly agonizing situations, I automatically think that perhaps they are especially beloved by God.  I believe that these people are Jesus's special friends.  (Christian is, I am positive.  What a beautiful faith he had developed in the year before his cancer diagnosis--almost as if God was preparing him for the coming trial he would face!)

Ginger said that a priest came to give Christian and his family some comfort recently, and he talked about how there is a cross that has been fashioned for each one of us, carved and finished uniquely for us, and that no two are exactly alike. I wish I could remember exactly how she told the story; I am not doing it justice. But the gist of it was that we are all asked to carry different crosses, depending on our own particular needs for salvation, and if one person's cross looks smoother and lighter and easier to bear than someone else's, that doesn't mean that person will get to Heaven without some form of suffering. This is the promised Valley of Tears, after all. But it will look different than the crosses others bear, for it will have been fashioned uniquely for that person, according to his needs and God's will for him.

So I know that just because my husband and I have had it relatively easy thus far, we will undoubtedly be asked to suffer at some point before we leave this life behind. That being said, I'm trying to embrace the joy of each day, without worrying about what might be ahead.  You know, like it says in Luke 12:25:  "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?"  Or in Matthew 6:34: "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own." I wasted a lot of time as a young mother worrying about things than never happened.  My boys all grew up healthy and happy, and I got to watch them become men, fall in love, marry, and become fathers.  I might have taken it for granted back then, but I definitely don't anymore.  Our life over the past 44 years could have been so different, so much sadder and more painful.  But for whatever reason, that was not God's plan for us Pearls.

I dearly hope that when the time comes to suffer, that when I am asked to carry my individually fashioned cross, I will do it well.  I hope I will remember that it doesn't mean that God doesn't love me or that He's abandoned me--that it means quite the opposite, in fact. 

But for now, I will try with all my might to avoid worrying about what might come.  I’ll just enjoy every single minute of the blessed life I've been given—and a big part of doing that is hanging out with some adorable little people God has sent for me to love.  Like this sweet little animal-obsessed toddler, the youngest of our middle son's five kids, who is kind of my boyfriend these days.  (Someday I'll explain what that means, but until then, I'll let a couple of pictures from last night do the talking!)

***Please pray for Christian (and his family)!

To Blog, or Not to Blog (Oh, and Happy New Year!)

It's been more than two months since I was last here at my little site--which used to be a place I frequented quite often, believe it or not.  Back in the day, when I opened up shop in 2011, I was here almost every morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and raring to type up my little stories and random musings.  Even though almost no one was reading those posts, writing them made me so happy.

And the funny thing is that if anything, I have more to write about now than ever.  My family has grown by leaps and bounds and all of my people's lives are so very interesting, so very blog post-worthy.  But I am having the most severe case of blogger's block that I've ever experienced.  And I'm seriously considering just quitting altogether.  I've said that before at different times over the years, but this time I might actually be serious.

My husband thinks I should keep at it; he knows how much fun it is for me to have a writing project in the works, and keeping up with a blog is an ongoing writing project (that is, if you ever actually sit down at the computer and DO it!).  So I guess he might have a point.  And maybe it's not time to throw in the towel. Not just yet, anyway.

So much has happened since I last checked in, which was just after Halloween.  A trip to South Bend for a Notre Dame football game with a couple of our boys.  Multiple Pearl birthdays in October, November, and December.  Thanksgiving.  Christmas (which included having our youngest son, his very pregnant wife, and their adorable almost two-year-old little girl staying at our house.  They were with us for two whole weeks before going back to their home outside of Nashville.  Oh how I miss her--I mean them!).

Having four of our five boys and their families (15 grandchildren included!) over for a family party on the 27th was the highlight of our Christmas.  We were only missing our oldest and his gang.

I also spent the last few months before Christmas working on a special picture book project for my grandchildren, which I might share here eventually.  Oh yes, and then there's the whole learning how to make sourdough bread saga!  Let's just say that I'm a great maker and keeper of starter (I've named mine "Bubbs," although when I read somewhere that people name their starters,  I swore up and down that I wouldn't do such a nerdy thing), but I've had varying degrees of success with the actual bread itself. Especially when, like the farm wife I pretend to be, I try to use home-milled flour instead of the good old reliable store-bought all-purpose fluffy white stuff (remember this post?). Yikes, there's so much to write about, and I don't know if I should try to re-cap the past few months or just push ahead into 2025.

While I decide, know that all of our Christmas decorations are still up, because son #1 and his family (including seven of our grandchildren!) are coming next week to spend about a week with us, and since they weren't with us for the holidays I want it to feel Christmas-y around here.  (Also, the Christmas season doesn't technically end until Feb. 2, when we celebrate the Presentation of Our Lord on Candlemas Day. So we've decided that they don't come down until then!)

Happy New Year, dear readers (you know who you are: baby sister, my better half, a few D-I-L's, and about three other people!  Ha ha!).  I'll just be sitting here sipping my coffee by the tree when I've got nothing more important to do.

Trick-or Treating (2024)

The last time I was here, I said that I'd never been a real Halloween enthusiast.  After I published that post, I realized that it made me sound like a bit of a curmudgeon, as if we didn't let our boys enjoy the costumes and the candy back in the day.  My husband and I definitely let them do so.  We never put on costumes ourselves, or planned big family theme costumes.  Well...that happened just a few times, I suppose.  (As you can see in this old post.)

Anyway, suffice it to say that the Pearl boys definitely trick-or-treated.

I’ve just never been a fan of the bloody, scary costumes, the skeletons and vampires and all that dark stuff.  I like cute.  I like kids dressed like Disney princesses, or animals, or dinosaurs, or policemen.  (That was a popular one around here this year.  We saw about a dozen trick-or-treaters, both girls and boys, in blue uniforms with silver badges.)  The scariest costume among the nine grandchildren who came over to celebrate at our house was the Grinch.  Its wearer was a so-not-scary four (going on five)-year-old girl!

I REALLY like the All Saints Day costumes kids wear at Catholic elementary schools, so much more than most Halloween costumes.  Here's our grandson Junior, dressed as St. Augustine on November 1 over at his school.

Less Freddy Krueger; more St. Augustine.  Please!  But the string of Pearls (and a few of their friends) who came over to trick-or-treat in our neighborhood on Halloween were a pretty cute, non-scary bunch.

Before the gang hit the mean streets in search of sugary goodness, we had chili, Buffalo chicken dip, hot dogs, mac and cheese, and spiced cider available at our house.  (And a really awesome Oreo trifle dessert--a family favorite fondly known as "Heavenly Dirt"--for afterward.)

While the kids were off trick-or-treating, my husband and I did as we always do: we sat together out front with cocktails and handed out candy to the hundreds of kids who were out and about.  Our neighborhood is truly Halloween Central.  It’s such an ideal place to trick-or-treat; the many houses are close together, it’s well lit, and people around here really get into it, with all the decorating and so forth.  Word must have gotten out that on October 31, this is the place to be, because families from other neighborhoods come in and the parking lot at our neighborhood pool/clubhouse gets filled up.  Two of our VA boys' neighborhoods are less-than ideal for trick-or-treating (too rural, or too hilly with houses too far apart), which is lucky for us, because we get to have their kids come here each year!

Those cheap Walmart jack-o-lantern t-shirts are about as close as we get to wearing Halloween costumes!  (We are not those fun parents, like our son #3 and his wife, who love to dress up right along with the kids!)

My favorite part of Halloween every year since we've been here in VA is when our grandchildren come back to the house with their booty after a hard night's work.  Some of them go to the basement to play; but without fail, there are always a few of them who want to sit out front in the dark with Papa and Grammy and help to hand out candy while their parents visit inside (until our supply inevitably runs out, for no matter how much we buy, it's never quite enough!).  And it seems like it's different kids outside with us each year.  Those feel like magical times to me--unplanned and organic, simple yet profoundly sweet--and I hope that when they're older it will be a special memory for them.