Okay...Maybe Not QUITE Paradise

In my last post, titled "Paradise," I regaled you with tales about our idyllic week-long lake vacation with our children and grandchildren at our Oyster Haven Vrbo rental house, and not one word that I wrote was a lie.  It was an amazing week, full of love and laughter, almost too good to be true.  Almost, but not quite.  I mean, as far as how things tend to go in the real world down here on planet earth (which can never truly be Paradise, but can in fact more adequately be described as the promised "Valley of Tears"), it was indeed a fairly magical and joy-filled week for the Pearl family. However, I did leave out a few details…

...there was one unfortunate freak accident that I didn't mention in that post, and it led to a two-night hospital stay for our #4 son.  I can imagine your wrinkled brow and the look of horror on your face, so please be assured that although it was quite scary there for a bit, our boy ended up being fine and his vacation week wasn't completely ruined.  (And throughout the ordeal, he kept saying that he was so glad that it happened to him and not one of the children.)

Okay, maybe I should go ahead and tell the whole story.

People started arriving for our Pearl-a-palooza on Saturday, July 19 and by Sunday, all the weary travelers had made it to the lake house.  All 35 of us were together, looking forward to a week of fun in the sun at our private sandy beach in our cozy private cove.  Then on Monday, while his kids were having a ball swimming and kayaking with their cousins, son #4 started wading out in waist-deep water to join them. As he was walking along, his thigh got poked by the razor-sharp branch of a log that must have drifted in from the nearby island during a windy spring storm or something (because we'd never seen this log before, during previous summers).  Right away, our son knew that he was going to need medical attention.  The puncture wound, while rather small, was extremely deep.  So deep that he could see the different layers of tissue inside.  He and his wife took off for the urgent care facility, where he was stitched up and told to watch for signs of infection.

Before long, the skin around the wound started to get pink and swollen and hot.  Our son and his wife contacted several nurse friends for advice, and one of them was surprised that the urgent care doc had opted to stitch it up. She told them to keep an eye on the reddened area, and to go back in if it started to grow.  They wisely drew a line all around the infected area with a black Sharpie marker, so that they could see if the redness was spreading.  By Tuesday, they knew there was a problem because the infection was creeping well past the circle they'd drawn, and they went back to urgent care.  The stitches were removed, and an antibiotic was prescribed. But by Wednesday, it was obvious that the medication wasn't knocking out the infection.  So they headed to the ER, and our son was admitted and put on IV antibiotics.  He ended up having to stay Wednesday and Thursday nights; and with the infection finally under control, he came home on Friday--which happened to be my birthday.  It was the best birthday present I've ever gotten, getting him back that day.

Through this whole ordeal, he never did run a fever.  He never got septic. He was well taken care of at the hospital.   But that dangerous-looking red area on his thigh haunted me until it finally began to fade and go away and he was back with us, safe and sound.

When I went to the hospital on Wednesday night to visit my boy, I had to take turns with his wife because they hadn't gotten a room for him yet and only one visitor at a time was allowed in the ER. After I got to see him and came out so that she could go in, I was just a blubbering mess, sitting there in the waiting room with tears streaming down my face. I let myself imagine all the what-ifs and was sick at the thought that this simple injury could become catastrophic.  Seeing how large the red area had grown, even after he’d received the first infusion of antibiotics, kind of terrified me, because I know that sometimes an uncontrolled infection can spell amputation and even in the worst cases, death.  I shed many tears (in private, so that our son's four kids and all of their cousins wouldn't see how worried Grammy was) and said a lot of prayers over those days that he was in the hospital.  But thanks be to God, the antibiotics worked and he came home to us in one piece.  

Our son had to keep his wound dry for the rest of the week in NY, so there was no more going in the lake for him, which was a bummer.  Even though his vacation was less than perfect, however, his boss gave him a few extra days off to make up for the ones he'd missed, and he did get to enjoy about four days post-hospital going for boat rides, watching his kids get tube rides behind the boat, and hanging out with the family and making us laugh, as always.  This son is an extremely funny person.  He has a knack for quietly delivering quick off-hand remarks worded in such a way that they totally hit the funny bone.  When he was in the hospital, his room was on a floor where most of the patients were geriatric.  One nurse came in to take his vitals and told him that they were just great, the best she'd seen in a long time (remember, she was dealing with mostly elderly people, not young bucks like him).  My son, without missing a beat, replied, "I'm known for my vitals."  (He might have added something like, "They're my best feature," but since I don't blog regularly now, it's been so long since it happened that some of the details have gotten fuzzy!) I wasn't there, but my sister--the one with whom my mom lived for seven years--was visiting him at the time and witnessed this humorous exchange, and she said the nurse just loved him.

But I say, who wouldn't?!

He knew his situation could turn serious, but he stayed calm throughout and never lost his sense of humor.  He even weighed in on a funny conversation he heard that his brothers and their wives had been having back at the lake house, about being a nighttime shower person versus a morning shower person.  (It was loud and heated and pretty hilarious.  We are a family of strong opinions!) He said, "If I don't make it, tell [the sister-in-law who insists that not showering before going to bed is unthinkable] that I say not showering in the morning is gross."  The fact that he could joke about not making it...I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it.

Not too long before our vacation week, that same sister who visited him had told me about a local girl up here who'd had a similar incident: she got a cut that caused some weird raging infection.  But hers ended up going septic, and this poor gal ended up losing her leg.  She was just a teen, a young athlete who had to deal with a devastating blow like that.  The fact that my son completely recovered from his injury seems practically miraculous to me, when I think of how many families have outcomes that are so very different.  God has been very good to the Pearls, and a day doesn't go by that I don't humbly thank Him for all the blessings He's bestowed on us.  I am so incredibly grateful, for son #4's health and for so many other things.

So good to have him back--it just wasn't the same without him!

A hug for Daddy.

I'd love to know what he's saying here.  I would probably be laughing.

Enjoying my birthday present!

At least he got to do some of this!

We look forward to a do-over for son #4 next summer. And before anyone even thinks about going swimming, we'll all be policing the beach area to make sure there are no hidden dangers lurking in the water--like that rassa-frassin' log!  (Excuse my language!)

Until next time...be safe out there, dear readers!

Paradise

I started this post on July 29…and here it is, a whole month later, and I'm finally finishing it.

Okay, full disclosure: all I'd written so far was the title! Because at that time, we were just coming off of our annual week-long Pearl summer vacation at our Vrbo lake house, Oyster Haven, with all five of our boys, all five of their lovely wives, and all of their offspring--our 23 darling grandchildren (the oldest of which are 14-year-old twins, and the youngest of which is a cherubic little six-month-old).  What a fabulous week it was!! Crowded and noisy and messy, but just perfect.  And I couldn't wait to blog about it.  But for some reason, I just couldn't write the post.  In recent months (years!), I've been having the hardest time making myself sit down to update this neglected old site of mine. Then the more days that pass without doing it, the more it seems that perhaps I'm not invested enough anymore and it might be time to close up shop.  

But then I'll read an old post, and I'll smile and think, "I had forgotten all about that..."  Or I'll want to share a certain old picture on our family text stream, and I can't find it; then I'll remember that I used it in a blog post once--and voila, there it is, right there in my blog archives.  If I stop blogging now, maybe I'll miss having all these memorable family moments archived here, where I can go back and re-live them whenever I'm in the mood.  Perhaps, then, I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet.  

I don't know if you follow Jenny Uebbing (who used to write a blog called Mama Needs Coffee, which I loved so much, but can now be found writing at Jenny@MamaNeedsCoffee on Substack from time to time). She was one of those long-form "mommy bloggers" whose name was well-known in the Catholic blogging community and who like many of the other big influencers made the shift over to Instagram, but has mostly stayed off social media as of late.  I love when I see that she has a new post on Substack.  She is one of the online voices who occasionally wonders whether old-school blogs will rise out of the ashes once again.  I tend to doubt it, because I think everyone wants to scroll and digest quick tidbits before moving on to something else, rather than read one whole long essay. But I do hope blogs find a resurgence in popularity.

Not that I have any illusions that my little String o' Pearls would ever become popular or well-known, which is fine with me because I really do just blog for myself, as weird as that might sound. Because I like words.  I like playing with them, moving them around.  I like editing and re-writing.  Definitely weird.  Maybe all writers are a little weird (and it feels strange to even call myself a writer, but I kind of live for words and putting them down on paper--so I suppose that makes me one).

Anyway, I was going to finish up a post, right?  Before I got sidetracked.  A post about Paradise.  This is already longer than I wanted it to be, but that's okay.  I won't have to add too many more words, because the title tells the whole story, it does.  This place of ours on the shore of Lake Champlain is Paradise on earth, it truly is. Sometimes, I don't think it's worth the work and worry to manage a vacation property in NY when our primary residence is in VA...but then we have this week up here with our kids and grandkids, which they have come to look forward to all year long, and which is forming what we hope are lifelong happy memories of priceless family time shared with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents...and I know it's most definitely worth it.

So here's the photo dump, which will give you an idea of just how idyllic our week was.  (I'm sharing pictures that don't show close-ups of the kids' faces, out of respect for some of our boys' wishes,)

So you get the idea!  It was the best week.  The kids had SO MUCH fun together!

We leave a guest book out for our renters to write in, in case they're moved to leave messages for us about their stay at Oyster Haven.  One family who stayed here in 2024 said that "this place now houses part of our story." Ours, too!  Another recent renter wrote, "We came here for our grandson's wedding, but instead found heaven on earth. Staying here was a dream come true..."  I know just how she feels!  Seeing our string of Pearls playing together on the beach is a complete and utter joy for me, a proverbial dream come true.  (As is watching them play Monopoly at the kitchen table.  Or  being amazed by the intricate "box village" they build out on the lawn, using the big cardboard boxes that our new Adirondack chairs came in--which thankfully, we didn't destroy before they got their hands on them!  It's all joy.  So. Much. Joy!)

[Sigh...] I feel so incredibly blessed to have all these people to love, and that my husband and I are able to give them this one heavenly week together every summer.

Phew!  I did it!  I wrote a post!  And maybe I'll be back again before too long.

God bless you, dear readers.

Still Alive Here!

Recently, an old high school friend of mine (who is a sweetheart) texted me to find out if I was OK, because she hadn’t seen a post here at the blog in such a long time. And at our age, she said, you just never know…

But rest assured, I’m still alive and well and about to celebrate my 67th birthday. My husband and I left Virginia a few weeks ago to come up north and manage our Oyster Haven rental property on Lake Champlain.  We had a little family party with our three Virginia sons and their 14 kids before we headed to New York, and this was the view in our kitchen with the grandkids that day, enjoying ice cream after a trip to our neighborhood pool...

Great view, to be sure.  ❤️

And this is the view out the back yard at my husband’s childhood home by the lake, where we’ve been staying since we got back up north.  

Not too shabby!

Today, our five boys and their gangs (23 grandchildren in all!) start arriving for our week-long Pearl-a-palooza at Oyster Haven, which we blocked off for our family’s use. We look forward to this gathering all year!  We’re in the process of moving in there now.

I’ll be sharing some pictures of the views from our lakeside paradise, if I can find breaks in the chaos to do so!  We'll have 35 people sleeping in a 4-bedroom, 2-and-1/2 bathroom house (with two extra basement "bedrooms" set up as well).  Six sleeping areas for 35 people.  It's always interesting!

Thanks for stopping by this deserted old ghost-town of a blog of mine, dear readers.  I’ll try to take better care of it moving forward!

RIP, Sweet Carolyn

Today we buried my mom.

She died on March 1 and her funeral was on March 22, but in upstate NY the ground is too hard and frozen at that time of year for burials.  So today, all five of us siblings and our spouses gathered together to see her laid to rest next to our dad.  My two brothers live close enough to make a day trip if necessary, and my two sisters live right here in the area.  My husband and I live the farthest away; we made the 10-hour drive up yesterday, and we'll be heading back to VA tomorrow.

Mom's Catholic funeral Mass on March 22 was a glorious thing.  Her grandsons were pallbearers; two of her granddaughters and two great-granddaughters brought up the gifts; my husband and I did the readings (I am rather shocked that I was able to get through mine without breaking down, but I managed to hold it together pretty well); one of my sisters led the prayers of the faithful; and after the Mass, before everyone left the church, one of my brothers (the oldest of Mom's five children) and my other sister (the youngest) took turns reading parts of a touching eulogy that had been written by my oldest brother.  The hymns sung were reverent, holy, and perfect; the homily given by the deacon (a childhood friend of my oldest brother) was perfect.  It was all perfect.  I should have blogged about it sooner.

I also never did blog about the absolutely awesome celebration of life we had for my mom right after that beautiful funeral Mass.  She would have loved it (did love it, I'm sure, from where she was watching).  We decorated every windowsill in the event room of my sister-in-law's brewery/restaurant/inn with framed photos from Mom's life, and a photo montage also played on a loop on the big-screen TV mounted high on the wall.  My younger brother (a very talented singer/guitar player, who in retirement has regular gigs in the Albany, NY area and is "somewhat famous in parts of Cohoes," as he likes to joke) stepped up to the mic and put on a little performance for us.  Some of the songs he chose were ones that my mom used to sing when we were kids, 60's folk songs by Ian and Silvia or Peter, Paul, and Mary (and if you're not in your 50's or 60's yet and you're reading this, you probably don't know who in the world I'm talking about).  He also played Hallelujah, always a winner.  And Sweet Caroline, changing it to "Sweet Carolyn" (and now you know my mom's first name).  There was a buffet of delicious hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, an open bar, and numerous friends and loved ones gathered together to honor the life of an amazing woman.  It really was quite spectacular.  Four of our five boys were able to make it (the one who lives in Nashville flew into DC to meet up with his three VA brothers so they could all carpool up together).  In all, 13 of my mother's 17 grandchildren were there, along with a few of her great-grandkids.  There were other family members with us, too--including one of our cousins and her husband, some of my in-laws, some of my siblings' in-laws--and lots of friends of ours and our mom's.  It was an Irish wake (after the funeral instead of before), a fitting tribute for a woman whose maiden name was Kelly.

I will never forget the joyfulness with which we celebrated our mother.  Since the funeral, I have not had a single day where I haven't cried, at least once, usually while praying our daily Rosary aloud but at other random times, too.  I was talking to one of my sons the other day about how throughout the year leading up to her death, my mother had constant health issues and was in and out of the ER.  Everyone was trying to figure out what was going on, to get answers and solutions, so that she could get her health back to where it had been. I kept thinking, however, that the hard truth was that she was 89, and perhaps at that age she was never going to get it back. I felt that we needed to be realistic.  So as I told my boy, I thought I was prepared for the worst. Silly me.

Because nothing ever really prepares you for losing your mother.  Nothing. 

Anyway, I'm going to do a belated sharing of photos from the grand Irish wake we had for our mom.

The music begins!

My talented brother.

Toasting our Mom and Dad with my Dad's precious bottle of cognac,
which we'd been saving for a special occasion.

The grandkids.

My baby sister and me.

All five of Mom's babies.

Family!

Here is a link to a short YouTube video snippet of my brother playing Sweet Carolyn.  It was the highlight of the celebration.  (Pretty much guaranteed to make you smile.)

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/bPG_MDZ_zxc

After the burial today, we stopped by the old brick mansion that was owned by our paternal grandmother (and in which we lived for about 1 and 1/2 years, in an upstairs apartment, until I was 10).  It has been mostly sitting empty over the past few decades and is in a sad state of disrepair, but it looks like someone is in the process of renovating it.

I'm so happy that I have these four siblings, and that we all like each other and get along.  That we make each other laugh--a lot!  That we share so many memories that no one else in the world has but us. I wonder if our boys remember us telling them when they were young that we might not be rich in money, but they were rich in brothers, and that was even better. What has become plainer to me than ever, since the loss of my mom (nine years after my dad's passing), is how very true that is. The best gift parents can give their children is siblings. If at all possible, of course (I know there are couples who desperately want more children than they can have).

I'm so glad that my brothers and sisters and I had each other to go through this painful right of passage with, and that we were able to give our mother the send-off she deserved.  RIP, Mom.

Life Goes On...Incredibly

Tomorrow it will be exactly one month since my mother took her last breaths, with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, shortly after hearing the voice of her one missing son (her firstborn) on speaker phone.  All five of us were able to spend the week-and-a-half before she died with her almost constantly, reminiscing about our history as a family and telling her how much we loved her.  And she died peacefully, without pain, after 89 years of living a rather blessed life.

We all have to go; and that being the case, she had an extraordinarily beautiful death--one you might plan out for yourself, if given the option to do so.

I did the second reading at my mom's funeral, Corinthians 15:51-57.  I'm sure you know it, this part at least: "Death is swallowed up in victory.  Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?"  (Getting through that reading without breaking down entirely was a victory for me that day, I'll tell you.)

Yes, it was a beautiful passing from this earthly life, which is so very short compared to the eternal one into which Mom has entered.  But still, it does sting.  For those left behind, it stings indeed.

I think about my mom all the time.  About how she lived.  And how she died.

I mostly feel fine, staying dry-eyed more often than not and getting on with life...but in spite of all this "fineness," tears are always lurking, hidden right beneath the surface.  And the most random, unexpected catalysts can set them off when I least expect it.

I have great hope that my mother is in Heaven already, and my dad is there, too, so happy to be with his best girl again.  And that she's continuing to enjoy her great-grandmother role with the five tiny little Pearls none of us ever got to meet down here (what a comforting thought!).  But there's still that stinging sensation.

While my husband and I were up in NY for the funeral, on our way out of daily Mass one day we picked up two free copies of a book called 33 Days to Eucharistic Glory, a guide to Eucharistic Consecration. We are reading through a chapter each day, and we often discuss our thoughts about them afterward.  On the second day, the readings and reflections had to do with this question: Are you a pilgrim or a tourist?  This chapter was filled with reminders that this world is not our home, that we are just pilgrims passing through, on a spiritual journey to a sacred destination.  "If you go on vacation for a week, you don't consider the hotel you stay at to be your home.  You know it is a brief stay.  In the context of eternity, your life [on earth] is like that hotel stay.  Brief."  I try to remember this all the time, that life on earth is fleeting and it's the next life that will last forever.  But we do get caught up in what's going on in our lives here, don't we?  We forget all the time that this isn't all there is.  We forget all the time that the purpose of this life is to live it in such a way that it brings us back to God for all eternity.

I'm human, though.  And I do enjoy so many things about my ridiculously blessed life here on planet earth. I love my home here in VA.  I'm trying, as best I can, to make it a reflection of Heaven for my family.  To make it as beautiful, cozy, and inviting as it can be, so that they always feel happy to come and spend time with us here. 

Yesterday, I had glimpses of Heaven when two of our boys and their families came for a little after-Mass lunch gathering, and the nine kids they brought with them spent a few hours playing together (leaving our house a good bit less beautiful than it was when they got here--ha ha!).  

Seriously, though: nothing makes us happier than seeing the grandkids hanging out together in this basement playroom that my husband finished off for them about five years ago.

 

And I didn't get a picture of this, but while the kids were playing downstairs and outside, our daughter-in-law Braveheart snuck away for some quiet time alone in our living room.  Our grown kids often retreat to this room and fall asleep on the couch, right in the middle of noisy family parties.  Our house is a bit too "open concept" for this space that we call the "Rosary Room" to be a true getaway; but it is just separate enough to make you feel like you've escaped the chaos.

When I'm in there, I feel a little closer to Heaven.  Maybe our kids do, too.

I can't remember crying yesterday.  I think I was distracted by getting all the food ready for our visitors, and then filling cups with chocolate milk and ice water, running upstairs to get computer paper from the office for the little artists to draw on, cleaning up spills, snuggling with five-year-old girls who are not only cousins but besties, and...well, you get the picture: it was a busy day, in the best possible way.  And by 9:00, I was falling asleep in my chair, so we went to bed much earlier than we usually do. 

That's the key, I guess: to keep living life to the fullest, but as a pilgrim and not a tourist, always remembering that the home I've made for my family here (however cozy it might be) is not my real home. My mother has completed the pilgrimage, but I'm still on the journey to that real home. I hope I get there.

And if I do, and I hear, "Hi, Pussycat," I'll know she's there already and she's been waiting for me.

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.