Dawn of New Life, Twilight of a Life Well Lived

My grandmother, so I hear from many miles away across a cell phone signal, agreed willingly to the move to the nursing home. She moved in this evening. My grandfather is resistant. 

Elsewhere, in another part of the country, my two (and a half!) year old precious niece is enjoying her still-new room. She soaked it in with eyes wide and in uncharacteristic quiet. A hush fell over the room as she saw what her Daddy had done just for her. "It's so nice," she breathed. The breathless awe of something just for you. Something grown up and special and wonderful. 

In a yet another part of the country, my son enjoyed an evening with one of his favorite people on Earth...a bright, beautiful young lady preparing for her first year of college at my alma mater. The first time Mama and Dada entrusted him to someone not a parent themselves. And he not only survived without me for the evening, he loved it. He waved when she left. My son doesn't wave 'bye-bye', he waves when he sees something he wants. He waves harder when he senses he's not getting it. He waved very hard when we came inside. He loves her. 

My grandfather agreed to go tomorrow. What reasoning finally worked? I don't know. But I don't think it was human eloquence. I think it was a divine intervention. I think this because I asked for it specifically, me and an untold number of friends and fellow believers. And I asked God to remind my grandfather, who has nearly circled around the sun on this planet 100 times, that He is in control, no matter where he lives. That God is to  be trusted, no matter who is calling the shots. That the next stop is Paradise, good and faithful friend, hold on, keep trusting me to the very, very end. God sustained my grandfather across two world wars, the nation's stock market crash, the Great Depression, his youngest daughter's illness which could've killed her, his oldest daughter's car crash that should've killed her, his only son's mugging that could've left him dead, personal injury that kept him from working and the paychecks from coming, the birth of their only grandson, five years later, their only granddaughter, and even their great-granddaughter and great-grandson. In the century that my grandfather has spent here on this side of Eternity God has proved faithful, trustworthy, and sovereign. What on Earth does he have to fear? This is what I asked God to remind him. 

Did he? I have no way of knowing for sure. But the little text that came about an hour later that informed me he had changed his mind told me that, one way or another, God had heard me and my prayers had been answered. 

The juxtaposition of it all just astounds me. My niece with her brand new big girl room...so thrilled with the change, so excited to be a BIG girl, full wonder and awe at this big, exciting world laying at her feet. My son growing confident, learning to be okay without me, having first adventures without me, growing so big and strong. The dawn of new life, the twilight of a life well lived. Something about it inspires me...to trust God a little faster, a little stronger, to hold onto Him a little tighter. He prepares new big girl changes for me with as much love as tenderness as my brother does for her beloved daughter. He takes me on new adventures with people I come to love and trust, just as my son is learning to do in his toddlerhood. And He will sustain me across an untold amount of years and an untold amount of struggles and victories, blessings and trials. No matter where I live or who is calling the shots, GOD is faithful, trustworthy, and sovereign. 

Hallelujah. Amen. 

What's In A Name?

I wrote this letter to my grandparents for their Christmas gift this year. They already knew the baby's name but I wanted to give them the story behind it. I know they've shared it with their guests and visitors so they won't mind my sharing it with my blog guests and visitors. This is the story of my son's name. 

Grammy and PapPap,

When Curtis and I began talking about names for children, which was long before this one was conceived, we knew we wanted to use the name Dayton somewhere. Overtime we decided it would be our first son’s first name, should we have a boy.

According to the internet Dayton means ‘sunny town’. This makes sense in light of the research Mom has done on our English roots. Deighton was a place in Yorkshire. We were De Deightons (of Dayton) for generations. Then, just Deighton, and upon coming to America we simplified the spelling to Dayton. But while we were Deightons we were Knights Templar, Keepers of the Great Seal of England, Lord Mayors of York, Sherriffs of Nottingham (but not bad guys, I checked), among other things. The Deightons may not have been important enough to make the history books, even in footnotes, but we have an interesting and prestigious past. It’s the stuff stories and legends are made of, and the kind of things little boys have pretended to be for centuries. I intend to raise my little boy reading him stories of knights, Robin Hood, and kings, weaving in our own family history. I imagine he will be proud of where we came from, and proud of his name. It’s a strong, noble name.

But I will also tell him about what the name Dayton means to me. It’s much more than a sunny town or a noble past. It’s generosity, gentleness, grace, and gratitude—the things I learned from my Grammy. I aspire to be like you someday when I’m a grown up. Sweet and tenderhearted and very giving. Giving of your time, your compassion, your talents. The world is becoming more and more selfish and there are fewer people like you. But it’s people like you, a ray of sunshine, that make the greatest difference. I want my son to be these things, to be a ray of sunshine. I guess the meaning ‘sunny town’ does fit after all. If we’re all supposed to be a city on a hill where people can see the light of Jesus, then we need to be sunny towns.

My son’s middle name is for his father, Curtis. And the funny thing about Curtis is that when I prayed for a husband I asked for a man just like my PapPap because he was the best man I’ve ever known. A man who would be hard-working, a man devoted to his family, a man who is generous and thoughtful. God took me quite seriously and delivered me a young man very much like my grandfather—down to his driving Fords, voting Republican, and having a unique sense of humor.

Our son will have a second middle name. Some people will think that’s silly, to give a boy two middle names. And some will think it’s weird when they find out that it’s Milford. But I like it. It’s my PapPap’s name. It only seemed right to include you in my son’s name. His name is about legacies and who I want him to grow up to be like. If my son grows up and reminds me at all of you, I will consider myself a success as a parent.

Dayton Curtis Milford Berry is a mouthful, I admit. But it’s really a reminder to my boy of who he is and where he came from. He may be a descendant of people who served and knew English kings, but he is also a descendent of people who served and knew the King of Kings. Ultimately, it’s the example of Christian faith that has inspired me so much throughout the years. It’s the same faith that I aspire to have and that I want to raise my son to have.

I will tell my son about both of you and the fun things we did together. I imagine that in his world the Deightons of old and the Buterbaughs of not so long ago will mold together. Children have a way of blurring the lines that way. But that’s okay. I don’t see many differences between Sherwood Forest and your backyard, between royal feasts and Jean-o’s Pizza. For my son, it’s all part of the same story of where he came from.

May will be here before we know it and so will Dayton. I’m so anxious to meet him and find out who this little person is that God is knitting inside of me. I wonder if he will look like me or like Curtis, and if we’ll be able to pick out little pieces of each of you. There are times when I think Marissa Jane looks just like one of you, and I hope that’s the case with Dayton¸too. I’m excited to bring him to visit Bald Eagle and for you to be able to hold him. I want to take pictures so I can show him as he gets older who we named him after and tell him about how much you loved him.

I’m so grateful that you’re my grandparents. Most people I know don’t have grandparents like mine. Their grandparents are nice people, but they’re just not like the two of you. I’m honored to be able to have a son to name for two of the people that I love most and have loved me the most. Yes, his name is undoubtedly a legacy of love.

PS for my readers...I feel the need to assure everyone that the use of the name 'Milford' will be very limited. I figure one way kids know just how much trouble they're in is based on how much of their name their mother uses. My degrees of trouble will be...Dayton!...Dayton Curtis!...Dayton Curtis Berry!....Dayton Curtis Milford Berry!! But other than the birth certificate and certain other legal documents, the name won't be used much, unless he chooses it for himself when he's older. But it is my gift to him, his whole name. 

Because Of The Baby

I haven't written in ages. Sometimes I lose my voice and it doesn't always mean that I can't talk. Sometimes I just can't write. I have nothing to say, or what I do have to say comes out all garbled. I promised myself I wouldn't clutter up this blog with meaningless chatter (do you really care what I had for breakfast this morning? Wildberry poptarts, if you do...and they're making me nauseous).

That being said, something profound should follow...right? Well, I got nothin'. But I have that urge in my heart to write again. To express, to communicate, to emote, to be heard, or at least put something out there in the world. Silence is golden sometimes, this is a hard lesson for a chatterbox like me. But there are times for sharing, too. Even if I'm not sure yet what it is I'll share.

Christmas is fast approaching. There's far too much on my to-do list. I don't see how it will possibly all get done. But it will. Presents will be wrapped, the tree will be decorated, I might even manage to make a few sweet treats. This is one of the miracles of Christmas--it somehow comes together with too little time. At least this year I'm determined to stay joyful. Mostly I meltdown around the holidays. But the baby has me focused this year on what matters. The baby has helped a lot in this area.

Truth be told, a lot of people in my life are angry about other people and other things that they can't control. I listen, I sympathize, sometimes I agree, sometimes I try to gently suggest something else. I used to get all whipped up into a frenzy, sometimes I still do, but I realized last week: I don't have the extra energy to spend on anger. It's a natural emotion, a reaction, and at times I find it downright biblical. But I can't stay in anger, it takes up far more energy than I have to spare. This is a huge lesson to learn for a girl who has wrestled with anger issues and bitterness. Frankly, it takes a lot less energy to just cry it out and move on...and even less energy to let it go. But it is draining to dwell in anger. The baby has brought this lesson to the forefront. I think I learned it a long time ago, but being pregnant has taught me to spend my energy wisely. This is how I realized that spending it on anger is a bad investment.

The same is true for worry. Yes, I get nervous every time I go to the doctor and they listen for that heartbeat. And when I sneeze and my entire abdomen seizes with violent pain, I get a little nervous. But I don't have the extra energy to spin my wheels in worry. This was a monumental lesson for a compulsive worrier. The baby has taught me so much and hasn't even take his or her first breath.

No wonder they say parenthood changes everything...

The real reason I started writing today is because my heart is feeling a little more heavy and a little less merry. My grandparents' health is failing, first one, then the other, then the other one again. It's hard on them, it's hard on we who love them. And sometimes I catch myself just whispering over and over again, hold on until Spring.

I never thought that they would live long enough to see me get married, let alone have a child. Especially when we discovered our infertility issues. As the baby seemed farther and farther away, it seemed more and more certain that I'd never even have one photo, one memory, of my beloved grandparents with my much longed-for child. But I worship the God of Impossibilities, and He made a miracle inside me. I have to trust His timing and His goodness. But it just seems like this winter is going to be so hard on these dear souls...Winter is always hard for old folks.

This is where all those lessons I've been learning, or realizing, because of the baby help me. I can't be angry with the diagnoses or changes. It won't change anything. I can't spin my wheels in worry. It won't help anything. There's nothing I can say now that I haven't said in the last five years (woulda, coulda, shoulda, what ifs and maybes). All I can do is trust in God, love them as hard as I can, and take care of this little budding life inside me.

Christmas celebrates the birth of a baby. Not just any baby, but a real miracle baby. The miracle baby that trumps all other miracle babies. God wrapped in flesh, God among us, God born in a barn (what were you born in a barn? well, it was good enough for our Lord and Savior). Christmas is a time of great celebration and joy because Christmas was Heaven reaching out to us. Four-hundred years of silence shattered with two babies--a prophet to prepare the way and the Messiah who would save us all. This is not a time for anger, for worry, or for senseless chatter. This is a time for gratitude and celebration. Exuberance.

This is the time to consider what a baby has taught us. Not just me and my baby. But the Baby. The Baby who would grow into the man who would change the world with His words and return us to God with His sacrifice. So many lessons can be taken from the manger, if we're only quiet and listen.

Humility. Gentleness. Simplicity.

Peace. 

And the angel said unto them, 

"Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

 "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

Luke 2:10-14 

The Only Legacy Worth Leaving

The first time I heard this song I was twenty years old, sorting out the facts of my life, and trying to figure out how to really walk with God, rather than just believe in Him. It was one song on a compilation album I bought at a used CD place in town. That cd set became the soundtrack for my early twenties along with a couple of others. But this song found a special place in my heart, it resonated with me. It will be one I will carry with me for the rest of my life not only because it inspires me but because it reminds me of people I love. Or better yet, people that have loved me.

I want to leave a legacy. How will they remember me?

Did I choose to love?
Did I point to you enough to make a mark on things?

I want to leave an offering.

Child of mercy and grace who blessed your name unapologetically.

 I want to leave a legacy.

My grandparents will leave a legacy when their time on this old Earth is over. They have chosen to live for Christ so much so that they have come to embody and symbolize love itself. If God is love, and we are being made into Christ everyday through the power of the Spirit, then we are becoming love. I believe this to be true not because its a pretty idea but because I see two old souls becoming more and more like love everyday.

I've been irregularly blessed. I not only have my grandparents legacy to look to and draw from, but the legacies of others just like them. Today we laid to rest our dear friend and neighbor, Lester Pierce, a man who in just two short years became a source of inspiration and wisdom for Curtis and I. At the funeral I listened to person after person stand up and tell about the impact he had on their lives and I realized that somewhere I'd heard this before. And I realized it was everything I've said about my grandparents. And as I looked around the church I saw others that have lived in and will leave a similar legacy. These are the folks you don't necessarily notice as they teach Sunday school, organize funeral dinners, work with the youth, clean the church, drive the bus, plan activities for VBS, or get down on their knees everyday to do their best work in prayer. These people blend into the background sometimes with humility, meekness, and love being their defining characteristics. My grandmother gets down right flustered when people make a fuss over her contributions. She, like Lester, didn't do the work for the recognition--they did the work for the Lord. They did it out of love, first for Christ then for others because He loves them.

I've come to the conclusion that the best legacy that can be left is one of love. True love. Not The Princess Bride or The Notebook kind of true love.  We know what real love is because Jesus gave up his life for us. So we also ought to give up our lives for our brothers and sisters.--1 John 3:16 This is true love. Love that sacrifices sleep, me-time, and self to serve the Lord, to help one another, to lend a hand, to say a prayer. When we give up our lives to help and serve with love in our hearts that is true love. And that is something sorely needed in the world today.

One by one these saints travel to heaven and we who have been so blessed to know them are left with their legacy in our care. I want to do right by them, and what I've learned is that the only way to do that is to do right by God. By keeping my eyes on the Cross and my feeted pointed toward Calvary and my heart broken for Him, I may just be counted among those who loved truly.

Start From Scratch

I apologize that July's posts have been few and far between. On the other hand, I am not sorry for not writing out of obligation. The only way I know how to write is from my heart and sometimes that means I need to be quiet for a time. This month has been quiet in that sense, but incredibly busy in all other aspects. Another reason for my scattered posts.

To be quite honest I'm not sure what I'm going to write about today. Thoughts are tumbling around in my head like clothes in a dryer. I think that rather than try to come up with some deep, profound meaning out of my scatter-brained thoughts it may be better to stick to something more simple.

My sister-in-law and friend, Megan, has a lovely blog in which she shares not only personal stories and insights, but recipes, decorating tips, and gardening pointers. I've only ever shared one recipe on this blog and while I've discussed my propensity for clutter, I've not ever shared how one fixes it. These are not my strengths. But today I'm going to share a couple recipes that I'll be preparing this week.

Sticky Buns (Grammy's Recipe)

• 2 loaves frozen bread dough
• 2 packages of non-instant vanilla pudding
• 1 c. brown sugar
• 2 tbsp milk

Place frozen bread dough in a lightly greased cake pan, cover with plastic wrap (lightly greased) and let rise until doubled in size. Take one loaf and tear into pieces, places pieces in the bottom of a 10x13 cake pan. The bottom should be mostly covered but the pieces shouldn't be touching. Prepare sauce and pour over the bread pieces. Take remaining loaf, tear into pieces and place in all open spaces in the cake pan. Cover again and let rise until reaches the top of the cake pan. Bake at 375 for 20-30 minutes.

It is important to let it rise both times or it comes out thick and flat, instead of fluffy and light. I made this on Saturday and the grease from the pan and saran wrap got into the dough and stopped it from rising the second time. Its about an inch and half think, instead of being about three inches high. I feel sad because this was the one thing that turned out every time I made it, and I was intending to take it next door to our neighbors.

Peanut Butter Pie (Uncle Gary's Recipe)

• 3/4 cup peanut butter (creamy)
• 8 ounces cream cheese
• 2 c. confectioner's sugar
• 12 ounces whipped cream/cool whip (more is okay)

Mix ingredients together until smooth and light. Put into a graham cracker crust (or a oreo cookie crust) and let chill in the refrigerator. Best served with a drizzling of chocolate syrup or a little whipped cream on top.

Easy as pie. Seriously, the only pie I can make. The first time I made it I was living in the dorms and had no mixer. I'm pretty sure I used a large table spoon and fork to mix it, and set it on the window sill to chill. Its easy, simple, and incredibly good...if you like peanut butter.

Fantasy Fudge (Great-Aunt Ruth's Recipe)

• 3 c. sugar
• 3/4 c. margarine
• 2/3 c. evaporated milk
• 1 c. semi-sweet chocolate chips
• 1 7oz jar marshmallow cream
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 1 c. chopped nuts (optional)
• 1/2 c. peanut butter (optional)

Melt margarine in LARGE microwave mixing bowl. Stir in sugar. Stir in evaporated milk. Microwave 3 minutes and stir; 2 minutes and stir; 3 minutes and stir; 2.5 minutes and stir. Exactly! Remove and add chocolate chips, marshmallow cream, vanilla, and stir. Add nuts and peanut butter, if wanted. Pour in a greased 13x9 pan or 8x8 pan. Cut while warm. Do not chill to cool.

Okay, I only attempted this once and it didn't set up right but it still tasted amazing. We ended up using it more as a chocolate fudge spread than eating it in pieces. Either way the recipe is delicious.

One thing you'll notice is that all three recipes come from someone in my family. I've shared before that I come from a long line of domestic goddesses, or as I call them: true women. Clearly the domestic gift goes beyond just women as my uncle is a talented host, cook, and baker. I wish more of their talent was passed on with the recipes but I suppose I'll just have to start from scratch and work my way into the fold. (Pun very much intended).

This Aging Generation of Giants

At church Sunday morning we had some time left over at the end of the service, so our pastor opened the floor for people to share what God had done in their lives this past week. *cricket, cricket* One man finally stood and shared a story about making a difference in peoples' lives. *cricket, cricket* Another man, my guess is somewhere in his 80s, stood up toward the back of the church. Like an Old Testament prophet, he pointed his finger at the congregation and, in no uncertain terms but in a completely honorable way, called us out. The sermon had been on the rapture and this gentleman declared that while he can't know for certain, only God can, that he very much doubted that the church would be empty should the rapture occur in that moment. He told us to humble ourselves at the altar (something our pastor had emphasized during the last worship song...and no one came forward), to get right with God, because someday it will be too late.

He didn't yell, he didn't thump a Bible, he wasn't passing judgment. In fact, the only reason he was pointing is because he was just so passionate about the salvation offered through Jesus Christ. And quite honestly, if we were all a little more passionate about that our worlds might change. Each one of us has our own little world peopled with friends, co-workers, neighbors, relatives, people we like, people who aggravate us, people in lines ahead and behind us, people who wait on us, people we wait on...and if we were truly passionate about salvation, those little worlds would start to change.

I think the old timers knew that. They lived and served out of their passion for Christ and that's why people like me sit here and write this blog. As this gentleman spoke, I sat up on stage behind my keyboard and my eyes started filling with tears. I was thanking God for giving our church a man brave enough and bold enough and passionate about God enough to speak the truth. And I went over the mental photographs in my mind of other old-timers that are bold enough to serve, to speak, to pray.

My grandmother's church used to be filled with these kinds of people. Perhaps that is an exaggeration but childhood memories are vague and the characters are often larger than life. But it seemed to me then that there were spiritual giants in that church. Not Rick Warren, Max Lucado, or Joel Olsteen giants. Humble, quiet giants. Giants that teach Sunday school every week, change diapers every week, teach little ones new songs about Jesus every week. Giants that make snacks for Vacation Bible School and fill in at a moment's notice. Giants that get down on their knees every single week, if not every single day, and pray for revival to begin and to begin there. Giants that send cards, make phone calls, and drop-in on the lonely and hurting. Giants that read their Bibles every morning and every evening, even when their aging eyes have to strain to see the words. Giants that feel about hymns the way I do about praise choruses. Giants that have done service unto the Lord that only He knows about.

My grandparents are such giants. My grandmother served outwardly--teaching Sunday school, always keeping a couple lessons in her back pocket that she could teach at a moment's notice, she formed choirs for children, teens, and ladies, she participated in the Ladies' Missionary Society, she made snacks and volunteered for Vacation Bible School, she could even fill in playing the piano on a Sunday morning. My grandfather served more privately. He reminds me of John Walton. Working hard, putting God and family first, giving generously both to the Lord and to those in need. Hard work, generosity, faithfulness. As far as I know he never once served in front of the congregation, but he was and is a servant of the Lord all the same. They've prayed together nearly every night since their marriage on September 27, 1939. They shared each other's burdens, and brought them together to the Lord.

Those of us that are blessed and honored enough to have known some of these spiritual giants should be taking notes. That generation based their lives on the Bible. My grandmother has entire chapters of the Bible memorized, and now that she struggles to be able to read her Bible, she misses it. There's an empty void in her day that used to be filled with scripture reading. She tries, and some days its easier than others, but her poor old eyes don't let her see the Words she's always leaned on. I fear that our generation, and especially the next, are Bible illiterate. We insist that it's too hard, we don't have the right translation, we don't have the time. Explain to me how women who had to pump their own water, make fires to cook, bake bread, churn butter, sew & mend their clothes, do all the washing (dishes, clothes, housework) by hand, had time to read their Bibles? Let alone serve in their church community.

Honestly, I think it's shameful that we hide behind our work or class schedules, our 'me time', our phones and computers and insist that we're too busy. What will happen when this aged generation dies? Who will lead? Who will speak truth? Who will know the truth? As that generation fades away, one by one, we need to pick up their legacy. They, after all, inherited it from the generation before them. Our faith, our traditions, our passion, our servitude has been passed on from one generation to the next for centuries. Let us not be the ones to throw it away out of ignorance, selfishness, or pride. It is hard sometimes to make it a priority--it was for them, too--and the Bible can be hard to read. But those are lousy excuses for not keeping the faith, and if this aging generation had just given up when they were busy or when it was hard...where would you be? I shudder to think where I would be without their humble serving and faithful guidance.

I write this as much for myself as anyone who might chance to read it. That is always the case with this blog. I must take time to lecture myself a bit, to dish out a bit of my own advice to take. I must train myself, with the Spirit's guidance and help, to be faithful to pray, to read my Bible and to serve the Lord. These are both the commandments of God and the legacy being left behind.

The Same But Different

Looking at the porch from inside the garage

When I enter their house it is always the same and always different. The paradoxical world of a grown up grandchild. The bathroom hasn't been remodelled since sometime in the 1970s. I amused myself wondering who would argue over inheriting the brown and orange seahorse that has been on the wall for four decades. The carpet is the same my whole life, the linoleum upstairs the same for my mom's whole life. Some things never change, and I think I'd be heart broken if they did. I love this old-fashioned house where it's always been simpler to just be.

This photo was taken over 10 years ago
but the house looks just the same.

They are the same as always and of course different. Time has marched on. Their beings more boiled down to the essence. I heard once that our personalities are like a big pot of soup and old people seem more themselves because all the broth as evaporated out. Maybe that's why some old ladies wait their whole lives to be feisty and outspoken. Maybe that's why some old men are said to have mellowed with age. But my old people (who are the youngest old people I'll ever know)...she's simply more sweet and he's simply more devoted. That twinkle in his eye is much twinklier, and the grace in her smile is even more graceful.

Sometimes I feel that the worst thing I ever did was grow up. I stopped being small and compulsive and creative and charming. I did that ghastly thing of settling down, and learning to measure words and affection in small doses. Somewhere along the timeline I started believing that now it was what I could do for them, rather than still seeing all they still do for me.

On Saturday she taught me how to make a pie crust, and my absolute assurance that I would screw it up, made her laugh and say

"You know that thing above your shoulders is your head,
it's okay to use it."

And she's the only dear soul on Earth who could get away with saying such a thing to me. Because she was speaking the root of my problem. I don't believe I can do it so I can't do it. She sees the intelligent, capable young woman I've become but I still hide in the helplessness of childhood. She wants me to be the young woman she contributed to raising.

I know they miss when I was little, but growing up wasn't, in fact, the worst thing I ever did. It was a gift. My grandparents are very old--they were 72 and 64 when I was born. Most people I know, their grandparents are only know reaching into their mid-70s. I don't know if they expected to see me graduate high school... graduate college...get married...and this autumn they got the news their first great-grandchild was born. This winter they got to hold her, and the best photos are of his 97 year old hands and her almost 90 year old hands holding her little month old hands. And if we hadn't grown up, my brother and I, they wouldn't have had these joys, these blessings from a gracious God.

I still wish every now and then I could be the small creative bookish pixie that used to flit around their house and yard seeing magic, making magic every where. But even though I'm big now, there's still room for my head on her shoulder as we watch TV and talk about our favorite person--my niece, her great-granddaughter, and what a miracle she is. This next generation, this breath of life in our old family. She laughs and says,

"We needed some new blood in the family."

One of my favorite things in the attic-
an old pump organ.

The house is the same but different. Same furniture (mostly), the surfaces a bit more cluttered with gifts and knick knacks and other notions. The attic, always my favorite treasure trove, stuffed full. We wonder what we'll do with everything when they're gone. There's just so much stuff, we all say over and over. But I don't want to think about when they're gone. We've been planning for that my entire life. Truly. And here they are, able to give us far more 'stuff' from their hearts than we'll ever take from their house--if we pay attention to the gifts.

I love them differently that I love anyone else on earth, and it will always be that way. My heart has a special room, an attic room perhaps--which for most folks would be insulting but for them seems just right as a favorite place--that no one else will ever abide in. A room furnished with the gifts I'll take from them--devotion to God, devotion to family, laughter, grace, whimsy, ingenuity, smarts, and always and everywhere love.

My Grammy and PapPap. Such childish names, I can tell some people think, when I call them that. But they've never been Grandma and Grandpa, they were entirely different people in my life. I get indignant when people call her my Grandma...she's my Grammy. Always and forever my Grammy and PapPap. In the novel I've been writing for nearly a decade now, a character is raised by his grandparents and although he is a thirty-year old man he still calls them Grammy and PapPap. Like my brother, like me. Not childish names, affectionate names...their only names as far as I'm concerned.

They are the same but different. Still in love with each other but their love is different--it's somehow more pure having been refined by 72 years of marriage and sickness and trials. They love me the same but different--they love me as they always have, unconditionally and deeply--but with a love that has learned to let go and let the pixie-child become a woman. And they love God as they always have, steadily, faithfully, but I think they are closer to Heaven now more than ever. He's drawn near to them in these twilight years, as we call them. But God sees them not as twilight but as a the pre-dawn to the Life that awaits. He sees them the same but different. He's been with them for a lifetime of miracles and blessings. He loves them even more than I do, if I can imagine such a love.

Going home, it's what we call it. Even though my address has never been theirs (which has changed several times despite the fact they haven't moved houses in over 65 years), their house is my home. And every time I go home it hits me, the house is the same as it always was, but it feels a little smaller, a little fuller, a little different but maybe I'm just bigger. And when I lean in to kiss their soft weathered cheeks, I realize they are the same as always and maybe I'm the one who is different.