Cecelia

I spoke on the phone with my Grandpa yesterday. He had just returned from his old neighborhood after delivering a birthday card to a former neighbor who was turning 80. He also stopped in to say hello to Mrs Marita Greever; the lady catty-corner from their old house. They've known each other since the early 1990's, and with Marita being an elderly widow, Grandpa started taking her trash out to the curb and back every week. From the time I was 8 or 9 years old, every visit to Grandma and Grandpa's would inevitably include a Mrs. Greever update. My favorite story is from the time she went to her Dr. complaining of back trouble, and got a stern reprimand when the Dr. found out she'd been flipping her king sized mattress solo. This is when she was a spry thing in her 80's. Mrs. Greever is a bit of an anomaly to me, because for as much as I know about her after decades of stories, I've never once met her. She's been like Norm's wife on Cheers who is always discussed but never shown. Mrs. Greever is now 102 and will likely outlive us all.

Grandpa told me that after his visit with her, he looked across the street to their old house. It had recently been placed on the market; the current owners having only lived there for two years since my grandparent's moved into a retirement community. He said there was a sign in the yard that said "Open House", and while he was tempted, he just couldn't bring himself to go in. Too many memories. After our phone call, I was curious to see what could have changed in two years, so looked the house up online.

Sometimes for kicks, I like to peruse realty websites to look at houses to see whats available in different areas. (Side note: When your parents enjoyed flipping houses, and your childhood included moving over 10 times, you'll understand the deep-seated appreciation for real estate.) What began as a fun curiosity took a sharp turn into a flood of memories with the initial click on the very first photo. This wasn't just another 3/2 with so much square footage. The images that came up gave me pause and squeezed my heart. Tears began to well up as I noticed the concrete statue of a little girl holding a bird's nest near the entrance of the house. Grandma saw the statue at some fair or gardening show and had to have "Cecelia"; which was the name etched into the back of the statue. Cecelia is an old friend who's been greeting guests for well over 15 years, and I hadn't expected to see her sweet face, welcoming me once more.

The next picture of the entryway would seem simple enough to anyone perusing the photos. But to me, my mind flashed back to when Grandpa installed the wood entry floor, and remembering the front door stopper that had to keep being put back in place. The light fixture in the dining room sent me back to countless delicious meals, family dinners, and holiday feasts consumed under it's glow. In the pictures that followed, I could still envision all of the furniture just as it was such a short time ago. It made me realize that for all the moving I had done as a child, Grandma and Grandpa's home was a fixture for my growing up years. It was one place I could always go back to; the one place that didn't change.

My girls soon asked about my sniffling over the laptop, so I took on the role of tour guide as I regaled them with stories of the stuffed Santa with the creepy face that Grandma would put in the front window at Christmas time. I pointed out how the new owners had kept the painting on the wall of the vegetables Grandma had painted above the breakfast nook. I praised the massive Oklahoma-stone wall of a hearth that Grandma had white-washed to brighten the room. A cast iron dog used to guard the seat on the fireplace, and there had been a Bose cd player where Grandma would listen to classical music; which is likely the seed that grew my love for Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff, and Vince Guaraldi.

I told the girls that when Olivia was 1 month old, Andrew took me on a surprise trip up to see my Grandparents. Grandma insisted that we have their bedroom; so I wouldn't have to go up and down the stairs with the baby. We made a soft palate of quilts (hand stitched by her ancestors, of course) on the floor for Olivia near a dresser with tall, elegant legs. On our first full day there, I laid Olivia down for her nap, then not long after, heard crying and went to comfort her. I entered the room to find the palate of blankets entirely empty, but still heard loud crying coming from somewhere. For a moment I panicked as to where my girl could have gone, until I realized she had rolled underneath the dresser! Olivia and Emma giggled as I told them that when baby Olivia finally calmed down, she relaxed her hands to reveal she'd been clutching dust bunnies she'd grabbed under the dresser.

Every picture of every room brought back memory upon memory. The sewing room reminded me of various sewing and yarn projects, the kitchen of innumerable meals that'd been made; such beautiful recollections. I was reminded of some hard times, too. It was in that house I shed a few angsty preteen tears over a boy who didn't like me back. It was also there that I wept as an 18 year old girl, fresh from working at a camp in Colorado, learning that a beloved camp friend had suddenly gone to be with Jesus. That house was a home for so many of my memories. Maybe it holds more nostalgia that my Grandma is now with the Lord, but I treasure it all up.

After looking at that dear home on Martin Circle, I feel a sense of loss. The memories are bittersweet because I miss my Grandma, and because the new people living there will never know all the good and beautiful times shared between those walls. It's almost like magic for a moment to be held in a place, and then to be remembered so many years later. I'm understanding why telling stories from the past becomes so vastly important to people as they get older. They remember and share because it keeps the memories of the places and people they've loved alive; even beyond the grave.

Shutting the laptop, I began to see our own home with fresh eyes and wonder. Many families have lived here before us. There was the elderly couple who moved the original part of the house onto the property in the 60's, then one of their relatives who later put in a pool to make his city wife happy. She divorced him anyway. I'm grateful to the family who put on the addition of the bigger kitchen and living room in the 70's. This turned the old kitchen into a laundry room, where the sink and cabinets and vintage hardware still reside. I sometimes wonder about the lady who washed all of her dishes in that big porcelain sink. If these walls could talk...

We've lived in this house for over 6 years now. It's the longest Andrew and I have ever lived anywhere. We've often noted how our high tally of individual moves before marriage grew in us a united desire to put down roots. We're grateful that as least two of our girls have only ever known this house as home. It makes me think, too, of the good times we've had here. There was the 4th of July we climbed up on the roof to watch the fireworks, the incalculable mornings and evenings spent at the pool with family and friends, and the many gardens that have been poured into and given back bounteously. I can still envision the placement of the fencing now removed that once accommodated a pig named Pig. There is still a slight wallow he left in the ground if you know where to look. I recall one bitterly cold day with Andrew holding tightly to my hand as we walk-slid across a thick sheet of ice, formerly recognized as our driveway, on our way to the hospital to have Emma. As well as the warm fire that welcomed us home the next day.

In all of these and many other recollections, both bitter and sweet, I find in myself the deep and beautiful ache of knowing a place. In many ways it feels like it knows me back. It's a kind of symbiotic relationship. It holds our stories, and we in turn care for it, and have made it the place we call home. I can't fathom how beautiful Home will be on the other side of this earth. And I can't help but wonder what stories will be told, what memories will be shared, and if there might be a little girl named Cecelia waiting there to greet me.

Musings on Flowers and the Flu

March has been a doozy of a month for me and my crew. The beginning of the end appropriately seemed to start with Lent on March 6th. For some reason, I held a somewhat romantic view about starting a period of piety. Ironically (or, I prefer divinely), the time set for self examination and to remember our human frailty would flesh itself out more deeply that I could have known in the days that would follow.

The 7th was the 1st anniversary of my lovely grandmother's graduation to heaven. As I've worked in my garden, I can't help but think about all the plants she grew, what she'd say about certain flowers or shrubs, and how she'd snicker when she offered the uncharacteristically unrefined advice that "You can cut the crap out of crepe myrtles and they'll still be fine". Lately, I've been having fairly frequent dreams about her garden. I walk up the stone steps to the upper part of the lawn to find bright gladiolus in full bloom. There are roses smothering the trellis, the wild purple of echinaceas near the fence, moss creeping between the cracks in the rock wall, and the cat warming itself atop a concrete statue of a pig. It was reality, but is now left to memory and vivid dreams; the kind that make me want to fall asleep again fast to try and pick up where I left off.

The next anniversary was the 16th, which for the past 3 years has left an ache in my heart, as it's when our twins were due. Of all the babies we've been parted with, I carried them the longest, which I think is why they have such a special place in my heart. I guess March will always stir up feelings in some way or another. I miss them all; the treasured memories with my Grandma who was, as well missing our babies and all the what-could-have-beens.

If these remembrances hadn't been weighty enough to bring my heart low, we have been allowed a 3 week portion of time that included ear infections, an intimate dance with the flu, followed by coughs, and now colds. It wasn't until Andrew started throwing up a week after the girls and I had it, that I felt like the joke had finally worn itself out. Similar to a storm, and not knowing exactly how bad it is until it's passed, now that the clouds are parting, I feel like I'm gaining some insight on what we've weathered. Moreover, insight on what the Lord may want me to learn from this marathon of morbidity.

I entered the Lenten season with the desire to remember my frailty, to be positioned low; to appreciate Christ and the joy of His resurrection all the more as Easter approaches. Yet, when the barf hit the bucket, and only a week in I was ready to order balloons for my pity party, I see that perhaps my heart was in need of some repositioning. It turns out that prolonged union with the toilet can have a powerful effect on bending knees and opening dimmed eyes. The loads of laundry and clothing covered in sick, the ache of my arms barely able to lift the baby, the search for medicine in the middle of the night, and sheer Groundhog's day feeling of it all really drove in that Lenten essence of self examination and lowliness.

Last night as I lay in bed thinking over the last 3 weeks of sickness, the word "Resurrection" came to mind. It shocked me for that word to jump out, but after what has felt like various deaths we've been dying, I am in a fresh and desperate position to crave new life. It hit me today as I surveyed my garden plot that the seeds I put into the earth must die for the plants to grow. They give up their lives as seeds forever for something greater to emerge and take root. Their death leads to life. This is a paradox of scripture that I'm certain I will never get over.

As I sit here amongst the piles of tissues and medicine bottles that appear to have claimed permeant residence on our kitchen countertops, I am hoping beyond hope that these colds will be the last of our ailments. But, if they're not, I'll see it as further providential proof of my being sown deeper into the soil, reminded of the life I must lay down, in need of resurrection. And perhaps as in my dreams, at the appropriate time, maybe I'll emerge and grow into something brilliant like the roses or gladiolus in my Grandmother's garden.