Life's Weaving

My grandparents. They were adorable. Inseparable.

I always loved to hear the story about how they met. It was a timeless classic that proved that irresponsible, irrational attraction can grow into love. And more than anything, it was proof to me, that true love lasts more than a lifetime, in fact, it lasts far beyond it.

They both came from humble beginnings. They never knew wealth. And they never really cared. They knew what made a person truly rich, and that, they both had. 

He was in the army. To this day, one of the most stout men I have ever seen. He is strong in every sense of the word. He had that German look to him. Tall, strong, confident. Until the army he had never been outside of Beckville, Texas. All he knew growing up was working in the cotton field for a few cents a day. The war was something new to him, something real and life changing. It made him realize what was important in life. It made him want to love.

She was living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. With big bright eyes and long brown hair, she was watching her parents fall in love with America. Italy was all they had known. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it what you want, but on that one perfect day she decided to go to the park in Pittsburgh with a couple of her girlfriends. Her life would never be the same.

The soldiers pulled up on a bus, coming through that town, and they all gazed out of the windows at the people enjoying themselves in the park.

That is when he saw her.

She had her bluejeans rolled up and she was barefoot. She laughed, she ran, she had the most beautiful spirit he had ever seen. So he decided to get off the bus.

Without nerves, without fears, he walked right up to her and asked her where her shoes were. After minutes of talking and laughing with each other, they knew. He asked her - "are you coming to Texas with me, or not?" They joke that he never really asked her to marry him, but when she finally grabbed her shoes and headed home to pack... he counts that as a yes.

Both of my grandparents passed away in the last couple of years but today would have been their 68th wedding anniversary. And I miss them both more than I could ever explain on some silly blog. 

Super C's First Birthday Party

This past weekend we threw a superhero birthday party for our son who will turn one tomorrow. I can't believe how fast time flies. Here are some pictures from the party. It was a blast! 

We love you, Super C! 

Revealed.

I remember what Sunday mornings used to be like. Before I spent them in the nursery, wrestling what feels like a twenty pound bag of snakes. Sweating. Rolling my eyes at myself because I just had to wear this dress and it sure doesn't make it easy for me to move nor is it comfortable in the least bit. Before I had my hair pulled constantly and my bracelets ripped off, fighting a sleepy child.

Before these days, I sat comfortably in my pew. Bible in my lap, maybe a notepad out to take some notes. My husband's arm around me, listening attentively with absolute peace of mind.

I look in front of us now, on most Sunday mornings, before I leave to head to the nursery to listen to the sermon in there - because my child won't stop squealing or babbling or crying or screaming or just trying to flirt with the pretty girls that sit behind us, distracting everyone in plain view. I juggle the books, toys, snacks, and anything and everything else within arms reach I can use to distract him, but nothing works. I see the young couples in the rows, pointing out things to each other in their Bibles, cuddled close together with the husband's arm around the wife, calmness on their faces. That used to be us, I tell myself, as I stand up with my son in my arms, look down at our train wreck of a pew, the lonesome gap between my husband and I, grab my bag and let out a big huff of breath to display my discouragement. 

It is one of those inevitable moments where I feel like I wasn't cut out for this mother stuff.

And then, once we get into the nursery, something in that moment is revealed to me.

I finally get him calmed down, tuck his little arm under mine, and begin to rock him slowly. The room is quiet and still. We stare at the mint green wall with the beautifully painted tree. And I see his head lift up to look me in the eyes. Over the speaker the preacher talks of being aware of our treasures. And at that moment, I am. He snuggles up closer to me, and I can feel his head relax on my bicep, eyelids having trouble staying opened. The way the light hits his skin makes it shimmer, almost like there is gold in it. He falls asleep with a little bit of a smile on his face. I wanted to be in there, with them.... but he, he is right where he wanted to be. And it is revealed to me, that as exhausting as motherhood is sometimes, and as much as it has changed the routine I've been so comfortable with, I can't imagine being like those couples in the pew again. I can't imagine not looking over at my husband and chuckling when a big burp comes out of such a little body. I can't imagine little arms not flailing in front of me as we sing our hymns. I can't imagine not seeing a little finger tracing the shapes in the books we pull out with hesitation.

And I can't, as much as I could try, imagine a Sunday morning ... with empty arms.

Being a mother has revealed to me that as much as I loved the honeymoon phase, this chapter of our lives is far better and I could never imagine life again, without my little shadow.

He's a little wobbly now. I watch his chubby thighs squat as he figures out a way to get down from the object he just pulled up on. Just three weeks ago he was learning to crawl. Today, he is standing while holding on to things and taking steps to get closer. He changed so quickly from the quiet little baby that we carried around to the child that illuminates every room we bring him into. 

If someone could tell me how to stop this clock, and just be allowed to sit here, in this day I've spent with my son until I feel I've soaked up enough of it, I'd give anything. If I could stop the sun from setting, just for one day, just for a little while, until I felt enough sugars on my lips, saw enough smiles, and heard enough laughter to have it memorized in my soul, I can assure you, I would. But that's not what a sun is for. It's for counting our days. For reminding us that we have only a short amount of time to fill them with as much significance and joy as we can.

I often find myself staring at him when he doesn't know I'm watching, just playing with his toys and jabbering to himself. He always focuses so intently on everything he wants to play with. Sometimes I wonder if he'll one day be an architect. No matter what type of fun or colorful toy he touches, he is always inquisitive about how it is assembled. Such a promising little mind that I am helping shape and mold. And as I watch him, I feel an overwhelming sense of  happiness to know that he is a part of me. But with the happiness always comes a little bit of sadness when I remember that I will only be given one of these moments, just like this.

And I can never get it back.   

Being a mother has revealed to me that life flies by entirely too fast and as much as I ache to, I can't slow down a single day, or a single moment, of this beautiful journey.

Last week, I traveled back to where I grew up for a day in order to help my mom get some of my grandmother's things in order. I sat there with her, looking through old photo albums, watching her face light up when she saw one of my brother and me years ago. They were faded, partly because of the quality of cameras back then, but mostly because they had been in the book, behind the cover, for almost 30 years. But what isn't faded, are my memories of my childhood with my mother.

Two things I would never be able to separate in my mind are music and my childhood. I can still see her, in her lightly washed flare leg bluejeans with big vertical pockets, dancing to Gary Morris songs on our living room floor. She always encouraged us to dance with her, and so we would get up from whatever had our attention at the time, grab her hands and start moving. I have no doubt in my mind that it brought my mother so much joy to share those moments with us. If I had only known then that she was probably wishing to freeze that moment, I would have made it last so much longer. For her. I wouldn't have raced back to my barbies or my play "school". I would have held her hands and danced with her there until she let go. I would have stretched it out as long as I could. For her.

 For me.

I had no idea how much my mother loved me. It wasn't hard to guess. She has always been nothing but selfless for me and my brother. She has always given anything and everything to ensure our safety and happiness. I was pretty sure I could imagine just how much she probably loved me as I got older, but I could never really understand until I had my son. And now I know.

She had it much harder than I do. She didn't have the Internet to google questions about baby foods or sleep patterns. She didn't have Pinterest to show her how to make homemade wipes or a Halloween costume. She learned as she went along and she did such an amazing job. I see a lot of her in myself. I say words to my son that I haven't heard in years, words that she used to say to us. I catch myself using the same looks and turning on the same music for us to dance to in the morning.

I couldn't make time stop for my mother. And I sure can't make it stop for me.

But if my children grow up, and look back on their childhood with affection and tenderness, and think that I have done even half the job with them that my mother did with us, I will be satisfied.

  

Being a mother has revealed to me what a wonderful mom I am blessed to have.

 

  Motherhood is so much harder than I ever imagined it would be. It is long sleepless nights and half eaten dinners. It is chasing around a speedy crawler and full hands and fumbling keys on the way to the car. It's even Sunday mornings in the nursery. And I'm only ten months in.

But I wouldn't trade a second of it, not for anything in the world. It reveals something new to me every day. Something about who I am, who God is, and what a blessing I've been given in my son. All I can do when I'm having one of those days where I'm feeling as though maybe I'm not cut out for this mother stuff, is to be aware of my treasures. Be conscious that this is the best we get in life. These are some of my happiest days. Even worn out, when I lay my head on the pillow at night and think back on all I've done with my son that day and all that has made me laugh and smile, it was worth it. And I can't slow the days down, not a bit. But I can make sure I use them up. And show him how much I love him every opportunity I get. Just like my mother did for me.

Her Story Told.

Theresa Carmella Mollise` Zorn

"Tess"

A memory that will linger in my mind forever, is that of my grandmother's voice saying "Hidey!" whenever we entered her home. She was always so happy to see us.

Driving home from the hospital on Saturday, I couldn't help but think of regrets. As we all do, when someone we love dies, we search our memory for things we might have left undone, unsaid, that we wish we could go back and change. Did we see this person as much as we would have liked before they left us? Did we get to say I love you and goodbye?

Fortunately for me, I got to do those things.

We lived through the woods from my grandmother. I guess that old song - Over the River and Through the Woods to Grandmother's House we go - would apply to me. She was always right there. It wouldn't be much of an exaggeration to say that I saw her every day for 18 years of my life. Not only was I named after her, but I was, as she used to say, the joy of her heart.

She was with us every Holiday. Every time I had a birthday, she was there. And every time she had one, we were with her. I have wonderful memories of hunting Easter eggs at her house, and Christmas mornings with her in our living room, playing with our toys. Every year we sang The Twelve Days of Christmas as a family, and every time it got to my grandmother, even though I think she always knew in the back of her mind what came next, she would always pretend like she had forgotten and say something absolutely silly like -" Seven ..... people ..... waving", just to make us all laugh. Those are precious memories that will never leave my heart.

No, I don't regret the time I spent with my grandmother. It was plentiful and meaningful.

And I don't regret how she left us. We were all gathered around her hospital bed, so she would not feel alone. Someone on each side holding her hand. I got to tell my grandmother that I loved her, and goodbye. I got to "rub noses" with her, which she always loved to do to me for as long as I can remember. At one point, when everyone left the room to speak with the doctor, I got very close to her face and sang Amazing Grace to her as I rubbed her hair. She couldn't respond, but I know she could hear me. And I held her hand, praying, as she took her final breath.

In that very moment I thought of a video that I watched just weeks prior. A video about the first breath we take when we are born, and the last one we take when we die. And the man in the video explains that the name of God in Hebrew is YHWH which we pronounce "Yahweh". This man says that these letters were more like the sound of breathing. And that every breath we take, we breathe the name of God. And I stood there with my grandmother as she breathed the name of God one last time before her soul could have some rest. This thought was so comforting.

No, I didn't have any regrets about how I got to say goodbye to my grandmother.

But as the drive seemed to carry on and on, I started to wonder about how well I knew Theresa Zorn. Not Theresa Zorn the grandmother, but Theresa Zorn the person.

That was my regret.

As children all we can see is the role that family members play in our lives. We don't quite understand that we are characters in their lives, as well. That they were someone long before we, their grandchildren, came along and even before their children. Then, when we become adults, life gets too "busy" to ask questions about the past and to listen to stories of people and places we have never known. I wished at that moment that I would have gotten to know my grandmother. To REALLY know her, .... what she loved, what made her happy. What gave her joy.

And then I realized....

I already knew.

" So I'll put my fingers in this soil upon her grave
And I will plant for her a garden
And every flower, a reminder of her face
Will grow up graceful as a pardon

And all that grows is her story told
As life unfolds here before us
The peace we've found in this broken ground 
I can see her in the harvest...of all that I have sown "

The Empty Space in My Yard ...

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer.

I imagined myself standing on a stage, with a huge audience. The spot light shining directly into my eyes so that I could not see any of the faces. They all looked like shadows. And I would dance to the most beautiful music I had ever heard.

I dreamed of traveling the world and becoming famous.

This is what I wanted my life to be.

Tonight, I walked around my neighborhood for the first time since we moved there almost 3 years ago.

It was getting late, so the sun was setting. The temperature was cool. Because this is July 4th weekend, many of the houses had American flags blowing out in front.

And as I walked by, I saw children playing in the sprinklers. I saw dads out mowing the lawn. And mothers watering their flowers in the front yard would smile and wave as I walked by. People were sitting out on porch swings, and I could hear the laughter of children as they played with their puppies or chased each other down on bicycles.

And as I came around the last corner of my neighborhood, and got close enough to see my house... I looked ahead and saw an empty spot in my yard.

And in that spot, I imagined me and Adam standing there, watching our children as they played in the sprinkler, smiling and laughing.

And as I got up to the front door, and walked over our door mat that reads Bless This Home, I thought of my dream of becoming a dancer.

You know, there are some people who have big plans for their lives. They want to tour the country, sign autographs, and be invited on talk shows. They want their name in lights and their star on the sidewalk in Hollywood.

They would never dream of living a life with a white picket fence. They don't want the boring Friday nights in the front yard. To have to cook dinner for their husband when he gets home from work. To go to bed early on Saturday night, so they can get up early and go to Church on Sunday morning. They won't have time to read their children bedtime stories, or bake a birthday cake with their kids. And they are ok with that life. Working. Autographs. Dinner Parties with all of the in crowd.

But as I walked back into my house tonight and shut the door behind me...

I remembered that empty space in my yard. Where my little family will one day play on a Friday night. And that will be the highlight of my week.

And I THANK MY GOD that I chose this life.

Dancing With My Dad ....