The chair Mom rocked me in when I was a baby, and when I wasn’t ready for her to stop.
The chair from which Grandma would flash that playful grin at me, holding out the adorable ceramic kitten she would let me hold, as long as I was in her lap. (That kitten is now mine.)
Decorative pillows Deanna brought home from Nepal for me that now enjoy both my mom’s and my grandma’s touch.
The Tiffany-style lamp Dad turned from gas to electric, and that now throws rainbows across my floor and onto my walls
and that sits atop the chess table he made and the box that holds the wooden chess pieces.
The African violets started by my father-in-law. They received the best upbringing, as he stroked and spoke to them.
Large windows that let in sun’s cheer, even as the scenes change outside them. Visitors that grace those scenes …
colorful, talkative birds; various kinds of squirrels; chipmunks; deer; delivery trucks that had halted during the pandemic;
moms and dads and grandparents pushing strollers or walking dogs; children riding bikes; the love of my life cleaning the gutters before tonight’s expected storm.
Bring Something to Share (Sing along!) Disclaimer: Just for fun. Not my family.😉 )
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: All our hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Two party lines Most with hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Three basted birds Two party lines Many hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines Many hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us:
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines Some with hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines Some with hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Seven women cleaning Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines And still hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Eight tipsy members Seven women cleaning Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines Fewer hearts filled with thanks to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Nine knock-down-drag-outs Eight tipsy members Seven women cleaning Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines And some hearts wondering, why are we here?
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Ten football rivals Nine knock-down-drag-outs Eight tipsy members Seven women cleaning Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines And more hearts wondering, why are we here?
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Eleven players playing Ten football rivals Nine knock-down-drag-outs Eight tipsy members Seven women cleaning Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines And the kids’ hearts all glad to be here.
On this day of Thanksgiving, our fam’ly brought with us: Twelve-midnight snacking Eleven players playing Ten football rivals Nine knock-down-drag-outs Eight tipsy members Seven women cleaning Six guys on sofas
Five Biased Spats
Four kinds of carbs Three basted birds Two party lines
We were all so close, growing up. And not that we didn’t remain so, but, you know, life. But now, we’ve made one another a priority. We have monthly lunches, and in-between coffees that last three hours and feed our souls. We laugh. Reminisce. Talk current events. Encourage one another. Speak truth in love as needed. Share one another’s lives. Fill gaps.
Mondays On Mondays we enjoy a meal with family, and it’s ideal – even when the food ain’t great that sits there smirking on our plate. The love we share is the appeal.
Tuesdays Tuesday mornings I’m content immersed in weekly blessed event of breakfast with each granddaughter. Our one-on-one constructs a cotter, bonding hearts in time well spent.
Thursdays My school-year Thursdays are the chance to teach my heart the steps to dance with women I would not have known, and through whose cultures I have grown. Their love is huge. My life, enhanced.
Fridays Each final Friday, there’s a date for cousin’s lunch, and I can’t wait. We’ll keep it up year after year, won’t let whatever interfere. It keeps us bonded, and that’s great!
Saturdays Any college football day tends to chase my blues away. (Except for a specific blue: that one with maize that passes through.) Love my scarlet and my gray!
Sundays Sunday mornings spent in church singing, praising, heartfelt search through all the evidence of God who we can know, and see, and laud. (Sometimes Keith’s out catching perch. 😉)
Days unnamed, not unembraced, leave ample time to just be graced with quiet time to read or rhyme, or stuff that’s hard, but must be faced.
Our hearts were lit the moment you were born. This blue-eyed chubby cherub, ours to hold. It seemed you brought with you a love well worn; If you could speak, the stories you’d have told.
Your toddler legs gave movement toward your dreams. But no, not near enough for your designs. You needed flight to capture those moonbeams, And wishes aren’t contained by boundary lines!
In thirteen years, you’ve hardly changed a bit: You’re soft of heart, while strong of mind and drive. You’re beautiful. You can’t contain your wit. It’s our delight to watch you grow and thrive.
We see inside those laughing eyes of blue, Intelligence and warmth reside in you.
Seated in my comfortable chair across from my adorned and glowing Christmas tree, there is a sweet hush to my home. Most of my shopping is done. I’m planning a small Christmas Eve gathering with family I was born into, and new-found loves who may not speak English well, but speak love fluently.
Yesterday morning, sweet, colorful cookies were trayed and displayed. Many came to make purchases for this season’s celebrations. The money, not enough to cover the costs of war. The sweet aromas, not enough to cover the stench of death in the nostrils of those who were able to escape, let alone waft to where unwarranted revulsion continues to slaughter and steal.
I relax, plan, shop, decorate, and enjoy these sweet friends I never would have known, if not for their unfathomable plight. And I beg forgiveness for too easily shoving aside the tempest that wells within – for my inability to calm the one they live with every waking moment.
Walking up my street, I see a man walking toward me. Aww. Looks like Grandpa, I think, knowing it couldn’t be. As we get closer, there is no mistaking. Yes, it is Grandpa. I don’t want to wake up, and miss out. He approaches me. “Grandpa!” He gives me a hug. As is nearly always the case when I dream of the dead, all senses are engaged.
“Grandpa, what are you doing here?” He says he came to tell me not to worry about circumstances that were consuming me. Everything would be just fine.
Then he says, “You know I can’t stay.” Yes, of course. I just don’t want to lose him again so quickly.
“But I will come back,” he assures. He hugs me again, and, just that quick, he’s gone.
My long, detailed dream continues. It seems to last a good portion of the night.
Suddenly, there he is again. This time, he doesn’t speak. His silence stills me, while it declares a grand reassurance.
I wake from the dream, recognizing it hadn’t been merely a dream.
And I smile. When he said he would return, I hadn’t realized he meant that quickly. That night. That dream.
there are things my brain knows, but doesn’t tell me.
Or maybe there is a disconnect between this side of my brain and the other side.
Like years ago when I helped a friend bake potato chip cookies to take to my cousin later that night. Somewhere, my brain knew he was getting work training on the other side of the country. But not the part of my brain helping my friend bake. That part might as well have been with my cousin on the other side of the country.
Or that time in the shower an hour ago when I was thinking about hosting Christmas Eve, praying the weather holds out and guests are safe in travel. Praying for these guests that are my family – my daughter and her family my cousins and their grown kids and their little children
and the sudden slap of that’s all.
No grandparents. No aunts and uncles. No parents.
Now, that’s us.
My brain knows this. It intimately knows this information that it didn’t share with me until the shower started searching for tears.
pictured words 