10 STOCKINGS

Christmas in America is about a lot of things but the American population puts a lot of effort into gift giving. I cannot lie, I love giving gifts – at least in the beginning. I really enjoy thinking about what will make people happy. I get excited when I see something that someone will like. And then, the closer Christmas parties become, the more I realize who we forgot. And that pressure makes me suddenly not like gift giving.

When I got married we spoke the traditional vows: for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. No one in attendance heard the secret vow that stated that once we said “I do,” I became responsible for all gifts and cards, even for signing Paul’s name on his behalf so that he had zero input.

A few months ago we were sitting on the red leather loveseat in PNG and he detected a birthday notification on his Google Calendar. “Already done,” I said. The gifts were purchased and shipped to the house more than a week ago.” He let out a huge relief sigh.

Alexis thinks this is hilarious. She was trying to get our input on group gifts. When she first texted Paul, he replied that she should talk to me. When I agreed, she told me the total price, and then I replied that I would verify the number with Paul.

“Lol omg…” she wrote. “Paul says you’re in charge of all of the gifts but he’s in charge of paying for them? Hahahaha.”

We celebrate two family birthdays in September, six in October, three in November and two in December, so by the time Christmas comes along, we are buying almost everyone another gift. And there are people for whom we provide Christmas gifts but not birthday gifts. And there are multiple parties. And I start realizing who will be at these parties, and how we might not have gifts for those people. And that is the point when Christmas burnout comes in and the joy of gift giving turns into pressure to present acceptable gifts so that no one gets left out. Where are my people?

Once the gift selection process is done, I hold a wrapping party, and by party I mean I take over a room, spread around several kinds of wrapping paper, ribbons and bows, scissors and tape, gift tags and a suitable pen or marker and sit myself in between the wrapping supplies and the gifts that need to be wrapped. I have noise in the background, generally something on the television to which I need not actually tune in, and I wrap as many as I can in one sitting. Then I take a break and dive back in later.

When the wrapping is done and the gifts are organized under the tree (yes, I do that), then I relax and find joy in all that is done. And then the real joy (and sometimes a little nervousness) abounds when the gift receiver is presented with the gift.

I don’t know if this happens every year but it definitely happened this year, and I feel like there are people who can relate.

This Christmas I was able to experience my own joy not in the gifts that I received but in the way the gifts were presented to me. When I was first asked what I wanted for Christmas, I had just finished easing Gran into assisted living. My mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I replied, “I don’t want to take anything back with me and any money I get I will want to put into Gran’s bank account, so I don’t really know.”

Then I got to thinking. People were going to keep asking and I couldn’t have a depressed expression on my face when the word “nothing” would not be accepted. The next time someone asked, I had one gift idea ready: “A stocking!” I replied. Apparently 30 is the year when the stockings and Easter baskets stop. No one told me this; they all just stopped. No baskets at Easter; no stockings at Christmas. Why? I have no idea.

Was I suddenly too old? I think not. Are the parents too old? Again, no. Too expensive? Don’t even try. Stockings are cheap and so are the candies that fill them. Lack of creativity? Even J.Crew had stocking stuffers out on tables this year.

Whatever the reason, I didn’t get a stocking last year. So this year, whenever anyone asked what I wanted this year, I said, “a stocking.”

Saturday night at Christmas Number One, Paul’s dad handed over a stocking. I was utterly surprised and ecstatically excited. Sunday morning at Christmas Number Two I came downstairs and saw the fireplace adorned with one large gift bag, two normal stockings and one giant stocking that stretched to the floor. I may have gone over to them and squished them a little. There were no names so I wasn’t sure which was mine but that didn’t stop me from touching them. No one else was around to stop me. Or judge me.

I sat back in the chair and fidgeted for a few minutes before texting Paul who was awake in bed. “What are you doing it’s stocking time,” I said. A minute later he was downstairs trying to get me to calm down.

“In my family, we wake up and dive into stockings. This is how it’s supposed to work. Is this not the way you do things in your family?” Yes, I sounded like I was 5. No, I didn’t care.

The short story is that Paul made me wait. I wasn’t allowed to dive in just yet. First, everyone else had to wake up. We needed five more people to come to the main floor. Once we were all assembled into the Greek room in front of the tree, presents could be passed and we could watch everyone open their gifts.

Instead of wrapped packages adorned with bows and fancy ribbons, I seemed to attract a pile of…stockings! They just kept coming! One by one the stockings were taken from the fireplace and placed at my feet! Instead of unwrapping boxes, I dug through candy to find gifts, some of them still wrapped.

By the end of the day I had nine stockings in my collection: small, medium-sized, giant, striped, embroidered, camouflaged, zebra print. It was a Christmas miracle! My mom, who hosted us Christmas Eve, also chipped in on the game, handing my stocking number 10! Best. Christmas. Presentation. Ever.

I happen to think this was a genius idea. Stockings create fun and excited emotions and I feel it is much easier to dump candy and stuff prizes in stockings in lieu of buying wrapping paper, measuring, cutting, fitting, realizing the paper is a centimeter too short, measuring again, fitting, taping, folding, taping, ribboning and placing on bows that don’t actually stick. Now, I will continue to do that for everyone else next year but for me, I like the stockings…even if Paul added some coal to the one he gave me.

SIX CHRISTMASES

For the first time in three years, Paul and I were able to be with our families for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. We feel blessed to have the opportunity to spend two holidays with parents and three holidays – including the upcoming New Year’s Eve celebrations – with siblings.

As we age, however, I am noticing that it is becoming harder to spend time with all of my family and all of Paul’s family all at the same time. Holidays for members of broken families, in my experience, end up two ways: either I attend one family gathering and miss the other or multiple family gatherings are scheduled over numerous days, which is nice but also time consuming.

Thanksgiving was played like the former; I attended my family’s Thanksgiving and Paul attended his family’s Thanksgiving; we did not spend time with each other’s family. Christmas was a bit much. We just hopped into bed after attending our sixth family Christmas within eight days.

Some say the true meaning of Christmas can get lost in all of the hustle, bustle and shuffle, but what exactly is the true meaning of Christmas? If it’s taking time to celebrate Christ’s birth and life, thanking God for His sacrifice, then we certainly made time for that. If the meaning of Christmas is dedicating a portion of our own successes to those who need it a little more than we do, then, yes, we did that. If Christmas is all about spending time with family and friends, we did that… a lot.

Don’t get me wrong – I love hanging out with family and friends and I love holiday parties. But six is a lot and I am not sure I want to have that many again.

Wouldn’t it be great if everyone liked each other well enough that we could just have one big Christmas celebration with everyone? Well, at least it’s a thought.

Our first Christmas was spent with Paul’s dad, sister, brother and his now fiancé. We had a great dinner at an upscale restaurant, had wonderful conversation and exchanged gifts around the table. These family holiday dinners are my favorite and it was a great way to officially start the holiday.

The next day, the Sunday before Christmas, was spent with Paul’s mom and step dad, sister, brother, brother’s fiancé, two stepsisters, their husbands and our niece and nephew. We had two rounds of food, two rounds of gift giving, two religious activities and lots of time hanging out. It was a long but mostly relaxing day.

Tuesday I spent with Gran, as I did most days during the week, and I gave her a little gift I picked up when I was in Sydney earlier in the year. I won't count this as a Christmas trip since I was really there just to spend some time with her but this is making my point about spending ample time with everyone.

On Christmas Eve, Paul and I attended a family gathering at my mom’s house. We had some food, baked some cookies and watched a movie after yet another round of gift giving.

Christmas day we spent at Paul’s grandmother’s house with all of his aunts, uncles and cousins. The Greeks are fun and I love hanging out with them and eating the amazing food.

Today Paul and I had brunch at my aunt’s house with my cousins and their kids. We passed around presents and then went with the kids to see the cows and the horse currently occupying the farm. We like to think we helped my uncle with a couple chores but we really just watched him do the feeding while we tried to pet the animals.

Later this evening we found ourselves in Columbus – Dublin, actually – attending a holiday party at Paul’s aunt’s house. Surprisingly, I think the McKee family members outnumbered the Paparodis clan. By the time we arrived the meal, the gifts and a toast to Sean’s and Jamienne’s recent engagement were already completed but we were in time to play a couple games including a new one for us called Left, Right, Center. We lost $9.

I like Christmas for a lot of reasons: the family time, the snow, holiday attitudes of cheer and loving kindness, but this year I think I have had my fill. I have already told both our mothers that next year we are going to have to do some picking and choosing and start divvying up holidays because we just can’t promise to be everywhere. Does anyone else have this problem?

GOD IS SO GOOD

Sing it with me:

                God is so good

                God is so good

                God is so good

                He’s so good to me!

I know I have been absent for a really long time. I took a much-needed vacation – I took a vacation from family drama, I took a vacation from family responsibility, I took a vacation from Facebook, I took a vacation from blogging – and right now I wholeheartedly believe that I am back where I need to be.

And I have Jesus to thank for that.

Sometimes we don’t know what we need. We have questions, we search for answers among piles and piles of information presented in multiple ways and we struggle as we strive to discover the answer that we require, whether or not we realize which answer we really need. Did that make sense?

I know that asking God for the answer seems really simplistic when one ponders the actual action, but sometimes we make it too difficult or we psych ourselves out of asking for whatever reason – this request is too portentous; this request is too minute; what does God care about this thing anyway? Sometimes we just forget.

Tonight, God answered a lot of prayers. He provided guidance and gave me wisdom when I desired to understand a scripture (Have you ever thought to ask God for wisdom when reading the Bible so that you can actually get what He’s saying? This is genius); He provided answers to a million questions floating around my head; He even gave me His own word tonight – something just for my own heart.

Tonight I am thankful for blessings. I am thankful for a great family (even the ones to which I am not technically related), I am thankful for great conversation and I am thankful for the Word and the ability to discern the Word in a way that makes us all think.

Praise Jesus. 

NYC AT CHRISTMAS

New York City is a great place to visit any time of year but New York City around Christmas is exceptionally exquisite. Paul had to be in training in New Jersey the first week of December so we drove the 6.5 hours from Northeast Ohio to our favorite spot near Morristown with high hopes of consuming lots of great food in mere days.

We left Salem early Sunday morning so that we could check into the hotel, grab some food and then head into the city in order to attend one of the Hillsong Church’s evening services.

The Hillsong NYC church does not have a permanent location to date but often holds services in a club on Irving Street near Union Square Park. People line the block an hour before each service with hopes of attaining one of the few chairs.

This church is unlike any church I have been to in a lot of ways. For one, people worship in an actual New York City nightclub. Chairs are placed on the dance floor; the bar serves as a purse check and they have “information on tap.” The church, with its 34-year-old pastor who reportedly sports a mohawk and tattoos, aggressively and energetically preaches each week to a varied but from my experience mostly young crowd.

But the work the church is doing is pivotal and the messages preached are some of the only grace messages we have found stateside. So, when we saw an opportunity to attend a service in line with Paul’s required training, we took advantage.

We checked into our favorite Hanover Marriott and grabbed some food in the hotel pub before driving to Hoboken where we parked the car and planned to grab a train. Unfortunately we did not find parking in time to catch the once-a-half-hour train so we instead parked the car and walked around the corner to Carlo’s Bakery.

We for the first time encountered a line and the Sunday night lineup became reminiscent of Singapore’s Sunday evening crowd. Knowing we had time to kill since we would not make the 5 p.m. service, we decided to hang out and grab some sweets at New Jersey’s favorite bakery.

After nearly an hour in line both inside and outside the store with no hope of hearing our number called within the half hour, we vacated our position and took the train into the city. We were cold and still a bit early when we realized we had been walking in the wrong direction, so I suggested we pop into a common diner for some hot chocolate.

Paul and I each had a cup with our main courses: a not-so-good chocolate chip cookie that was presented in plastic wrap on a plate and Paul’s cup of chicken and rice soup. When I asked Paul how his soup was, he replied, “I think Tim has ruined soup for me.” Tim, Paul’s step-dad, makes all of the food for which Annabell’s Restaurant is famous, including the best soups we’ve ever had. Tim Annabell – soup killer for the rest of the world.

Back on track and warmed from the chocolate, we ambled in the right direction and found a place in line about a half hour before the service. Once inside we quickly realized that we would not be sitting at any point throughout the service but the 1.5-hour time frame did not frighten us. We enjoyed the music and the message and then wandered back in the direction of the 14^rd Street station.

When we were literally steps from the station, I popped Paul a question: “How are you doing? Are you tired?” When he said he was fine and quite awake, I took a few steps toward the street, flung my hand in the air and successfully secured us a cab.

Paul, confused and I am sure slightly intrigued, got into the cab behind me as I shouted to the cabbie: “Rockefeller Center, please!” Minutes later we were in front of Christmas goodness: giant Christmas displays of oversized string lights and red glass ornaments were presented along the Avenue of the Americas.

Then, around the corner from Radio City Music Hall, we saw it – the Rockefeller Tree. In three days’ time the tree would be lit in front of a massive audience and celebrated with live celebrity performances. On this night, however, the tree just stood in is natural beauty.

That was the first time I had ever seen the Rockefeller Tree. Even though it was naked, I was filled with delight. I don’t think I would have even thought to see the tree if Nicola Brown hadn’t reminded me of its presence. After a brief look around at the skating rink and the angel displays, I made Paul walk all around the city as I tried to get in as many sights as possible within 45 minutes.

We walked down to Bryant Park before walking into Times Square where the New Year’s Eve ball had already been installed. Then, we drove down Broadway as we approached the 33^rd Street station.

Empire State Building behind Bryant Park

Times Square area, blocked off due to construction so it was far less crowded than ususal

I thought that was a pretty good run. Thursday evening I popped back into the city with Paul’s flight attendants who were also in town for training. We had a great time seeing the tree – lit in all its glory this time – along with a few other popular sights. 

 

Desi and LeeAnn enjoying some NYC street food. I am pretty sure they were second guessing my food truck choice but they quickly learned that street food, especially in NYC,  is awesome. 

A LESSON ON PATIENCE

In my last counseling session, my counselor told me that I was an impatient person. I was shocked. I consider myself incredibly patient. In fact, I specifically remember a point in my childhood when my Attention Deficit Hyperactive little brother was driving me to the point of insanity. I was 12; he was 10. We were staying with a woman from our church while our dad was working.

When I had reached the freakout point because he was bothering me so much, the woman came down to my level and asked what God was trying to teach me by giving me my brother. Without thinking, I said, “patience.” Where did that come from?

From that moment, I realized that I needed to learn patience and, as much as I wanted to at the time, I needed to not respond to my brother’s shenanigans because all he wanted was a reaction. I learned over time that if I didn’t react, he would not get what he wanted. Now, sometimes that only made him try harder but I at least resisted longer.

Living with my brother taught me to be patient with other people. When I lived in Singapore, I instructed people with physical disabilities and brain deficiencies, including ADHD, and knew that my patience made me a great worker. Nicola just last week spoke of my patience, so why did my counselor think I was impatient?

“My friends say I am the most patient person they know!” I retorted.

“Let me explain,” she said, and then she spoke of my aggression toward accomplishing goals. She addressed my desire to get Gran established, making lists and raptly crossing off completed items. She talked about how I think it is easier and quicker to do everything myself, unintentionally alienating myself from the rest of my family members who could actually be helping, I am just convinced that they cannot.

“So I am patient when it comes to people but impatient when it comes to tasks. I get it.” Why am I like that?

I was like that when I was working. I typically preferred to pile a ton of work on myself because I knew it would get done eventually, which only backfired because then my task list was so long that I worked more hours than necessary, burned myself out and only delegated when I was absolutely forced to do so – and I still left some projects undone because I in my mind always had 12 other things that were more important. If I couldn’t complete tasks, I absolutely felt like a failure.

Touché.

My homework? Leave something undone. She told me about people who cannot sleep knowing there are dirty dishes in the sink, clean dishes in the dishwasher that need to be put away or things in the living room that need to be straightened. While I may know a person like that, I am not that person.

But I could tell her what I still had left to do in order to get Gran’s stuff situated: I needed to put together her bedding, which was delayed and scheduled to arrive via FedEx that day, I needed to hang curtains on the rods that I had installed earlier that morning, I needed to get another change of address form because the one she had signed got lost in the Monday evening hospital shuffle. Then there were the non-pressing things like converting her billing address on all of her accounts.

When all of that was situated, then I could think about going through her house and all of the items in it, sorting things, labeling things, giving things to people she desired. I realized as I was explaining that I might always have things to do to care for Gran and, again in my mind, I was the only one who could be doing these things, mostly because I was the only one without a job. (Did you catch my justification there? I’m good at that, too.)

“When will you be done?” she asked.

“I don’t know…” I realized. “In my mind, my husband is going to leave in January and go back to Papua New Guinea while I stay here and sort through Gran’s house. She has a lot of stuff so that will probably take a month or two.”

“When will you see your husband?”

“I don’t know. I guess when enough time has passed and we think it’s necessary, then I will hop on a plane, see him for a bit and then come back at some point and finish.”

“What does your husband think about this?”

“I haven’t actually told him….This is all in my head….If I did tell him, he would think that I am crazy. He would tell me to not worry about it, that I have done enough while I am here and that I can leave the house to the other people who actually live here.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It won’t get done.” This is what’s in my head.

On Friday, after my appointment, I joined Anna Marie, Mom, Grandma Smith and Granny for our repeat Thanksgiving lunch. We had a nice meal. And then, out the window, I saw the FedEx truck and I excused myself from the table so that I could meet the FedEx man. Priorities?? Anyone??

I didn’t actually see him but I did see the package with Gran’s name on it and I took it to her room. I did go back to the library to join my friends and family but at my first opportunity, I summoned my mother to help me assemble the bedding.

I was watching the clock because I knew that I soon had to leave in order to pick up Paul and his dad for yet another Thanksgiving dinner. I felt the pressure to get things done in my limited time frame.

Once the bedding was set, I had to go. I gave my hugs, got my kisses and then left. Later I received a call from my mom. “I thought you were going to hang the curtains. Where are the curtains?”

“I didn’t do them,” I proudly stated. “In my session today I was told to leave one thing undone so I did the bed but I left the curtains. You can find them and hang them or I can take care of them tomorrow.”

That felt really good. I was smiling as I pushed the responsibility to someone else.

That night I had one of the most enjoyable Thanksgiving dinners I had ever had. Alongside Paul’s dad, his sister, his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, I savored a delectable meal and delightful conversation. We laughed hard and Paul’s sister may have once or twice apologized to the other diners, excusing us for our volume level. It was a highly enjoyable evening and an evening when my grandmother’s wellbeing, for the first time in nearly three weeks, was not at the forefront of my mind.

To all of you who enjoyed my favorite holiday, I hope you had a very Happy Thanksgiving, no matter how many Thanksgivings you had (I had three this year!). 

GRAN’S FIRST WEEK

The Monday before Thanksgiving was supposed to be an easy day. I was to meet Gran at her place in the morning, load her things into the van, take her to the doctor and spend the afternoon getting her settled into her new home. Like a parent dropping a child at college for the first time, I became obsessed with making sure the room was set up correctly and to her liking, decorated with her favorite things. I wanted so badly for her to like the place that I planned to spend the afternoon with her…and I wanted to spend the night on her couch to make sure she wasn’t alone her first night.

My therapist said that my college helicopter mom analogy was good but that my obsession more closely resembled a mother dropping her child at kindergarten in lieu of university. When I heard her likening my grandmother to a helpless five-year-old, I was first gutted at the idea, but upon listening further, I began to understand what she was saying. I was so busy focusing on everything that could have gone wrong, including my grandmother’s emotional state, that I forgot about all of the wonderful staff members with policies and procedures in place to make sure Gran adjusts as well as she can.

This is the first time I have ever spent time with a therapist or family counselor, and I am enjoying the outlet and outsider’s perspective. The combination of Gran’s health scare, her short-term memory loss and new living situation coupled with family drama revolving around Gran’s health and wellbeing, made me realize early on that having someone to talk to when I landed in the U.S. would be necessary.

Friends often provide the right kind of therapy – good people who listen and offer advice to the best of their ability and understanding – but most of my really good friends would be on opposite time zones and I didn’t want to constantly bother any of them with my drama stories. For the record, I had been so consumed by Gran’s situation and my overwhelming obsession to take care of everything myself that I actually hadn’t spoken to any of my friends for my first three weeks in the U.S. – not even my friends in the U.S. received a phone call, including my best friend, whose birthday I completely forgot until more than a week after the date. Awesome friend I am.

Writing has become a form of therapy for me and I have realized that I love to put into physical words what I might not otherwise say out loud and share things with people who are complete strangers because I don’t usually receive judgment or feedback. You, as the reader, have a choice as to whether or not you want to keep reading. If you stop reading, I will keep writing. However, when it comes to family drama and my opinion on family-related hot topics, I believe that this blog is not the place to publish my opinions. I will absolutely in some way hurt people’s feelings and this is not exactly the outlet for being completely honest about hard to hear declarations.

Without friends in town or a viable outlet to relive my stress, I knew that I needed another form of therapy and I thought real therapy would benefit me. Though I have never sought counseling, I completely respect the process and I have often encouraged those I know to seek therapy in tough situations. A good therapist listens, offers insight into how a person deals with certain situations and unveils behaviors patterns we do not often see in ourselves.

In my last session, I completely understood the kindergarten analogy once it was explained, and I learned a few other things about myself that I never realized – really good session. To the point though, the assisted living community has people on staff to care for my grandmother so that I do not have to worry about doing things myself. They have caregivers who check on Gran to see if she wants to go down to the dining hall for a meal. At meal time, they have her sit with different residents daily so that she has the opportunity to meet everyone. They have people who run activities and tell Gran what is happening when. She’ll be fine. Unfortunately, I wasn’t reminded of this until Friday; Monday I was still an obsessed helicopter mom.

After Gran’s doctor’s appointment we headed out of Salem and into Columbiana to get her settled. Upon arrival she was introduced to the nursing staff and some care givers and then she was escorted into her room where some more people came in and showed her how to use things like the heating and air unit, her call buttons and the shower. I continued to unpack her belongings and get things situated while she listened.

Once all of the people left, Gran began to complain of pain in her arm. She felt sick and was sweating through her clothes so we called the doctor. The lady on the phone said her symptoms were not typical of a shot reaction (she received two shots earlier in the day) and that if her pain worsened we should take her to the hospital.

Two hours after Gran checked into her new home, we were packing her back into the van and checking her into the emergency department. Her sweat turned to chills and the pain in her arm became so extreme that she moaned with every breath. She actually scared me. While she was in agony, my mom and I sat beside her bed. I don’t know what was going through my mom’s mind but I kept wondering what I was supposed to do.

I couldn’t do anything, of course, there were nurses doing things, but I wondered whether or not we should be making conversation as if nothing at all was wrong. I thought about making jokes. Gran wasn’t in the mood for my jokes but she did crack her own once or twice.

Five hours later we were back in her new home. The ED doctor advised that her pain was due to one of the shots she received, guessing that the nurse who administered the shot may have hit a nerve. The reaction was atypical and there was nothing the doctor or the hospital staff could do except advise that she take some pain meds already in her possession and use a hot or cold compress, whichever made her pain more bearable. Monday night was going to be a long night with a very unhappy Granny.

Gran was going to need extra assistance that evening since the pain in her arm was so severe that she was unable to lift or put pressure on her arm, which meant she could not get herself up and down. We were able to use a wheelchair to get her from Point A to Point B but her wheely walker was not going to be an option.

I volunteered to take the night shift and sleep on the couch as long as my mom would be able to relieve me the next day. I knew that I was in for a long, probably sleepless night, and I knew I was going to need to sleep the next day. Thankfully, my mom was able to rearrange her work schedule, putting in a few hours in the morning and then completing some business off site Tuesday.

Monday night was a rough night as anticipated. I fulfilled the role of an untrained nurse and, though I completely respected the position before (I have many friends and family members who are amazing nurses), I now have a whole new respect for the work that nurses do every day.

I slept a total of three hours that night as I cared for Gran in ways I never would have imagined. I observed her in so much pain, knowing again that there was nothing I could do to make her feel better. I got her in and out of bed seven times throughout the night, repositioning her when she needed, administering her medication when she was able to take it. She was in so much discomfort that she even moaned and groaned in her sleep. I felt awful and realized just how much I never, ever want to be in that state.

By the time my mother arrived Tuesday, Gran was doing better. She had stopped moaning and had started walking on her own, using her walker instead of the wheelchair. She was tired and slept most of the day but she was definitely improving. With a snow storm rolling in, my mom volunteered to take the night shift Tuesday night while I sought solace in my own comfy bed.

Wednesday Gran was even better. She was a bit grouchy in the morning – a trend we have noticed since the stroke – but her mood had improved by the time I saw her in the early afternoon. She had not yet explored her new building but she had at least been out of the room. Wednesday was a good day.

That afternoon I met my lifelong friend on her drive through Ohio and spent the evening near Akron with her and her grandmother so that we could prepare for my favorite holiday. Anna Marie was born four months after I – our mothers became best friends in high school and we have sort of grown up together, though we have only lived in the same state for one of our 31 years. Because of our mothers’ friendship, our grandmothers are dear friends and they love to spend time with one another so we have traditionally spent Thanksgiving on the Smith farm.

Anna Marie and I prepared our turkey brine and soaked our famous bird (this year named James because a turkey from the same farm where we purchased our turkey recently won best dish of the evening at a James Beard dinner) in a cozy saltwater, brown sugar and peppercorn bath and then we went to bed.

In the morning, we dressed James, stuffed him with stuffing (EVIL, I know) and began making the rest of the day’s meal while we watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It was turning out to be a great morning.

Then my mom called with some disappointing news. “Gran is in a foul mood this morning and she says she’s not coming to Thanksgiving.” Whaaat?! “She was fine yesterday,” I responded and my mother assured me that today was just another day – apparently a bad day.

No encouraging, on the phone or in person, made my grandmother change her mind. Though I called four times before 1 o’clock, she not once answered the phone. I was incredibly disappointed but my mood altered once my mom walked through the door.

We had a nice dinner anyway and gave Gran a do-over. Friday, Anna Marie and her grandmother joined my mom and me at Gran’s residence to enjoy a leftover Thanksgiving lunch. We set up in the library my grandmother didn’t even know she had, next to the fire while the outside world was blanketed in snow.

When we had finished, I saw Gran’s sister-in-law poking around the corner. Aunt Pern is hilarious and very nosy – she likes to be where the people are, even though she isn’t a terribly social person. I think she just likes us.

From the time I was a child, I looked up to her and told my mom that when I got to be old, I wanted to be like Aunt Pern. Though she is from Maryland, she has the sweetest twinge of a southern accent and she still calls a couch the davenport. She is feisty and comical and seems to be one of everyone’s favorite residents.

Pern’s memory is far worse than Gran’s. Though I saw her every day for a week, she never once knew who I was right away, though she did seem to recognize me in less time with each visit. She thinks her older sister is “Grandma,” she thinks my grandmother is my mother and that my mother is my sister. She will talk to me three times in one conversation about my dimples and how hers have disappeared, and she will ask four times during dinner what is on her plate.

Having family down the hall makes Gran feel more at home. Now that her pain has stopped and her schedule is more manageable, Gran is doing very well. She has made more friends and likes to tell me with whom she had breakfast and dinner. She talks to everyone and likes to participate in nearly every offered activity. Last weekend Mom called Gran to say she was coming for a visit. “I’m walking the halls right now and after lunch I have Bingo so you will have to come later,” she advised. Mom and I cracked up. She’s doing just fine. 

OH GRAN

A month ago, I was having the best month of my life. I was traveling around, seeing Thailand and Israel for the first time. My husband and I experienced memories that will recall stories for decades to come. I started sharing some of those stories and lots of photographs though this blog. And then I stopped.

At the end of October, my grandmother went into the hospital and anything related to me ceased to exist. Her stroke was so mild that she didn’t even know she had a stroke until the doctor and the tests revealed her diagnosis. She was in her house on the same hill on which she has lived nearly 80 years and, to her, she just fell. She felt her cane give way when she was walking on the ground floor of her three-level home and she just fell down.

Her fall happened in the morning but she didn’t feel any pain so she didn’t use that fancy medical alert button she wears around her neck. In the evening, when she tried to go upstairs where her bedroom and bathroom are located, she had trouble lifting a leg and realized she had a problem. But, Gran says, the doctor’s office was closed so she didn’t want to bother anyone since she couldn’t see her doctor anyway (and she still didn’t use that fancy medical alert button), so she waited until morning.

The next morning she did call a neighbor and advised that she needed to go to the hospital. Two weeks later, she was released with the caveat that she could not return to the multi-level home in which she has resided for 63 years.

I flew home while she was still in the hospital and spent some time with her before she was released. My family and I helped her get situated into temporary housing until we were able to find a suitable assisted living facility. Fortunately, I had already begun researching senior living communities while I was home over the summer so I knew which ones were top contenders, which ones were crap and which ones I had not yet seen. I made some appointments and I shared my findings.

For a woman of the Great Depression, my grandmother has more money than she lets on but it still isn’t enough to pay for years in an assisted living facility. The money we need to support her needs in a qualified care center makes all of us nervous but I know that God will provide.

So much of my time and energy has been devoted to my grandmother in the past few weeks that I have nearly alienated myself from friends, family members outside of the immediate vicinity and, really, any other commitments I have considered making – even blog time.

A few days ago, I was ready to crash. Gran had picked a place to which she would move and we went for a visit. She loved it so much that she told stories for hours and introduced herself to everyone she met in the hall. “Hi, I’m Helen,” she would say. “I’m moving in Monday!” That made me happy. But I knew that there was still a lot of work to do.

Gran, being from the Depression era, has kept everything anyone in the world could possibly need for something someday and has to my recollection never spent a dollar on any items she needed for herself. Any money in savings was spent on house repairs throughout the years; we had to buy her underclothes, socks a new outfit or two for Christmas and birthday presents because she simply would not buy those things for herself.

She was leaving everything she knew – her town, her hill, her birds, her gardens, her deer, her neighbors, her great grandkids next door – and she was trading them for a dorm room. To make the move more welcoming, we brought some furniture and decorative pieces she wanted from her house but I also wanted to get her some new things that I knew she would never consider buying in order to make her new home something special.

We bought a new shower mat and curtain, monogramed hand towels, accessories to match; we bought new bedding, a new sofa and some curtains. We also bought her some flowers that she could keep indoors and we have plans to place a bird feeder outside her window.

Knowing that she was moving in on a Monday, I just kept thinking that I had to make it until that Monday – last Monday. She would move in Monday, get situated and then Tuesday I could relax because it would all be over. Gran would be in her new place and I could focus on spending a day with a lifelong friend, just relaxing old-school-road-trip style. I had to just keep pushing to get everything signed, filed, purchased, moved in, arranged and hung so that she would be happy and so that I could rest. I just needed to make it to Tuesday.

Last Friday I hit a wall. I was so overwhelmed and as I was driving in the car after dropping off the first of three loads to be taken to her new home, and I just started talking. “God,” I said. “I don’t know what I need today, but I know you do, so please just bless me and give me wisdom to get through this day. I thank you for your grace that flows in like waves and I receive it.” That was it. I didn’t know what I was going to face that day and I certainly didn’t know how I was going to deal with any of it, but I knew that if I let Him take control, I would survive the day, and I just needed to survive that day.

When I stressed about furniture, God provided furniture – a free bed that had recently been donated to the facility and a $250 couch with five pillows from an actual furniture store that I could pick up that night. When I stressed about getting things done in time to meet deadlines I had already set for myself, He provided not only the time to do those things but also the ability to find what I needed efficiently and effortlessly. When I worried that Gran would not be happy, she turned to me and said things like, “Oh, this is bigger than what I expected,” when she saw her 350-square-foot room.

When I felt like I was ready to break, living on nothing other than adrenaline, I got into my car and suddenly found my radio turned to a local Christian station. This is the crazy part because, though I like the Christian stations, I hadn’t actually been listening to one that day. I had been listening to country music that brought back a homey feeling (I grew up outside of Nashville). I know which station I was listening to and it was definitely not Cleveland’s The Fish. But, all of a sudden, I heard familiar piano keys and the words came on and I glanced at the station: 95.5 FM.

                I’m tired, I’m worn

                My heart is heavy

                From the work it takes to keep on breathing

                I’ve made mistakes

                I’ve let my heart fail

                My soul feels crushed

                By the weight of this world

(note: eyes were totally watering by this point as I said, oh my gosh, yes…I am worn out! I do feel crushed by the weight of all of this!)

                And I know that you can give me rest

(it’s true, I do know where to find rest but for some reason I just keep worrying and pushing myself to my limit)

                So I cry out with all that I have left

                Let me see redemption win

                Let me know the struggle ends

                That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

                I want to know a song can rise

                From the ashes of a broken life

                And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

                Cuz I’m worn

                I know I need

                To life my eyes up

                But I’m too weak

                Life just won’t let up

(ah, yes, this too makes sense)

                And I know that you can give me rest

                So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win

                Let me know the struggle ends

                That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

                I want to know a song can rise

                From the ashes of a broken life

                And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

                Cuz I’m worn

                And my prayers are wearing thin

                I’m worn even before the day begins

                I’m worn, I’ve lost my will to fight

                I’m worn, so haven come and flood my eyes

Let me see redemption win

                Let me know the struggle ends

                That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

                I want to know a song can rise

                From the ashes of a broken life

                And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

                Yes all that’s dead inside will be reborn

                Though I’m worn

                Yeah I’m worn

At that, I mellowed out a bit, took a lot of deep breaths and reassured myself that it would all be OK. Thanks God. You knew what I needed to hear right when I needed to hear it. Thanks for getting me and knowing me so well.

The move was tiring but we had a lot of help and my poor husband has survived a tired, cranky, worn out wife who made him help with the move and assist me in rearranging Gran’s room no less than a dozen times. He sometimes grabbed me by both shoulders saying things like, “Focus. I know what you’re doing but shouldn’t Gran have a say in where her couch goes?”

In the end, I decided I knew best and, really, I wanted everything to be done and beautiful so that she didn’t have to worry about where stuff went, so I arranged the room to my own perfect standard and then she had me switch the bed and the couch when she got there. Grr Paul.

When we left the hill Monday, I started looking around at the leaves and the snow on the ground, thinking what this feeling might be like for Gran. I peeked over to the lake’s bank, thinking about the times I spent walking around the water, and I recalled some of her stories that centered around that lake.

She was brought up in one tiny house on the hill, and moved into her current home just up the street when she was pregnant with my mom. Her sister lived just next to the tiny house where Gran grew up but died last year. Her grandson, my cousin, lives in the house next door with his wife and two kids. What it must feel like to be away from all that after so many, many, many, many, many, many years.

I got sentimental as I turned out of the driveway, angled around the bend and came to the stop sign at the end of the road. I hid my tears behind sunglasses as I explained that Gran was not banned from the hill and that she could absolutely come back and visit as much as she wants. She looked over at me and said, “Don’t forget that load of laundry in the dryer.” Right.

I turned left and headed toward the doctor, getting teary eyed once again. As if I were new to Salem and had never lived there, gone to school there or lived in the same house as my grandmother for more than a decade, Gran decided to tell me where to go. “Now, the best way to get to the doctor’s office is to go straight up Ellsworth and turn on Third Street.” “O.K. Gran.”

THE COOLEST THING I’VE EVER DONE

After touring Masada and looking out upon the beauty that was the Dead Sea, we were able to enter the lowest place on earth and experience the Dead Sea and all its glory first hand. The sea’s shoreline is more than 400 meters below sea level and the sea floor itself has a depth beyond 300 meters. Trying to touch the sea bottom, however – even in the shallows – is quite a feat.

Standard ocean salt content ranges around 3 percent by volume, while the Dead Sea’s salt content rises above 30 percent, making the sea one of the world’s saltiest water bodies and a location where reportedly no living organism can survive.

If you look closely, in the center of the photo you can see the spa, which used to sit at the water's edge

Walking out to the sea from the shoreline, which once rested upon the edge of this spa, we had to be on alert for salt crystals mixing in with the sand. Since we were not smart enough to pack swimwear, we had to buy some in the spa gift shop and were advised to also ensure we had comfortable plastic flip flops. The sandals were required to protect our feet as the sea floor, unlike typical sandy bottoms, was covered in jagged salt crystals that could easily scrape any soft surface, including toes and soles.

A view of the salt bottom through the clear water

Walking into the water was a bit of a challenge, first due to the slick salty bottom and second, due to the thicker water. Many adults walked like toddlers learning to take their first steps as we all took caution not to fall (especially if one of us insisted on carrying a not-cheap camera to capture some of the fun).

Baby steps

Once out in the water, it was almost a game to learn how to float. Those who frequently swim (and we know that does not include me) automatically assume a swimmer’s position and wait to see what will happen to their bodies. Water foreigners like myself lift one leg at a time, scared of falling to the sea floor even though we have been told that everyone floats, including a 250-pound man sitting in a chair reading a newspaper like it’s no big deal.

We were strictly advised to be sure that our faces did not touch the water and, in the event that our eyes endured a splash of salt, we were given specific contamination wash instructions. Knowing that my face could not touch the water made me slightly freak out when attempting to float on my stomach and my freaking out did not help me keep my balance.

So what is it like to swim in the Dead Sea? The only words I can use to summarize the experience would be completely unreal.

As we took our first steps, we felt the thick, smooth water against our legs and the slick salt crystals as we slid across the rough terrain. Our arms were out wide, aiding our balance efforts and we took one slow, deliberate step in front of the other.

The water was warm and completely placid, only shaking when a body disturbed the peace. When the water was waist deep, we attempted the unthinkable. Paul began by lifting both legs and allowing his feet to pop above the surface, giggling as he did so. I gave a nervous smirk as I cautiously did the same. I, too, giggled.

We were floating without any of our own effort. We couldn’t help but laugh. Then, I realized we were not the only ones laughing. In the middle of nowhere, in a placid water body in between canyons and mountains, there was a deafening yet completely serene silence that was only broken by faint laughter – lots of laughter, from every direction. We had found the happiest place on earth.

Once more comfortable in the water, we decided to try a few different positions. Paul curled into a ball; I threw my arms up with my feet out flat. Paul stood up and then flopped on his stomach with his neck arched to the sky and his feet bobbing behind him.

I twice attempted to float on my belly but my flip flops caught water between the sandals and my feet and my unsteadiness and fear of face planting only made me flop around like a drowning toddler. It wasn’t pretty but it made Paul laugh.

Before we knew it, we had gone deeper toward the sea’s center…out into the land of the untouchable. For the first time, I was not terrified to be in an area where I could not touch the bottom. Paul, as desperately as he tried, also could not touch the bottom. He stood straight in the water, closed his eyes and grunted as he tried with all his might to touch the bottom. He started laughing, “I’m just bobbing like a cork out here! I can’t touch!”

I could have stayed out there for hours but, knowing that we had a limited amount of time and a friend waiting on the shore, we decided to wade our way back, but not without taking a piece of the sea with us.

A short tractor ride away we found an adult’s playground – a trough filled with Dead Sea mud and shower stations flooding sulfur and salt water.

Though I have thought about what it would be like to take a mud bath, I have never actually placed myself in a tub full of mud. I hadn’t scooped mud into my hands and rubbed it all over my body for any reason over the age of 5. However, this was Dead Sea mud. If I was going to do it, I was going to do it here.

I walked over to the basin, filled with mud, minerals and brown water, stepped my feet into squishy, gushy mud and placed one hand inside. A texture person, the first thing I did was physically examine the goods. Wet and squishy, yes, but not as gross as I had figured. I took a scoop, rubbed it on and away I went. The next thing I knew, I had mud on every exposed area I could reach.

After brining in the sea, I baked in the sun and then rinsed off under a salt water shower. I have been asked if the salt dried my skin and the answer is no. The salt water left a near oily film on the skin and after the mud, my skin has never been so amazing. I stocked up on Dead Sea supplies but that's another story.