Tag Archives: Memories in a Daughter’s Heart

My Mother’s Jewelry Box

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cropped pinMy mother always had one when I was little. In my first memory of it, it was filled with all kinds of bright colored baubles to pin on her blouses and coats. In fact, I don’t remember her or my grandmother ever not wearing a big sparkly pin in the lapel of their heavy winter coats. It must’ve been the style then. But to me, they were just pretty. One of her favorite pins reminded me of a fountain of diamonds, even though it was all rhinestones, of course. It always fascinated me for some reason.

When my father was still alive, her jewelry box was alive with bright colors, sparkling synthetic gemstones which reflected the happy times of her life. Although it was mostly costume jewelry, the vibrant pins and necklaces always looked beautiful on her, and made her whole face smile. She also had a few special necklaces that had been her mother’s, and had already been entrusted with them for safekeeping. I used to go in her jewelry box from time to time and play with the pieces, under close supervision of course, lest the pieces become lost or broken. They may not have had a lot of monetary value, but to her, each piece had a special meaning.

After my father died, and my mom started teaching kindergarten, all of those sparkly pins were gradually replaced with ones little children would like. Christmas trees, angels, and Santa Claus. Enameled birds and butterflies. Funny little kids’ faces, and a treasured collection of “#1 Teacher” pins she’d been given as gifts by her students. She usually wore one of them every day, and her students were always excited to see which one she had on when they got to school, in case she was wearing one they’d given her.

When her granddaughter Ashley came along, suddenly there were a dozen or more #1 grandmother pins, along with the enameled kids’ faces and other jewelry children would especially like.

You could actually see the stages of her life by going through that jewelry box.

But the box itself was quite plain. It wasn’t pretty at all. White simulated leather with faded gold embossing. And a lock that was never locked. (I don’t think she ever had the key.) Over the years pieces of jewelry broke and some of the parts were lost, and other worn out pieces were sadly discarded or given away. Favorite items remained, although sometimes shifted toward the back of the box to make room for newer pieces.

I never knew what special pieces of jewelry I’d find when I opened that box. The older pieces always had a distinctive charm about them, though, and usually a story to tell about who had given it to her, and why, or special events they’d been worn for. And the older the pieces, the more stories they had to tell.

Similarly, we are like precious jewels in the Lord’s very own jewelry box. The jewelry box itself, the earth we live in, may be getting old and a bit frayed around the edges, but within it still lies precious sparkling jewels, each one of us uniquely crafted, and created to fulfill a specific need, and a specific purpose. We were each designed by the Master jeweler who took His time creating each of us as a unique work of art to be treasured forever; each with a wonderful story to tell. A unique work of art which does nothing but become more valuable with age.

Although He created each of us in our own unique style and design, in our own unique colors and shapes, there are times some of us break, or become worn and tarnished. We lose our shine and luster because of the wear and tear we’ve gone through. We sometimes feel we’ve been relegated to the back of the jewelry box because we’re older and we’ve lost our sparkle, and it seems no one wants us anymore.

But like those older and treasured pieces of jewelry that found themselves living in the back of my mother’s jewelry box, we’re pulled out by the Lord’s hand, and placed back in the front of the box. We’re cleaned and polished and shining once again, ready to help make someone else’s life a bit more beautiful with our stories, advice, and encouragement.

And when our purpose here is complete, these earthly jewels will finally join the other majestic jewels in the gates of heaven, forever beautiful, and forever loved and cherished.

And shining like that sparkly rhinestone pin of my grandmother’s…..

Treasures in a Junk Drawer

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Most of us, if not all of us, have a junk drawer. At least one. It’s usually in the kitchen where we all tend to congregate at least once or twice a day. We actually have two of them. Even my husband, who can’t stand not being organized, knows the importance of having a junk drawer.

It’s amazing what things you find in there. Things you’ve been looking for for years, shoved all the way in the back. Things your child put in there when she was probably eight years old; now she’s twenty-seven. Things you put in there months or even years ago, because you don’t really know where else to put them, but you didn’t want to lose them either. Bits of something broken that you know you’ll get around to fixing eventually…when you find the other pieces. Pieces that are probably hiding in the other junk drawer.

But my junk drawers aren’t nearly as interesting as my mother’s was. She’d had over 50 years to fill it. I’ve only had 20. Hers was a miniature repository of selected family history that only she truly understood.

Part of cleaning out her house was cleaning out her kitchen junk drawer. Although I’d gone through it off and on for years, looking for, and often finding, just the thing I needed, that last time I discovered countless little treasures, some I’d never knew existed, and never thought could ever bring back so many memories.

She certainly had the “normal” junk drawer items…a broken green crayon from one of our daughter’s many coloring marathons.

A matchbook from a long closed grocery store with just one match left in it, in case she needed to light candles if the power went out.

A pair of old sewing scissors with a piece of frayed twine tied around the handle. (I’d asked her about that once, and she said her mother always did that. So she did, too!)

Of course there were the usual collections of all sizes of batteries, many of them expired; scattered pennies that had probably been found under chair cushions or on the floor; and a collection of old rubber bands, many which broke when I tried to use them.

But some of the items I really didn’t anticipate, and were most likely saved in there because they had a special meaning, and she didn’t want to lose them.

There was a piece of ribbon that looked too short to tie around anything, but then I remembered it had been tied around a special gift from her granddaughter, and she thought it was too pretty to throw away.

There were probably 50 or more game tickets from the boardwalk games in Ocean City that Ashley had left there over the years. I could hear my mother thinking, “She’s going to want these the next time she visits!”

Then there was the old hotel key on an old key ring from a long ago trip to Chicago with my father just a few years after they were married. I could hardly believe she actually brought the key back with her! Knowing her, it had to have been accidental, because she would’ve considered that stealing!

And a broken pencil from a company my father had worked for some ten years before he died…and a note pad to match, bearing the same logo from Arcady Feeds; a company long ago out of business.

An old ration book from WW II was all the way in the back, with a few coupons still left in it. It served as a stark reminder of how difficult things had been at one time. Obviously she didn’t go in that drawer much to clean things out, or else she forgot it was there.

But the most meaningful thing I found was a piece of broken jewelry which read simply “Grandma”. I remembered when Ashley had given it to her several years ago. I’m sure she must’ve been heartbroken when it broke, and couldn’t bear to part with such a special reminder of her granddaughter’s love.

Maybe her junk drawer was a memory drawer instead. Maybe those items in it were not discarded, but saved. As the saying goes, one man’s trash is another’s treasure. These were some of her treasures, and each meant something to her. And it took me awhile to understand it.

Similarly, we sometimes feel discarded, like a piece of broken jewelry, a lonely crayon whose box of friends has long since been thrown away, or a key that can no longer open any door because that door is long gone.

But we must remember that there’s still a heavenly drawer full of, not junk, but treasures…pieces that are broken, mismatched, forgotten, or deemed unusable by others. When often look at ourselves that way, but that’s when the Lord reminds us He’s looking at us like His carefully guarded treasures.

He takes us when we’re broken and feeling useless, and uses us for something more…something better. He never discards us, but saves us and gives us rest until it’s time for our talents to be put to use once again.

Feeling like a piece of junk? That no one wants to deal with you? Get ready, because you’re getting ready to be shown you’re a piece of priceless treasure, and you’re going to be amazed at what’s ahead for you!

No, you’re not in the junk drawer! You’re in the treasure drawer! And you’re about to discover the difference!

The Tears Still Come

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Saturday, the day before Mother’s Day, I did something that I haven’t done in ten years. I went into my favorite card shop, which in itself is not unusual, but going to the Mother’s Day card section was. I had no idea that going in to buy a Mother’s Day card for the first time in ten years could be so difficult. Even though it was for our daughter

Looking at the display of Mother’s Day cards that were still left I was suddenly overwhelmed. Especially since I had just written two other blogs about Mother’s Day. I thought after ten years I could handle it. And I did, but not without the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. And sensing that familiar feeling of sobs forming in the back of my throat. You’d have thought my loss was much fresher than ten years ago.

I had just talked to a good friend a few hours previously whose mother passed away two years ago, actually on Mother’s Day. That was still fresh sorrow, fresh grief. She was crying for her mommy, and I felt her pain, and I was crying with her as I tried to comfort her and encourage her. When I told her that her mom knew how much she loved her and was watching over her, that helped some. But such pain takes many years to be healed.

And now here I was. Standing in the middle of that card store in front of a display of cards I couldn’t even begin to read. I’d already picked out the gift for our daughter, which also made me start to tear up, since it was a Willow Tree angel of a mother holding her new infant. I certainly had to get her a card, but how many would I have to go through before I found the perfect one for her? Before I could get out of that store before I started actually crying and the other shoppers thought I’d lost my mind?

It’s not that I’m sad our daughter is getting ready to have her first baby. On the contrary, I am thrilled beyond measure. But suddenly in that store, I realized once again that my own mother was no longer around, and I missed her more than ever! I wanted to share my happiness with her that I was going to be a grandmother, and she was going to be a great-grandmother. I wanted to see the smile on her face, and the sparkle in her eye, hear the excitement in her voice as we talked about all the wonderful times ahead for all of us. Four generations of amazing women.

But only three generations are still alive. Which includes our soon to be born granddaughter.

Yes, the tears still come on Mother’s Day when you no longer have your mother with you. It doesn’t matter how long ago she left. Ten or fifteen years, two years, two months. It still hurts. It doesn’t matter how old we were when we lost her. I was 56. Another friend was 68 when she lost her mother. Another was only 26, and another 18. We all had more memories we wanted to make with them, but now we can only make them in our dreams.

There will always be reminders of her, and I shouldn’t be surprised at my reaction that day. I’m sure I’m not the only one who had similar experiences.

But I am thankful for the years we had with her. I am thankful for her love. And I am thankful for the promise of spending eternity with her.

Will I have that same reaction next year when I go to buy our daughter a Mother’s Day card? I have no idea, but if I do, I know it’ll be okay. Because we never stop loving those we lose.

Mom, I hope your Mother’s Day in heaven was wonderful! And I still love you.

Memories of Mother’s Day

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I still remember the last Mother’s Day we spent with my mom. Ten years ago. I remember it vividly, and I also remember thinking at the time, “this may be the last one we have together.” But I quickly dismissed it, because I didn’t want to think about that possibility. I made sure we took several family pictures of us all, even a few including her beloved dog Angel. But then again, I’d done that every year. But something about that particular year told me I had to make sure I had enough pictures.

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And by the next Mother’s Day, it had all changed. Drastically. She’d only been gone for six months, and of course I still hadn’t gotten used to it. All I could remember was how we’d all been together last Mother’s Day, just a short year ago.

That first year it seemed everywhere I went there were Mother’s Day cards, Mother’s Day gift suggestions, Mother’s Day flower arrangements, and ads for special Mother’s Day brunches. It was a stark reminder that things had forever changed. Even when you’re a mom yourself and you’re being honored on that special day by your children and grandchildren, when you have no mother to buy cards and gifts for any more, no one to take out for a special brunch, it’s still hard. Father’s Day was always difficult, too, since I’d lost my dad at a very young age, but somehow those Father’s Day ads, at least in my case, weren’t quite as painful as those Mother’s Day reminders. Because all I had left of her were my memories.

For the first time I had no mother to buy cards for, and no cards to receive from her. There were no gifts to buy for her, and no visit to the home I grew up in to be with her. Our daughter had no grandmother to celebrate with, and even though she and her dad did everything they could to make the day happy for me, something was definitely missing. Something, meaning, someone, who could never be replaced.

When I was packing up things at my mother’s house I’d found a small stack of cards she’d bought for our birthdays, and a few other occasions. I saved them all and used them for my husband’s and daughter’s birthdays, and even signed her name to them. After all, she’d bought those cards for them, and they deserved to have them! One of the cards was a Mother’s Day card which had obviously been meant for me. Until I pulled it out that morning to put with the cards Ben and Ashley had given me, I hadn’t realized she’d signed it! There was her familiar handwriting, “Love, Mom”. She must have bought it for last year’s Mother’s Day, gotten it ready, and then couldn’t remember where she’d put it. But to me, it was as if the Lord had given me a sweet reminder of my mother’s love on a day on which He knew I’d need it more than ever!

But as hard as that first Mother’s Day was, I had to remember to count my blessings. I was blessed to have had my mother around for 56 years. Far too many other daughters, and sons, are not that fortunate. They lose their mothers at an earlier age, and are forced to grow up without a mother’s love and guidance, with their mothers missing so many important events of their life. My mother lived to finally see me happily married after two failed marriages. She lived to meet her precious granddaughter, and spend time with her for 18 years (and I have no doubt she is still watching over her from heaven every now and then). And she would be so thrilled on this Mother’s Day to know that her beloved granddaughter is about to give birth to her own daughter, and naming her Rachel, after her grandmother.

I was blessed to have a mother who loved me unconditionally; who sacrificed having things for herself so she could provide for me. Who unselfishly gave me the best life she could, being both mother and father to me, in a time when very few children grew up with only one parent. She taught me strength, self-worth, the importance of family and faith, and most importantly, the meaning of love. Even when I made dumb mistakes in my life, and I sure made a lot of them, she still loved me unconditionally. She never gave up on me.

Memories of her are all around. I have so many pictures of her, which is surprising, because she always hated having her picture taken. I have pieces of furniture from her house that my father had made for her, and I cannot look at them without a stream of memories flooding back. I have her engagement and wedding rings that I wear on special occasions to make me feel closer to her. I have her favorite recipes, written in her own schoolteacher’s careful handwriting. I even still have her wedding dress, now yellowed and torn, but a reminder of the special love she and my father shared.

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Selfishly, I didn’t want to lose her. Even at her age of 94, I wasn’t ready for her to go. But she was tired, and she was ready to go be with the Lord and be reunited with the husband she’d lost 47 years previously, and had never stopped loving. We are not promised to live forever. Nor should we want to. Our final and glorious reward is waiting for us in heaven, and we’ve earned it. I know my mother did, and I know she is enjoying every heavenly second of that reward, in ways I cannot even begin to imagine.

My mother would never want me to be sad because she’s gone. She would not want me to continue to grieve over her, or cry over her, or be sad on Mother’s Day because she’s not with us. She would want me to celebrate with my family, and this year look ahead to my soon-to-be new title of grandmother. She would want me to enjoy the day, remember the good times we all spent together, and look ahead to even more good times with our granddaughter.

No, Mother’s Day will never be quite the same without my mother. But this is the time to make new memories. My mother would be so excited, and so thrilled, to be here to see her great- granddaughter enter the world, but then again, I believe she will somehow see that moment.

There are times I can still hear her voice in my head, and in my heart, softly saying my name. And I can also hear her saying, “This is the legacy I left with you. Cherish every moment. Because now you will not only know a mother’s love…you will know a grandmother’s love. I am so excited for you. You have no idea of the joy you are about to experience.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. And I always will. These flowers are for you!

Sometimes the Littlest Things…

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…make you stop in your tracks. Tell your eyes not to cry. Tell your lips not to quiver like they do when a good cry is coming in. Tell your voice not to shake because you know you won’t be able to talk normally for a little while.

That just happened to me. Sitting at my hairstylist’s while my color soaked in. As I looked up and saw a lady come in who could have been my mother’s twin. Her height, her face, her hairstyle, her clothes, the way she walked. I tried not to stare…to quickly look away, because I knew I couldn’t watch this lady without that longing in my heart jumping into my throat.

It still happens. After almost ten years. And it probably will happen again.

Shortly after my mom passed away, my daughter Ashley and I were shopping in one of the department stores where we used to take my mother all the time. My mom had had a shopping routine, and when she’d get tired she’d sit down in the shoe department and wait for us. She’d hold our bags and quietly watch the shoppers go by. Usually someone she knew came over and talked to her for a while; that’s one of the beautiful things about living in a small town.

That particular day Ashley and I both saw the woman at the same time. She looked so much like my mother…sitting in that shoe department with a bunch of shopping bags, just quietly waiting. How I wanted so badly to rush over to her and hug her, because she so reminded me of my own mother. That’s when we saw the woman’s grown daughter, and obviously the woman’s granddaughter, coming over to meet her. The little girl’s face lit up as she ran to her grandmother to show her what she’d bought. And the smile on her grandmother’s face was priceless, and she wanted to know all about everything that little girl had found.

The look on my own face as I watched them was most likely a mixture of sadness, envy, and nostalgia for what we’d lost. And probably hadn’t fully appreciated until this moment, when we realized such moments wouldn’t ever happen to us again. And Ashley…she turned away and quickly walked off, knowing she was ready to cry.

We never seem to truly appreciate what we have until it’s gone. Forever gone. As much as I loved my mother, enjoyed being with her and doing things with her, I still regret all the times I missed out on. And didn’t even know it at the time.

When I left my hair appointment that same lady was standing outside the salon with her hair stylist, waiting for her ride. I stopped to speak to her, and with an almost cracking voice, told her how very much she looked like my mom who’d left us ten years ago. Her China blue eyes (like my mom’s) looked at me, thanked me for the compliment, and very unlike my mother, proudly told me she was going to be 102 this year!! And that she hoped to see me there again, because she had her hair done every week! Just like my mother used to.

I’m going to be sure to make my next hair appointment for a Saturday at the same time I had today. Just so I can see this lady again. This time I’ll ask her name. She deserves to be more than a nameless memory.

March 5, 2016

Back in Grandmom’s Kitchen

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Grandmom’s kitchen was always a special place to be. I can still remember what it looked like, although I doubt it was really as big as it is in my mind. After all, the last time I was in it I was only eleven years old. There were actually had two separate “rooms” to her kitchen; one where she actually did most of her work, and the other being a huge pantry, complete with sink, electric stove, and numerous cabinets full of all kinds of cookware as well as the typical baking and similar goodies. Canned goods and vegetables were stored in her “root cellar” which you could only access from outside the house (and as a kid, I didn’t venture down there; it was dark and musty-smelling, and just looked scary!). That pantry was also where my mom and my aunts would help out with the family meals while Grandmom worked in the main kitchen.

But what I remember most about Grandmom’s kitchen is the big old woodstove she had against the middle of her back wall in the main kitchen area. The pantry room had been added on many years after the original house was built, but Grandmom’s original kitchen was the heart of her home. And that old woodstove was the heart of her kitchen. I cannot even imagine how many meals she cooked on that stove.

And the stories that old stove could’ve told…..

wood stoveWhen my mom and her four brothers and sisters were growing up my grandfather was working his farm every day, and had several hired hands helping him. In those days, the farmer’s wife cooked and served lunch for everyone. My grandmother was no exception, and although I don’t really know how many men Granddaddy had working for him, I’m sure that on most days there were at least four or five extra mouths at that lunch table, so that woodstove got a workout!

I can’t even begin to imagine how many huge kettles of jams and jellies were made on top of that stove. How many “messes” of turnip greens were cooked up. Plus I’m sure there were lots of cast iron skillets full of cornbread baked in that oven. And, since they were a farming family who raised hogs and chickens along with corn, potatoes, and soy beans, this memory wouldn’t be complete without mentioning how my grandmother used to fry up the pigs’ ears and pigs’ tails for my youngest aunt when she was a little girl. To me it sounds awful, but my aunt said they were delicious! I’ll just take her word for it.

woodstoveI cannot imagine the skill it took to prepare a meal on a woodstove. There was virtually no way to control the amount of heat, either on the top burners or in the oven. How in the world my grandmother managed to bake pies, cakes, and cookies without burning them up or ending up with a glop of under-baked dough, I have no idea. But I’m sure that’s why a lot of her handwritten recipes that I still have don’t have an oven temperature on them, or a cooking time! She just knew what to do. How she was able to fry chicken and pork chops and have them turn out juicy and golden brown, I cannot say. (I can’t get them to turn out well on a modern gas stove!) Roasting a turkey or a chicken in an oven where you can’t control the heat? I have no idea how she did it, but she did!

And this made me start thinking even further. How in the world do you actually manage to cook a meal on a wood stove? You can’t just turn on a burner and cook some vegetables or scramble some eggs. The fire has to be started, stoked, and established. Depending on what you wish to cook, you have to somehow adjust the heat accordingly. Not an easy thing to do, since it’s very difficult to control a constant temperature. Wood needs to be added continually or the fire will go out. It’s a matter of trial and error guesswork, in all honesty.

Grandmom didn’t use that stove very much by the time my cousins and I were growing up, since she had her other one, and the woodstove was quite a bit of work to keep operating. But we always begged her to make us toast in it when we came to visit. That stove made the very best toast I’ve ever had! There was just something so special about the flavor of sliced bread toasted in that oven and then slathered with real butter; I can’t describe it. I’ve tried to duplicate it many times, but you just can’t re-create the flavor that came from that wood fire.

Unfortunately Grandmom’s woodstove was sold along with the house and farm after my grandfather died and my grandmother came to live with my mother and me. I hadn’t thought about this in years, but now I’d really like to know where it went. Not that any of us in the family would have used it as a stove, but wouldn’t it have made a wonderful conversation piece in someone’s family room?

Oh, the memories…..

Learning to Cook

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Since many of my friends have teased me about the Saturday recipe blogs, although many of you seem to enjoy them quite a bit, I thought I’d take the time to explain some of the history behind this. (Plus, I couldn’t decide what recipe to post today, so it’s a perfect time for this story!)

Back when I was growing up as a teenager in the 60’s, we had a class called Home Economics. We started taking it in seventh grade, and believe it or not, since I have a reputation among my friends for trying NOT to cook more than trying TO cook, I was actually one of the student assistants for the seventh and eighth graders during both my junior and senior years.

A good reason for that is probably because I used to sew quite well (probably still can if I really tried, but I gave it up years ago), having been taught by my mother who had won a few local awards for her abilities as a seamstress.

cookie makingBut part of Home Ec, as we all called it, involved cooking, which I’d never really had a lot of interest in. I remember my mother introducing me to rolling out biscuit and cookie dough when I was really small. I actually remember being in our pantry and standing on a stool my father had made so I would be tall enough to reach the counter and help cut out the pieces of dough with cookie cutters my mother let me use. I think there’s a picture somewhere, but I haven’t been able to find it.

And yes, I did eat some of the raw dough, just like I’ve always told my own daughter not to do when she helps me. The difference is, I learned early on that not listening to my mother wasn’t the smartest thing I could ever do!

I don’t remember what those first cookies I made looked like, or even tasted like, but I can assume that my mother told me they were the prettiest ones she’d ever seen…the best she’d ever had. After all, that’s what most mothers do! I’m also fairly certain they were NOT the best she’d ever had! And probably not very pretty, either.

Several years later I got some kind of baking set for either Christmas or my birthday. It came complete with little mixing bowls and individual cake mix and icing mixes. This was before those Easy-Bake ovens, because I remember my mom helping put the little bowls in her oven and waiting expectantly for my cakes to cook. I also remember how delicious that chocolate cake mix was after all the ingredients were added, and how sick I got after eating almost a whole package of it.

hot chocolateThat was basically my cooking experience until I found myself in my first Home Ec class. I thought I would do great until I discovered the first unit was cooking…good grief, no! I had no idea what to do! We had to make hot chocolate. From scratch. Using a recipe. No instant packages! Fortunately we were in teams. Unfortunately my teammates knew about as much of what to do as I did. We put the ingredients together, cooked it, and somehow managed to burn the milk, and it tasted awful. In fact, I think most of us in that class had the same “success”.

There were two other dishes we had to prepare. One being corn chowder. How many of you have ever had corn chowder? I hadn’t. But I have to say it was actually fairly decent after we made it. These days I’d add some potatoes and a bunch of clams and some macaroni and tomato, and turn it into clam chowder. Now THAT would be good! The other dish? Good old fashioned green bean casserole…who doesn’t know how to make that? Well, I didn’t at the time, but I excelled in that one! And I actually still make it quite a bit.

And how funny is it that I won the Betty Crocker Homemaker Award when I was a senior! I don’t remember what I had to do, but I can guarantee it was probably from taking a written test, and possibly submitting some of the clothes I’d made. Not for my cooking abilities! And yes, my husband still shakes his head over that one.

2016-02-18 20.34.39Now for the truth….while I like to tell people I don’t cook unless I’m forced to, I actually do cook. Not every night, and nothing near as elaborate as I used to “back in the day” when I had more time. I do fix huge holiday dinners, and love to make cookies and key lime pie! I also have a rather extensive recipe collection, and sometimes even use some of them.

And yes, most of the recipes I’m using on the blog are from our family cookbooks! I have to put them to use for something!

Selling a Piece of My Heart

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The following is an excerpt from “Memories in a Daughter’s Heart”, to be published this spring on Amazon.com. “Memories” is a memoir of the last years of my mother’s life, and discusses dealing with dementia, as well as overcoming the grief that follows the death of a mother.

“…I have heard the Lord Almighty say, ‘All these big fine houses will be empty ruins.’” (Isaiah 5:9) Granted, all of our earthly homes will one day be gone, and replaced with beautiful heavenly mansions, but at the time I didn’t think of it that way. I didn’t want to lose the last of my physical reminders of my mom, but I had no choice but to sell her home.

It took me several months before I could bring myself to do it. Fortunately the house was paid for, I didn’t have to rush into making decisions. As much as I wanted to be able to keep it, and possibly use it as a second home, I knew it just wasn’t practical. Taking care of one home is difficult enough some days, let alone two.Image3

I’d thought about it long and hard before I made my decision. There were so many wonderful memories there, it broke my heart to sell, but the house needed a family to live there full time. A family that would make new memories of their own life in that house. And the house needed a family that would live there all the time, and enjoy it like it should be enjoyed.

Our daughter Ashley was heartbroken over the decision. Like me, she didn’t want to give up the last part of her grandmother that she still had. But in the end, she realized like I had, that it was inevitable. So almost a year after we lost my mom, we ventured back to the Eastern Shore of Maryland from Virginia Beach, and began that very difficult task.

Right before we began packing, I walked through the house again. It was lonesomeDaddy Older and empty. Vacant. A house with just pieces of furniture and no life. I went from bedroom to bedroom, and when I got to my mom’s room I sat on the bed and looked at her vanity. Most of her things were still on it, her shoes were still under the vanity seat. Daddy’s picture was still on the table by her mirror where she could tell him good morning and good night. And all of a sudden the tears came again, with a vengeance! It hurt so much.

There is such finality when we pack away and dispose of the tangible physical reminders of our loved ones. Although we’ve known for months there is no turning back, there’s just something about the physical act of disposing of their possessions. If you haven’t gone through it, you can’t understand it.

There are moments, though, during the process, when you laugh. Moments in which you make new memories. Like finding my mom’s wedding dress and her satin robe she wore on her honeymoon, and finding my aunt’s prom gown as well as her wedding dress. Of course Ashley and I tried them on, and we took photos for our own book of memories, playing “dress up” like two little kids would have done.

Without my faith, and without my certain knowledge that my mom was now living eternally in heaven, I do not know how I would have been able to do this. Although we aren’t supposed to put our hearts in these worldly possessions, we’re human, and at these times, it’s the only tangible remembrances we have left. Yes, our eternal treasures are in heaven, but because we are still here on earth, we still treasure these earthly possessions our loved ones leave behind.

When we go back to the area to visit friends or just take a break, I ride by the house and wonder what it looks like inside now. But even though the new owners said we were welcome to come by any time, I would never do that. I want to remember it as it was. The memories have to be enough. The past has to stay in the past.

A friend of mine wrote about riding past her family home recently. “Family homes can become homes for new families to live in…things can be forever changed. But I can stand still in your front yard, close my eyes and feel it all. I can see the family holidays, the kids’ table, croquet, the crickets, lightning bugs, smiling faces. I can smell bacon frying, freshly mowed grass and cow manure. I can close my eyes and swear I’m only 13 and I’m here for my summer visits. But I’m not…I’m all grown, with kids and even grandkids of my own now. Time doesn’t stand still for anyone and change can be so bittersweet, it’s painful. But no matter what changes, my memories will not. I will keep them in my heart forever.”

Jumbled Dreams

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During one of those restless nights, which I’ve unfortunately had a lot of recently, I woke from a very weird dream. We’ve all had those from time to time. But this one was so strange I had to immediately write it all down, because I knew it had a meaning, and I knew after I’d written it down the meaning would become clear.

In my dream I had put a pan of cinnamon buns in to bake. Nothing unusual about that, but instead of an oven, I used a wooden chest of drawers my father had made for me one Christmas. I recognized it immediately in my dream, with its white and blue paint and “Mary Had a Little Lamb” decals on the sides. I guess it sort of could have looked like an oven, if I were still a kid playing make believe. But I was an adult, even in the dream.

I even set an imaginary dial for the temperature and a timer to set the cooking time. And even stranger, the chest/oven was in the middle of a bedroom! A very messy bedroom. There were clothes all over the floor that I’d never seen. Who they belonged to, I have no idea, nor did I know why any of this was where it was. At the time it seemed normal.

Suddenly I went downstairs (from somewhere upstairs in whatever house I was in) and started telling a bunch of people I don’t think I even knew, about the special treat I’d prepared for a meeting we were all getting ready to attend. Then I realized I wasn’t ready for the meeting, so I started looking for my briefcase which had my meeting notes and laptop, and it was gone! I searched everywhere for it. I even told some of the people I had to find it because all of my memories were on there, and I hadn’t backed them up yet. (“Memories” was the word I used…keep reading)

Still looking for my laptop, I went outside to look in my friend’s car (why I didn’t have my own car I have no idea, and I’m not sure I even knew this “friend”) and her car was gone. I ran inside and asked her about it, and she said she had no idea what had happened to it. She didn’t act concerned at all, and said my stuff wasn’t in there anyway. I was beside myself by that point, so I ran upstairs to check my oven, and that was gone, too. The only thing left was an indentation in the carpet where it had been.

By that time I was frantic. I kept saying over and over again, “I’ve lost my mind. What’s going on?” I ran back downstairs and tried to turn on the lights, and none of the light switches would work…I was in a panic, and didn’t know what to do. I was running in circles….

And then….I woke up, almost shaking. I had the strangest feeling, and I knew this dream meant something, but I didn’t know what.
As I wrote all of it down, the Lord spoke to me and said, “This is what it’s like as dementia and Alzheimer’s start to set in.”

We’ve all had strange dreams from time to time. But this particular one struck me, especially because of the familiarity of some of the components. Now I knew why.

Brain GamesIt also made me start thinking about what our family members may go though as memory loss sets in from the aging process.

Daily everyday tasks or just day-to-day living can become jumbled and difficult. Routine activities such as cooking can become complex, and sometimes even dangerous. One of my aunts slowly ventured into the world of dementia after her husband passed away. At the beginning of her adventures in this strange new world, her actions, although a bit bizarre at times, were harmless, and the caregivers hired to stay with her during the day were able to easily prevent her from situations in which she could harm herself.

Unfortunately this strange new world became the norm for my aunt, rather than the exception and some of her new activities combined previously normal activities with some rather interesting twists. Her caregivers had to remove the burner knobs on her stove before they left in the evening, because several times they had come to the house in the morning and found her “cooking” her good jewelry in a saucepan on the stove, stirring her rings and brooches with a wooden spoon, just like she used to do when making sauces. A few times they even found food that had been prepared and placed in a drawer to bake, similar to the dream I described above.
stirring
I wonder, was what I was experiencing in my dream what my aunt was experiencing in her mind? How awful that must have been for her. Or worse, did she even know at that point what reality was?

We all forget where we park our cars at times; even our 27 year old daughter does that! And we know that brief scary feeling when we think our car’s been stolen, until we find it in the next row of parked vehicles. Dreams of being unprepared for meetings or tests in school (even if we’ve been out for years) are also commonplace for many of us, especially under stressful conditions.

But the reality of losing control of our memory is totally different, because we cannot control it. And as frightening as it is to watch our loved ones going through this, think how frightening it is for them, as they begin to realize what’s going on, while they still can. We can escape our dreams of being out of control; they cannot. They’re forced to repeat different variations of the same dreams until they cannot reason reality from the captivity of dementia.

Whshutterstock_memorylossat can we do in this situation when a loved one is beginning this journey? Aside from making sure they are protected and cared for, all we can do is continue to love them, be patient with them (which is sometimes tough), and go along with some of the things they say, because they don’t know what they’re saying, and correcting them won’t help. It’s never something we’re prepared for, but unfortunately for many of us it’s something we have to go through. And eventually we’re forced to make decisions about their care that we’d never ever imagined we’d have to do.

Think about this the next time you have one of those crazy, mixed up dreams. I know I will. Because I’ve been through it with my aunt and my mother, and over the next several months, I will take you through some of the storms we went through, as detailed in my upcoming book, “Memories in a Daughter’s Heart”.

But be encouraged. There are better days ahead for all of us.

Mom Rachel’s Sweet Potato Biscuits

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Growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, there were always certain items on the big family dinner menus that just had to be included, no matter what the entrée. Sure, fried chicken almost always demanded this particular side, but so did Thanksgiving and sometimes Christmas dinners, and lots of other meals in between.

Sweet potato biscuits obviously originated in the South. Thomas Jefferson served sweet potato biscuits at the First Continental Congress in Philadelphia, back in 1774. His recipe contained cinnamon, ginger, and chopped pecans. But there are lots of other variations on the standard recipe, including a brown sugar “crust” on the top (that sounds really good), as well as adding diced bacon and chives, cheddar cheese, orange zest, and an idea that sounds really good…miniature marshmallows (guess it’s a variation on sweet potato casserole).

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Now, I’ve never tried any of these added ingredients, in fact, I’ve only attempted to make sweet potato biscuits once. You see, I don’t like sweet potatoes. I don’t like sweet potato casserole, or sweet potato pie. Or baked sweet potatoes which our daughter loves! And yes, I AM from the Eastern Shore where almost everyone seems to like them! (One of the popular local chain restaurants in my area when I was growing up was known for their sweet potato biscuits. They finally published their recipe because so many people begged for it. The restaurant has since closed, but the recipe lives on online!)

But I did like my mom’s sweet potato biscuits, and I have to admit, when I was doing the research for this blog, and found those ideas for extra added ingredients, well I just may have to try making them again. With my mother’s recipe of course. So here it is. Let me know what you think!

Mom Rachel’s Sweet Potato Biscuits

1/3 c + 1 tbl sugar (I’d probably add a little bit more than that)
1 c cooked mashed sweet potatoes (you can use canned; I would)
2 c Bisquick (Did you know Bisquick has been around since 1931? I didn’t.)
2 tbl shortening

Combine ingredients and knead together for one minute. Place dough on floured surface and either roll out or pat flat to about 3/4″ thickness. Cut out circles with either a biscuit cutter, or the standard in our household, a drinking glass with the rim dipped in flour. Place on greased baking sheet and cook at 425 degrees for 15 minutes. Remove to wire rack to cool and serve with butter and/or honey.
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Note: If you’re going to add the miniature marshmallows, roll the dough a bit thinner, put marshmallows on top of one, put another biscuit on top of it, and crimp the edges together. I actually may try this.
And if you don’t like this recipe, there are tons of them on line, and I think I just might try a few!

Walking Across the Rainbow Bridge

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All of us pet owners have heard of the Rainbow Bridge. There’s nothing scriptural about it, but for those of us who love our pets, and grieve over them when they leave us, we know about the Rainbow Bridge.

Legend has it that the Rainbow Bridge is very close to heaven, maybe even a part of heaven. When a beloved pet passes away, that pet crosses over the Rainbow Bridge, where it meets and plays with all of its friends in rolling fields and meadows and beaches, chasing balls and Frisbees, waves and butterflies (maybe even a few mice, in the case of cats), and enjoying the warm sunshine on their fur. These pets are also totally restored to health, just as we receive new healthy and glorious bodies when we enter into heaven.

It is said that one day, each of those pets will suddenly see their former owners. There is a joyful reunion, and these pets and their owners are finally reunited for all of eternity.

Over the years, my mother had three dogs she absolutely adored. Two of tAngel Doghem had passed away before her, and my husband and I took her Pekingese home to live with us after Mom died. Knowing the love my mother had for these special animals, and the joy and companionship they brought into her life, I totally believe her first two dogs were waiting for her in her mansion when she arrived at her heavenly home. I also believe when her Pekingese died almost 9 years later, that sweet little dog ran across the Rainbow Bridge and bounced up the steps to Mom’s heavenly mansion, barked to be let in, and they had a glorious reunion! I’m sure all three dogs quickly began playing together as my mom smiled in approval.

The Lord loves us. You can open any page in your Bible and find a verse which tells you that. And He knows how much we love our pets. In the book of Genesis God gave man dominion over the earth and all of the animals on it, as well as all of the fish in the sea and the birds in the air. If He gave us dominion over them, He entrusted us with their care. And He commanded Noah to take two of each species of animal with him on the ark so the earth could be totally replenished after the flood.

Scripture clearly gives us instruction about taking care of our animals. Although animals are not mentioned specifically as pets, it is obvious we are to care for them and watch over them. Ecclesiastes 3:21 tells us: “All (referring to animals and man) have the same breath (literally “spirit”); humans have no advantage over animals.”

Let’s also not forget animals are mentioned as being in heaven. Isaiah tells us “the lion will lie down with the lamb.” And Revelation refers to the Lord and the armies of heaven coming forth riding on horses.

I truly believe the Lord knew how much we would come to care for those certain animals He entrusted as our companions. Of course He knew. He created them as well as He created us. Because He knows the depth of our feelings for our special pets, why would He not have them waiting for us in heaven?

“…with God, all things are possible.” (Matthew 19:26) I am believing and trusting that my favorite pets will be waiting for me, too, inside my heavenly mansion. With a heavenly “welcome home” party. And what a reunion we will all have!

What pets have you had that you are looking forward to being reunited with one day? Share your comments with us.

Decking the Halls

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Through the eyes of a child….

Recently I came across a few photos from Christmases from my childhood….some from my first Christmas, and a few when I was probably five or six years old. Aside from thinking about how different my mom’s living room looked back then, I couldn’t help noticing the Christmas tree in the background, and thinking…did it really look like that?

Thinking back on those Christmases past, I still picture those trees in my mind, really big and fat, and smelling like, well, Christmas! There was a special scent in the house once the tree was put up. And I so enjoyed sitting in the living room at night with the only lights being from our tree. Through my child’s eyes I always thought each one was more beautiful than the previous year, but looking at the photos I’ve found, they really weren’t all that spectacular, compared with the ones we decorate today.

Christmas time certainly seemed a lot simpler when we were growing up. Because almost all of us used fresh cut trees, we’d wait until almost the week before Christmas before putting it up and decorating it. My mom and dad would move the old floor model radio that was in the corner of our living room by the fireplace to make room for the tree. Daddy would bring the tree home on top of his car after work, and set it in a bucket of water on the front porch until it was time to bring it in. Then he’d set to work sawing the bottom of it just right so the tree would fit in the stand. He’d put it in the corner and adjust it until it was straight, and then fasten a piece of string around the center and tie it to a nail in the wall, just in case it tried to topple over. And after it was up we had to make sure to keep water in that stand every day, or the tree would start drying out and dropping its needles all over the floor.

After the tree was in place, my mother would bring out the boxes of ornaments and lights, and we’d finally get to start decorating. We’d start with the “bubble lights” with their colored liquid that would bubble up as soon as the lighted bulb in the bottom of the base got hot, and then add big round snowball lights that looked like they were coated in colored ice. And of course there were strings of plain fat lights in different colors that got really hot, and would burn your fingers if you accidentally touched them.

Because we didn’t have as many ornaments as Ben and I do today, we’d make sure we placed each one carefully on just the right branch; certain ones needed to go close together. Why? I have no idea. They just did. And we carefully placed the delicate glass birds that had been my grandmother’s in a place of honor, so everyone could see them. I actually still have those birds, and still use them every year.

And who can forget those skinny silver icicles we used to throw on the tree as a finishing touch? The first ones I remember were real aluminum, and sometimes broke when you took them off at the end of the Christmas season. We’d always try to save them for the next year, but they didn’t survive very well. In later years they were made of some shiny synthetic material that stuck to everything…including our hands…when we tried to throw them on the tree. Even though they weren’t the easiest things to use, we still had to use them. The tree wouldn’t be complete without them.

Then we’d hang our stockings on the fireplace mantle, very carefully, sstockingo the tacks wouldn’t make too big a hole in the wood and mess it up. I had a red felt Santa Claus stocking that my aunt had made for me, and my mother had a matching one with “MOM” on it. I still hang mine up with our newer ones, even though it doesn’t get filled. (Although this year it just might find a few stocking stuffers in it for our new granddaughter, even though she isn’t here yet to appreciate them!) My mom would add some sprigs of fresh holly that she’d cut from the woods behind our house, and a few candles, and we were ready for Santa Claus!

Yes, I’m nostalgic for those days in the past. I don’t have a lot of memories of Christmas with my dad, since he died when I was only eight. But I remember the huge smiles on my parents’ faces when I’d come into the living room on Christmas morning, finding the cookies and milk gone, and all sizes of wrapped boxes under the tree, just for me. And there was always some piece or pieces of doll furniture my dad had made for me in his basement workshop, just like Santa Claus! It was truly a magical time, or so I thought.

But life goes on, and the memories of those long ago Christmases have become just that…memories which hide in special places in our minds where we can relive them briefly. But only briefly, because they tend to fade as they’re replaced with newer ones.

And in those memories, we can once again enjoy Christmas through the eyes of the little child we used to be, and for a brief moment, forget the years that have intervened, and still smell the fragrance of that brightly decorated tree….