Happy Father's Day, Grandpa!

It occurs to me today, Father’s Day, I have not written much publicly about my Grandpa.  That’s interesting to me because he is such a central figure in my life.  That fact is interesting, too, since he has been gone from me for much, much longer than I had him here.  Today he is chief in my thoughts.

First, you must understand that when I say “My Grandpa” I am not talking about anyone who was a parent or step-parent to either of my parents.  He is no blood kin to me.  He was retired after a long career and ready to enjoy his golden years when I came along.  

“Came along” is the phrase I often heard from him.  As though I were dropped out of the sky by a passing cloud or rode up on my bike one day and didn’t leave.

“Krist, before you came along we thought about moving back home,” he would shake his head as though trying to figure out how it happened that I captured his heart and changed his plans.  I never heard regret in those words, only a sense of wonderment that make me feel infinitely loved.  It seemed to me he thought he had gotten the better end of this deal, as though moving back to the place where his story began was a bad thing compared to having me.  

I had more value than a sunset back home.

I have my own sense of wonder at the way I came along to Grandpa.  My mom had a friend who lived with her grandparents. The friend agreed to babysit for my brother and me when my parents worked.  Simple, normal, common, average.  Lots of working parents have babysitters and lots of teens babysit.

But this teen lived with her grandparents.  And the first time she babysat it was only me.  And when she brought me home to her grandparents, the first thing they did was take out the camera (an expensive proposition in 1967) and start taking pictures.  

I’m still in time sitting on top of the stump – skinny blonde hair in the breeze, big blue eyes, curious stare.  It was as though they were commemorating a “first” not an “only” day. 

For all of my childhood I heard it, “this is the first day you were here, Krist.”  

After a difficult slice of life for all the parties involved, the babysitting turned into Temporary Foster Care which lasted until I was 18.  Through holidays and sick days, sunshine days and catching butterfly days, I stayed.

My Grandpa had three step-children, which were as much his own as not.  He had several grandchildren and great-grandchildren – some of whom knew him better than others, some who never met him.  But I was the child of his sunset years.  I was 18 months in that first picture snapped in 1967, he was 65.  

Memories of time spent with him are set against many backdrops.  To control his diabetes, Grandpa took long walks every day at Jackson Park.  Sometimes I walked beside him struggling to match his long stride.  He taught me to fish there, too.  Not sure we could have ever gotten anything with my ADD energy.  Many times we would “run to the store for Grandma” which somehow would include Goober Grape Jelly and “Kristy Kritter” cereal.  

Hovering over all the warm fuzzies are the memories of learning my favorite thing from my Grandpa.  He taught me to read.  He read the Milwaukee Journal from front to back every day while Grandma fixed supper.  I can see myself sitting behind the wall of paper, doing my best to be still on his lap and listening to his deep, gentle voice read aloud to me.  As the letters became words and the words ideas, I learned the importance of understanding the world on a grand scale.  

I’m not sure what Grandpa enjoyed more – a good political discussion or professional wrestling.  I suppose both gave him entertainment for their ridiculous staging.  The first engaged his mental wrestling as he pushed and pulled the other side until they conceded with him.   The second allowed the same, but only by observation.

He was tall, my Grandpa, and strong well into his 70s.  He had the clearest, kindest, most honest blue eyes I have ever seen.  He was smart.  He was loving.  He was so, so patient.  He was a good friend to many.  Honored, admired, respected, loved. 

At some point near the end of the story, I remember going to a wedding with my Grandma and Grandpa.  I remember watching them dance.  I see the graceful strength as he all-but picked my tiny Grandma up as they floated around the dance floor.  The music seemed to be a part of them as they knew when it would switch from this to that and matched its motion.  

Grandpa liked to play cards, too, and sit outside.  I can see us sitting in the backyard on a summer day.  Picnic table between us covered with cards as he watched me play Solitaire.  He had been wrapped up in the struggle for his life for sometime at that point.  A stroke, a heart attack, various complications from those events ate at his abilities.  Words taunted him, casual tasks teased him until in frustration he would sigh and shake his head.  

That day in the sun, that last day, however, I heard the same clear voice which still speaks to my heart.  “Krist, you gotta take care of Grandma, ok?  She’s gonna need you to help her.”

My young life had already known too much sadness.  I had already stepped out of the lines of expectations in all the wrong ways.  I was selfish, not trustworthy.  If I had to be placed in a different foster home at that point, I would have been labeled, “troubled, difficult, angry.”  

He knew, but seemed to have forgotten that as we sat there.  

He did his best in the years before that day to give me value.  To remind me that whatever life held, I was smart and capable and could stand up to the challenge.  

Storms followed the sunshine.  In March 1979 I saw him last.  Because I wasn’t technically family I wasn’t allowed to see him in the hospital.  When they realized he wouldn’t come home again, someone told the nurses I was a granddaughter visiting from Colorado and they let me in. 

Funny that I had to lie to see him when lying is something he taught me was never to be done.

The hallway outside of the ICU of St. Francis Hospital has nothing on the walls, save the two holes burned by the determination in my eyes as I forced the tears to hide.  I hear the “swoosh” as the double doors open, “Okay, Krissy, come on.  You can see him now.”  

I’m standing beside his bed, this stranger who owns my Grandpa’s eyes, holding a thin hand with a young man’s grip and spouting stupid words.  “I’m doing good in school Grandpa.  I’m ok.  I’m helping Grandma.”  

All the while he is trying to say something, but the tube in this throat stifles his voice and only his eyes can speak.  

I have long wondered what he was trying to say.  “Krist, Grandpa loves you.”  “Krist, Grandpa is proud of you.”  “Krist, remember your promise to take care of Grandma.”  

Countless times since then I have imagined my Grandpa beside me through a difficult or proud moment.  My son is named for him. When I graduated from college, I hoped he could see me.  When I share my time and affection with all the many kids who have crossed my path, I am reminded of the value my Grandpa saw in me.

I remember him on his birthday and in the spring.  I think of him when I watch anything political or see a sunset.  

I know why I so seldom write about my Grandpa. It’s hard to write when you can’t see through the tears.  After all of these years, after all the seasons my life has brought, I still miss my Grandpa.  I still hear his voice.  I still speak of him as though he is going to pull up any time in his New Yorker.  

I was babysitting for my grandchildren last night when my granddaughter asked, “Tell us again the story of your Grandma and Grandpa,” 

Telling them the story of compassion, sacrifice, grace I was impressed with the gift I had been given.  

And so I finish with the phrases I never said enough.   

Thanks, Grandpa.  Happy Father’s Day, Grandpa.  I love you.

To order a copy of 

A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges 

or A Friend Named Jesus, 

please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Faith Believes Good Lies Beneath the Bad

The tragedy in Colorado yesterday left my heart very sad.  I don't know anyone there.  I have never even been to Colorado.  I didn't expect to know anyone even remotely involved with anyone who might have been in the theater.

But it made me sad.

It brought me back to other phone calls, other tragedies announced, other events that can never be undone.  "It's John."  "Dean was in an accident."  "He's in jail.  One of them had a gun."  "He was just sleeping on the couch and someone drove by and shot into the house."  "The gun went off.  It was an accident." 

Every time a senseless death occurs, two lives are lost.  The one who holds the gun, the one who receives the bullet.  The one who drives drunk, the one who is hit by the drunk driver.  Every time a strong armed crime is adjudged, two futures are altered.  One whose youth is stolen in prison, one who faces fear every time the door clicks open behind them.

Two lives unalterably changed.  Two sets of families and friends grieving.  Two sets of tragedy.

I hate guns.  I hate alcohol. You can't change my mind.  I know those things are part of American life.  They aren't a part of my every day, but their stamps remain long behind.

The shooting in Colorado reminded me also of other tragedies:  Columbine, Oklahoma City, Ground Zero.  I wasn't connected to any of those events, either, but they made me want to hug my kids and find a way to protect them from the random violence of the world.  Now I add Aurora to the list.

I would like to wrap them up - all the kids of mine - and never let them out of the house just to be sure nothing bad ever happens to them.  I want to find a way to eradicate the violence so they never understand the sadness of traumatic loss.  I want to cover their eyes and ears and build a wall around them.

I'm not the one in charge of the world, however.  What if they are the one to find the answer?  What if God has given them a difficult path to face leaving behind a wake of compassion, grace, strength, hope?  I'm not saying God is the author of tragedy.  But I know from my own life that if we give God an opportunity, He will teach us something through the worst days.  Some good lays beneath the sadness if we allow Him to show us.

I have a list of survivors I could give you. Some became bitter, angry, victims of the events trying to self-medicate the pain away.  Some became activists spurred to draw attention, change laws, bring the elephant in the room out of hiding.  Some became gentle, compassionate, listeners who change the future one hug at a time.

I hope the senseless tragedies which left footprints and holes in my heart have made me the compassionate type.  I hope I never forget how it felt to hear the phone calls so I have grace to give when the phone rings for someone else.

You can think I'm simple or foolish.  That's ok.  Black days have taught me to have faith.

I have faith in God who tells me regardless of the awful, tragic, horrific events of life, some good can be found beneath it all.  He is the Author and Finisher of my faith and teaches me all things work together for good for those who love Him and those who are called according to His purpose.

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

Finding Loss

I have seen too much loss in the last couple of weeks.  Big losses.  Wake-up-and-think-about-them-again losses.  Nothing –you-can-do-to-change-it losses.

Life, mostly, but not only.

I have a friend who is getting a divorce.  I understand the good and bad that melt together in that season and it makes me sad.  I want to get her past those days into the next season.  The one where she will be re-building, re-identifying herself and her purpose.  I want her to get to the season where she feels good about herself again, full of confidence and hope.

But I can’t.  She is in the deleting season and it must be lived to get to the next place. 

So I pray and ask God to help her through.

I have another friend whose only child was diagnosed with leukemia and then gone in three weeks time.  Three long, life-filled, overwhelming weeks. 

The obituary would say some lovely words about his being a husband and father, perhaps make mention of his new, exciting business.  But there aren’t enough words to describe how much this man meant to his family.  He was healthy, strong, young just at the cusp of making a deep impression on the world.  And now he’s gone.  I have cried many tears for this young man and for his father, my friend.  I don’t understand why some things happen.  It makes me sad. 

So I pray for my friend and his family and hope they see God stringing the threads together to make them stronger.

The tragedy undermines the heaviness of the other sad news – my friend whose twins were born much too soon.  Struggling for life in a plastic cube an hour away from all of their family, they begin this life alone, together, and I pray for their miracles to build mountains for them.    On the same day, my son was diagnosed with a troublesome, bothersome, persistent condition that will complicate things for him when he least expects it. 

So I pray for them that they will see the gift and not the challenge of life.

Finally, a long time friend is found in his chair.   It had been two days since he was last seen.  Someone  wondered where he was and they found him, sleeping eternally.   

My writer’s mind seeks justice to bring balance.  Where is God?  What is this about?  What is He thinking?   My logical friends tell me God isn’t really real and I’m clutching straws.  Life happens and you just have to deal with it.  My education tells me to think it through, write it out, analyze it and set it on a shelf for someone else to think about, write about, analyze.

I have had difficult seasons before.  Closer than the one degree of separation of this season.  Maybe that’s why this sadness affects me more?  I am brought back to other, closer, sadder days.

This circle brings me back to my friend sleeping in his chair.  Funny, but I can’t imagine him sitting still.  I see him laughing with a bag of groceries in his hand, “I brought some breakfast.”  Eggs, potatoes, onions, butter.  Not very healthy, but very filling, especially when served with a little flirtatious teasing and a lot of compassion.   Stone soup perfected!

I see his youthful strength and confidence.  No fear.  No failure.  Somehow everything would work out allright.  Somehow, mostly, it did.  Unexpected kind words smoothed the dark days.   And laughter.  Wow… we laughed in those days.   Strains of Janis flitting in the background, living on the underside of poverty with nothing left to lose, we laughed. 

We talked much of God in those days.  Never doubting His presence, never doubting His grace.  Not quite sure about how to apply it and who He would accept, but sure in our knowledge that somehow He would make it allright.  He would figure it out.  And He did. 

Time, distance, more life separated my path from my sleeping friend, but the impressions remained.   What we have to give, we ought to give.  When we can share a kindness, we should.  Laughter does good, like a medicine.   Believe in Someone greater than yourself.  Trust Him, even when you can’t see Him.  Don’t be afraid to love.

I can’t solve the great theological debates to answer the question of where is God in bad days, but I know He is there.  His comfort surrounds me.  I pray my friends see Him, too, in their dark days.  I pray He is tangible to them and they know how much He loves them. 

I guess that’s really the writer’s answer to sad days.  We pray.

Oddly enough, when I pray, I see the immensely good things that God sends to bring me balance.  The flowers picked for me and the little gentlemen whose generosity is outshined only by their shy smiles.  The tender touch of angelbabies who just want to be held.  The co-workers laughing in complicity over nothing.  The warmth of the sun kissing my skin on a perfect summer walk.

Life is life and we just simply must live it.  Good and bad jumbled together.

Angels Who Adopted Me

Kids are angels, too, but I’m sure you already know that. I have quite the collection of kids who are angels. Many of them are grown now with kids and collections of their own. I never tire of their stories, their smiles, their innate goodness.

The other day someone made the comment that they like their own kids, but they aren’t too keen on adding to the brood like I am. I thought that was funny. I have never made an effort to add to my kid collection.

They just… join my path.

I have two sons. Those are direct gifts from God. They are the foundation of the collection and I’ve always tried to make sure they know they are the most important. Added to them, now, are the grandbabies.

But they weren’t the first. As the oldest of the “cousins” in my foster family, I was the natural babysitter. I read the stories to keep the kids quiet. Took the kids to the park. Played with the kids outside. It seemed I always had Ron or Angie or Vonnie somewhere close behind me all through the growing up years. And Kendra, too. She was the first official paid babysitting job I had.

I liked the idea that someone needed me and trusted me and laughed with me. Besides, I could tell them what to do and they had to listen to me. I was the oldest, after all.

And they made me laugh. A lot. Silly smiles and cookie kisses. That’s probably where it started. This kid collection thing. We read The Velveteen Rabbit endlessly and giggled at The Very Scary Witch no matter how many times we told it.

When Johnathon was born and my peers were having babies of their own, we traded a lot. I’d watch someone’s kids so they would watch mine. But it seemed I had kids more often that I didn’t trade for. Coming over to play, walking to the park with us, talking with me as much as my sons.

Then there were the bus kids. The goal was to bring kids to church so they could learn about Jesus, get a moral compass, a foundation to help them along the way. I understood the parents who wanted their kids to have a little direction while they had a few hours of quiet from the hectic swim that kept their families floating above the poverty line. It was a win-win, except I think I won the most.

I was the “rule maker” in the back of the bus. The one who sat with the kids to keep them from acts of mayhem and rioting. The thugs who came to church to get away from home for a few hours. The miscreants who wanted nothing more than a free breakfast. The chatterboxes who were starved for attention. They surrounded me through the bus ride and left me with pieces of their identity. I prayed they would take some of mine, too.

The angels whose eyes told too many stories and whose rare smiles radiated genuine love – if you watched long enough for the dead eyes to come to life.

My heart is full of them still – those smiles, tears, hugs.

The tough kids who went on to college are stars in my crown, they say. Some have families now. They are heads of households. Wage earners. Teaching their children about Jesus, giving them a moral compass. Using their gifts to bring grace to the world around them.

But what of those whose college years were spent behind prison walls? They are stars to me, too. Fighting for survival in a world they didn’t create, caught in a web they didn’t spin. They tried to make sense of the puzzle, but the pieces didn’t quite fit. I don’t see the gun in their hand or the rage in their heart. I see the little boy with the Mother’s Day card and no one to give it to. I hear the plain speaking voice saying, “but the electric cord? That’s the worst. The metal part sticks in your skin if you don’t have sleeves on.”

I wish I could have protected those angels better.

I feel their tiny hands tentatively stroking my foreign blonde hair, “your hair so soft. How you do that?”

Sometimes when I open my Bible their words fall out, “I made you a card. Do you like it?” Crayola treasures I will keep forever.

Some of them use their experiences now to shape the generation behind them. They are cops, soldiers, teachers, preachers. They control the world around them, teach Sunday School, sing for their Savior to minister grace to someone else, they go the extra mile to share some good thing.

I am amazed at the way God has taken my feeble words and acts of kindness and magnified them in these angels. I hear them telling others, “You have to keep bridges mended. You never know when that opportunity is lost for good.”

And the collection keeps growing. Wherever I go, it seems, there are children who want to share their lives with me. I love the way they speak, the words they choose, the things they find important. I draw from them hope, they draw from me value.

They adopted me along the way, but I’m the one whose family keeps growing.

“This is my white mama. See the resemblance? “ “This my Grandma. She was my mama’s mama so that make her my Grandma, right?” “Go to Bapka, she will read to you.”

It’s a win-win. Today, I am most grateful for the angels who share my path and fill my heart.