This Thing About Families

This thing about families.  It’s not about a name or a place to live or a status to have.

It’s about belonging.

It’s about walking into a crowded room and knowing where to sit and who to talk to.  It’s about not ever knocking on a door, but always just walking in.  It’s about being sick and knowing someone will go to the store for you, make soup for you, pray for you.  It’s about reaching out and finding a welcome hand.  It’s about being inclusive, never excluded.

It’s a hard thing for me to understand.

It’s not about time spent or even calls made.  Although those are nice and welcome.  But family doesn’t count the days between, only the hours with.  Family thinks about you when you’re not there and talks about you like you’re just around the corner.  “My sister always loves….,” “My brother always says ….”

Family knows you – really – and accepts you anyway.

Your fears are their opportunities to be a hero.  Your joy is a reason for them to laugh.  Your tears are a reason for the to problem solve or share or fight.


It’s holiday times and create a memory times and everyday times when you just need to be alone with people who know you.  Take the mask off, lay down the shield.  It’s refreshing and resting and sometimes even arguing, but knowing once you blow your stack and spill the beans and all the volcanic ash is everywhere but in, you still have someone to grab a cup of coffee with and a smile to share.  Family helps you find the boundaries.

I have seen it often – but not always – at church.  I have known it with certain friends, but not all.  I’ve even felt it in some workplaces.  Not all, but some.  It’s like you’re covered, held, welcomed.

Most people silently push away, exclude, separate from others.  


Family pulls you in.  


It’s not culture, color, religion, location, time that builds family.  I have family in Africa, Asia, America.  I’ve known some for all my life, some share my DNA.  They represent many religions, many socio-economic levels.  Some are very wealthy.  Some are very far below the poverty line.

Some share pages and pages of history with me.  Some only a few paragraphs.

I’m mostly afraid of the family thing.  Afraid I am over-assuming my place. Afraid I am over-assuming their acceptance of me.  I stay back a little just in case.  So, if they reject me, no one will see.  I am cautious until I know for sure that if  I walk into a crowded room and I see family, I know where I belong. 

Of Family and Freedom

The Fourth of July.  Independence Day.  America’s Birthday.  

Waking up today brings me back to Jackson Park.  How many years did we picnic there, I wonder?  Grandma would start packing the day before, would have been talking about it for days on end and I would have been committed to doing any number of things.

“Krissy, can you bring that upstairs?”

“Krissy, take that downstairs.”

“Krissy can go with you to hold the picnic spot.”

“Krissy will help you set up.”

“Krissy can watch the kids while you do that.”

No wonder I associate work and activity with happy days.

It was always Yvonne’s birthday party on the 4^th of July, too.  Her birthday isn’t the 4^th, but when we were very little I thought it was and that she got a bigger party because her birthday was in the summer, not in the winter like mine.

A testament to my foster family is that I never felt as though Yvonne, my foster cousin, had a bigger party because she was “real” family.  But only because she had a summer birthday.  

In fact, looking back at all those family gatherings, I never felt as though I wasn’t one of them.  I never was made to feel like an extra or a burden or anything but family.   All holidays included a mix of unrelated personalities, but summer holidays even more so.  

And food.  Oh my word the food!  Potato salad and potato chips.  Hot dogs and brats.  Hamburgers and steaks.  Fresh baked and store bought.  Spread out on plates and platters, in and out of coolers, above and below picnic tables.  Eating would begin for the set up/saving table crew as soon as we got there and end when fireworks closed the day.

At some point on the 4^th of July, the cousins would inevitably walk around Jackson Pond.  I see us now following Grandpa, trying to match his endless stride.  Someone would dip their toes in the pond, someone would try to skip a stone, someone would trip, someone would catch someone else.  A pack of chattering, laughing, sugar-highed kids.  

The years and memories mix together, a kaleidoscoping montage.  I don’t remember which belongs to when.  How old were we when we stopped at the little bridge and Ron ran down to the water?  I see us there, clearly.  Or when Kendra’s fluffy hair and baby smile made their first appearance?  I anxiously, happily watched Cheryl laughing along from the car to the picnic table with her new bundle of joy.  

Yvonne and Shari and me swam one year from one end of the pool to the other – width wise, of course.  I wore a blue two-piece with white trim.  I guess I was about 9, maybe 8?  

Logically I know there were stormy, too cold, too hot, too buggy 4^ths of July.  But I can’t remember them.  I see the trees, the lagoon, the boats floating along, fishers of carp and moss, endless ice tea, card covered tables with laughing players, Frisbee-catching, lawn dart-throwing, baseball-tossing smiling faces.

Independence Day was a big deal to us.  Our picnic site was populated by several generations of military personnel of various ranks who had served through war and peace.  This group, this collection, this family understood the sacrifice associated with American freedom.  

 

I have since tried to share those things with my own children, but our experiences were different.  They were raised in a different place in so many ways.   They almost always saw fireworks, but never from the hood of a car in Arlen’s parking lot.  We usually had some kind of picnic, but never crowded with so many stranger/family/friends as Jackson Park.  

I hear Barbara Streisand singing as I write today.

Memories light the corners of my mind. 

Misty water colored memories, of the way we were. 

Could it be that it was all so simple then?

Or has time rewritten every line?

If we had the chance to do it all again

Tell me, would we?  Could we?

That's the real American story.  We have the freedom to enjoy our families, our homes.  To find happiness.  To share differences of opinion and history.

Happy Birthday, America!  Someone stop at the little bridge in Jackson Park for me today and throw a rock in the creek on my behalf.

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

Darkness and Light

“When the darkness closes in, still I will say, Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Words from a nice song.  A song about worshiping God in good days and bad.  But what about when the bad days are filled with hurt that you can’t explain? 

My role in this season is something like a senior advisor.  I’m the Bapka – the mom of the dad, the longest married dad of the second generation of the clan.  He’s the dad of the clan who is secondly asked for advice – only in line behind the patriarch. 

I’m an extra and, honestly, have asked God more than once what He has me here for.  This impossibly intertwined little town doesn’t need me.  They have all of each other.  There are good things about being here so I rather selfishly enjoy pieces of this season.  But is it really necessary?  My son tells me he still needs me - partly to be nice, I think - partly because sometimes it's very true. 

Let me try to explain this better.

I live on the fringes of a family which is its own social network.  This town is largely populated by one family.  If you follow the family tree down, you will find one particular set of parents who have six kids – five grown and married with children.  Those grandchildren total 11, with two more on the way.  That whole conglomeration of personalities continually flows in and out of each other’s days.  They work together, play together, hang out together, sharing sorrow and joy alike.

My son is married to one of the daughters of that family.  They are the longest married with the most kids.   Due to his position and his gentle wisdom, my son is rather respected by his peers. 

I’m not everyday involved with this whole family, it’s true.  But we go to church together and they are a part of my extended social circle.  All the grandchildren call me Bapka and run to me with hugs and I call them all my Angelbabies and give them mints.  On the fringes is a nice place to be.

Except when it’s not.  Like this week. 

From my distant space I watch their lives, pray for them, love them, encourage them as much as I can.  I see a lot of things from my distant perch.  Some things that make my heart smile, some that make me worry and wonder if there isn’t a way I can steer change.  They don’t even know how often I carry their names to the Lord.  That’s ok.  God knows. 

Not quite two years ago, one of those extensions was given an amazing, miraculous gift.   I watched the story of the twins unfold from their impossibly early birth, through the preemie hospital days and then as they excelled past every benchmark to show they were thriving beyond expectations.  The mother of the twins is my daughter-in-law’s sister.  The dad is one of my son’s closest friends. The twins and their older sister call me Bapka. 

They are a part of the fabric of my life.

This week one of those twins left us.  Her little life took a sad turn and suddenly we went from saying things like, “those twins are so cute together and so healthy!  What a miracle!” to awkward phrases like, “I don’t have the words to say how sorry I am.” 

They said it was a virus.  There was nothing anyone could have done.  It acted so quickly and presented so oddly.   

And now I muddle through trying to explain the unexplainable to my grandchildren, my son, his wife.  I hear my voice reaching for comforting words.  I have prayed this week until my voice was hoarse and no tears remained.

Through this, my purpose is clearly, sharply defined.  The work of the sorrow should be done without little ears listening.  I keep my grandbabies removed from the epicenter while my son and his wife work through this family grief.  

And so I make lunch, draw baths and hold these Angelbabies of mine while they cry.   

I try to answer their questions, but find they have more answers than I do. 

Arthur plainly states, “Ava went to heaven with Skippy the cat and Grandma Loraine and Hunter.” 

No questioning God’s motive.  No doubts about the hereafter.

Again, I see my life here is full of purely selfish benefits. 

“He gives and takes away.  My heart will choose to say.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

 

Love My Brother and My Sister!

I'm compelled to post some pieces about my brother and sister.  Like our relationships, they are from different places, but reflect one sincere truth about us:  we are bonded.  Miles, life, time doesn't separate us or change our commitment to one another.  

I'm including the titles to the pieces these are lifted from just in case someone wants to read the whole bit from A Book of Pages.   

If you have a sibling - or a friend who is like one - tell them you love them today.  Pretty sure we can never say that often enough.

Here's to you Bob and Tina.  Thanks for keeping me!

****************************************

A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges

Patchwork of Me       

P

ieces of color patched together, stitched with love, tossed about, useful, warmth- generating and comfortable.  That’s me.  I didn’t get this way on purpose.  Though I could have been torn asunder by circumstances beyond my control, instead I held together.   I have become me because of where I have been. 

 ***

 A stubborn piece of resilient material forcefully kept in position represents my brother and sister.  Although raised in a separate home far removed; they would not forget me.  My brother, at five years old, was the elder when we were taken from one another.  He was the great defender of our baby sister, only two at the time.  It would have been easy for them to cut ties from me since the adults in charge didn’t always see eye-to-eye unintentionally keeping us apart.  As we grew, our lives crossed paths every once in awhile.  Finally, we were grown enough to make our own decisions, to find one another.  Helping each other through times of crisis like settler families circling the wagons in defense; we have chosen to be family.  Our conversations frequently contain a reference to the fact that we don’t have to love one another, but we choose to.  We have few common interests among the three of us, yet we can easily talk for hours without tiring.  Committed, loved, forgiving:  I am from my brother and sister.

***

Though it might seem that the pieces of my life are haphazardly strewn about, closer inspection reveals careful placement in harmony with an ultimate plan.  If I have much to give, it is only because I have received abundantly.  Held together by undaunted faith, made stronger through adversity, compassionate and giving; I am. 

******************************

Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges

From the Inside Out

P

icture a piece of burlap. Strong. Tightly woven. Complete.

            Now picture that same fabric torn, not cut, into five pieces. The ends frayed and torn. Two of them more together than apart, but none of them completely connected any more.

            That’s what my family is like.

            Two young people in love and ready to conquer the world and beat the odds were overtaken by life’s demands. Push pulled and they were strewn asunder. Not cut with neat edges. Torn. Raggedly.  With strands flaying and seeking wholeness.

            And yet, one strand, invisible to the outside, still connects those lives. It’s like a band of steel that could not be torn, cannot be broken. It can be ignored or pushed aside, but it remains. Intact. Unchanging.

 ***

From the outside in, we aren’t a close family at all. Rarely are we all in the same space. Few pictures exist of all of us together. Two of us or three of us, now no more than four of us, gather from time to time. Our memories are stilted, disjointed.

            Being together takes effort. We make the effort because we enjoy each other, we get something from each other, we understand each other. We are okay apart, but much better together.

***

Even if we try to go on about our lives – the thread keeps tugging. Our minds, our hearts, our attention is centered on one another.

            We’re a family. Not like yours, perhaps, or any other. Together we are stronger, more complete.

            The burlap is frayed, but only needs to be placed near the other torn pieces momentarily to find the right place, to connect, to become whole.

            That’s my family from the inside out.

 ********************************************************************************

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

Just Another....

Another birthday passed.  Another milestone reached.  Another day down.

But writers, you know, don’t ever see things quite that black and white. 

I am one of those people who are both celebratory and reflective on my birthday.  I like to eat and sing and laugh and birthdays are great opportunities for that.  I am always somehow just a little jazzed on my birthday even before I’m hopped up on sugar.  

People say so many nice things to you when it’s your birthday.  The advent of Facebook and Twitter have magnified those opportunities.  People who you forgot you knew throw all kinds of lovely words at you on your birthday.  

I know some people think those internet re-connections are shallow.  I think it’s nice.  And I’m pretty sure that people mean what they say when they are sending a birthday wish.  After all, they make the effort.  That’s nice.  Thoughtful.  Sometimes their words are very generous and they do all sorts of good to my ego.

I even have a couple of friends who send actual greeting cards with handwritten messages in them.  Love that.  To think that they took time before a particular date on the calendar to think of me.  That’s very nice.

There is usually lunch or dinner out on my birthday, too.  Which is fun.  I like any excuse to get together with people I like to be with to laugh and eat.  Presents are totally optional.  But laughter is required.

This year’s “birthday supper” was especially funny to me because I was out to eat with some absolutely fantastic, energetic, faith-filled young people. The fresh generation of leaders who are dedicated to changing the world for good.  They didn’t know it was my birthday until some point during the meal.  I told them they were my party – SURPRISE!  They turned the joke on me by buying my meal and then ordering the chocolate brownie and ice cream with a candle in it and singing to me!  So sweet.  So fun.

I was just trying to not be alone and found myself wrapped up in the kindness of others.  What a great gift.

Reflective is the other side of the coin for my birthday.  More than New Year’s Day, I think of what the year has held and measure where I am compared to where I want to be.  This year held all kinds of public writing since I met the editor of 5ive for Women magazine.  I bought a house, too.  That’s kind of a big deal.  

Some things have stayed the same.  Same job, same car, same quiet lifestyle.  Time seems to go by in flashes of sun and moon and suddenly I’m another year older.

I wonder what my Grandma and Grandpa would think if they saw me now.  Would they be proud?  Would they be comfortable with where I live and who I spend my time with?  What would they think of the focus points of my days?  How would they weigh my actions in light of what they hoped for me?  

More than any other time, birthdays make me think of that kind of thing.

I also think of all the birthday events that have come before.  I don’t compare one to the other.  I lay them out and review them like pictures in a photo album.  Balloons and hugs and flowers and angels and food served in so many places.  And laughter.  Oh my goodness!  Deep, hilarious, soft, chuckling, long and short of it laughter stringing each year’s memory to the next. 

By the way, call me crazy, but God always has it snow a little on my birthday.  I can’t think of a year He has let me down.  It’s like He’s reminding me that whatever the year behind held and whatever time before will bring, He is with me.  That’s nice, too.  

I don’t know how other people see personal holidays, but as for this writer: a birthday is a gift.  As someone told me on Facebook, being older is a gift not granted to many people.  It’s the kind of gift that gets unwrapped, shared, and then tucked away to take out on rainy days.  

I liked my birthday this year.  It held so many quaint moments of generosity.  I hope I am as good to others as they are to me.  

Below zero chill outside.  Frozen stars shimmering in the black winter sky.  Blanket of snow glowing.  

Another birthday passed.  Another milestone reached.  Another day down.

That’s how this writer sees birthdays.

====================

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