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

Blessings

For the first time in many, many months I am sitting in a Starbucks with nothing required of me.  

I can write if I want.  About anything that fills my mind. 

Bliss.

I considered all the different types of muse I might find about which to pontificate.  I considered the music, books, movies I might review.  I considered the people, places and things which I might discuss.

After all is said and done, all my mind can conjure are the good things in my life right now.  My angelbabies, my sons, my siblings, my friendships, the sunshine, the joy of music sliding along my thoughts, the pattering words dancing in the clouds.  Good things.  Those blessings stand in stark contrast to the hard days of this season of my life.

I’ve come a long way in the last seven years.  I remember dark, dark days when I asked God why He didn’t just let me check out and come on home.  But love held me here.  Angelbaby kisses, friendship hugs, shouts of encouragement from so many places.  Those rich relationships have me driving hither and yon using my last dimes to be where they are to share just one more afternoon, one more cup of coffee, one more chat with them.

After all, you never know when that door will close and I love you cannot be exchanged again.

These seven years have had long winters full of snowy, rainy, closed in days when gloomy clouds filled the sky.  I cherish the feel of sun kissing my skin, Vitamin D drenched moments when I soak up the warmth.  Making like a snake and baking in the sun never gets old to me.  Nothing charges my batteries more than sitting in the sun.  Thanks, God for sunshine.

Silence has shouted to me in these seven years, too.  Profoundly still silence that shook the walls with its resonance.  Today, however, I hear gently the sounds of music from angelbaby laughter, music made by those I’ve watched grow.   The lingering joy in this music makes my heart smile.

All these things give me cause to write.  The words will not remain tucked inside.  They tug and pull and nag for my attention.  All these good things in my life crowd out the quietness of this season.  I know what I would rather, but since I don’t have my druthers, I may as well enjoy what I’ve been given.

Thanks, God, for time to consider the blessings and words with which to share them.

And that, my friends, is what a writer thinks about when they are staring out of a coffee shop window with a laptop open before them and a coffee cooling beside them.

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!

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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. 

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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.

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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