January 16, 2015
Note: This post was later rewritten and published in Segullah’s newest anthology, Seasons of Change. It was also published in the December 2017 issue of Draper Lifestyle Magazine.
Grandma’s old clock chimed eleven. My brother Dave, who found sleeping bags for my girls and put them to bed downstairs, had gone to sleep. The boys had finally closed their eyes. Gordon on the mattress, Spencer sprawled on the floor of an upstairs bedroom. I could hear my parents talking quietly in their room, soft lamplight seeping out from under the door.I changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, turned down the covers in my old bedroom, but couldn’t sleep.
So I walked out to the kitchen.
It was all dark. Soft light coming in from a strand of white bulbs scalloped along an outside fence.
I noticed my Dad had tidied the scene, set out the frying pan and grill for tomorrow’s breakfast. By morning, the table would be crowded with children and grandchildren filling plates with buckwheat pancakes, fresh bacon, and scrambled eggs. The granite counter tops gleamed a shiny black, starlight trickling in from a ceiling window.
I padded into the living room and turned on the lights to the tree. I climbed into the red winged chair, tucked my feet up onto the cushion, and hugged my knees.
Doug called Disaster Clean-Up. (They came last year when a section of pipe broke downstairs.) He stayed at the house while I took the kids to my parents’ to spend the night.Somehow I had injured my back a week earlier and the neural sensation and lumbar pain I was having made me suspect a disc tear in the lumbar spine (which has since been confirmed). I muscled through Christmas but wasn’t moving like myself. I had also noticed blood in my urine on several occasions and was starting to feel concerned. All that, along with other menopausal oddities, and I felt like my body was falling apart!And now the house was falling apart! (Which has since manifested several other disasters. Like the dishwasher flooding the kitchen floor, waking up to a cracked kitchen window, and a vacuum cleaner that went kaput.)I usually try to spare you complaints here. Who wants to hear it? Who wants to read the running list of disasters we’ve been cursed with lately?
No one. But I’m going to share them with you. Because sometimes it’s the stuff behind the blog, behind the happy pictures, that has to be talked about. Because it gives context. And in this case it created a circumstance in which I could feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
As I sat there, huddled in the stillness, Christmas after Christmas suddenly played out before me. Memories from my childhood.
The tree was in its usual place. Our stockings were stuffed to overflowing. I saw the Sesame Street playground. The cabbage patch dolls. The year we found two saddles and saddle blankets propped up on one side of the tree. I felt the fire blazing in the fireplace, could hear the singing on the stairs, my sisters hopping and twirling in anticipation until it was their turn to see if Santa had come.
In a rush of vision and emotion, I felt the total safety of being together with my siblings and parents as I grew up in this home.
And I thought… this was a remarkable place to live. To grow up.
I curled deeper into the red winged chair, overwhelmed with nostalgia. Feeling something new yet familiar. So startling it made me cry.
Day after day I’d been caring for my children and family. You know how it goes. Mom holds everything together. Mom meets everyone else’s needs before her own. She makes sure things keep rolling, gifts are bought, school projects are finished, and all the parts keep moving. Mom cleans, folds, cooks, band-aids, reads, sings, tucks in. She cares until she’s limp and then she cares some more.
But for a few minutes that evening, I wasn’t Mom. I was a child again.
My Mother had put fresh sheets on my bed. My Dad sat down and discussed my health concerns. They helped me put children to bed, made sure I had everything I needed, hugged me, let all six of us come banging into the house with our bags and blankets because we had nowhere else to go.
I forgot how heartening it is to be cared for. To have somewhere to go when you feel broken, lacking, and hurt. I forgot how it felt to go home.
To that warm, safe place where someone takes care of… you.
The next morning, I sat at this counter and told my sisters about my experience. I couldn’t do it without blubbering. Mom and Dad listened and my sisters agreed. Our growing up was marvelous, magical. You don’t realize how much you have until you travel the world a bit, see families who don’t love, don’t nurture, don’t care.
Then my Dad, in his wisdom, said, “I believe what you felt was just a taste of what it will feel like to go home to our Heavenly Parents.”
And that made us cry some more.
He is right. In that glorious moment of return, all the mess and struggle of this life will melt away. Someone will hold us. Loved ones will come for us, gather us in their arms, and we will know, without question, how well we have been cared for.
During all of mortality. Even when we couldn’t see it.
We will find our name. We will know our place. We will belong.
Home. It has so many meanings, doesn’t it?
Different front doors. Different roofs. Different living rooms, kitchens, and beds to sleep in. But hopefully each of us has one (or several over the course of our lives) that is very tender to us.
I wish everyone on this earth could know the feeling of home. Real home.
As the years stack up, I realize how much this home – the one I grew up in – means to me.
The grandkids loved playing in the snow. Just like we did as kids. (We used sleds for snowboards back then.)
Uncle Lance made things especially fun.
Snow angel.
I was slow with the camera this year. My back kept me from moving as quickly as I would have liked. In fact, I can’t believe I didn’t get any pictures of my brother Dave and his family, visiting from Texas.
Sami
Mike
Deb with baby Hana.
Over the Christmas break, my Dad worked his last shift as an ER doc. He “retired” a couple years ago. Which meant he stopped working night shifts, but didn’t technically retire. Not until now.
So we planned a surprise dinner and invited his siblings over. Deb put together a book for him. Full of things we remembered about his doctoring over the years. After dinner, we went around the room and talked about his gifts. His gifts of healing. Not just his skills and expertise, but his mannerisms, his humor, and the way he immediately sets his patients at ease. The stories had everyone in tears.
I think Lance said it best: If we were to put a red sticker on all the parts of our bodies he had helped us with, patched up, prescribed medicine for, or given us counsel for, we’d be covered with red dots. But if we put stickers on the parts of us he had healed with his love, his tenderness, and his concern, we would be covered head to toe.
My Dad has been a physician of both body and spirit, to all of us.
I didn’t have my camera out that night. Wish I had.
It is good to have my Dad home with my Mom. She’s been having sensory seizures, maybe 1-2 a week lately. Which might be her new norm. And that has caused her to have a little more anxiety than usual. Knowing Dr. Bob is home is a great comfort to her. And to us.
Of course, he’s still on call 24 hrs a day when it comes to our family. Last week he wrote me an MRI order for the lumbar spine, made sure I got in to see a urologist. He even made a house call when Sami collided with a kid on the playground then whacked her forehead hard on the pavement.
Pretty sure he won’t get rusty with us around.
After our international dinner on New Year’s Eve, we came home, put our New Year’s tree together, and rang in the new year with dancing, horns, and streamers.
It was good to go home. To my parents. To be cared for and cradled. And it was good to come home. To the home our children know. Even without carpet downstairs and a dishwasher that doesn’t work.
It is still home. Still the place we feel most loved. The place I care for my own.
Happy 2015!
Rachel
Sooooo beautiful. Thank you for writing.
I love your parents and I don't even know them.
As I read this, I thought, "Oh! So that's why I burst into tears randomly one night shortly after Christmas and sobbed to my husband, 'I just miss having a mom!'" It feels selfish to admit that I miss having someone to take care of ME and to love me so unconditionally–but that is what I now realize I was missing this Christmas season, in the midst of a lot of personal stress. (You would think after 12 years, I would be over it–but I don't think I will ever stop missing my mom.) Which reminds me, I still need to send you my narrative about her life: "Bliss Complete." Will do that soon!
Thanks again for sharing your heart with us.
catharvy
Rachel, how could you ever get over missing your mom? I don't care how old you get, you still need a Mom. And yours was a most remarkable lady. When we lose someone, we not only lose them, but who we were with them. No slight thing. I would still love to read your narrative. Please send. xoxo
knit one, knit two
Wonderful post. I hope you feel better soon.
Kerri
Oh, Cath, you made me tear up. I love this: the reminder of how blessed I am to have been raised in a home with loving parents and how blessed I am to feel the love of my Heavenly Father.
I have felt His love lately because of my extremities, too. While I would NOT trade my stresses (SEWER back up on CHRISTMAS???? NOOOOOO!!!!!) for yours, I have had those months, and I am beginning to think they are times for me to learn to lean more fully on Him. And right now is one of those times for many reasons, including stupid back problems, too. And man, I am HATING the back problems. I am sad for you and sad for me both. Getting older is the pits.
Thank you for spending your time to share this. I really just loved it.
Kerri
Oh, and do you know My Shepherd Will Supply My Need? The last verse often makes me emotional:
The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode,
And all my work be praise!
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
But like a child at home.
catharvy
Kerri, that verse! It's as if I never read it before. Until you posted it here. And I needed those words so much. I will never hear it or read it without thinking of this month, this season. Thank you, thank you, for pointing me there. So grateful. "No more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home." I am teary reading it again just now.
And I'm so sorry you've had back problems too! What is the deal!? I'm still not to the point where I can hike. But when I can, I'd love to meet up with you. Just riding the recumbent bike at Planet Fitness. Which is extreme drudgery for me. Sending you love and healing Kerri. Always.
Brammer Family
Sweet post. I love those feelings of home too.
And can I just say, I'm so glad this craziness didn't happen during the upcoming tax season? Hope things resolve soon.
catharvy
Alison – you're SO right. I was extremely grateful Doug was around to help through all the disasters. It would have been awful trying to handle it solo. Here's to us and handling tax season, which is soon upon us! Sending love.
Monica Geary
This was just beautiful. You have written out my feelings about home in the way that I think of it! Thank you.
Ace and Waleena...Two people, actually
The last crisis of the old year hopefully means only happiness in the new! Love, Jacque
catharvy
Knit 1 – thank you. me too!
Monica – xoxo
Jacque – I hope so! Hoping for health and good changes in the coming year. Love you!
Kerri
Cath, when our two backs are healed, I will meet you at the mountain of your choice and we will hike and talk for hours!!!!!!!
Mary Keddington
I'm finally trying to get "caught up" on my blog readings. 😉 Thought I would take a second to mention that your parent's home is a welcoming place to all! Thinking about Christmas, I remember excitedly having Christmas at our home and then eagerly taking grandma and grandpa to your house to see the crazy and fun gifts your dad always got! It was a highlight I won't soon forget. So grateful you are family!!!
Michelle
I keep having trouble with comments on your site…I think it's because I need to sign in first before commenting?
Anyway, just wanted to send hugs your way. I'm sorry for all the hard you have been through this year…or even during the holidays. I am so moved by the love in your family and the way you capture its power.