Internet Grapes

Sunny day. I stopped and got out of the car on the way back home.

Is it winter, or the fact that we recently returned home from a long-anticipated vacation (which followed closely on the heels of much-anticipated Christmas), or just the usual ups & downs of my mood? Or is it the particular circumstance of spending so much of so many days alone? The fact that my face is bloated and when I look in the mirror I don't recognize (or don't want to) the face looking back? Is it that I have so many goals but am not sure how to achieve them? Or is it that I just can't, after all this time, make peace with past goals and achievements and what came after (unfocused, adrift, despair, perceived failure)? It is time to move on, to stop thinking "what if" in terms of past events that cannot be undone, to find my hopeful mojo about my own future. I used to think that I could do anything I wanted if I put my mind to it, and I find that these days I no longer believe that. But surely there are still some aspirations that I can turn into realities. There was a man in my law school class who turned 40 during our first year of law school, and I did not think that his starting a brand new career at his age was foolish. "Big deal," I thought. And yet this year I will be 42, and so often I think, "there is no time for that." I want to find a way to appreciate the okayness of the present while also being able to cherish the beloved moments of the past and look forward to the challenges and triumphs of the future. There will be triumphs, I tell myself, and I hope that I'm right. I try to think of a word for the year, but it doesn't come.

But now I think: Go. (Maybe this is my word.) Go. Or possibly: Do. Or maybe even just: Be.

 

joy in my heart

Originally posted elsewhere back in April of this year, but I find myself re-reading this and trying to take it to heart especially now, in the holiday season.

Dear me,

Not very often, but sometimes, as you are busy remembering what's gone wrong before or predicting what will go wrong later, it is all you can do to keep going, but you must. Do not stop. Continue: to put one foot in front of the other, to give your loved ones hugs, to help your children get dressed in the morning, to do the grocery shopping and the laundry, to think about what you want to do with your life (to believe that you have a choice about that), to pick up your camera and leave the house, to clean the toilet and the litter box, to stay in contact with your friends, to go to choir rehearsal and sing your heart out.  Keep going through the motions, and fake it until you make it, whether that only takes the next five minutes, or the next hour, or the next day, or the next week. There will come a point when real pleasure and ease return. There will come a day when you feel real joy.

Let this stand as a reminder to yourself. The real pleasure and ease and joy: they will always return. 

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A week or so ago, I had an argument with Geoff (or rather, the argument had us). I was talking to him, thinking that he was listening even though he was sitting in front of his computer, because he was making occasional reassuring type listening noises ("uh huh" and "yeah" and "oh"). There came a point when I discovered that he wasn't listening at all, had possibly not heard a word I'd said, and I felt so stupid for talking to myself, for not being able to tell whether he was actually listening or not. I stopped mid-sentence and walked out of the room and upstairs to bed, but then I wasn't sleepy, and so what followed was one of those fights that's about nothing and everything at the same time. Unlike most of those types of arguments we've had, though, this one ended with both of us calm and comforting each other. Geoff admitted he was worried about the music at church for Easter Sunday, and had been trying to finish with a piece he was working on when I was talking to him. I sympathized and comforted and told him he's a brilliantly talented musician (because he is).  It was better, but still exhausting. Sometimes it still feels like we have a lot to worry about.

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These days, a specter of myself and (of what I see as) my failed career haunts me, telling me that I've brought shame upon myself and my family (all that debt; all that effort; all of this selfishness, wanting to leave that behind). Most of the time, I see right through her. I wave her away, I tell her she has no power over me, I tell her that a life pursuing what I love doing is better and more important than following through on something I don't love just because I started it. (And I remind her that I tried so hard, so unsuccessfully, for so long, to get a legal job despite the fact that I didn't love it.) I tell her she's a jerk and a liar, and sometimes I think that she is really, truly gone. But she is preternaturally patient, and so far she always returns. She waits as long as she needs to wait, until my guard is down, until I am vulnerable, until she can hurt me again. I am determined to outlast her. (I am taking an online class with Brene Brown & Jen Lemen called ordinary courage, on love, shame resilience, and worthiness. I hope for further healing.) 

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Our trip to London, which I will write about in more detail soon, was wonderful. I love London, and I loved being there. The trees were blooming, the weather was pretty much perfect, and the company (my mom and Katie) was excellent. There was this thing, though, that at first I had some trouble identifying. For awhile, in London, I felt one step removed from myself, and wondered whether I might be losing touch with my emotions - whether I had lost the ability to just feel, without worry, without doubt, without a sense of level-headed temperance. No matter how much beauty surrounded us or how intrigued I was by anything, a part of me stayed detached. So I did have a marvelous time. I did love the experience. But because of the circumstances (most notably, my beautiful and sweet but devilish seven year old companion), I was mostly unable to truly relax or to be completely wide open to what I was experiencing. This is ok, I think, but I am glad I have recognized it and named it. It is not a flaw in me.

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A week and a half ago our cat Lucy (the mother of the eight kittens who were born at the end of April 2010) was hit by a car in the middle of a street a few blocks away from our house. She was killed. Geoff and Katie and I have shed many tears over her. We buried her body in the back yard, between the fence and the back alley, and marked the spot with daffodils that we picked from our back yard. Lucy's life, and the birth of those eight kittens, was a joyful blessing to our family at a time when we desperately needed it. Her fur was the softest. Her eyes seemed the wisest. When we'd drive up to our house after having been gone for awhile, if Lucy was outside she'd be on the front porch waiting for us, and she'd stand up and pad over to greet us as we got out of the car. When I sat on the couch and watched tv before going to bed, she'd come over and lay on my legs, purring. I miss her. It's been almost two weeks, and Katie cries about her death almost every night, and apologizes when she cries. "You don't have to be sorry," I say, and most nights, I will stay there in Katie's bed next to her, petting her hair or rubbing her back or just letting one part of my body touch hers so that as she drifts off to sleep she will know that I'm there with her. Lucy is gone, but I'm not. I'm right here, sweetheart. I'm right here.

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A few nights ago, all of us were tired and grumpy, and Annabel kept saying "uh uh" in her whiniest voice, incessantly, over and over (as she does every day lately; a few days ago she said it so many times, and refused to even explain what she was saying it about, that I lost my temper and yelled at her, which made her cry so hard there was no way I could feel anything but regret and shame), and after Annabel was in bed, Katie was whining about everything, too. As Geoff and Katie and I stood in Katie's room, getting ready to tuck her in, I said something about the drawing Katie had done on her whiteboard, and she misinterpreted what I'd said as a criticism, which in turn hurt my feelings. As we stood there, frustrated and full of hurt feelings and disconnect, Geoff reached out to pull us both closer, but instead of feeling comforted, I suddenly had a flash of insight into the future between Katie and me. I was suddenly sure that when she is older, we will not get along, but instead the air will be charged between us, full of miscommunication and missed chances to reach out to each other. (I thought of Angela and her mother on My So Called Life, actually.) I cried about it a little bit then, and I cried about it later, about how much I will miss Katie when we aren't able to get along with each other anymore. Geoff says it won't be like that, but he doesn't know. Of course, I don't, either. But the possibility of losing Katie's friendly, easy companionship during her adolescent years has never felt real to me before, and now it does. 

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Saturday morning, there was coffee and playing in the backyard. We rehearsed beautiful music for the next day's Easter service, and we visited with friends from out of town. Later, the ingredients for lemon curd (for lemon cake, for Easter dessert) simmered on the stovetop, and the smell of lemons wafted all through the house. The very first spring tulip opened that afternoon in our backyard. Annabel & Geoff were napping. Katie & a friend were upstairs laughing. There was sunshine everywhere, after so many days of rain. And this is what sprang into my head: Joy in my heart today.

Despite everything! Despite everything I can think of that is sad and heartbreaking, still. Joy crashes into me, overwhelming me, drowning me, and I'm so grateful and amazed. 

I posted about this joy on Facebook, and then went back to making the lemon cake, and I started having second thoughts about posting about joy right there out in the open, for those 500 plus friends (or "friends," in some cases) to see. Should I delete it? Should I have written it? Am I ridiculous to think that my joy matters to anyone else, or is even real? 

I knew the right response to these doubts, as clearly as if I heard a voice telling me: it would be a waste, a great sadness, a tragedy, a huge loss, to ignore this joy. These moments of overwhelming joy don't come along that often for any of us, or at least not for me. If I had one of these moments a week, I'd say I was living a pretty joyful life. How wrong it would be to let any one of those moments pass by without recognizing that it is here!

Katie and her friend had gone to her friend's backyard to play, and while they were gone, I started working on the cake batter. They burst back into the house when I was almost done, just mixing in the last ingredient, and Katie asked if she could play in Chyanne's house, because Chyanne had Just Dance, and they could play it. I said yes, she could, and then she asked if she could have dinner at Chyanne's house, and I said yes to that, too, as long as she was invited, as long as it was ok with Chyanne's mom.  Chyanne said it was, and so I said it was ok with me, and the two of them shrieked with their own joy, bursting into huge grins, running from the house. I followed them to the door and watched them leaping down the sidewalk happily. "Bye!" I called, feeling bemused, and Katie called back a goodbye. "I love you," I said. She kept running alongside her friend, didn't turn her head, didn't look at me. But I heard her call, loud enough for me to hear, "I love you, too," and I was both comforted and devastated by the easy casualness of her declaration of love, by the way she is growing up and forming her own friendships that have nothing to do with me. Amazingly, joy continued to run through me as I watched them running down the block. I cried a little bit more, and then I went back into the house. A huge shaft of sunlight streamed through the dining room window and lit up the dust motes and pet hairs. Only the sunlight mattered to me.

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Dear you,

You don't remember exactly when it was, the last time you felt this kind of joy. You don't know when it will come again; do we ever? When it comes - when it is here - you owe to it yourself to grab hold of it, to hold it close to you, to let it overwhelm every other emotion that's going on inside you. (I am holding this joy. I am holding it tight.)

When joy comes, let it take your breath away. Let it drive its lightning bolt through the core of your heart (at least as deep as the moments of pain and despair have traveled). Let it make a mark on you that will last for hours, for days, or for weeks. If you are lucky, you will still be reeling in its wake, rocked slightly off balance, the next time that it finds you. If you are lucky, the joy of this moment will be your lifejacket in future times of grief, when the heaviness of loss threatens to drag you so far down that you will be lost forever.

If you are lucky, your joy will shock you, and make you cry real tears, and you will stand there open-mouthed for a second, and then you will laugh. 

You may be tempted to feel embarrassed about feeling your joy so deeply, especially on a day that looks so ordinary on the outside, but ignore that; this is not silly. This is not shameful. This is what life is all about. (Isn't it?  And if not this, then what?)

just how lucky you are

Sometimes it only takes a few words to bring home just how lucky you are.

After all, you have some new clothes that you just got at Target last month, and your kids do, too. You have been eating well: eating out occasionally, buying ingredients for pretty much whatever recipe looks good to you, even sometimes buying organic versions of produce or eggs or milk. You have meat when you want to, and sometimes you buy hunks of aged cheese just to eat with crackers when you feel like it. You watch movies & tv show episodes with your husband on Netflix, and your daughters watch tons of stuff, too. You & your husband have cell phones and laptops. You had enough to pay the bill for air conditioning in the summer, and you have enough to pay for heat now that it's approaching winter. You live in a whole entire house, just for your family of four, with separate bedrooms for everyone who wants one, and two bathrooms. You have had enough money to pay for gas for your car, even when you have traveled a little bit to visit friends or family. You have a semi-fancy camera & a couple of very nice lenses that work quite well. You have a very fine piano in your home.

And of course there are the blessings that are not material, like your health & the health of your family & friends, who you love very much (and who love you back), as well as your talents & abilities & interests, and enough time to indulge in them. There are so many of these kinds of blessings, too.

But you want more. Some wants are a little more serious (emergency savings, retirement savings, college savings, savings to buy a new car when the 13 year old car and/or 8 year old car need to be replaced, savings to visit your husband's family more than every 3 or so years) and some are not (an iPad, an iPhone, a newer & better camera, an external flash for your camera now that your old one broke, an XBox Kinect, a house just a bit bigger and nicer, savings for a real vacation one of these days). You suppose, when it comes down to it, that you will always want a little more.

You also fear that what you have now may not last. Who knows when that part-time job you have will end? It could be any time, really, or not for months, or maybe even not for years, but there's no telling. You suppose, really, that that's kind of always the way it is.

It's getting close to Christmas time now, and you worry a little bit about how you will afford to buy Christmas presents for your loved ones, but you know that you'll at least be able to buy a few things. You know that Santa will bring your little girls some presents, and you've already bought them each a gorgeous, fancy dress to wear on Christmas Eve (and the rest of the year, when they feel like being dressy), as well as a few other small things. You know you will have to be careful with what you buy, but you know that no one will go without. It will be ok. You will have a warm, lovely, happy Christmas, you are certain.

The church you attend, where your husband is employed, is sponsoring two families through a "giving tree," where each member of each family has put together a wish list of items that they'd like to receive. You know that these families don't have much; without the presents from you and the other members of the congregation, it is possible that these families wouldn't have much for Christmas at all. In mid-November, you approach the tree and read the labels on the tags. The tags specify not only the item the person wants, but also the age & sex of each person, as well as their clothing and/or shoe size if the item requested is clothing or shoes. Some of the kids want toys. Several people want clothing or warm winter outerwear. You see several requests for gift cards.

But the one that really gets you - the one that brings tears to your eyes immediately, is the tag for a 50 year old female whose Christmas wish is for panties, size 10. So you cry a little, and you pull the tag off the tree (along with one of the ones requesting a toy), and in your mind & heart you send heartfelt sympathy to this woman, and you hope her life has been filled with not only trials and difficulties, but also joy and love. And you go to the store and you buy her some of the prettiest, most comfortable looking pairs of underwear you can find, and you hope that she likes them very much.

this is the one for my Belly bee baby

She talks up a storm, and you can't grin at her without getting a smile back.

She's very bossy ("stand up! or I won't sing to you!"), is constantly singing or talking, and will repeat the same things over and over. (Every time she puts on her shoes, she'll say, "Is this the wrong feet?" I'm not sure what the answer is supposed to be, because when I say no, it's the right feet, she'll often switch them, but she also usually switches them if I say yes, it's the wrong feet.)

She lets us (and we do) call her Belly and Bel all the time, but if someone refers to her that way, she'll protest, "No, my name is Annabel."

She has a terrific, always-at-the-ready sense of humor, but is intensely serious if she's focused on something.

She loves going to school, which until recently she called "sook" and then "soolk," because it took her until a few months ago to conquer any dipthongs involving s's (i.e., she used a "foon" to eat her cereal, worried about whether food would be "ficy," and wanted me to push her on the "fing").

When I first started writing this (back in the summer, months ago now), I wrote that I didn't know how we would get her weaned from her beloved binky. I wrote:

Last night she had one in her mouth while she was taking a bath, and later it disappeared. I couldn't find it right away, so I pulled a second one off of our bedroom dresser and gave it to her. Then we brushed her teeth, and suddenly she was binky-less again, so I told her - frustrated - that was it, that was all the binkies, she had had two of them and now there were none, so she was just going to have to sleep without a binky. She sighed sadly, whined that no, she wanted a binky, and when I said that it was too bad, but she was going to have to do without, she started to sob in earnest. I asked her why she was so upset, and she said, "I'm crying because I'm sad because I want to sleep with my binky!"

I have talked to lots of people about how they got rid of the pacifier, and they include: 1) simply saying that they are now too old for a pacifier, and that is that; 2) purposely breaking the pacifier (usually by cutting the end off so it can't really be sucked, at least not enjoyably, I guess) and then explaining that it was broken - this seems to often culminate in throwing the broken binky in the trash; 3) creating an elaborate scenario about sending the old pacifiers to needy babies in other parts of the world and/or about having them taken by some sort of Binky Fairy who leaves a present in exchange. No one has so far admitted that they or their child has had a difficult time giving it up, so maybe it won't be as hard as I think it will. But Annabel is committed to what she wants, has a memory like an elephant, and is very matter-of-fact about what she knows. For instance, I am 100% confident that if her binky is broken, she will simply instruct us to go to the store to buy a replacement, and that will most definitely not be the end of that.

But now I think that one of these days she will just decide to give it up when she is good and ready. Shortly after writing the above, I told her that we had a new rule: the binky was only allowed in the car and in the crib - nowhere else. I expected her to protest, if not initially, then later, but nope. Surprisingly, she has never once challenged that rule, not until last week, when she suddenly announced, "I'm a mom now, so I don't need my binky in the car. Just for sleeping." (She's a mom to her doll Sally, which is actually Katie's doll, and on a regular basis Katie will say, "Ok, Annabel, tomorrow I am going to play with Sally, ok?" And Annabel will say ok, but then when tomorrow comes, she refuses to hand it over, and since Katie gives in, she gets it for another day.) She hasn't asked for a binky for anything but sleeping since then.

Katie is so often my reflection, for good and for ill. She looks a lot like me. She goes through somewhat wild and obvious roller coasters of emotions, all worn on her sleeve - so much like me. She is also eager to please, and would try almost anything if she thought it would make you laugh or would make you like her. She wants everyone in the world to like her, and she is deeply hurt if she knows that someone doesn't. Her speech is rarely matter-of-fact, but is more likely full of hyperbole - again, for good or for bad.  She'll swing from "you never want to play that with me" to "you're the best mommy in the world" within seconds. Katie is so much like me that usually, even when I don't like how she's acting (especially when I don't like how she's acting?), I understand it. This doesn't necessarily mean I'm more patient with her, though; often I think I'm less patient with those flaws of her that I'm already so tired of and frustrated with in myself.

If Katie is my treasured not-exactly-doppelganger, Annabel is my cherished mystery, so often surprising and delighting me.  She is different. She is straightforward, and she will not be manipulated into doing something just because we'd like her to; she'll do it if she wants to, thank you, and not otherwise. I am not too worried about Annabel succumbing to peer pressure when she is older (Katie, on the other hand, I can easily imagine going along with something that she doesn't really want to do if she thinks it might make people like her). Annabel is even keel, especially for a 3 year old: when she's at her most upset, she'll scream and fuss and protest loudly, but two minutes later, she'll be calm again. Well, that didn't work, I imagine her thinking. Might as well move on to the next thing.

She will hardly ever be persuaded to agree with you, though, if she started out disagreeing, or if you believe something that directly oppposes what she wants to do. My mom was here for Thanksgiving, and at one point she went into the bathroom and started to shut the door. "I don't want you to shut the door," Annabel said. "I want to see you when you're in there." My mom told her that she'd rather have privacy and be alone in the bathroom, but Annabel insisted on coming in, and my mom relented. "Ok, but at least come in and shut the door," she told Annabel. Annabel went in the (tiny) bathroom and shut the door behind her, and I heard my mom say, "I like to have privacy when I'm in the bathroom." I could picture Annabel nodding in a placating way as she said, "Yeah, sometimes you do." (I laughed out loud when I heard that.)

She can be very sweet when she feels like it, and she has a very definite sense of her own strength and value. The other day she told me that when I am sad and she talks to me that it makes me feel better, and today when I was whining & actually crying in frustration over a stupid computer issue I was unable to solve, she came over to me, said "I love you," and gave me a hug.

Up until she was 10 months old, she was a pretty terrible sleeper, waking up more than 4 or 5 times a night until well after she was 8 months old, and still waking up at least once every night (and often 2 or 3) until April 2009, at which point I was diagnosed with pneumonia and was prescribed antibiotics that were not breastfeeding friendly. After 2 or 3 nights of Geoff being the one who went to her in the night, she apparently decided that it was simply not worth waking up if she was only going to be offered a bottle, and she started sleeping through the night. She has never stopped, and in fact her sleeping habits are still somewhat miraculous to us. Unless she's sick, she sleeps all night, every night, except for an occasional wake up from a nightmare, between 9 and 10 pm. If she stays up late or misses a nap? She makes up for it by sleeping in.  (This is the opposite of Katie, who routinely gets up before 6 if she's been up past 9 or so the night before.)

Have I written this before? About how before Annabel was born, there was a part of me that was afraid that I would not be able to love her as much as I loved Katie, but that instead, from the day she was born, I loved her just as much, just like that (which in a way seemed unfair, since Katie had already had more than 4 years to work her way into my heart; but I know that love doesn't always - ever? - work in a logical, incremental, rational way), just the way people had said it would be: I loved her as much as Katie (inasmuch as my love for either of them can really be measured), but in a different way.

I have not written nearly as much about Annabel as I have about Katie, and I have felt guilty about that (how motherly of me), as if by not documenting her amazingness, her quirks, her whimsy, her incredible vocabulary & her extreme gregariousness, that I am appreciating her less.  And honestly, in some ways, I think that might even be true: I look back now and read old posts about Katie and am reminded of things about earlier phases of her life that I would have forgotten about if I hadn't written it out. I am sorry that I haven't written more about the specifics of life with baby Annabel, but if Annabel ever reads this, I hope she knows that my not writing about her had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me (and a lot to do with how difficult the past few years have been, which have made it hard for me to write the way I'd like to have written).

If you read this someday, Annabel, I want you to know that I love you now, have loved you since before you were born, and will love you always and forever. I love the way you often greet me in the morning with an excited, "The bedbugs didn't bite me!" and I love how when I knock on your bedroom door, you call out, "Are you home?" I love the way you run so fast & so hard, so often, on your own or alongside your sister or cousins on their scooters or bikes. I love how determined you are and how difficult it is to dissuade you from doing something you've decided you want to do (even though your determination sometimes makes some days more difficult). I love the weight of your little body on mine when I rock you in your bedroom rocker at bedtime, and already I miss that tired, relaxed weight, since most of the time these days you are still wide awake enough at bedtime that instead you sit up away from me. I love how much you love school, how much you love drawing and cutting and pasting and folding, and how you can count to 16 in Spanish (and how today when we watched The Muppets you wouldn't stop repeating "Hola!" after one of the muppets said it). I love that your artwork is, first and foremost, for you: so often you bring home little personal art projects that consist of a piece of paper on which you've drawn, colored, or painted, that have then been folded a few times, glued together, folded more, then taped together on the outside. You won't let me open them up; you insist that the taped-up, folded-up version of the paper is exactly how it's supposed to be seen. I love how you go crazy for particular foods - the other day you ate 6 or 7 clementines in a row; some days you will eat 4 bananas one after the other, and you will never turn down a mashed, salted avocado with a few tortilla chips.

Oh, Annabel, I just love you, almost everything about you, so much. It is my hope and my belief that, regardless of what I write now or have previously written here, that you will already know how I feel about you simply from the history of our relationship with each other, but just in case there is any doubt: you are my sunshine, my entertainer, my stubborn & beloved little Belly girl, who impresses and delights me every single day.

Today you are 3 and a half years old exactly, and already I am so proud of the person you are. I feel joyous and blessed that I get to be around to continue to help you grow and mature as best I can, and to see how you change and develop. I am so very, very thankful that you're my daughter.

engage the world with grace

(This was posted in September 2011 elsewhere, but I'm re-posting again now here; it does fit in with the holiday season, don't you think?)

There was a older woman at the church in Chicago named Eleanor (not really her name, but I'm going to call her that here). For a long time, we didn't know her name; I think she introduced herself to me the first time we talked, probably, and maybe even the second or third time, but it didn't stick in my head. I knew her mainly as "that really nice old lady who walks a little bit hunched over and is always talking about how wonderful the music was in the service." Or something like that. We asked a friend what her name was, and although that person knew exactly who we meant, she didn't know the woman's name, either. Eventually we found someone who knew. Her name was Eleanor. When she was younger, she had sung in the choir. These days, her voice sounded a little like Edith Bunker.

Eleanor would often approach me and ask me how I was doing. She was full of compliments, sometimes about something I was wearing, but mostly just about me or the kids. She'd tell me I had such a nice smile, or say how beautiful or wonderful Katie was - at first - and then later, how beautiful or wonderful Annabel was, too. If she got a chance to speak with either of the girls close up, she'd tell me how smart she could tell they were. If she only watched them play from a distance, she'd tell me how big they were getting, how she couldn't believe they were so much bigger and so much more beautiful, and how much I must love them. During the time when we had two children, she seemed to always take time to compliment first one child, and then the other. When I was pregnant, she would ask me how I was feeling in what always seemed to be a very solicitous way, expressing sympathy over how difficult she knew pregnancy could be, and excitement and interest about the baby-to-be.

Eventually I found out that Eleanor was almost 90 years old, and I was surprised. I think I was surprised partly because of the way she talked to me; she talked to me the same way the other mothers of young children talked to me, as if we were cohorts or companions, going through life together, and although I knew that she wasn't actually my age, I guess I'd still thought she was maybe not much older than my parents. She never seemed judgmental or condescending. She always seemed kind. She would frequently reach up to pat my shoulder (she was short to begin with, and with her slight stoop, I am sure she was under 5 feet tall), and would always thank me for taking time out of what she knew was my busy morning to chat with her. I always told her she was welcome, and that I enjoyed it; the truth was, she was (and is) one of my favorite people at the church.

At some point, I realized that I wasn't asking Eleanor many questions about herself. Usually she'd approach me with a question or a comment, I'd respond, we'd go back and forth a few times, and then before the conversation could continue, she would thank me and walk away, saying she'd better let me go. The first few times, at least, I thought she was handling the fact that she had no more to say to me and wanted to go visit with someone else in a very gracious way, and maybe she was. But after this had happened a few times, I realized it was entirely likely that she was just trying not to bug me, and that if I continued the conversation, she probably wouldn't mind.

She attended the church regularly, but she usually came to the first service, and I usually came to the second, so sometimes months would go by without me seeing her. But whenever I did see her, she acted like she had spotted an old friend.

I started talking with Eleanor a little more, whenever I got the chance. I found out that she was the youngest of 8 children, and that all of her siblings had passed away, as well as both of her parents. She especially missed the sister with whom she'd shared a home for years, up until the sister died. She mentioned a relevant year in her life and how old she'd been at the time, leading me to do some quick math in my head - she was at least 89, possibly 90. These days she usually spent Easter and Christmas with her nephew in Wisconsin, and she enjoyed being with him and his family, but it wasn't home. She didn't drive herself anywhere anymore, she said, and she didn't want them to have to drive her home on Christmas Eve or on Christmas Day (since the trains didn't run late on Christmas Eve, and she didn't want to be a burden), so she spent the night there, and she appreciated their kindness, but she kind of wished she could be home for part of Christmas, even though she thought that if she did, she would be lonely.

I remember talking with her one day during a picnic Sunday service.  She looked off as we talked, asking where Katie was.  We spotted Katie over on the lawn playing a game with some other children, and Eleanor commented on how big Katie was getting. "Children are so wonderful," she said. "Your children in particular," and she smiled at me. I thanked her. "I only ever wanted to have 8 children," she said, laughing a little. "Since I was one of 8, I always thought that was the perfect number."

I smiled at her. "How many did you have?" I asked her.

She smiled back without bitterness. "None," she said. "I never got married, and then it was too late. But I love them. I love children."

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I have no specific reason to tell this story right now, or even to tell it at all, except that our conversation has stuck with me. The moment Eleanor said "none," my heart broke for her a little bit. I think of her, how she never showed me any sign of bitterness about her life, how she showed everyone around her such kindness, how she had (has) a quick sense of humor, a curious mind, an eye open to beauty. I think of her and I am inspired to appreciate my blessings, to try to ignore my losses, to be kinder to others, to engage the world with grace.