Christmas isn't the same

I put up a Christmas tree this year for the first time in three years. As a kid (and even as a teenager) if you told me I'd go years without putting up a Christmas tree, I would have admitted myself to the mental ward in advance. Surely I was ill.

Truth is, I haven't been ill (per se); I just didn't plan on mom dying at Christmastime.

A woman came up to me at mom's memorial service two years ago and told me Christmas would never be the same again. She knew, because she lost her husband around that same time a couple of years prior.

It was an awful comment, even though she didn't mean it that way. (Still, I tucked away a mental note never to repeat the same offense if a friend loses a loved one at some noteworthy time on the calendar.)

It's obviously a comment I haven't forgotten, and in a sense, my dear naysayer was right.

Christmas isn't the same.

I now have a two-year old who runs to plug in the yites every morning before breakfast; who just can't keep his hands off the low-down ornaments that make mees (music); who has no idea that the doorbell he just heard announced the arrival of his new, very-own train table.

I know this isn't what our well-meaning guest meant when she said Christmas would never be the same, but oh, it's just the beginning of how right she actually was.

The day I lost mom marked a forever change in my Christmases on earth.

And the same thing happened the day I got married, the day I got pregnant, and the day I got pregnant again.

It is true. Our memorial-service visitor was right. Christmas would never be the same.

The cat in the sparkly hula skirt hangs on a sturdy branch near the top of my tree this year, dancing to the rhythm of my house when Will races his dump truck across the floor or slams a door shut. It, like every other ornament I have, is from mom--the year she gave it to me written in black ink on its tail.

Mom's not here, but her ornaments are.

She's not here, but I am.

And a precious, rowdy toddler is, too.

Christmas is definitely not the same.

At the risk of sounding however this sounds, Christmas is different not because it's sad now that she's gone, or because memories of her death now shroud my mind when I hear Christmas music (although those things are true), but Christmas is different because I think I embody her more this time of year than perhaps any other time.

I see the Dewey's stand at the mall and stop to buy a Moravian sugar cake to put away for Christmas morning, just like she always did. 

I drape red beads around my tree, hang an ornament on every, single viable branch, and crown it with Santa Claus, looking so Williamsburg at the top, just like she always did. 

I get dressed for the millionth Christmas party of the season, and before turning out the light in the bathroom, I stop in my tracks because my face and the blush on my cheeks look startlingly like her.

More and more these days, I hear myself talk, I go shopping, I lead Bible study, I decorate my Christmas tree, and I know I'm doing it all just like she did.

Christmas isn't the same. When you become a mom, it changes. When you lose a mom, it changes.

I'm actually grateful for a time of year when I can so obviously embody the mother I've lost while at the same time embrace the motherhood I've gained.

I'm so happy that the Christmas season is back in the Thomsen household. I grieved (ignored, whatever you want to call it) like I needed the last two Christmases, and now I'm ready to embrace the season,

beautiful yites included.

It's a table topper this year only because we are likely MOVING
the day (or so) after Christmas! That's another post, but I
promise a full-fledged tree next year!

(More about Mom's Christmas legacy)

Tribute from a friend

Our dear family friend Gwen Whiteman wrote a devotional for her church for Lent, and it's about Mom. It is so precious, I asked her if I could share it here.

Thank you for writing this, Gwen. It is such a tribute to Mom, and it makes me so proud to be her daughter.

Devotional for Friday, April 11, 2014 by Gwen Whiteman

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself." Luke 10:27

Anne was the first person to greet our family when we moved to our neighborhood 25 years ago. She quickly organized a coffee for me so that I could meet others. Then she invited me to an in-home Bible study where half a dozen women studied the letters of Paul under her guidance. When a neighbor was involved in an automobile accident that left her comatose, it was Anne who organized the provision of a year's worth of meals to sustain a grieving husband and two daughters. And it was Anne who comforted all of us when another neighbor family lost a precious child.

She never asked for a lot of credit. She just cared for others in simple ways. She listened. She made people laugh. She was there every Christmas Eve with a plate of cookies and there to water plants, pick up the paper, and feed a cat when families went on vacation.

My dear friend died on the winter solstice in 2012, after a courageous, fifteen-year battle with cancer. But Anne was always about new beginnings, for she was one of the Easter people. My memories of Anne instruct me that when we live our lives after the manner of Christ, we can bless the world in ways that are eternal.

Prayer: Dear God, thank you for friends who give us a vision of you through their generosity and loving kindness. Amen.

   

Gwen and Mom, 2007

Some Amens

We could hear music playing loudly as we approached the church doors. Music that didn't fit the occasion, I thought.

My sweaty palms clutched tissues inside my pocket as I nodded hello to the welcoming ladies at the door. Mom introduced herself and then me.

Oh thank goodness for Mom.

Just inside the doors, the ladies motioned for the pastor to come over and meet us.
 
He looks too happy, I thought.

A large man barreled his way toward us, his smiling lips creating crease lines across his face and his starched white collar wilting from sweat.

"Oh, it's so good to meet Anne and Susan Hardison!" he said. "We have reserved seats for you up front."

We followed his pointing finger into the sanctuary and to our front-row seats. The room buzzed, the loud speakers played gospel, people smiled and laughed, and not many wore black.

This is like a celebration, I thought incredulously.

Mom and I eyed each other with curious, nervous glances. In the program, I was listed to speak first and then her.

How am I ever going to get through this without crying?

When the service started, I didn't even hear what the smiling, sweaty pastor said at the podium. I was too focused on the chorus of Amens from the crowd and my increasingly sweaty palms. I squeezed Mom's hand. 

I wonder if she's as nervous as I am?

Soon, it was my turn. I gave Mom's hand one last squeeze, walked up to the podium, unfolded my paper, and took a deep breath....

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

Daniel had been absent from class for four days, so I asked Mrs. Jenkins after class if something was wrong.

"He's not doing well," she said. "He's in the hospital."

Fear began burning a hole in my heart at the news. I went home and told Mom we had to go visit him. And I wanted her to share the gospel with him. If Daniel was going to die, he needed to know the Lord first. Mom was the perfect person to talk to him because she had brain cancer, too, and she knew Jesus.

Mom, of course, agreed to go.

With a ding, the elevator doors opened and landed us on the pediatric oncology floor. Daniel's room, the nurse told us, was straight ahead.

He looked like the boy I knew from class, just lying in a hospital bed instead of sitting in front of his computer. The starched white sheets were pulled up to his neck, and his glasses hung clumsily down on his nose, just asking for a push. His mother was in a chair next to him, and when Mom and I walked in, Daniel smiled his huge Daniel smile.

We talked about him and how he was doing, and then Mom told Daniel that she had a brain tumor, too. She told him about the comfort she received from the Lord Jesus when she underwent brain surgery and chemotherapy. She told him about the many prayers that were still being prayed on her behalf. And she told him that many prayers were going up on his behalf, too.

As she talked, Daniel and his mom nodded vigorously in agreement.

My soul breathed out the air I'd been holding in since the elevator ding.

Daniel and his Mom knew the Lord.

Praise the Lord.

I got back on the elevator relieved.

I never saw Daniel again after that. About a month later, I was upstairs in my bedroom when I heard the phone ring . A few minutes later, Mom came to my door.

"Daniel has passed.

[pause]

"The family wants you and me to speak at his funeral."

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

Here goes nothing, I thought from behind the podium. Just try not to cry.

"My name is Susan, and sitting down there is my Mom. Daniel and I were in computer class together...."

I spoke and then Mom spoke, and we, along with Daniel's family and friends, celebrated his life that afternoon. It was a funeral like I'd never been to before and haven't since.

I learned a lot from Daniel. I learned to be expectant in prayer, and I learned the wisdom in befriending the seemingly weak. I have sweet memories of him, and because of him, I have another sweet memory of Mom.

And on that note, I'd like to say for the record that neither of us cried at the podium.

We held it together, and wouldn't you know, we even got some Amens.

Until Daniel

His speech was slurred, and he had a scar down the back middle of his head.

And he sat in front of me in 10th grade computer class.

If you polled my graduating class today and mentioned his name, I'm certain only a few people would recognize it.

His line on the roll said Daniel O'Neal.

His medical chart must have been a little more descriptive. Probably: 15-year-old male. Malignant brain tumor.

Daniel was a high schooler and a brain tumor patient, but few people in school knew about the second part. While the rest of us struggled with algebra, Daniel secretly waged war against cancer.

Algebra never sounded so good.

Maybe I was drawn to Daniel because Mom had been diagnosed with brain cancer the previous year, and the Lord had already begun to exercise that particular sympathy bone in me. Or maybe it was just the Lord's sovereign will that my life come in contact with his. Whatever the case, I was drawn to him, and when I think of him now, I think of two things: the first time I remember the Lord answering prayer, and Mom.

It might take a couple of posts, but I'll explain.

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

I finished my typing exercise, flipped around in my chair, and began thumbing through my new yearbook, waiting for the bell to ring. The Millbrook High School yearbooks were works of art -- huge and hard bound, with pages so new they stuck together and that fresh-off-the-print smell that was synonymous with the end of the school year.

Everyone got a yearbook. They weren't cheap, but still, I didn't have one friend who didn't buy one.

Well, until Daniel.

He saw me flipping through the pages and asked if he could look.

"Didn't you get one?"  I asked him.

"No, we don't have the money for that."

"Do you want one?"

"Yeah, of course."

Sympathy bone engaged.

I should note how timid I was in high school. I was just beginning to walk with the Lord, so I had moments of courage, but I was naturally shy, fearful, and easily intimidated.

Right behind cheerleaders, I envied the high school yearbook staff. They worked all year on this one highly anticipated product. They had one shot to make it good. I envied those people who could handle that pressure. And to top it off, Mrs. Taylor, the yearbook teacher, had quite a reputation. She was stern and she picked favorites.

I kept my distance.

Until Daniel gave me a reason to get close.

After that conversation with him in computer class, I remember asking the Lord to help me find a yearbook for Daniel. I knew it would probably mean talking to Mrs. Taylor, and, no surprise, she intimidated me.

At the sound of the final bell the next day, I walked to Mrs. Taylor's classroom and stepped inside. She was moving around the room, cleaning up, and talking over her shoulder to a football player member of the yearbook staff. She barely noticed me walk in.

I didn't waste any time. The moment I caught her gaze, I laid it out there, like dropping a heavy piece of luggage:

"Mrs. Taylor, I was wondering if you had an extra yearbook we could give to Daniel O'Neal. Do you know him?'

"What happened to his? Didn't he buy one?"

"No. He didn't buy one, but he wants one."

"I'm sorry, but we've made the final orders on those books. I don't have any extras."

"Okay, that's okay."

I started to walk out, disappointment overtaking my courage. Lord, don't you want Daniel to have a yearbook? How are we going to get him one? You want me to give him mine? Surely You don't want me to do that?

Lost in the silent conversation inside my head, I almost missed what happened next.

I realized Mrs. Taylor was still talking.

I turned back around.

"I do have this one book that I need to return because it's damaged. You want this one? Go, give this one to Daniel."

The joy of answered prayer sprung up in me like a bubbling fountain. I remember it because it was the first time I'd really felt it. The Lord came through!

"Oh, yes, that'll be fine. Thank you so much." I tried to temper the excitement in my voice for fear she'd think I was weird.

The book was "damaged" on one corner. Same thing would have happened after two days inside a book bag.

The next day, I found Daniel and gave him the book.

"This is for me?" he asked.

"Yep. It's yours." The bubbling fountain inside of me was still brimming over.

I got on the bus that day and smiled all the way home.

Daniel may have gotten a yearbook, but I got more than that.

Before the yearbook incident, I knew God answered prayer. I knew it from His Word and from stories other people told. But I didn't know it personally.

Not until Daniel did I know it for myself.

God answers prayer.

Thanks to Daniel for the invaluable lesson.

Farmville

The room buzzes with the sound of southern ladies, shedding coats and purses at the door and helloing and hugging like it's been ten years. They are high school friends reunited. Instead of books, they hold bloody marys; their style and beauty are no less than when they walked the halls of Rocky Mount High.

Every year, the Monday before Valentines Day, Mom's high school friends get together for lunch at the Colonial Inn restaurant in Farmville, NC. They do it at Christmas, too. A while ago, they had the idea to invite their mothers to the Valentine's lunch, and while the passage of time has gradually dwindled the number of mothers who can attend, it has also graciously ushered in a set of daughters.

On Monday, by virtue of my precious mother, I was one of those ladies lunching in Farmville.

The Colonial Inn is a beautiful, quaint house with a wrap-around porch on the outside. Inside, it's the homiest restaurant you've ever seen. Everything's an antique; you just grab a bloody mary and admire the rugs and the furniture and the collectibles hanging on the walls.

The restaurant belongs to David Whitley, the man of the hour--and not just because he's the only man there for the Valentines lunch. Whitley, as they call him, was in Mom's circle of closest friends. He stands to welcome us and say a prayer and of course mention Anne Pittman, who started the whole thing, and whom he can't talk about without crying. He looks over at Aunt Susan, Aunt Melissa, and me, and says he's especially thankful we're there. Southern know-how keeps me in my seat, but I feel like jumping up, bear hugging him, and telling him the treat is truly all mine. Just to be there, surrounded by Mom's high school friends. Hearing them speak of her, I actually feel famous. I knew she was well liked, but it just keeps getting better.

One of Mom's dearest friends, Susan Skinner, introduces me to classmates I haven't yet met: "This is Susan -- Anne's daughter." I've never been more proud to have her blood in my veins. My identity earns me warm hugs, smiling eyes, and stories.

And I live for the stories.

I hear from Timmie Battle about my Grandpa Kenneth's secret train whistle code: Twice meant "I love you." Once, "I'll be home soon." Meaningless to most, but to Mama Bette, the language of a train conductor's wife.

Whitley recalls how Mom asked him to honk his horn whenever he drove by her house so her mama would think she was popular.

And then Christie tells about one of Mom's many pranks at Meredith College:
Mom (on the phone in her best authoritative-sounding voice): "Hello, our records indicate that you have not yet completed your required jump for graduation."
Poor girl on the other end: "What required jump?"
Mom: "To graduate, you must jump off of Johnson Hall, and our records indicate that you have not yet completed that requirement."
(For the record: The story ends well. No one actually jumped off of Johnson Hall.)

When it's time for a group picture near the end of the afternoon, I almost burst when several women exclaim, "Wait! I gotta put on my satchel!"

That fits right in with Susan asking me if I used my Visine that morning, adding, "does he call you bright eyes?" A slogan Mom borrowed from the Visine commercial and liked to repeat.

When our bellies are full of chicken and shrimp salads, salmon, broccoli, stewed apples, and chocolate cake drizzled in fudge, we roll ourselves out of the great Colonial Inn. In the car ride home with Aunt Susan, Aunt Melissa, and dear friend Christie, the stories don't stop. I hear more about Chombid and poet Jonas Barr and their time in Pinetops. And of course we talk about bitta.

It is secret Anne Pittman code that I am privy to, like Mama Bette and the train whistles.

My heart, full to the brim, smiles wide remembering a woman as compassionate, thoughtful, and kind as she was hilarious and mischievous. Her classmates and their stories are proof, lip satchel and all.

*****

The whole group

Katie Skinner, Me, Melissa, Susan Skinner, Christie Barbee, David, Susan

[The pictures below are of Mom and friends at the Farmville lunches over the years. For the last several years, Dad drove Mom there, got her situated inside in her wheelchair, and then played golf until she was ready to be picked up. That's only one of the reasons my Dad is a saint, and every one of Mom's friends thinks so, too. Said Judy Morgan when I mentioned Dad coming back one year soon to say hello: "Oh, I'd just bow if he walked in that door."]

Farmville 2002

Farmville Christmas 2006

The spirits of affection

Perhaps the only thing more iconic to Valentines Day than good ole Necco Conversation Hearts is cupid himself.

What they lack in taste, their messages make up for in sentiment, and I assume that's why my dear Mom gave them to us every Valentines Day that I can remember. She liked the sentiment.

Although Drew and I invariably got a box of Conversation Hearts every year (even after we were married), the last year was particularly special. That year Mom didn't just give us a box of hearts. She gave us baggies of hand-selected hearts. Drew, Ashley, Ryan, and I each got our own bag.

That's taking the sentiment up a notch.

It struck me the other day that I still had those baggies in a drawer somewhere. I was so in love with her gesture, that I left the bags in tact and tucked them away. (Come on, there's nothing perishable in a Necco heart!)

Mom had a saying she borrowed from her Mama when she was surrounded by family or moved by a kind gesture. She'd say she was overcome with the spirits of affection.

When I look at these baggies, I can't think of a more apt way to describe the sentiment.



My bag 

Ryan's bag

 

 



Shopping for scarves

It has taken me three posts to write about my Thursdays with Mom. This one, this one, and now this one. Thank you, Lord, for all of these memories!

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

K-Market, Wal-Market, and Belks. These were the usual places I took Mom on our Thursday evenings together--to the cosmetics section for whatever new product she'd seen advertised that week and to the hair accessories to see what new scarves had come in.

Scarves. They were her trademark. She wore one around her head every day for 16 years, the radiation treatments killing hair follicles in route to cancer cells. The hair from the crown of her head back was her own. From the crown forward, she wore a halo of hair to cover the bald and the scar and the portacath site where she'd earlier received chemo from a clinical trial. And around the halo, she'd tie a scarf (bandanas on casual days, silk to church), turning cancer's hair cut into a fashion statement like only she could. (I'll never forget her insistence on wearing silk scarves to church, even though they were a pain to tie, and the knot at the top of her head always came loose. She'd say: "Tell me if I'm ever [she'd motion a peace sign near the top of her head, signifying the bunny flaps she feared if the knot came loose]. I promised to always tell her.)

Cancer's hairdo is why we frequented the accessories sections of K-Mart, Wal-Mart, and Belks. Invariably, we always left with something: A new scarf, a tube of lip satchel, or if a holiday was near, she'd stock up on treats she wanted to give Drew, Ashley, Ryan, and me. She gave us Easter baskets and Valentines right up until the year she passed.

After shopping or nail painting, we'd pick up sandwiches to take home for dinner. By the time we got home, Dad was back, and we'd eat dinner at the table together. On some occasions, Ryan would meet us at Mom and Dad's after he finished work for the day.

"Hi, Martha," Ryan would say to Mom when he walked in the door.
"Hi, Howard," Mom would reply.

Every time they saw each other, that was their greeting. Don't ask us who Martha and Howard are. We don't know. It just fit. Some days, Mom would hardly talk at all, but if Ryan walked through the door and greeted her, she'd utter her first two words of the day: Hi, Howard.

We topped dinner off with dessert, and then I'd pack up my computer and linger as long as I could before heading home myself. I never liked saying goodbye, always knowing in the back of my mind that our Thursdays wouldn't last forever. I kissed her scarfed head and told her I loved her probably ten times before actually getting out the door. It wasn't morbid or dramatic, even though it might sound that way. It was just what we did. But I think we both knew why we did it.

Every time I pulled out of Mom and Dad's driveway on Thursday nights, I'd ask the Lord to keep both of them until next time, and I'd ask Him to cement the day in my memory and never let me forget the time I'd had. (See, I've always been worried about that.)

I guess this is that cement.

Thank you, Lord, for couch afternoons and Key West Coral, scarf-shopping evenings.

Thank you, Lord, for Thursdays.

 

 

April 2011

 

Key West Coral

She flipped the passenger seat sun visor down and clumsily applied Fire Engine Red lip liner and satchel (her word for lipstick) to her lips. I smiled from the driver's seat and thought to myself: The day she stops putting on lip satchel when we leave the house is the day I know she's really sick.

The occasion was Thursday evening, after my afternoon at home with her. The outing was one of a few things: K-Mart (or K-Market as she liked to call it), Wal-Mart (Wal-Market), Belks (to Mom, Belks was the mall, and the mall was Belks -- just like all sodas are Coke), or sometimes we skipped shopping altogether to get her nails done.

It's a memory I'll never forget.

***********
 
In the parking lot of the Serenity Nail Spa, I leaned over to wipe stray lip satchel from her teeth and straighten her liner with my fingernail before helping her inside. The music of foreign chatter enveloped us when I opened the door, the trademark sound of every nail spa in America, I imagine. The ladies paused briefly to look at us, me steadying mom under her arms and fumbling with the door.

She want nails done?

At my nod, they motioned us further in.

Mom picked OPI's Key West Coral, and the ladies helped me escort her to the pedicure throne. Mom didn't get pedicures before the brain tumor, so her almost childlike enjoyment of professional grooming couldn't solely be attributed to being couchbound for so long. Getting a pedicure was something new, and it was right up her alley.

She dipped her feet in the bubbling water and "ooo, ooo, ooo-ed" from the heat.

It too hot for her? The ladies asked me.

No, I assured them, she was just new at this. She ooo-ooo'ed at lots of things.

I can picture her right now, perched on that pedicure throne, listening curiously to her attendant's chatter, leaning towards me for a sip of Diet Coke whenever I presented the straw. The ladies painted her toes and then her fingers, and invariably we'd need a touch-up before walking out the door.

You such good daughter, the ladies would say as we were leaving. When you bring your mother back?

Again soon, I said.

Seeing Mom's painted fingers and toes made me believe for half a second she wasn't sick, the sight was so Anne pre-cancer. In fact, Mom used to tell a story about how Drew, as a baby, would cry when she didn't have polish on her fingernails. Polish to Mom was right up there with lip satchel and rouge.

When we got home and back to the couch, she pushed the blanket into a heap at one end, fearful of getting sheet marks (her term) on her nails were she to come in contact with it.

Turns out I wasn't the only one who loved seeing Mom's nails coated in Key West Coral. I think it also reminded her of herself pre-cancer, her hands and feet, she used to say, were the only things untouched by cancer and its treatments.

I'd call home for days after our Serenity trip to ask her how her nails were doing.

They look good, don't they, Mom?

Yes, she'd say. They look real good.

I hung up happy. Happy that she was happy.

I'm still happy thinking about it.

Key West Coral.

My Mama to a tee.



I sent this picture to Leslie while we were at the salon. I had lost track of it,
but she still had it. Sweet friend said she could never take it off her phone.

Thursdays

Thursdays. To most, another day of the week. One day removed from Friday.

To me, a day of the week with the ripest memories.

For a couple of years before Mom passed, I spent every Thursday with her. Dad took time away from the house to golf or run errands, and I, with my flexible IBM job, set up my virtual office (a laptop and a cell phone) in their dining room. At this point, Mom was immobile on her own and required someone in the house with her around the clock.

I almost always got there around noon, and they'd be eating breakfast. Dad joked that the Hardison household operated on West Coast time.

"Hey Marmalade!" I'd bend down to kiss the top of her bald, scarred head.

"Hey Gertrude" (or Judy or Chicken or Alice or whatever funny name she was in the mood to use for me that day), she'd respond in a whisper.

I can't remember exactly when Mom got so quiet, but in the final years of her gradual decline, the sound of her voice matched the size of the world she was living in: small. First, she quit driving, then she quit walking, and eventually she pretty much quit talking.

Let me correct that: She didn't quit any of these things voluntarily. Her willing mind was suspended only by her damaged faculties. Damaged from prior brain surgeries and radiation. Cancer "treatments" that left behind a wake of destruction. But treatments we are grateful for, nonetheless.

By the time our Thursday ritual began, she was not only housebound, but mostly couchbound, too, getting up from her beloved throne (as she called it) only to eat at the table or use the bathroom.

A bowl of cereal was equivalent to brushing her teeth, such a morning essential it was. She'd be eating cereal when I walked in, my southpaw mama clumsily using her right hand to feed herself because her left hand bore the most complete brunt of the tumor's (and the treatments') wake. I'd wipe her mouth and take over. It was always funny to me that although her lap was full of cereal debris (her word), and her mouth and hands were sticky from milk, she'd see groid (her word for crumb or dirt) on the table in front of her and wipe it clean insistently with a napkin. Meticulous she was.

Many times, she'd be staring at the newspaper while she ate her cereal, and the normalcy of that sight always brought a smile to my face when I walked in the house. She hadn't been able to concentrate long enough to read in quite some time, but the newspaper was another morning essential, regardless.

When she'd consumed every last morsel of cereal (again, her word), I'd pour CranApple juice in her cup, wheel her to her cranberry-colored throne, and awkwardly, but surely, help her move from her wheelchair to the couch.

I once asked her if she went stir crazy being on that couch so much. She said no, she loved her house, particularly the den. She loved lying on her throne and looking at her collections from over the years, each thing reminding her of something wonderful from the past (so many of her things came from our summer trips to Florida). After that conversation, I quit worrying about her going stir crazy.

Once I got her on the couch, I usually had to dial into a phone call for work, so I'd turn on TV Land, hope for Lucy or Gunsmoke, kiss her head again, and tell her I'd be back soon to check on her.

"Tell those people you've got better things to do," she'd joke. And then add, "Okay, Chicken, love you. Don't be gone long."

After a phone call or two, I'd invariably walk back in the den and find her sleeping. She slept better during the daytime than at night, often telling me that she didn't fall asleep until 4am the night (morning) before. Earlier on in her housebound days, I knew the reason for that. She was too busy getting sucked into the infomercials on TV at night. Several times, I found little pieces of paper on her nightstand with scraggly 1-800 numbers written on them. And at least a couple of times, she completed the task. The doorbell would ring, and to Dad's surprise, it was a package for Anne Hardison: First, the Belly Burner. Then Cindy Crawford's Meaningful Beauty makeup. You can take the girl out of shopping, but you can't take shopping out of the girl.

When she woke up from her nap, we'd eat a snack together on the couch, usually trail mix or Chips Ahoy cookies with white chocolate chunks (her favorite).

On some Thursdays, after I finished work and before Dad got home from golf, I'd change her out of her gown, throw a bandana on her head, and take her out. It might be the only time she'd get out that week.

But those outings deserve a post all their own. I'll write about those soon.

Oh, Thursdays. Such good, good days.

Some days, I'd just crawl in bed with her.

What time can't steal

I'm not done writing about Mom. The year anniversary came and went, and I'm not done.

It may seem weird, but the thing that bothered me the most when she was dying was the fear of forgetting her once she was gone.

Leave it to me to always be worried about tomorrow.

Even driving to Mom and Dad's house during mom's bedside vigil one night, I remember crying on the phone to my dear friend Leslie about how afraid I was of forgetting her. I knew she was going to die soon, and what crushed me the most were the years ahead, the perceivable long life I still had to live. What would my thoughts of her be like when I was, Lord willing, 80? Would the passage of time dull my recall down to just a few facts? That is, after all, what time does, doesn't it? Slowly but surely makes sharp things fuzzy. Blurs present reality, with its sights, smells, feelings, and thoughts, into a collection of faint memories, minus the sights, the smells, the feelings and thoughts.

But--

Not if I write.

Time can't steal what's written down.

I have more stories to record about Mom: Our Thursdays together, her vocabulary, her run-in with my third-grade teacher, our shared compassion for brain tumor patient and high school friend Daniel O'Neal, her visits to Camp Thomsen, her incomparable humor.

I realize now why the year anniversary of her passing was so hard, and this is it. Each passing day takes me further away from when I last saw her. As the years pile on, so I'm afraid will the forgetfulness.

But, like Leslie assured me on the phone that night, I pray the Holy Spirit will bring things to mind even when time threatens to do the opposite.

And let's be honest: Anne Hardison is pretty unforgettable.

I gave it a go here on the blog last year, and Lord willing, I'm going to continue.

Here's to writing things down.

Mom and Me. Hilton Head. 2000

A sovereign I love you

I mentioned in my last post that Dad got a message from Mom on Saturday. It was an expression of God's extravagance toward us that we will never forget.

Here's the story in Dad's words, as he posted on his Facebook page on Dec. 22:

"One year ago yesterday, Anne went to be with the Lord. Yesterday, one year to the hour later, I had a minor chain saw accident. After returning from the ER, I was missing how Anne would dote on me whenever I was sick or injured.

While changing the dressing on my wound, I reached for one of several Ace bandages we had collected over the years. As I wrapped the bandage around my dressing, I saw, on the bandage, a piece of masking tape. On the tape, in Anne's crippled writing were the words, "I Love You! Anne".

Probably needless to say, I had a moment. Thank you Lord for revealing Your love and Anne's love for me with such perfect timing."

 

I dare say, Dad's favorite Christmas present this year.

 

Thank you, Lord.

 

Merry Christmas, all.

When your friends see it coming

I have to admit, prior to yesterday, I never really understood why the death anniversary of a loved one was such a difficult day. That sounds naïve, insensitive, and ridiculous, I know.

But now that yesterday is over, I get it. Some things you gotta learn by experience.

Somehow, a whole heck of a lot of my friends anticipated the difficulty of Mom's death anniversary on my behalf and showered me--truly showered me--with love.

A friend wrote on my Facebook wall yesterday morning: "I am specifically praying that you feel His sweet embrace all day today in a tangible way. That He would show you His extravagant love like you have never known." The Lord heard and answered her prayer all day.

I got cards and text messages and emails and Facebook posts like it was my birthday (far cry from it, but still).

I have to write about one particular gift I received because it symbolizes (along with everything else) the extravagant love my friend Abby prayed I'd experience. And it's unique (something I want to remember to do for someone else!), and it's shareable in this venue. But let me say: Every single word of encouragement I received regarding the significance of yesterday meant the world to me. Not one word or thought or gift or text was more cherished than another!

I want to remember these expressions of love for years to come.

The Lord is so faithful through His people.

So, mid-last week, I got a package from my friend Becca in the mail, and in marker on the front it said: Do not open until Dec. 20.

Then, the morning of the 20th, I got an email, with instructions for how to open the package. My dear friend had anticipated what a difficult day December 21st would be and so she sent me "24 items/ readings/listenings to help keep my spirits up at least the first minute of each hour."

I posted her whole email (with permission) at the bottom of this post. Here's a sampling of some of what she sent. The captions are from her email.

6am- Tea and Tissues 

9 am- flowers- one for you and one for you to take to the church for me.
- I have no idea what these will look like [when you get them].

10 am - more tea and you can open the M&Ms now and begin to eat them throughout the day
(or all in one sitting, I will not judge)

3pm- happy ornament from Georgie

4pm- Food and Wine Mag

5pm- Psalm 104: 15 "wine that gladdens the heart of woman, oil to maker her face shine,
and bread that sustains her heart" - wine glass (plastic so you can take it in the tub)

8pm- leg warmers-because everyone needs leg warmers

10pm- funny decoration for Will to laugh at- probably
broken because George couldn't stop bending the hat all around. 

Dec 22nd: 12am- A New Year - calendar of beaches.

 be calmed and soothed by our favorite place

2am- Luke 2:14 "Glory to God in the highest and on earth PEACE to men on whom his favor rests. "
and mint tea- just in case you cant sleep.

And that's not even everything. (I don't have pictures of the truly best parts: the Scripture verses and links to worship songs she sent in her email.)

Here's a pic of all the gifts:

I. Feel. Loved. And that's what you need one year to the day after your mama goes to Heaven. Thank you to every single one of my friends.

I have one more thing along these same lines to share tomorrow (or soon), and if you're on Facebook, you've already seen it. But the message Mom sent to Dad yesterday (yes, you read that right) must be recorded so that generations to come will know about it. Let me just say: God is extravagantly good.



*******************************************************
Here's Becca's whole email. If her awesomeness makes you want to read more about her (and I can't imagine it doesn't), here's her blog: http://southpasadventures.blogspot.com/

12/20:
Start by C/V this link and listen to this song. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPI_DIqICP0
Find the card in the box and open it. 
Now read your card, followed by your poem while you listen:

Clear

Its been a year

You've shed many a tear

but have no fear

for to many, you are dear. 

I wish I were near

to share a beer, wipe your tear, lend an ear.

All I can do is pray, and try to steer

your thoughts in a brighter direction-

even cheer.

No one will ever love you the way she did and I will not begin to try, but I will do the best I know how and it starts here.

The next 24 hours might be the hardest in a while so I thought I would send you 24 items/ readings/listenings to help keep your spirits up at least the first minute of each hour.

 Its ok if they don't work.  But at least you know I care about, remember and respect the race you have run this year. 

Keep your chin up my love.

Becca

Now you can open the box.


If you wake earlier or later than 6:00 just open 6:00 am first and then follow with the others.  Of course, I will not care if you open them all at once or not at all on Saturday, its just my OCD kicking in here.  Do what you want with it :) Some hours do not have gifts, just a verse or a song. Hopefully the links will work, but if not you'll have to C/V. 

12/21

6am- Tea and Tissues
7am - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPI_DIqICP0   - "10,000 Reasons"
8am- Romans 5:2 "…And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God" vs 5 "…and he does not disappoint us because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit whom he has given us"
9am- flowers- one for you and one for you to take to the church for me. - I have no idea what these will look like.  When I put them in the jar they looked like this:
but I don't know what a week in a box with moisture will do to them. Just throw it out if they are black.
10am - more tea and you can open the M&Ms now and begin to eat them throughout the day (or all in one sitting, I will not judge)
11am- 1 Cron 16:11 "Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always."
12pm- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrPQ-isJnd8  - Hurt and the Healer
1pm- nail polish/ file
2pm- hot chocolate and Psalm 119:76 "May your unfailing love be my comfort, according to your promise to your servant"
3pm- happy ornament from Georgie
4pm- Food and Wine Mag
5pm- Psalm 104: 15 "wine that gladdens the heart of woman, oil to maker her face shine, and bread that sustains her heart" - wine glass (plastic so you can take it in the tub)
6pm- Psalm 23 "…he restores my soul….I will fear no _____ (fill in the blank)….your rod and your staff they comfort me…..my cup overflows….goodness and love will follow me….I WILL DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD- forever"
7pm- brownie mix
8pm- leg warmers-because everyone needs leg warmers
9pm- Rest Tea and bath gel for a bubble bath
10pm- funny decoration for Will to laugh at- probably broken because George couldn't stop bending the hat all around.
11pm-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18lZDVZ1QuE   -  "What a Story"


Dec 22nd
12am- A New Year - calendar of beaches. be calmed and soothed by our favorite place-
1am- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENtL_li4GbE - "in Christ Alone"
2am- Luke 2:14 "Glory to God in the highest and on earth PEACE to men on whom his favor rests. " and mint tea- just in case you cant sleep.
3am- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zulKcYItKIA "Worn" 10th Avenue North
4am- Ephesians 2:14 " For He himself is our PEACE…."
5am- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ht9j1RU9Tqg- Fires Matt Redmon


Isaiah 9:6
"For unto us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of PEACE."

******Isaiah 61:2-3*******
"to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor………… to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion- to bestow on them:
a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. 
They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor"

Last December

I have a text file on my computer that I haven't opened in about a year. It was my running stream of consciousness during last December, when everything happened with Mom. I've thought about going back to look at it, but I haven't wanted to. I haven't wanted to relive that time.

But there's something about this season and the year anniversary coming up that compels me to go look. So I did.

I've debated posting this on the blog because it is special and private, and I don't want to take away from that. But then I remember the purpose for which I started this blog: preserving memories for the next generation, and I want Will to know this story one day because it is soaked in the faithfulness of God.

Not everything in the text below is a complete sentence. I haven't edited much from the day I wrote it.

Dear Will (and any siblings the Lord might bless us with),
Here's a recounting of the week your Nana went to Heaven. May you know how wonderful she was, and more importantly, may you know how faithful the Lord is.

***********************************************************************************
[Written in December 2012]

The downhill slide with mom really began on Saturday, December 8. Grandma, Grandpa, Bill, Carolyn, and Matthew had come down for the afternoon to meet Will. Mom was hard to rouse, and when we did, she was uncomfortable, writhing almost. When I tried to feed her, she would hardly eat. She chewed, but it was like she had forgotten how to swallow. I knew things were getting bad. I sat, trying to console my screaming baby in the dark living room, while I mourned yet again her obvious decline. Life was hard.

Then, the next day I called home in the evening, and dad put mom on the phone. The conversation was frantic. I hadn't heard mom talk that much, that loudly, that quickly, or that frantically... maybe ever, but especially not since she had more or less quit talking about a year ago. She was repeating herself:
"I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I didn't know it was going to be this way, but I've enjoyed it, I've enjoyed it, I've enjoyed it." I was spooked by all of this, so I asked an easy question just to change the topic and to see how lucid she was.
"Mom, have you had dinner yet?" Her response was appropriate and accurate:
"Yes, we ate late tonight." Then I asked her to put Dad back on the phone.
She said, "He's been so good, He's been so good, He's been so good. It's me. It's me."
And then before she handed the phone over she said this: "I don't know how much longer, and I need you to be okay." My heart went to my feet.
"I'm okay, mom. I am fine. You do what you need to do," I said, trying to hold back the tremor in my voice.
She came back relieved: "I know you're okay. I know you're okay." It was at this point that my heart really started to believe this was it.

Here's something I always want to remember: About a year prior to these events, when mom took a bad turn with Shingles, I feared she was about to die, like I have many times before. Although I had no reason to doubt it, I wanted to get confirmation of her salvation. Although she was somewhat sedated under medication, I remember talking to her, asking her about heaven. She immediately quoted John 14:2: "In my Father's house are many rooms; I am going there to prepare a place for you. I will come back and take you to be with me." I felt more than confirmed.

Well, the sweet, sovereign Lord used that confirmation again in my evening Daily Light devotions the night of December 9, after the "I-don't-know-how-much-longer" conversation. Here's some of what I read, on my knees, heartbroken that evening:

"The spirit will return to God who gave it." (Ecc 12:7)

"The spirit of the sons of men... goes upward." (Ecc 3:21)

"While we are at home in the body we are absent from the Lord. We are confident, yes, well pleased rather to be absent from the body and to be present with the Lord." (2 Cor 5:6)

"With Christ, which is far better." (Phil 1:23)

"I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus." (1 Ths. 4:13-14)

And then, the last verse in the series of verses that night was the one mom had quoted a year prior:

"I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also." (John 14:2-3)

Whenever the enemy tempts me to doubt and fear, I am going to go back to this December 9 evening devotion.

Monday, December 10, I made sure I got to the house in time for Lisa, the Hospice nurse, to visit. Mom was in bad shape. Writhing on the couch. Two meds, and then finally morphine. Drew, Aunt Susan, and I in the den with her. Writhing in pain. Restless, agitated. Morphine wears off, and we kiss goodbye. Awful, awful scene.

A two-day rally on Tuesday and Wednesday. I went by after Will went to bed on Tuesday evening. She was sleeping the whole time, but was peaceful. Things seemed at least okay for the moment.

Dad texts me Thursday morning, December 13 to say she had a very bad night. I go over, and the bedside vigil begins. We agree to a hospital bed in the house. She's on constant morphine. She'll open her eyes some, but they won't focus on anything. You can tell that she knows what's going on, hears you, etc. She continues in this state for a few days, and then maybe Sunday/Monday timeframe, her state changes. She seems asleep, and even getting in her face and talking to her, doesn't cause her to open her eyes. The "coma-like" state begins. Melissa, Susan, Drew, and I are at the house during the days. Dad sleeps b/c he is up all night doing the "night shift" with her. She needs meds around the clock. During the days and evenings when I am at the house, I start finding great comfort in Aunt Melissa and Aunt Susan. They are so much like mom. They are how mom would be if she hadn't gotten sick. They laugh at the same things she would laugh at, they look like her, they are the closest thing I have on this earth to her. Although the waiting period is awful... waiting for your mother to die... the time spent in the den with Drew, Melissa, and Susan day after day is priceless.

The morning of Friday, December 21, Diane came by my house and brought me a copy of mom's testimony when mom shared it at a women's retreat in 1997. I wasn't going to read it right away because I was afraid I would be too emotional. But, I'm sure it was the Holy Spirit's prompting -- I sat down and read it. I was so moved. This wonderful woman whom I had cared for the past 5 years was nothing short of amazing. Her testimony was so powerful. She was such a strong Christian lady. I got on my knees, thanked the Lord, and asked Him to finish my mom's testimony, to complete the good work He had begun. Not an hour later, my phone rang. It was Dad. When I saw the call from him, I knew what it meant. He told me they thought mom had passed. The Hospice nurse was on her way over to confirm. (It might sound weird that we needed "confirmation," but her breathing slowed so much at the end -- three or four breaths a minute -- that we did need a nurse's confirmation.)

I've thought about this several times since and the way God uses prayer. I'll always remember this event in my life when I think about prayer. I think God used my prayers (all of our prayers) to accomplish His ends. For about a month prior to mom's final weeks of decline, I had begun praying that the Lord would accomplish His purpose for her suffering -- whether it was in my life, her life, Dad's life, Drew's life, Melissa's, Susan's, or someone else's, or all of our lives -- that He would accomplish what He was doing and then take her home. "Lord, whatever it is, accomplish Your purpose with mom's suffering and then end the suffering." I just remember so fervently praying that close to the end of her life, and even a little before she took the bad turn in early December. I believe with all my heart that the Holy Spirit put that prayer on my heart. And He used those prayers to bring about the fulfillment of His will.  Just a little deeper understanding of how the sovereign God uses our prayers.

We had the burial on Sunday, December 23. Small, private group of us: Melissa and her family, Susan, Dad, Drew, Ashley, Ryan, and me. Marty Jacumin officiated. Chad Hood was there, too. Was a short, sweet service. Buried in the BayLeaf graveyard. Dad is so happy that he and mom will forever smell the cow pasture across the road when they're both finally laid to rest. They better never get rid of that cow pasture.

Then we had the memorial service on Saturday, December 29 at BayLeaf. TONS of people came. We ran out of programs and room in the guest book. Marty opened by saying that mom had planned her own memorial service. Everything we read and sang came from things she had written or marked in her Bible. Three hymns: How Great Thou Art, Great is Thy Faithfulness, and Because He Lives. Christie spoke and it was fabulous. I have a copy of what she said. And then Marty shared from John 14:1-6. Mom had written "You MUST believe" in her Bible by this passage. This was the same passage she quoted to me when I asked her if she was saved and the same passage from my Daily Light devotion that I wrote about earlier. Wow. What a passage I'll forever hold dearly. He shared some things from her testimony. And spoke of the peace that passes understanding that she had. He spoke of Jesus being the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Everyone later said how much Anne would have approved of that service. It really was beautiful. The Gospel was clear, and it was obvious that my mother was a woman of God, a funny, spitfire, strong woman of God.

The thing that has stuck out to me the most since she went to Heaven is how she never complained. She really had so much to complain about. We've spoken of this several times in the past week. Dad has said it, too. I've actually tried to rack my brain to remember a time when she complained about something: her less than fashionable hairdo, all the MRIs, tests, recurrences, medicine, doc appointments, lack of mobility, etc. She truly never complained. Wow. I want to carry on that legacy, starting now. I've not done a good job of that in my 30 years, but it's never too late to start.

Also, the other thing is how she never really worried about stuff. Her testimony speaks of this. And for all intents and purposes, she had plenty to worry about. Next time I start worrying about something, I'm going to ask myself: Is this as scary as facing brain surgery? That's what mom faced, and she didn't worry.

***********************************************************************************
The text file goes on for several weeks after she passed. I am so happy to have these thoughts recorded. On the one hand, sad memories. On the other hand, the faithfulness of God to carry me through.

June 1996.
3 months before the brain tumor diagnosis.
This was her obit pic.

Anne Pittman Hardison went to be with the Lord on Friday December 21, 2012, after a 16-year battle with cancer. Anne was the daughter of the late Kenneth Worth Pittman and Elizabeth Coleman Pittman of Rocky Mount, NC. She is survived by her husband of 38 years, Richard Everett Hardison of Raleigh; her son Andrew Worth Hardison and his wife Ashley of Apex; her daughter Susan Hardison Thomsen and her husband Ryan of Raleigh; her sister Susan Elizabeth Pittman of Raleigh; her sister Melissa Pittman Smyth and her husband Ted of Raleigh; and her two grandsons, Graham Worth Hardison and William Robert Thomsen. Anne was born June 9, 1951 in Rocky Mount, NC, and graduated from Meredith College. She was a loving wife and mother who raised two children and created a family that loved and adored her. She was active at Bay Leaf Baptist Church, a leader of many adult Bible study classes, and a president of the PTA at West Millbrook Middle School. Anne never met a stranger. She never complained during her battle with cancer. All those who knew her will remember her great sense of style and humor. She had a sweet spirit of being the person God chose her to be, a sweet word, a kind touch, a smile that only Anne could give, and a sparkle in her eye. She will be deeply missed by all.
The family will have a private graveside service. A memorial service to celebrate Anne's life is planned for Saturday, December 29, 2012, at 2:00 PM, at Bay Leaf Baptist Church, 12200 Bayleaf Church Rd, Raleigh, NC 27614. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to Bay Leaf Baptist Church or to Hospice of Wake County, 250 Hospice Circle, Raleigh, NC 27607.

Childhood's finest, Post 3

(Read Post 1 and Post 2.)

No Christmas memory is complete without mentioning Mom's sugar cookies. Her, rolling out the dough onto wax paper on the island in the kitchen, and me, deciding whether we needed more angels or Christmas trees, green sprinkles, red sprinkles, or the Christmas combo. Her floured hands are Christmas icons.

And then there's the Christmas I found out the truth about Santa Claus. I had been wavering on which Corolle baby doll I wanted Santa to bring me. One afternoon, Mom pressured me to decide. Why does she care so much?
I decided on one, and then a few minutes later, I followed Mom to the back bedroom. The door was closed and I could hear her on the phone. Ordering my baby doll. I sat on the stairs and waited for her to come out.
"He isn't real, is he?"
"Who?"
"Santa Claus."
"No, Chicken, I'm sorry, Santa Claus isn't real."
I cried.
But then I entered into the privileged land of: You know something about Santa Claus that your little cousins don't, so play along.

Play along we did.

Every year, Aunt Susan, Aunt Melissa, Uncle Ted, and the girls came over to our house for Christmas Eve. Christmas traditions never shone brighter. It started with Drew and me sitting in the chair by the window in the living room, watching for the family's headlights to round the corner (the Saved by the Bell Christmas special playing in the background).

"They're here!"

Ten times he'd fool me, and then it would be for real. They came and we ate: Honey baked ham, baked green beans, sweet potato casserole, baked rice, creamed corn, and Sister Schubert's. Meg only ate tan foods. AR was caught on camera enjoying a roll one year and never lived it down. All of us hid food in our napkins to escape the three-more-bites ploy from moms and dads. Who wants green beans when you have a little wooden basket of M&Ms sitting above your plate?

After dinner, the kids went upstairs to watch last year's home video of Christmas and our recording of Frosty the Snowman. I watched Frosty every Christmas Eve until I turned 30. No lie. (By the way, Frosty's ticket to the North Pole cost $3,000.04.)

Drew, the girls, and I never could decide what was best, the Frosty movie or the 80's McDonald's commercials that interrupted it, where the little boy ice skates with Ronald McDonald and the cartoon animals, or where he's disappointed about his Christmas sweater from Grandma until she turns around and gives him McDonalds gift certificates. We can recite every line.

At some point in the evening, the adults would come upstairs and say it was time everyone got home so Santa Claus could come. He wouldn't come unless you were in your own bed asleep. That made so much more sense to me post the Corrolle-doll episode.

Drew and I would leave a plate of cookies for Santa, resort to my room, turn Christmas music on the radio, and lie awake for hours, too excited for sleep.

On Christmas morning, we woke up Mom and Dad, and I was certain they took ten times as long to brush their teeth as they did on a normal day. Dad would roll the video camera, Mom would oooh and ahhh about Santa's gifts downstairs, and then finally, Drew and I were given the green light. Down the stairs and around the corner, our presents were on display, the only difficult thing, deciding what to go pick up first.

Childhood's finest moment.

I have to be honest, a part of me dreads Christmas this year because of how different it will be, for so many reasons, the most of which is the one person who is missing.

But this is one of those times when you have to give your soul a pep talk. The Psalmist did it all the time.

Here goes.

Foremost, let me never forget what Christmas is all about. Our tree, food, and present traditions may have been all about Mom (and I love her for it), but Christmas is all about Jesus. "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life" (John 3:16). That's reason numero uno for not dreading Christmas. Those words don't even belong in the same sentence! Thank you, Lord, for Jesus!

And the other (albeit much smaller) reason there's no room for dreading the Christmas season this year is because Mom would never have it. She spent years giving me tradition, showing me how it's done, and loading me up with ornaments--cats, shoes, angels, trees, tassels, everything beautiful and Anne-like--to ensure that my Christmases would always be filled with a little bit of her. She set me up for a lifetime of enjoying Christmas. How loving and thoughtful.

She left me no room to dread Christmas.

The thread she started weaving is longer still.

May I weave it half as well as she did.

Drew and Mom Christmas morning. No date on the pic, but I'm guessing 1994.

1981. Dad and Drew (2) at Mama Bette's house.

1984. Susan (2). Drew (5)

1985. Susan (3). Drew (6)

1985. Susan (3). Drew (6)

 

 

I'm guessing 1993. With Chrissy.

Guessing 1992. Anne Rogers, Me, Meg, Drew, Betsy

1998. Me, AR, Betsy, Meg, Drew

2001. Aunt Susan, Aunt Melissa, Mom