My Grandmother

Ella Elizabeth Straup Rohan was born April 28, 1925 and died June 3, 2015. She was my grandmother, my father's mother.

That must have been a wonderful heavenly reunion, when she was reunited with her son, my father, who died in 1983. Alfred James Rohan was born April 22, 1941 and died May 9, 1983. He was her first born.

Now, I'm not going to run through the entire family history because let's be honest, I have no idea of all the details. I wasn't even born until 1975. I do know my grandmother married quite young, had three children, and then divorced. She met my grandfather, Walter Charles Rohan, and it was my dad who asked him when he was going to marry his mom. Walt formally adopted Ella's three kids, which is why my maiden name is Rohan. I was 16 when I learned that I wasn't a Rohan (descended from royalty, btw) by birth, but by adoption. :)

Grandma took care of Grandpa during multiple health crises, often giving up church service and attendance opportunities to care for him. He died December 23, 2003, at age 90. They were good together and I loved them both very much.

It wasn't weird to me, growing up, that I had two sets of grandparents. Everybody did. It wasn't until I was an adult that I recognized the strength, caring, love, and openness that it took for the adults in my life to maintain family relationships after my parents' divorce. We got care packages from Grandma and Grandpa every Christmas, full of treats and gifts. Grandma made me dresses, skirts and blouses, hand crafted crochet items, hand made bead and wood curios, and sketches and drawings. I grew up thinking my grandma could make anything, do anything, and at her funeral my aunt only confirmed that. She said, "My mom could do everything but two things--drive and knit."

Ella never drove. She never learned. She relied on Walt to drive them anywhere until his eyes got bad, and then her kids stepped up. She loved music and art, could play the organ and the piano, and sing like an angel. I have many fond memories of Grandma at the piano, but even fonder memories of her at the organ.

She was always loving and welcoming to us whenever we visited. She never differentiated between my mother, her ex daughter-in-law, and her other kids. She talked of my dad often.  I never, ever doubted their love for us. Ever. She was uber supportive of my writing and always bought books to distribute to family, as much as she was financially able.

Grandma lived a full life, and she went quickly. She didn't linger or suffer, which is a blessing. I was really okay with her passing, even though I will miss her presence in my life. I did really well during the viewing--until the closed the casket. Then it became final. Real. And I started bawling. We didn't really do a traditional funeral for grandma, but a viewing and then brief graveside service. Grandma's favorite hymns were part of the graveside service, we sang at the direction of my incredibly talented aunt Lori, Grandma's youngest daughter. And I couldn't contain the emotions that welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks.

Grandma always struck me as being very private about her own life. And the details that slipped through the family cracks are how many sibling she had, where her parents were buried, anything about her parents at all, or her nieces and nephews. I met a bunch of them at the funeral and I'm counting that as another blessing, another gift Grandma left me. I was able to take pics of my great-grandparents' headstones for our family history, and I got to reconnect with that side of the family. It even led to a job lead for Bryan (we've been unemployed since the end of April), another blessing. Another gift.

Yesterday was a beautiful, spiritual, emotional day. And I'm so grateful that I was able to come. I only wish I could have brought the entire family along.

Goodbye, Grandma. Thank you for being incredible. You've left a legacy in which I think you can find joy.

The Real Christmas

My kids are awesome. Really. They're not perfect but they're mine. And they've got really good hearts. It's easy to pick out their individual strengths and weaknesses, but I'm not doing that. This post isn't about that.

A few of our Family Home Evenings this time of year inevitably focus on the spirit of giving. Not on making your lists, and mailing them to Santa. Not on making sure Mom and Dad are fully aware of everything you want. But on what you can do for others. I actually have a great follow up planned for next week.

We don't do this every year because our kids are greedy or selfish. Rather, we do it to foster their giving natures. I want them to always be this way. I want them to grow up realizing that each of us has the power to impact the lives of others--for good or for ill, it's our choice.

Usually there's a secondary motive. We're always doing Christmas on a budget. This year is no different, except the budget is a bit larger than we're accustomed to. And when we made our list there were several things the kids discussed wanting to do. For other people. Donating to the food bank. Helping a family with their Christmas. Reaching out to a loved one turned curmudgeon.

But this year things are going to be a little different. The more I take stock of our extended family the more I realize that the people we help don't have to be anonymous faces. There are several members of our extended family who are struggling for basic needs. I've been there. The kids have been there. We all understand what that's like, how it feels. And I'm confident--no, I'm certain--once I point out those facts to them they will *want* to help. God has been good to us. We can certainly pass that along.

Like I said, I have good kids.

So we're just going to turn our focus ever so slightly inward. It may mean the girls don't get brand new beds but rather get the beds they have fixed up to last another few months. That's okay. It may mean the boys have to wait till their birthday to get that weight bench set. That's not too far off.

One of the neatest things about doing good for others is how it spreads, like ripples on a pond. Filling hearts with warmth and love is never a wasted effort.

Merry Christmas!

We're Never Done

I learned something amazing about my son yesterday.

He. Is. Incredible.

To be fair, I thought I knew that already. Really. This kid has survived 2 near-death experiences, he's zany, tender, and can draw like no other kid you've ever seen. He's just as incredible as my other kids, who are all incredible in their own ways.

But this kid showed me something. He showed me the depth of his heart. And it rocked me to my core.

This is how my journal would read, if I kept a journal:

He entered her hospital room, and nothing in the world mattered except her. He sat down next to her bed, took her hands, and asked her how she was doing. Then he asked her how she was feeling, which are two different things. He held her hands the whole time. Talked about his day. Talked about school. Told some stories. LISTENED to her stories. They laughed together, and they also sat in silence. I had to end it, because I have 4 other kids to tend to--but I promise you I wish I could have left him there a couple hours more. I witnessed something miraculous: A 12 yr old boy's love for his grandmother.

I take no credit for this child. He is the personification of the love Heavenly Father and Jesus has for each one of us. He is an angel walking among us, masquerading as a lively--and occasionally irritating--preteen boy. His capacity for love and compassion are astonishing.

This is the boy the school wants to evaluate and test to see if they can find something "wrong" with. I promise you I will not let him be labeled. I will protect his heart with everything I have. He sees the world differently, but that does NOT make him wrong.

The Worst Feeling

I worked my tail off yesterday (I wish, but that's a different story). When I sent my hubby off to work (as usual) and climbed into bed around 11 last night, I was more tired than anyone has a right to be. Without my usual nighttime ritual of listening to music and playing games on my iPod until my eyes wouldn't stay open, I started to drift to sleep almost right away.

In that peaceful, sleepy state when you can feel yourself drifting away, my thoughts wandered to my husband. And then a voice came to me, clear as anything, and said, "He's dead."

Sleep evaporated. I got that horrible, sinking feeling like my entire life had changed--and for a second I believed it.

Fortunately, reason set in quickly and I realized it was just my subconscious being incredibly cruel to me. Incredibly. Cruel.

I did convince myself I was being stupid and went to sleep, but I will admit to breathing a sigh of relief when I heard his voice this morning from the living room.

Sometimes, having an overactive imagination is simply not fun.