I awoke from a dream around 5:00 this morning. I dreamed that my daughter came to my bed in the middle of the night, thumb in mouth, and silently crawled under the covers with me. She was maybe 5 or 6, with short blonde hair and a blankie. I wrapped my arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her on the head. "I love you so, so much," I whispered, and felt her relax into sleep.
I know where that dream came from. Yesterday my daughter took my mother with her to shop for clothes for her new job. When I got off work I called Nikki to see how things had gone. She said they were still at it, so I drove out to meet them at Old Navy. As soon as Nikki turned to greet me, I knew it had been a trying day. Her eyes showed exhaustion, frustration, sadness. Grandma has been her best friend her entire life, but Grandma's sharp wit and intellect are being overwhelmed by dementia. Their roles are beginning to reverse. It's confusing, but Nikki will hang in there with her to the end. I put my arm around Nikki and kissed her on the head.
Soon she headed for the dressing room, and Mom followed. Nikki said "Grandma likes to see me naked," and Mom laughed. I sat outside the room on a bench, watching a young lady and her mother selecting bright dresses for a curly-haired toddler. Nikki spoke from behind the door: "I have an octogenarian you can have for free. She's free!" I chuckled and said, "I'm watching a baby out here." She replied, "I'd like to be playing with MY baby right now." "I know, Sweetie. You'll be home with her soon." Later, in the checkout line, Nikki confided, "Grandma's hard to shop with. She likes to touch every little thing." "Yes, I know," I said, "you should see how much fun we have in Wal-Mart."
We walked together to our cars. Nikki hugged us both, her head turning amusingly from one of us to the other as she said, "Thank you for going with me. Thank you for buying my clothes. Thank you for giving Grandma a ride home." More hugs, then she got in her car and drove away, no doubt wishing she could just be transported home, Star Trek-style, instead of driving for 45 minutes. Mom and I went across the street to Taziki's and enjoyed a delicious Greek meal. Every 5 minutes or so Mom would ask, "Do you think she's home yet?," saying out loud what both of us were thinking inside. "No, Mom, she's still got a ways to go." We relaxed when Nikki texted me simply, "I'm home."
My daughter is a great mother, fiercely protective but proud of Caroline's independent streak, playful yet strict. She cherishes every minute with her child even when what she most needs is a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. But she's also a scientist. She worked so hard to finish her master's in biology, spending hour upon hour in the genetics lab. Now she's landed a good job and is eager to begin, but I know that every day, every minute, she'll be torn between loving her work and missing her own little blonde-haired girl.
And so the story repeats itself and continues, from mother to mother to mother. I love you so, so much, my baby girl. I hope you know.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Sunday morning
My Sundays have changed dramatically since I moved from Brooklyn back to Arkansas.
Used to be that I would never miss church unless I was really really sick or we were socked in by a blizzard. I had responsibilities at church, whether it was teaching Sunday School or a Relief Society lesson, or visiting Relief Society meetings at other wards around the borough. I loved my responsibilities. I loved feeling needed. I loved spending the entire day in the bosom of my ward family, my stake family, knowing and being known by so many dear people. Leaving my church associations was the hardest thing about leaving Brooklyn, like my spiritual self had been yanked from the ground by the roots.
When I arrived in Arkansas, I dutifully went to my new ward, trusting that the church is the same everywhere around the world and that I would soon find friends and confidantes here just as I had in New York. I went to meet the bishop that first Sunday and arranged to have my records transferred. Bishop Smith is like my Brooklyn bishop: a very nice man, modest and soft-spoken, genuinely concerned about the welfare of the members of his ward. I told him about our decision to return to Arkansas, but didn't go into my "church resume" because I figured we'd get to that when my records arrived. I hoped I'd get a calling soon, a great way to get acquainted, but six months later I am still unassigned.
During the summer I went to church alone. I participated in class discussions, but not too much - no one likes a pushy newcomer. I went to the Relief Society "extra" meetings and struck up conversations with whomever I sat near. My liveliest such discussion was with the Gospel Doctrine teacher, an East German-born young lady with strong political views quite different from mine. I enjoyed an evening meeting where everyone brought a project and we sat together stitching and chatting and snacking. Some ladies were learning to knit, others were crocheting, and I got to show off the Mother Goose cross-stitch baby blanket I'm working on for my granddaughter. Ironically, the woman who seemed to warm to me the most was... a Bronx-born Puerto Rican whose family moved to Arkansas when her husband got a truck-driving job here. I left not knowing the names of most of the women, wondering how many of them knew my name, but hoping I'd begun to break the ice in my new home.
I've taken my mother to her church a time or two. She is a Methodist like her mother and generations before her. The service was more Catholic-like than I remembered from my childhood, but the sermon was good, uplifting and encouraging. Several ladies came to welcome us after the service. One in fact had grown up in Mom's hometown. She recognized Mom's name on the attendance sheet and spoke of going to school with Mom and her twin brother Gene. Wow. If I decided to take Mom to church there, we might both make some friends. But I haven't made that commitment, because I really believe in the Gospel I have learned as a Mormon and would not, could not, hold back from mentioning it in Sunday School classes or elsewhere.
No, I belong in my LDS church, my LDS meetings. I love what I have learned in my 15 years of membership. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, as are the men who have followed him in that role. I know that he saw Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, that They spoke to him on several occasions. I cherish the Book of Mormon, which truly is another testament of Jesus Christ, a companion piece to the Old and New Testaments. I love the Pearl of Great Price, the books of Abraham and Moses and the plain-spoken, beautiful way in which they describe the creation of the Earth and God's dealings with his prophets. I love the hymns of the Restoration and the way the Spirit moves me when I sing them. I am eternally grateful for the teachings of the temple, that families can be together forever, that there is a great Plan of Happiness, that there are degrees of Glory in which every person can find peace and rest and joy.
But right now I'm struggling to find my place right here. Since Ed rejoined me in September we have gone to church together. I cry, or come close to tears, way too often, but Ed seems to be enjoying the meetings. Last week was the first time in months that I felt happy, not weepy, in fast and testimony meeting. I listened to my husband's bold, confident testimony of love for the Gospel and thought that finally I might be able to offer my own without coming undone. But I decided against it, not wanting to offend if I slipped and mentioned my struggles. Our home teacher and the missionaries visited us last week, a visit that was very well received by my mother and brother. I hope they will come back regularly. I've been assigned a visiting teaching companion but have yet to go out with her. Truth is, even when I was a fully active member in Brooklyn, I was never a valiant visiting teacher. I'd like to improve on that if I can just remember to call my companion to plan our visits.
A Brooklyn friend recently was shocked and, I could tell, disappointed by my new routine. She told me I have always been her rock. I told her I get dizzy high up on that pedestal. My husband tells me not to be so hard on myself. I've begun to think that perhaps I'm just in a new phase of my life. Perhaps my calling right now is to spend time with my mother. Perhaps the church here is getting along fine without my help, thank you very much, and I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
This morning I tried to get Mom out of bed and off to church with me, but it was more than she could do. So today I am enjoying a quiet day at home. I've been watching the birds outside -- the great, noisy, flowing flocks of hundreds of blackbirds in the trees; the bright cardinals among the fallen brown leaves; the tiny, flitting gray birds I haven't yet identified. I hear crows calling nearby, and remember the honking geese at dawn. I hope to see the great heron that frequents the creek behind the house. My cats are on the bed - Indy snoring, Maggie grooming. The dogs are asleep on the couch in the living room, where my brother watches football while Ed reads the Sunday paper. The rain has started, and perhaps we'll have a fire in the fireplace before long. Later, I'll plan supper then watch some TV with Mom. It's a good day, a day of rest, and I hope My Savior understands.
Used to be that I would never miss church unless I was really really sick or we were socked in by a blizzard. I had responsibilities at church, whether it was teaching Sunday School or a Relief Society lesson, or visiting Relief Society meetings at other wards around the borough. I loved my responsibilities. I loved feeling needed. I loved spending the entire day in the bosom of my ward family, my stake family, knowing and being known by so many dear people. Leaving my church associations was the hardest thing about leaving Brooklyn, like my spiritual self had been yanked from the ground by the roots.
When I arrived in Arkansas, I dutifully went to my new ward, trusting that the church is the same everywhere around the world and that I would soon find friends and confidantes here just as I had in New York. I went to meet the bishop that first Sunday and arranged to have my records transferred. Bishop Smith is like my Brooklyn bishop: a very nice man, modest and soft-spoken, genuinely concerned about the welfare of the members of his ward. I told him about our decision to return to Arkansas, but didn't go into my "church resume" because I figured we'd get to that when my records arrived. I hoped I'd get a calling soon, a great way to get acquainted, but six months later I am still unassigned.
During the summer I went to church alone. I participated in class discussions, but not too much - no one likes a pushy newcomer. I went to the Relief Society "extra" meetings and struck up conversations with whomever I sat near. My liveliest such discussion was with the Gospel Doctrine teacher, an East German-born young lady with strong political views quite different from mine. I enjoyed an evening meeting where everyone brought a project and we sat together stitching and chatting and snacking. Some ladies were learning to knit, others were crocheting, and I got to show off the Mother Goose cross-stitch baby blanket I'm working on for my granddaughter. Ironically, the woman who seemed to warm to me the most was... a Bronx-born Puerto Rican whose family moved to Arkansas when her husband got a truck-driving job here. I left not knowing the names of most of the women, wondering how many of them knew my name, but hoping I'd begun to break the ice in my new home.
I've taken my mother to her church a time or two. She is a Methodist like her mother and generations before her. The service was more Catholic-like than I remembered from my childhood, but the sermon was good, uplifting and encouraging. Several ladies came to welcome us after the service. One in fact had grown up in Mom's hometown. She recognized Mom's name on the attendance sheet and spoke of going to school with Mom and her twin brother Gene. Wow. If I decided to take Mom to church there, we might both make some friends. But I haven't made that commitment, because I really believe in the Gospel I have learned as a Mormon and would not, could not, hold back from mentioning it in Sunday School classes or elsewhere.
No, I belong in my LDS church, my LDS meetings. I love what I have learned in my 15 years of membership. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, as are the men who have followed him in that role. I know that he saw Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, that They spoke to him on several occasions. I cherish the Book of Mormon, which truly is another testament of Jesus Christ, a companion piece to the Old and New Testaments. I love the Pearl of Great Price, the books of Abraham and Moses and the plain-spoken, beautiful way in which they describe the creation of the Earth and God's dealings with his prophets. I love the hymns of the Restoration and the way the Spirit moves me when I sing them. I am eternally grateful for the teachings of the temple, that families can be together forever, that there is a great Plan of Happiness, that there are degrees of Glory in which every person can find peace and rest and joy.
But right now I'm struggling to find my place right here. Since Ed rejoined me in September we have gone to church together. I cry, or come close to tears, way too often, but Ed seems to be enjoying the meetings. Last week was the first time in months that I felt happy, not weepy, in fast and testimony meeting. I listened to my husband's bold, confident testimony of love for the Gospel and thought that finally I might be able to offer my own without coming undone. But I decided against it, not wanting to offend if I slipped and mentioned my struggles. Our home teacher and the missionaries visited us last week, a visit that was very well received by my mother and brother. I hope they will come back regularly. I've been assigned a visiting teaching companion but have yet to go out with her. Truth is, even when I was a fully active member in Brooklyn, I was never a valiant visiting teacher. I'd like to improve on that if I can just remember to call my companion to plan our visits.
A Brooklyn friend recently was shocked and, I could tell, disappointed by my new routine. She told me I have always been her rock. I told her I get dizzy high up on that pedestal. My husband tells me not to be so hard on myself. I've begun to think that perhaps I'm just in a new phase of my life. Perhaps my calling right now is to spend time with my mother. Perhaps the church here is getting along fine without my help, thank you very much, and I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
This morning I tried to get Mom out of bed and off to church with me, but it was more than she could do. So today I am enjoying a quiet day at home. I've been watching the birds outside -- the great, noisy, flowing flocks of hundreds of blackbirds in the trees; the bright cardinals among the fallen brown leaves; the tiny, flitting gray birds I haven't yet identified. I hear crows calling nearby, and remember the honking geese at dawn. I hope to see the great heron that frequents the creek behind the house. My cats are on the bed - Indy snoring, Maggie grooming. The dogs are asleep on the couch in the living room, where my brother watches football while Ed reads the Sunday paper. The rain has started, and perhaps we'll have a fire in the fireplace before long. Later, I'll plan supper then watch some TV with Mom. It's a good day, a day of rest, and I hope My Savior understands.
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