reflecting....

While I am sitting here waiting for Mirielle to get home from the drive-in with her date, I mean her three little sisters, I shall write.

I went to a bridal shower at church this evening and had a very nice time. The bride-to-be is a lovely girl, she looks like a Barbie doll. She has never dated anyone, she has embraced purity and goodness. Now she is engaged to Prince Charming, and it is very exciting and worthy of celebration.

At the beginning of the shower, we had fellowship, and shared about how good marriage is. One of the ladies present has been married for 59 years, and said it only gets better. Yes, when one seeks to bless the other, it only gets better and better. One of the examples given was this: wife, in the kitchen cleaning up or preparing food. Husband, napping or sitting in his chair. Wife, starting to be tempted to grumble. Hmmpf. He SHOULD be helping me... But saying NO to it, and continuing to bless the husband. He never even knew it, but a battle was fought and won, and love abounded. It is very simple, really. When one blesses, God blesses that one. Of course there are many many temptations, many thoughts, many times when husband and wife simply don't agree, and those are the times to fight for the marriage! Say NO to my sin, not letting any bitter roots come up.

So it was extremely encouraging, then we had some fun. Toilet paper wedding dresses, writing ficitonal stories about how the happy couple met, using candy bars as vocabulary, and then opening the gifts. And there were snacks, of course. Veggies and pizza rolls and dips and breads and chips and cookies and licorice...I was pretty good...well, no, I could have been much better, but I also could have been worse.

I miss my mother. So much still. She would love Camille and Charlotte Claire. C. C. was only a few months old when Gramma died. And she would love Rosie-the-bad-dog. Of course, Rosie would listen to her. Everyone did. She was interested in everyone, and literally to know her was to love her. She was the kind of Gramma who always had kids on her lap, read them stories, remembered their favorite things. She had/has 48 grandchildren. (16 from me, 10 from one brother, 12 from another brother, 7 from my sister, two from my younger brother, and one from my other brother.) She was once asked if she had a favorite, and she answered, "Yes, the one I am with at the time."

She was a giver. I couldn't stop in at her house without bringing something home from her. Everytime she came here, she had things for the kids. She even gave birthday gifts to the other kids who weren't her grandchildren. She didn't get all ruffled about things. The phrase, "Meh." is something I had heard for years from her, only she said, "Eh." Meaning, "Oh, well. So be it."

What I wouldn't give to dial her number and talk to her. I often dream that she is alive, and I ask her how long she is staying, and she tells me not too long. Or that I know she is going to die soon, and she doesn't know, but I don't want to tell her. She is always wearing her big fuzzy robe, and sitting in her chair, all relaxed. I want to tell her things. I want to tell her that Camille is wearing undies, and that Jonathan knows how to add double digit numbers. I want to tell her that they all jump right into the school pool, over and over again without getting too tired. I want to tell her that our house caught on fire last fall, and that our new washer and dryer are such blessings and so much fun. I want to tell her that Emily is looking to buy a new car, and that Ben is being trained by the Census Bureau. And that Aaron looks handsome in his McDonalds uniform, but gave me the look of death when I asked where my camera was. I want to tell her that Joseph makes himself an egg salad sandwich every single day that he has to work. And that he and Abigail are hilarious, going to work giving away samples. And that Mirielle is talking about going to Med.school. And that Paul is doing really well at work. And that I am trying to be more active, and more conscious of eating well. And that Mali is running track and can run five miles and live to tell about it. Oh well. I am rambling. But I feel better now. Hey, never know, maybe I will get to heaven and my mother will say, "Oh, I loved reading your blog!"