My Wildcat Identity

Go Kentucky Wildcats! I can’t wait until the NCAA Final Four hits this weekend when Kentucky plays the Louisville Cardinals for what I deem the “Battle of Kentucky.” What a fantastic game that should be! I’m sure the likes of such local places as Shakey’s Pub & Grub will be packed for this one. I have a fondness for Shakey’s myself, especially since they went nonsmoking a couple of years ago. But not sure I’m willing to go three hours early just to get a seat. Maybe I’m not such a die-hard fan after all!

But I sure like watching Kentucky basketball – so fast-paced, so thrilling, so exciting! The three-pointers, the dunks, the sound of “whoosh” as the ball sweeps only the net. It’s my kind of game – much more conducive to my thrill-seeking preferences than the slower paces of baseball and football (though I have been known to get excited at an occasional football or baseball game or two).

Of course, if Louisville happens to win this weekend, as a dutiful Kentuckian I suppose I will root for Louisville in the finals. But right now my heart is with the Wildcats.

I think that Wildcat fever has emanated so much throughout the state that being a fan is just an essential part of being a Kentuckian. Making this point is really the purpose of this post. I’ll give you a perfect example.

I recently graduated with my master’s degree in communication from Northern Kentucky University (go Norse!). I spent a little over four years there earning this hard-earned degree. Anyway, there was a certain communication professor on campus that would become furious if he saw a student wearing any type of spirit wear that wasn’t NKU garb. I know this because this became a topic of conversation one evening in one of my classes.

It got me to thinking whether I had ever committed such an infraction. And indeed I had. Just the week before I had attended class wearing a University of Kentucky t-shirt. Good thing I didn’t run into that particular professor!

The thing is, though, it really didn’t occur to me that wearing a “Kentucky” shirt in any way countered my allegiance to NKU. It was just a given that as Kentuckian the very fabric of my being entailed that I don “Kentucky” attire. Not that I didn’t have NKU t-shirts and sweatshirts. I did. And I made sure to wear those plenty to class from then on. Of course I’m fond of NKU. Just like I have nothing against Louisville. It’s just that I assume most Kentuckians by nature of their very being “bleed blue.”

Now, as I say this, NKU is preparing to move from Division II to Division I in the next couple of years. I have to ask myself – in the event that NKU ever plays Kentucky, which team will I cheer on? Will I be torn? After all, NKU was an essential part of my life all those years. NKU did give me the piece of paper (which I traded oodles of cash for).

Or what if Kentucky ever took on the University of Dayton, where I received my first degree? Would I cheer on the Flyers? I certainly did when the Flyers made the Elite Eight in 1984 (when I was a freshman in college). Now I’m seriously torn.

Well, I’ll just assume those matchups will never happen. So I’ll never have to decide. Why worry about something that’s purely hypothetical? For now I’ll keep my head in the current game. This weekend’s current game, that is.

And I just know that at my house this weekend, we’ll be in Wildcat country!

A GPS in Life

Prior to a trip to Michigan last August my husband borrowed a toy from a friend of his – a GPS device. You see, I’m 95 percent sure how to get to my grandmother’s house and just to make sure that I end up there I usually Mapquest the directions. But hubby thought it might be fun to try out the GPS. I complied, and we not only used it, but decided to take another route to Grandma’s just to give this new-fangled thing a rigorous workout.

Neither one of us had ever used a GPS, and I have to say the novelty of it was a blast – listening to the sultry female voice tell us to exit here, turn there, and turn around now (that directive usually came when we got off the interstate to get something to eat, a bathroom break, etc.). In the end, we made it to Grandma’s house just fine, but probably would have anyway without the GPS directing the way.

I did make mention that something like that would have really come in handy a couple of months earlier when I took several kids on a church mission trip to Knoxville. We drove to many destinations that week, and while we had written directions, I couldn’t really drive and refer to the directions at the same time. Thus, my GPS system was a 14-year-old girl attempting to read off directions while I was behind the wheel. It didn’t always work out, and more than once I had to turn around because we’d taken a wrong turn or gone the opposite way. The other adult chaperones hauling kids did have GPS systems. Needless to say, I was usually the last one arriving at the intended destination. So a GPS then would have been nice.

Anyhow, a couple of months go by, and the Christmas season is upon us. What should I get my husband for Christmas? He’s so hard to buy for. Then I remember how enthralled he was with that GPS. Yeah, I thought, it’s time to catch up with the modern day. A GPS, I thought, would be perfect. And maybe he would let me borrow it next time I had to maneuver myself in unfamiliar places. So I shop carefully and purchase what I believe to be the perfect GPS just for him – one with free lifetime maps (don’t they all have that?).

Under the tree it sat in its little gift bag for some time – until Christmas Day. And then, when it came time to open presents, his was the first. He pulled out the gift, and displayed what I would have to say was a stunned, surprised look. Oh, good – I had really done well this time. That is, if this is something that he really wanted. I asked him, and he indicated that it was – so good.

So later on in the gift-giving, my turn comes to open his gift. I tore into the gift wrap, eager to see what my hubby was giving me this Christmas, only to exhibit the same stunned, surprised look. Why, my husband had bought me a GPS! Talk about like minds!

So now we have these two GPS devices – one for me and one for him. He has yet to use his, and I’ve used mine once. I haven’t been going many places lately, but I’m sure once I get to the point where I start going places again, my GPS will see more use. Whether or not we really need two GPS devices, whereas before we had none, is up for debate. Maybe we’re just slow catching up with the technology of this twenty-first century.

But as I was thinking about the concept of the GPS, I thought how nice it might be if we all had our own inherent personal GPS systems that could steer us to where we need to go in life. I can imagine that there are so many people, like me, who are stuck in sort of a dead zone and are trying to figure the best way out. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a device that could tell you exactly what to do, or where to go, to help you get to your desired destination?

After all, I think many of us seem to lose our way in life more than we do on the road. When one is stuck in a hole of personal abyss, where is the GPS to lead that person out?

The answer, of course, is that life’s not that simple. As a Christian, I suppose Scripture might be the GPS of choice for many who need to find their way out of the abyss. And from a practical standpoint, there are resources – self-help products and such – that can help lead people in different directions to improve their lives.

But nothing that says, “Do this, go there, and you will definitely end up here.” Unlike a GPS that guarantees that you will make it to your intended destination, there is no such device in life that can give such precise directions or assure that you will end up where you want to be.

In life, we have to figure all this out for ourselves. In some aspects, that is good because it enables people to weigh all the options themselves. Unlike a GPS, the human mind can decide whether an alternate destination or a detour would be the best way to go. A GPS is good at giving directions, but as humans we have the capability to go beyond taking directions. Maybe there are some who might even figure out that their intended destination is not even where they want to go.

My ramblings are just that. Most days I wish I had a GPS built into my body, directing my every step, leading me to certain success in life. But I realize our internal GPS systems are formed throughout life, through our upbringing, our education, our concepts of right and wrong, our spirituality, our philosophies, and the wisdom that we draw from our years on this earth. I know that my real GPS here is already in me, in my brain, and I have to rely on that to direct me.

But my internal GPS has malfunctioned. Perhaps a short in the wiring? Maybe I just need a charge. Stuck in the dead zone, I am, with a GPS that’s going crazy. Sometimes it tells me to go in all different directions in hopes that I’ll end up somewhere. Other times it freezes up, rendered clueless about whether any direction will get me out. Still many other times, it shows me directions but indicates that I don’t have the skills that it will take to travel to any desired destination.

So what do I do? I don’t really have the answers now, except that I hope eventually my GPS will straighten itself out. Perhaps some twist of fate will be the answer. A big break. A dose of dogged determination, maybe? Or sheer persistence. Any one of these has the potential to fix my frazzled GPS.

Whatever the solution might be, I haven’t lost faith yet. I have to believe that at some point I’ll find myself headed in the right direction. I pray daily that I will.

I imagine that someday I’ll look back on this time on my life and have one of those “Footprint in the Sand” moments. You know – a realization that there was only one set of footprints and that is the time in my life where God carried me.

It will be interesting to see where God eventually carries me. Most certainly He knows where to go.

But just in case He doesn’t, no worries. I have an extra GPS that He can borrow.

Going Insane at Sam's Club

It happened again today – as it does every time I enter into a store to pick up just “a few things.” It turns out to be more than just a few things and ends up costing me. This morning it was Sam’s Club.

I didn’t really want to go out at all, but had to visit the doctor to have some routine blood work done. So once I left there I decided it was a good time to go purchase the gift for the baby shower I’m attending on Sunday. So I drive to Babies R Us, except it’s 9:30 and Babies R Us doesn’t open until 10:00. And guess what’s nearby? That’s right. Sam’s Club.

Now being that I am an esteemed business member (or at least my church is, and I have the card since I buy all the cleaning supplies), I’m allowed to grace the hallowed halls of this warehouse haven prior to the 10:00 opening time (when all the commoners are allowed in). So I figured I’d just go hang out at Sam’s Club for a half an hour. Besides, I reasoned, I do need some laundry detergent. And, say, Sam’s does have those jumbo bags of pretzel chips that I like so much.

But that is all I would buy  -- I swore. So I sauntered into the store, armed with a shopping cart only because the laundry detergent would be too heavy to carry. I certainly didn’t get a cart because I was planning to leave with anything other than the intended two items – laundry detergent and pretzels.

But somehow, it never works out that way. There’s always other crap that you have to have. Oooh, a three-pack of Soft Scrub – should I get the lemon or the Soft Scrub with bleach? (I really prefer the lemon but the stuff with the bleach is the only thing that will get my white porcelain kitchen sink looking decent.) I can’t decide. So I get both.

Oh, gotta have soft drinks – my kids practically inhale them. And at Sam’s Club, you can get the cans 32 to the case. Coke is a must. Buy hey, what about me? Get some Diet Coke too. The logic continues as I continue to pour products into my cart – paper towels, dry Swiffers, frozen sausage biscuits, a five-pound block of cheese, and a 24-can case of V-8 (low sodium) for when I finally knuckle down and start adding more vegetables to my diet.

In my defense, none of this is stuff that will go to waste (except maybe the V-8, depending on how good or how bad I am). But that’s not the point. I guess I’m just vulnerable. Though I was determined as steel to come out of there with just the two items, I fell short of my goal. To be honest, though, it’s not just Sam’s Club that brings me down. It happens at the regular grocery store too – where a few items quickly turns into a lot.

I suspect that I’m not the only one that suffers this weakness. Maybe it’s just in our nature to succumb to the temptations of excess. And what could be more excessive than Sam’s Club? They deal in mass quantities, for goodness sake!

As for this morning, I spent $127. It could have been worse, I suppose. Perhaps I can blame my friend, the expectant mother. After all, if Babies R Us had been open I probably wouldn’t have gone to Sam’s Club this morning. Or maybe I can blame the church – it was the business membership that got me in the door. No, it was the doctor’s office for scheduling the blood work so early.

It was their fault. After all, I certainly can’t be to blame.

But just to be safe, next time I need a baby gift, maybe I’ll just head to Target down the street (yikes, no. Might spend there too.). Or the mall? Well, better not. Send my husband out to do it? Okay, not happening.

I suppose I should just be resigned to the fact that on occasion I’m going to overspend. But at least it’s on stuff I use – food and toilet paper and such.  The first time I come home with a big fancy, useless thingamabob…well, then all hope is lost.

Winter's Lore

Today snow covers the ground. Not much, but just enough to emphasize the essence of the season.

And what is that essence? Think cold and blustery. Think dark. Think dreary. And depressing.

That is how I view winter. Truth be told, I hate this time of year. After the Christmas tree comes down right after New Year’s, I would just as soon go into hibernation until March, or even April. But alas, humans are not made that way. We must muddle through and conduct our lives the best we can – seasonal affective disorder or not.

Yet, as I ponder why we can’t just skip the first couple of months each year, I realize that maybe winter, too, has its purpose. Perhaps winter was meant to be a season of cleansing – cleansing the earth in preparation for all the imminent new growth that spring brings. For many of us, it’s a time to cleanse our souls, also. After all, Lent – a period of somber reflection – begins in the dead of winter and ends at Easter as spring burgeons.

Yet while “cleansing” may be necessary, it’s not always pleasant. Am I resigned to the fact that there isn’t anything at all pleasant about winter? This is where I need to adjust my attitude. What, what, what is so positive about winter? Think hard, I tell myself. Let me see…

Okay. I like the hearth and the roaring fires that my husband prepares during winter’s darkest depths. They definitely make for a cozy atmosphere. So chock that one up for winter.

And when there is snow, I like to watch the birds as they eat off the feeders hanging off the maple tree in the background. The cardinals, especially, provide a vivid contrast to the ground’s pure white. It makes me want to take a photo.

But this year’s winter has been unusually mild. So far, it’s been sprinkled with lots of overcast days, and a fair amount of rain. But no snow. Until last night. Just a covering, and not very pretty either. But I digress.

So what else? Well, there is the solitude of the season. It’s a slower time where we can all just kick back and relax a little. No sports, and no sports practices to get to. That means less hustle and bustle and more family time (and dinnertime meals at a reasonable hour). That’s definitely something I can appreciate.

So, maybe winter isn’t as bad as I make it out to be. Perhaps this time of year has its own attributes that I just take for granted. In fact, maybe if I sit and think a little longer, I could come up with a few more good things about this current season. Still, it’s not my favorite and probably never will be. I yearn for the sun to shine, for warmer days and mostly for the new beginnings symbolic of spring. It should only be a few more weeks. Then perhaps I can regain some zest and approach life at full thrust.

In the meantime, I think I’ll go sit by the fire.

My Greatest Gift

God does work in mysterious ways. Or, at least I’ve come to realize that even when you think God is playing hooky from your life, He really is there taking care of things. Sometimes it just takes a while to realize – sometimes after the fact – that He is there all along.

Here we are in 1990, not long after we met --
me (the one with all the hair) and Ed,
the man I would eventually marry.
Notice how smitten I am!

I admit that of late, there are times that I wonder where God is. Is He there for me, protecting me, helping me as I had asked? While I may feel completely alone, I just have to believe that He’s there, and that His plan for me is in the works. After all, He has revealed Himself to me many times. Why would I doubt Him now?

One particular instance that resonates is when God led me to my church, Gloria Dei Lutheran Church, and then later to my husband. That little gesture from God is one that I consider my greatest gift.

When I joined my congregation more than 22 years ago, I must say that even I was bewildered by my choice. I lived in Ohio, so why did I choose a church in Northern Kentucky, a good 20 miles away from where I lived? There were plenty of other churches close by to choose from. But after visiting several churches, my gut just told me that God wanted me to be at Gloria Dei.

It was a time in my life where I really needed spiritual uplifting. I thought I was getting old (yeah, I was 24), I didn’t have a steady job and I was in the midst of breaking up with a long-term boyfriend. I felt there was no stability in my life whatsoever, so I looked to church to provide that.

So I joined Gloria Dei and trekked the extra distance for some time. In the meantime, I broke up with my boyfriend and didn’t look back, and within a year I finally landed the steady job. And then came the big event. About a year after joining the church, I met my husband, Ed.  Not through church, but through a friend who introduced us.

I was immediately taken with this kind, wonderful, witty, hard-working man. He was a man who still lived at home because he was taking care of his elderly father. And he was a man who could fix things! I felt I had hit the jackpot there!

As we dated I knew within just a few weeks that he was the man I wanted to marry. I guess it took him a little longer to decide he wanted to marry me. Nevertheless, two years and four months into our courtship he gave me the most wonderful gift for Christmas. He gave me his heart – one overflowing with undying love. (And the sparkly diamond ring that he gave me was pretty nice too!) Yes, to know that he wanted to spend his life with me was undoubtedly one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

But it dawned on me that my husband’s commitment was part of an even greater gift – one that God had given to me. Why had God called me to a church such a far distance from where I lived? Because He knew that is the area where I would eventually end up. While I initially lived 20 miles away, Ed only lived about three miles away, in Kentucky. Once we were engaged, I moved to Kentucky to be closer to him and when we got married we settled there into our first home (with the father-in-law, who lived with us until he passed away).

God called me to Gloria Dei because He knew the man I hadn’t yet met but would eventually marry was waiting for me there – practically in the church’s backyard! Ed ended up joining the church too, and to this day we are still members there.

What a wonderful Christmas it was that year – 1992. I not only had the heart of the man I loved, but also the realization that God was so instrumental in bringing us together. They are priceless gifts that continue to be fruitful to this day, after more than 17 years of marriage and three children together.

Today, I occasionally ponder, “Where are you, God?” It’s during those times that I remember 22 years ago, when I was young woman who was jobless, uncertain and alone. I kept faith and God took care of me then. Perhaps I should say, “I know you’re there, God – even if I don’t always feel it.” So I’ll just continue to keep faith, pray that someday God will once again reveal the big picture to me, and know that even when I feel alone, as long as I keep God in my life I am never alone.

Doing the Duckman

The coveted prize.

How many people can say that they trained for a triathlon in only three days? Okay, it was only a mini-triathlon, but to a middle-aged, out-of-shape. far-from-svelte dame with a desk job even the most mini of triathlons might as well be the friggin’ Olympics.

I was totally not up for it, but my husband twisted my arm. We were on vacation last year (July 2010) in Vermont, at a family resort near the Canadian border called the Tyler Place. We had vacationed there three previous times, so when it came to the schedule of the week’s activities, we knew the drill. 

Mid-week at the resort brought with it one of the more highly touted events – the notorious Duckman Triathlon. Obviously, I felt a need to test my mettle. So after three years standing on the sidelines, I decided to take a shot at it.

Mind you, my goal was simply to finish – not to place anywhere near the top. Or in the middle, or even next to last. I didn’t care if I finished dead last. Just as long as I finished. That, to me, was a sufficient goal.

The Big Event

So my rigorous training commenced exactly three days before the event. I faced a one-third mile swim, an eight-mile bike ride, and a 1.2 mile run. Could I do it? Well, things didn’t look so good on my first day of “training” when I joined my husband for a jog on the running course. It only took a few steps for my bad knee to feel the shock of the pavement, sharp pain inching up my knee every time my foot went thundering down. “That’s right,” I remembered.” I dislocated that knee years ago. That’s the one that sounds like it has gravel in it every time I go up and down stairs.” And now I was trying to run on it? Get real! Okay, the run was largely out for me. I would have to make it a speed walk instead.

While the running part was definitely detrimental to my efforts, the swim and the biking parts didn’t make me quite so nervous. I had already swum the course a couple of times, so I at least knew I could do it. Bring on the competition!

Wednesday of that week was Duckman Day. It was a beautiful sunny day with record Vermont temperatures – about 95 degrees that day. Unlike Kentucky, though, the humidity wasn’t bad, so the heat didn’t bother me. Let’s get it on.

Me tumbling up to the dock after the swim.

I showed up in my Speedo swimsuit eager to start the first leg of the competition – the swim. The event coordinators marked my arm with a number, I took one last pull off of my water bottle, and then jumped in the lake. The starting horn was about to blow!

As I started to swim, I realized then that the competition was fierce. Lots of feet in my face to begin with. But alas, it didn’t take long for the swimmers in front to pull ahead and for me to fall behind. “Don’t worry about them,” I thought. “Pace yourself. Just worry about yourself.” I must say, when you’re in it for speed, a third-mile swim seems much longer than when you’re casually swimming it for “practice.” Nevertheless, I finished. When I finally pulled myself up onto the dock, I was exhausted, discombobulated, out of breath. As I prepared for the second leg of the event – the bike trip – it took me a few moments to get my bearings back. A true marathoner would never waste such precious time. Good thing I was content being a novice.

And then the bike portion began. It was an easy enough jaunt – from Highgate Springs to Swanton and back. And it was all flat road. Easy breezy.  The biking was actually somewhat relaxing. I was already near the back of the pack, so I wasn’t under pressure to snatch a top spot to the finish line. So I enjoyed the Vermont country and became one with myself. And the cows. Did I mention the road to Swanton was lined with dairy farms? Let’s just say I got a full whiff of those farms on that 95-degree day. Nothing like the sweet aroma of manure on a hot day to get you pumped. It was one thing to get past the farms and finally get to Swanton. But then I had to turn around and again ride through the manure zone on the return trip. I think this must have been an intentional part of the Duckman event.

Finishing my bike ride.

As I made the turnaround at Swanton and headed back for Highgate Springs, I spotted a kid behind me, gaining on me.  As he passed me he turned to me and said in the sweetest voice, “Hi Mom.” Then he whizzed away. It was my 10-year-old son. He had been the last one in the pack and now he had passed me up. I was now running dead last.

No big deal, I thought. So what if I was last? I’ll wear it like a badge of honor. I trudged on through the final stretch of the bike race and made it back to tackle the part of the triathlon I dreaded most – the run. After wasting more precious time to get my bearings once again after the bike ride (and grab a gulp or two out of my water bottle), I embarked upon the last leg – and using a bad leg, at that. I didn’t even pretend that I was going to run. I just started out speed walking as fast as I could.  And walk is what I did for about 90 percent of the course. But then when the final stretch came – the part where you head down the straightaway toward the toilet paper ribbon that your supporters have ready for you to run through – I finally ran. I ran slow, and with a limp to accommodate my weak knee, but I ran.  It was maybe an eighth of a mile, but that eighth of a mile might as well have been five miles to me.

My husband breaking
through his toilet paper
ribbon. (I wasn't too
far behind.)

But I limped along, determined to break through that toilet paper ribbon. I had come so far. Yes I was the last one. But that didn’t matter. I had to finish, and that’s all I had to do. And as I broke through my toilet paper ribbon, I was exhilarated. What a victory for me. I had completed my first triathlon, and had done so being completely out of shape! Pure willpower had helped me to get to the finish line!

And what was my first thought once I crossed the finish line? Simple. “Where’s my duck?”

Lessons from the Duck

You see, I didn’t get the bragging rights that come with placing high in the standings. But I did get the same prize as everyone else. A little keychain rubber ducky. One might think that such a trinket would be at the bottom of my kids’ toy box by now. But no. That ducky is my trophy – proof of my accomplishment that day. It is prominently displayed in the most esteemed of locations – my china hutch.  I treasure the little guy. So nobody better mess with my duck.

It isn’t the actual physical item, really, but what it represents.  Sometimes in life true accomplishments are few and far between. As I think back on the past year, I would say that finishing that triathlon definitely ranks toward the top of my recent accomplishments. I figure it took guts for me to set out to do something that I had never done before without any real certainty that I could do it. And it took all the courage I could muster to do it even though I knew I would probably finish last. All in all, I did what I set out to do – I finished. That means I didn’t quit, even when the odds were against me.

Perhaps it provides a good life lesson – to persevere even when the odds are against you. Of course, a week at the Tyler Place is different from life in the outside world. In the real world, not everybody gets a prize for finishing near the bottom.  Still, the duck reminds me that the only way one truly fails is to never try. So in that sense, my shot at the triathlon was a success.  All I know is that finishing the event enlivened me in a way that I hadn’t experienced in some time.

Thus, I’m proud to say that I did the Duckman.  And I have the duck to prove it. So what will my little duck serve to do? Inspire me to face my fears and set out on even more new experiences? Assure me that I can’t succeed unless I try? Or will it simply go “Quack quack” (or “squeak squeak”) when I roll it and squeeze it in my hands? I guess it depends on how I choose to use it.

For now, though, I think I’ll just relish my accomplishment and cherish my duck. And know that if I was able to do the Duckman with the odds against me, I’m probably capable of doing much more.

Thanks, Ducky, for the boost in confidence. For that, I promise not to relegate you to the toy box. In fact, I think I’ll plan to keep you within my sights for a long time to come.

In Honor of Naomi

When I woke up this morning, I wondered if today might be the day. I dreamed about my grandfather last night. He’s long gone from this world, having passed in 2003. I can’t say that I’ve ever really dreamed about him. But last night I did.

I can’t really describe the dream, only to say he was descending. And I was right beside him, going down slowly, as if a parachute was harnessed to my body.

Normally, I wouldn’t have thought much about it. But as I awoke today, I wondered if my dream somehow signified that after all these years, my grandfather returned to this earth for just a short time to retrieve the soul mate that he so adored – my grandmother, Naomi. Of course, it could have just been a stupid dream.

But then later on in the morning I received the news that my grandmother, after suffering a massive stroke 12 days ago, died around mid-morning.

My grandmother, Naomi, latching her antique pearls onto me
(the blushing and somewhat dazed bride) in 1994.

There’s nothing like the death of a loved one to spark a flood of memories. As might be the typical reaction, upon hearing the news I reminisced. I thought of the times I visited her as a girl. I remembered that her tap water always tasted like it came out of a tin can (northern Michigan well water, you know). I remember hitting tennis balls up against the garage door of her house, which was a treat to me because I didn’t have anywhere at my own house to hit tennis balls. (So maybe she gets credit for my passion for the game!) I remember traveling to Michigan for the big celebration when my grandparents reached their 50^th wedding anniversary. I remember my wedding day when, donned in my wedding dress, she adorned my neck with her antique pearls. And I remember the day when she first held my firstborn child.

Mind you, my grandmother was not perfect. But then none of us are. In fact, she was known to have a stubborn streak at times. And (God bless her soul) her grilled cheese sandwiches were not exactly to die for (perhaps just a tad well done). But given any minor flaws she may have had, one could never doubt her fierce love and loyalty for her family

So what was my reaction when I learned of her passing this morning? Beyond the initial melancholy, I couldn’t help but rejoice that her suffering has ended. And then, I celebrated her life by spending time with my own family. How convenient that my husband just happened to take the day off from work today. Today became family day. It was much needed, given that so much of my time the past few weeks had been spent on finishing my final graduate school class. Having finished the class as of two days ago, it was time to chill out a little and appreciate what is really important in life. First it was the driving range, then a little miniature golf. Then out to dinner. And tomorrow we leave for a weekend camping trip. Am I thrilled about spending a weekend tent camping in the sweltering heat? Honestly, no. A Hilton or a Holiday Inn sounds better. But I am looking forward to the time with my husband and three boys. They are, after all, first and foremost in my life.  I would like to think that my grandmother helped to foster those family values.

So as I bond with my own children this weekend, I will think of my grandmother and honor her life. I will relish the fact that she led a good and full life. I will respect and appreciate the love and loyalty that she shared with my grandfather during their 64 years of marriage. And I will remember that her death this morning was not my loss. Instead, the life she lived and the love that she shared while she was here was my gain. I am part of who I am because of her.

And now her time on this earth has come to an end. It is a time for her to journey elsewhere. My guess is that my grandfather was there to meet her as she passed. I envision him taking her little fingers into his massive hands and saying, “C’mon Naomi. We’re going for a ride.” And then he shepherded her on the miraculous ascent into Eternal Life.

They are together again, Naomi and Emerson, living in the midst of God in heavenly paradise.

Something tells me Grandma is just fine. I think right now she would say there’s no need to grieve, no need to mourn.

She is at peace. So simply rejoice.