A [long] Tribute to the Living

I feel like we are all handling the grieving process well (by “we,” I mean my immediate family). I say we have “good days and bad days,” but that isn’t really true since all grieving is really a good thing, the only way to heal is to grieve. But to grieve is to feel sad a lot of the time. The most difficult part of this process for me, other than simply missing two really great people that I loved, is all of the regrets, they keep me up at night. In my mind, I see Doni with her new haircut and wonder why I didn’t tell her how nice it looked, even though I thought it. Or all of the times I really enjoyed having Wolf as a Father-in-law, but I never said, even if I thought it or told other people about it.
My Mom and Grandma have been such good sports about all of this, rushing to my side and although my being close to the Krismanits for the last four years has been at their expense, they’ve allowed me to constantly share how much I adored Doni. My entire NC family was grateful that I found a second family in the Krismanits, but after my last post my mom responded, “I’m sorry I don’t love Christmas like she did!,” and I comforted her with, “When you die, I will have so many nice things to say about you.” I really wasn’t being funny either, that was the truth. When she dies I will remember her wonderful qualities. But not tell her? That’s stupid. Of course, we are barely a week out from the tragedy in Connecticut, and already in a state of grieving from my in-laws it got me questioning God, WHY? Why do we have these people in our lives: children, mothers, fathers, friends that we have such a limitless capacity to love with all of our hearts, and yet no guarantee that person will be in our life for all of our life. That is a hard pill to swallow. But I can only assume that it is because we are meant to love these people moment to moment, day to day and not take it for granted, because if there is one lesson I have learned from this, I do not even know how many breaths I have left in me. So what if I die first, does that mean my mom doesn’t get to know my opinion of her? Or anybody close to me for that matter? It’s rubbish. I just can’t live like that anymore.
My kids know it, my husband definitely knows it: I love them. I think Paul feels suffocated by my insane love! But others who are close to me, I’m not so sure. So I wanted to write it down, record it in cyber space.

First off, my Mom.
        She got pregnant with me young, unstable and I’m sure she was afraid. My Dad was little comfort to her, and I know she feared judgment seeing as though people knew my Dad would be little comfort to her but she married him anyway. I know she loved him, and yet, he had issues beyond any one’s control, not even his own. I am really grateful that my Mom chose to give me life despite her very erratic life at the time (more due to her husband‘s lack of ability to care for her, not really any bad life decisions she was making). She has always told me the story of why her teeth will not stay healthy, it’s because she didn’t eat enough when she was pregnant with me and her pregnant body took the calcium from her bones and teeth to nourish the seed she had growing in her womb…me. That’s a true fact about pregnancy, if you can't take care of yourself your body will make baby a first priority. This truth is the perfect analogy for my mom, as from the beginning she has made a series of selfless decisions to be a mother to my sister and I. I don’t think she was perfect, and she knows that. But I love my mom, and my sister too, and we have a very deep, unparalleled, precious relationship with her. I mentioned that Doni was my best friend in one of my posts, and in many ways she was. But I also very much consider my mom to be my closest friend, barely surpassed by Paul (and I work to keep him at number one!).
I recently received prayer from a young pastor who prophesied that I was a highly favored woman of God, and I believe it. I believe it especially when I see my mom, because I am merely a byproduct of her, and she was favored first. God set her and my step-father aside, for whatever reason, mercy raged to save their lives and I am forever grateful for this. I would not be the person I am today if it were not for my parents decision to walk through those church doors almost 8 years ago. There was a time when I am not sure if my mom really knew me, and I don’t even think I knew myself. The truth is, I can’t even remember that time in my life. All I feel is the overflowing of God’s grace over and through my family, and a radiant, all consuming love that I have for my mom.
So all of the things I planned on waiting until her death to share: Her and Dave both are incredibly generous. I can think of so many broken people they’ve poured their time and finances, sometimes multiple times, even after being cheated by these same people. In my own life, I’ve seen them pay for my husband to have emergency dental work done, buy warm clothes for all of us, pay for our groceries, completely supply our Christmases the last two years, and pay to fly me out to North Carolina when I’m lonely, even flying out others to help me if possible. Every year they sponsor a family for Christmas, sometimes 2 or 3.  I barley see them giving to charities because they are literally always giving to who ever is standing in front of them. It really sounds like they must be wealthy as I make this list out, but I don’t think my parents give extravagantly because they have extra to give, they really just give extravagantly because they love to give, and they know that by God’s grace all of their needs are provided for. The other thing that I love about my mom is that she is truly a deep well of wisdom. I call her almost every day with a question, and I will be hard pressed to not get an answer from her. Sometimes she has to call me back with an answer, but only because she’s done her research now. I talk to her every day, and I never get tired of it. I look forward to her calls because most of the time I'm lonely at home, grieving, stressing, tiring, and it feels so good to know that someone cares for me the way that she does. 
My Mom also loves my kids, and they love her too. She has had a difficult task of being the grandma from afar, loving them twice a year for 14 very full, chaotic, exhausting, wild days in a row. I know that she never thought she’d have to be that kind of "fifi" but she has excelled at the job, though it is a taxing one. I don’t think growing up any of us imagined that I would be a California girl, me least of all! But I am just in awe that my mom has learned to accept the move, and responded in grace and humility towards me, even when she’s missed me and her grand-babies (Ok, and Paul too…) so deeply.


Dave:

When I was a little girl, I found myself muttering the phrase under my breath, “I know my parents love their horses more than me.” It seemed that way.  They dragged me out of my bed before 9:00 am every Saturday morning and pointed my disheveled self towards the barn. I can remember my fingers being so cold I couldn’t grip the hose. I can remember being so hot that the sweat kept me from gripping the pitchfork. Poor, pitiful me. Then there was the time that the entire barn shook from the force of thunder overhead. I just knew that a twister was imminent, but my step-dad told me to stand my ground. I was holding a stall door open for the last horse to run in. It made sense to me to preserve my life. But not to him. To him, the horses have to be safe first. I’ve heard it said that horse people are a crazy breed, and growing up in the middle of all sorts of them, I have to say that I agree. But crazy needs a perspective, and now that it has been nearly 5 years since I‘ve even ridden, I can officially say that I have earned a healthy one.
Crazy is relative. It might be crazy that my step-dad woke up before the sun every single morning of my childhood to go to the barn, to look after the horses. I complained all of my childhood about that torturous Saturday tradition where he paid me $20 to clean 10 stalls before lunchtime. But he did the job day in and day out. I’ve seen him agonize over whether he should charge extra to blanket the horses, .50 cents extra. People go mad over things such as this. I was there, watching him carry his battery operated radio in the back pocket of his trousers, listening, waiting to hear if a storm was on its way, or a freezing rain. Then when internet came along, he and my mother would eat, sleep, and breathe the doppler radar. And depending on the storm, my step dad would go down the barn and determine one by one which blanket should be used given the night’s forecast. You could offer to help, or be dragged down to the barn all the same, but the job still could not get done without his expertise.
He was the only one for years who knew what each horse ate. Literally, each diet (we’re talking over 30 horses here) was engraved in his memory as he prepared bucket after bucket for morning and evening meals. He could not afford to get sick because no one else could fill his shoes. And he couldn’t hire anybody else because no one could do it quite like he could.  Including me and my sister. So many times he just took the scoop out of my hand, “no, you do it like this.” Or, when we’d clean stalls (yes, I was the only high school student who hated the weekends), the end result was always subject to examination. And then to constructive criticism. Dave has never “just got the job done.” He was outrageously meticulous.  And we were expected to be the same. From mucked stalls to cleaning tack to being shown how to polish tall boots military style, I wondered so often how he could be so hard on me. After all, it’s just a stall. It’s just a saddle. It’s just a horse. 
That philosophy never caught on with him. He was still the one up at midnight at the first notice of distant thunder, walking to the barn to let the horses in. The one night a “pop up” storm appeared, so violent it shook the foundations of our home, my step-dad was dressed and ready to go, while my mother told him it would be crazy to leave the house. The next morning we found a horse struck by lightening, further proving to my step-dad that he can never have a break, never stop. So he doesn’t, and he never has.
Some people just want more than he can give, and it makes no sense to me since I have only ever seen him give everything, his whole life for this sport.
You see, the closest I get to any horse now is driving by one in a pasture. My life took a different turn, and for that, I am grateful. In some ways. For one, I like having a normal life. Yet, there is an ache in me when I see that horse grazing from afar. How I miss it all. Not just the horse, or the riding. Only the fiery passion that burns in the heart of one who loves the sport. It may fizzle out, but it never dies. To this I can attest. It is this passion that I will carry with me for life, not only for horses, but now to my family. If I am going to do a job, I should do it well. If I am going to love something, I should be abandoned. If I am going to love people, I should lay my life down.
I’ve seen it from my parents time and time again. To the parents who had money for Disney vacations and beamers, but no money for board or consistent lessons, my parents allowed those students to work off ride time. To the parents who had full time jobs, they only need drop their children off at the barn. We called it ‘free babysitting’ back then, and it was. But my parents couldn’t fathom those same children sitting at home with a nanny. So they let them ride. They gave them a piece of the passion, something I now see each of these children will have for a lifetime. I have seen my parents robbed, those they trusted lie to their face. Instructors not showing up, starting underground businesses on their property where they profit from a lie. They once moved homeless people into our house when they were found camping in the woods at the barn. Then they hired them at the barn and later helped them find a home. Owning a farm that provides a public service opens one up to tremendous scrutiny, after all, every person has an opinion. Particularly those who pay good money to have their horse well taken care of. That is totally fair, I think. I just cannot help but to see this one picture of Dave in my head: dressed from head to toe in carhartt overalls ready to go clean stalls in the snow, beat out frozen water buckets with a hammer, hold a blow dryer to solid frozen pipes, and then drive my sister and I to a friend’s house because barn work on a below freezing day definitely, forgive my language, sucks. Dave would be willing to lay his life down for the horses. I see him do it all of the time, as my mom calls out to him, “Have you had breakfast today?,” “Have you had water today?,” “Dave, you’re sick, get in bed!,” “Dave, you are commanded to take a day of rest, go lay down.” But he keeps going back to the barn anyway, for you, for me, for all of us who have benefited from Ridge Haven. I know a lot of people who have muttered the words, “I just hope my neighbor will get a horse,” because the sport in itself is a lot of work, best to let someone else do it. I’m from a behind the scenes team, you can trust me on this, there is no such thing as “a day off” because horses appreciate being fed daily. But I believe Dave works hard at his job so that one day those of us who have ridden at Ridge Haven can look back and say simply that we loved a horse, and there are few privileges greater than that.

Dave has been an anchor in all of our lives, one of goodness and strength.

(But you shouldn’t feel bad that Dave works so much so you can ride horses, unfortunately there is no cure for the “horse bug”!)


Mama & Poppy:

I feel like maybe I’ve exhausted my readers at this point, and by all means, this exercise is more for me than for you. But continue if you’d like. Once upon a time I wrote in my journal, in all seriousness, that I would kill myself when my grandma died. Can you believe it? When my mom came to the realization that she could not have a baby and raise her alone, my grandparents were very willing to fill whatever shoes she needed filled. I am so grateful that my mom came to this place of humility, because I have precious memories with my mom from a young age, and the same sort from my mama. She was so tender, and loving, and loved to play with me. My mom joked the other day that she didn’t remember playing with Mckenzie and I, and the truth is, I don’t really remember her playing with us as young children either. I, however can remember hours and hours of coloring, building puzzles, reading flashcards, watching movies, and singing nursery rhymes with mama. She was someone that I wanted to spend time with because she loved me so much and I could feel it to the core of my being when I was around her. I knew that if my feet were itchy at 2 am she would wake up and dig through medicine cabinets for athletes foot cream, apply it to my feet, and then sit with me until I fell back asleep. If I was hungry at 4 am, she would wake up and fix me a bowl of cereal. To this day, I can not think of anyone who is more sacrificial of themselves then my Grandma. She used to get me a glass bottle of coke when I was sick. Every Saturday night (I stayed with her on the weekends mostly) she would fix poppy and I popcorn and make me coke in a little Tupperware cup and we would watch America’s Funniest Home Videos, and sometimes Walker Texas Ranger ( I can remember poppy explaining to me that they were actors and not really dying!). She would stick hot french fries in the vents of her air conditioning to cool them off in the car. She would sing to me all of the time. Poppy used to make me milkshakes with a package of chocolate Jello and a pitcher of milk. They loved me so much, and I knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. I can remember Mama taking an hour to brush my long hair, and if I asked nicely she would piece by piece put it in rollers so I could have curly hair the next day. I don’t think there was anything that they would deny me, and there probably still isn’t.
Mama and I have more in common than anyone else that I know, and I grew up wanting to be just like her, though she felt like her job at home was not as significant as someone who worked a full time job. I still look around her home and feel warm and safe. Paul teases me for my obsession with Maxwell House coffee, but it’s because I’ve never walked through her door without inhaling that sweet aroma. It satisfies my soul. I sit surrounded by all of her framed handmade, cross-stitched pictures and I’m thinking, when they‘re gone, I want everything in this room. What the heck, I want this whole house!  Because I love to be in their house, and surrounded by their land, and to me it is the essence of what a home is supposed to be. And because I grew up with this close relationship to both my grandma and my grandpa, they really have never been just that. I have spent my life loving them, and spent the last four years missing them. And just like my mom, my mama never thought she would be a long distance grandma, and still, she has excelled at it. At times when Doni would be sick and friends would fade into the background of my life I would tell Paul that the only real love I felt was in boxes coming from North Carolina, from my grandma. The love I feel from my grandparents has always been constant and real, it has helped me to persevere towards my goals and dreams because I know that whether I succeed or fail, I will always be special to them. I sit here with tears in my eyes because I miss them so much. I just wish I could just be at their kitchen table right now telling them about my life and eating something that my grandmother fried, and not here feeling bad that two people who love me and my family so much have to love me from afar. But that’s life, and I’m grateful that just like they always have, they’ve stood by me whether it be physically, or simply with their hearts, like now.


I have so cherished my time in California. There are about a million reasons that God brought my family here, some more obvious now than ever before. I did find a really special relationship with both my in-laws and the entire Sonora community. And yet, I have never stopped yearning for my home place. I miss the june bugs (particularly their relationship with Braxton), and the fireflies, the hot nights, and cold dry days, all of my parents stupid dogs (and anti-social cat), my parent’s front porch, and the horses (with all of my heart, I miss being on the back of a horse!), but most of all, I miss my family.


And finally:

Mckenzie, to lose you would be most devastating to me outside my immediate family. Not because you are younger, or have much more life to live, but because loving you consumes so much of my heart. I love you, I love you, I love you and I am so grateful that you are my sister. And I have too many memories to list but one of my favorites is when we decided to cut Peedab’s whiskers off because we thought they were “too pokey” and then when we cut them short they were like little, sharp needles and like ten times worse then when they were long. That was really funny. Rest in peace “Dabber Doo!”