Transported

 

Dear UD,

So many years ago, a couple decades even, I wrote this short piece:

 

I spied a container full of pickled okra—placed two on my salad plate beside beets, tomatoes and cucumbers, strolled back to my table where I sat in my chair, picked up an okra by its head, bit into the sour end with a crunch; the seeds rolled on my tongue and— transported back ten years to dinner at Grandpa Bruce’s house where I ate pickled okra before playing bridge, hugging my grandpa so tight I never want to let him go, never want him to die, buried with a rain gauge and my daughter’s scribbled picture in the oak drawer of the coffin’s lid and a perfect grand slam dealt on his chest, leaving me missing his gray whiskered kisses, his smell of fresh outdoors, and his hands of no trump.

 

Since then, we lost grandma, grandpa, dad, you, mom. Years later, a decade even, the grief is still there. Dulled some from time. Lessened some from the activities of life. But still lingering, buried deep, ready to strike sharp and hard when transported. There are those moments, those memories, those sensory connections that transport us back in time, and the beauty of the memory clashes with the pain of the loss.

 

A kaleidoscope of shared images flows through my mind:

So many hands of no trump, road trips singing the soundtrack from Into the Woods, specially made omelets, your dogs lying at your feet, spring buds, Scrabble tiles, the bookshelves you made, the jungle gyms you built, the swing sets you constructed, garden tomatoes, roasted corn on the cob, the car racing over the ditch into the grass as you showed me how to drive and missed the sign for the sharp turn…

 

An orchestra of sounds floods my heart:

I can hear your hearty chuckle as we watched Bringing up Baby, your deep voice as you taught us to play the Broadway game you created, the bark of your dogs, the bubble of your chicken veggie soup, the buzz of the hummingbirds in your yard, the sizzle of a searing steak, the crackle of the fire under the pot of apple butter…

 

And sometimes it’s the new thing that transports: The new moments I treasure yet you are not there. The new beauty and wonder and learning I want to share with you. The new people and accomplishments I want to tell you all about. The craziness and folly all around that I want to discuss. The moments I want to call and hear your voice, your advice, your perspective on something. The hard truth—I still miss you, mom, dad. We all do.

 

So on the day you were born long ago, I choose to focus on the beauty and love and good from you living on this earth and being my uncle. I am so grateful for those years and those memories, and I hold onto all the good and pass it on to the next generations.

 

Love, Rach

Waiting Room

 

Waiting Room

I’m 24 and lying in a hospital bed in Houston, Missouri. It’s a cold winter evening, December 31, 1994, and the KC Chiefs fight to win a playoff game on the TV somewhere in the hospital. Everyone who is not currently with me is gathered around, watching the game, a distraction from their enthusiasm and nervousness. Everyone—all of my family, all of my husband’s family—are at the hospital, awaiting the birth of the first grandbaby. The soon-to-be grandparents (my mom and dad, his mom and dad) have all arrived to bear witness and celebrate this momentous occasion. On the family farm, my siblings, soon-to-be aunts and uncles, play Scrabble, Spades, and Bridge while waiting for the next morning when I will bring the newborn baby girl to join the family fun. Half a state away, soon-to-be great grandparents, aunts, and uncles pray and wait for the phone call to come. The first thing I

remember the nurse saying when I arrived at the hospital that evening after my water broke is that the baby has a full head of hair. Alone in labor, I am surrounded by family and prayers and love. The father of the child is in the room with me as is my mom. I have no qualm about the support, love, and place my baby will have in the extended families. Four and a half hours after I arrive at the hospital, I give birth to a beautiful, fairy-wood brown eyed daughter, Alexia Devin. Euphoric, her dad rushes into the waiting room, having missed the Chiefs beat the Raiders, and announces her much anticipated arrival to all of the family gathered together waiting. The next morning, we place this beloved December baby in a red Christmas stocking, the very one her dad had been put in after his birth, and take photos to commemorate her birth and her place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson families.

 

    I’m 27 and lying in a hospital bed in Columbia, Missouri. It’s a hot summer day, July 2, 1998, and my parents are driving the curvy, hilly roads through the Ozark Mountains on the way to greet their next grandchild. After only one hour of labor, I feel a desire to push, but the nurses say to wait for the doctor. I can’t, I moan. I’m glad that my husband’s parents have arrived, and as I begin to push, he remains by my side while they accompany three- and a half-year Lexi on a grand tour of the hospital. Alone in the labor, I am still surrounded by family, prayers, and love. After only five minutes, I give birth to a beautiful, brown eyed firecracker daughter, Alaina Beth, and her dad rushes out to collect his parents and Lexi to meet the newest, much-loved daughter who brings sparkles of sunshine and joy into the family. The next day, I bake an apple pie for our journey to Kansas City to stay with his parents for Fourth of July weekend, and the next weekend, we travel to the family farm as the family (including great-grandparents) celebrates her birth and her place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson families.

 

The girls grew up under the wings of the shadow of family and extended family and are rooted in love and prayers from all the generations before. As adolescents and teenagers, they went through their parent’s divorce as well as relocating 17 hours away from family, and as young women, have experienced other loss and grief and heartbreak as well as many blessings, opportunities, and extraordinary experiences. Whether they are 20 hours away, a whole country away or an hour away, they always know where they come from and the strong foundation of family and love they can always count on. 

I’m 50 and sitting alone in my home in Melbourne, Florida. It’s a fairly cool autumn evening, September 27, 2021, and I’m waiting for a text message from my youngest daughter who is lying in a local hospital. Alone in labor, her boyfriend is next to her, and I hope she knows how much love and how many prayers she has surrounding her right now. Because of too many losses, there are no great-grandparents on our side of this new family. Because of the pandemic, only one person is allowed in the room with her. Because of covid-19 and its variants, the hospital only allows visitors from 7am to 9pm, so there is no waiting at the hospital tonight to greet the newest family member. But a sister and niece plan to fly in to visit and help sometime soon. Lexi and I wait, only minutes away, to meet David James. No matter what, I will see him and welcome him into the family. But should I keep a distance? Should I not “take your unvaccinated self” near him, as some people have thrown at me in shame or scare-tactics during the past week? Whatever the answer, we will find a way to honor his birth and his place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson, and Pearson families.

On September 28, 2021, I walk into the waiting room of Holmes Regional Medical Center’s Birthing Room and spy Lexi. She’s checked in and settled into the corner where she plans to wait for me to visit. Davey’s parents also arrive around the same time, but they elect to return later. I wish we could all greet the new baby together. I am the first visitor to see Alaina and DJ, and I’m so excited. I take the elevator up the stairs to the large, airconditioned waiting room where I check in with the security officer. Masks are required in the building, so of course everyone I see has them on, though no one, medical staff included, is wearing a surgical mask. He checks my ID and scans for weapons. Then, he asks me to stand close to the small camera and remove my mask. He snaps my photo, and I put my mask back on. Because of Covid-19 protocols, only one visitor is allowed in the room with the mother and newborn, and right now Davey, the dad, is there. I text my daughter that I’m ready, and she texts back that Davey is on his way. The security guard instructs me to return downstairs to the small, all-glass waiting room that is crowded and heated from the sun shining through the windows.

“Why,” I ask him, “it’ll only be a minute before we trade out.”

“Because of Covid,” he responds.

“I don’t understand,” I say, gesturing to the completely empty and large waiting area.

“You might expose the room to covid.”

I scoff, reminding him that I just removed my mask for the photo ID (as does every single visitor). “I’m not trying to argue, and I’ll do what you request,” I say. “I’m just trying to understand logically.” After all, you are standing in front of every single visitor when he/she removes the mask every time all day long, so you pose more of a risk combined. I walk towards the elevator, and he tags along.

“I don’t think you’re trying to argue. It’s just the hospital policy, and if I let you stay up here, I’ll lose my job.”

“I’m going down. I don’t want that. I just don’t understand how I am safer down in that overheated tiny space crowded in with all those other people than up here in the spacious, air-conditioned empty room.”

“I’ve been a security guard for all types of people and places, and I agree. I’ve never seen anything like this before, but it’s what I have to do.”

I smile and wave goodbye as the elevator door closes. I talk to Lexi for less than a minute before Davey arrives, wondering where I am and why Laina has to be left alone for even a few minutes. We give Davey a hug. “Thank you for being there for Laina last night,” I say as I grip the vase of flowers and giftbag that I have for Laina. I return to the fourth floor where the security guard is taking a photo of a maskless man. I wait over six feet away while he finishes and escorts him into the maternity suite. The guard again swipes me, looking for weapons, before finally allowing me to enter the sacred space and see my daughter and new grandson, my first grandbaby. When I find her room, two nurses are talking to her and checking her vitals. I wait in the doorway, unsure of the proper procedure. I wish so much that Lexi can come up at the same time, so that all three of us can be together for this momentous occasion, but only one visitor is permitted in the room at a time even though two or more medical personnel are authorized to crowd the room. Nothing makes sense!

They see me and beckon me in, and I am in awe as I glance at DJ all swaddled up in a blanket, lying in the crib. He has a hat on, and his face, while bruised around the mouth, is not scrunched up like many newborns, even with a natural delivery. I lightly brush my finger on his soft cheek. He’s adorable and precious, and I already love him so much. 

One nurse leaves while the other one hands Laina the feeding chart, instructing her to keep track of when the baby breastfeeds. After reviewing everything with Laina, the nurse says she’s going to chance waking up the baby and go ahead with his checkup now. I’m standing near the crib, and I watch as the nurse listens to his heartbeat. She bends over, placing the stethoscope on his chest, breathing directly towards his face. Even standing to the side and even through our  masks, I can smell her foul breath. How many patients have you been exposed to in the past day? Week? He’s defenseless and has no protective mask.

When she removes the blanket to check him, he stirs and cries briefly. I count his fingers and toes, and as I do, he grasps my finger, holding it with his tiny hand. My heart melts. She finishes her exam, swaddles the newborn again, lays him on Laina’s lap, and leaves the room.

Finally, I talk to my daughter and hear her birth story, her fears and pain, her wonder and joy, her power and strength. Connection, bonding, spending time together over the delight of her newborn son. I snap photos to commemorate the moment. Lexi Facetimes me, and for a few moments, the three of us pause, coming together the only way we can on this special day under the pandemic protocols.

I take my turn holding the cherished newborn, though at 7 pounds and 11 ounces he’s tiny and light. I return him to his mama, and we continue our conversation. Forty-five minutes after I arrive, he gives a cry, and Alaina instantly begins to breastfeed him. I’m so proud of her and of the amazing mother that she already, instinctually, is.

When I am finally back down in the tiny, hot, overcrowded waiting room, Lexi takes her turn to greet him and visit her sister. I head back home because Davey is bringing food for Laina soon, so after Lexi, he will spend the rest of the day in the room with mama and baby. The dad is the one visitor allowed in the room anytime, as long as no other visitors are there. Though after nine that evening, my daughter will Facetime with me to tell me that she and DJ will be spending the night alone in the hospital since Davey has to return home to take care of their dogs. Lexi or I will stay with you, I suggest, but alas only the father is allowed in the hospital after nine. Also, even if we watch the dogs for him, there’s no place in the tiny room for him to sleep except an uncomfortable chair next to the hospital bed and crib, crammed in the back corner of the room. No new mother should have to stay in the hospital alone. What an isolated, dystopian society in which to give birth. 

But I hold onto those few moments in the hospital when the three of us were together to celebrate DJ and his birth, welcoming him to the world and to his place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson, and Pearson families.

One month photo gallery:

It's April

Dear UD,

It’s April, the month of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”

It’s April, the month we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her. She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby brother. She was starting over.

It’s April, and Mom’s asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat, enjoy.

But she’s not here.

It doesn’t make sense, UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad, difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.

I hate it.

For the first time in my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the family vacant.

Empty, barren, useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.

In her voice, I hear the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.

UD, it’s April, and the world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.

On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.

On April 15, Notre Dame burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad and Mom.

Notre Dame burned, and that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”

When I talked to Alyssa last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.

It’s been three months since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.

Without you, without Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family stay connected?

The journalist also shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the effort.”

Likewise, all we can do now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you, from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations that come after.

It’s April, UD, and we miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.

Love, Rach

Note: It’s April, and my sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.

Blessing Carly

          Carly Jean Crawford, daughter of Newton Ulysses Crawford III (aka Sonny), granddaughter of Barbara Ann Crawford and Newton Ulysses Crawford Jr. (Granny and Gaffer), great-granddaughter of Willa Juanita and Newton Ulysses Crawford Sr., sister of Newton Ulysses Crawford IV (aka Little Sonny), niece to multiple aunts and uncles, cousin to 20 plus first cousins, you come from a large family and a great heritage of growing up on a century farm. Like the generations before, you are creative, intelligent, athletic, beautiful, hardworking, and simply remarkable.

          We cherish our memories with you: playing spades (don’t bid glasses, no matter what your dad or Fred say!), planting seeds in the garden, decorating Christmas cookies, having fun at VBS, celebrating so many holidays and birthdays, watching your athletic games, listening to your concerts, hanging out at the river, canoeing on float trips, attending church services at Bado, swimming at Crawford camp, going to drive-in movies, ordering drinks from Sonic, morel mushroom hunting, eating homemade dinners, making kebobs for your dad to grill, and so many more.

          Even though you participated in numerous sports and academic activities, you are graduating in the top few of your class. From basketball, softball, and track to band, choir, and math/science club to homecoming queen during your sophomore year to student council, scholar bowl, and National Honor Society (and so much more), you led the way as a strong student and an outstanding young woman.

Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you say, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity. 1 Timothy 4:12

Congratulation to the best person I know. Thanks for all you do. 
Love, Dad

The blessing of the Lord makes one rich, and he adds no sorrow with it. Proverbs 10:22

Carly,

I have been blessed with the honor and privilege of sharing my life with yours. I have loved every minute that I have spent with you. I have enjoyed every game, concert, program, every meal we have had together, and even prom and homecoming dress shopping. Participating in your senior nights and going to Hunter’s games and bringing you home from your games have been very special memories that I will never forget. I am especially proud of all that you have accomplished through hard work and good choices. You are amazing!

I now pray that you will enjoy college and will find the purpose that God created for only you to fulfill. I love you very much! Love, Granny

For you are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that you should walk in them. Ephesians 2:10

Carly, You are an amazing young woman! Incredibly smart, adventurous, and extraordinary.  You have finally finished a huge chapter in your life. As you begin creating yourself as an adult, you will learn so many more things that will help you grow as a person. You are already such a lovely person, and I can't wait to see what you make of yourself next. I love you. Laina xoxo

We are all very proud of you and can't wait to see what you accomplish next. Love, Tom, Amanda, Brett, and Cale


Congratulations, Carly Barley, Car Bear, Maggie, Carl, Carly Bear, Buggy Bear, Cake E.  Love, Serena

Carly,

You truly are such an incredible person. I have watched you turn from the cutest, strong-willed, chubby-cheeked baby into a beautiful, strong, driven woman. You were faced with so many obstacles in life, and you overcame them all with a smile on your face and a heart for helping others. I have a deep admiration for your amazing strength in life and have loved watching you excel in sports, school, and in loving others through relationships. Continue this next journey with a smile on your face, a fire in your belly, and your heart full of love and you will do such amazing things. These are some verses that make me think of you:

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future. Proverbs 31:25

God is within her, she will not fall. Psalm 46:5

By the grace of God, I am what I am.  
1 Corinthians 15:10

I truly believe that you mirror each of these verses in your life today, and going forward, you will continue to honor God in this way. I am so proud of you, and I believe in you more than you know. I can’t wait to see all of the amazing things you accomplish in life! I love you, Car Bear! Love, Jill

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. Joshua 1:9

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

You are standing at the beginning of your life as an adult; your whole future is ahead of you, and we can’t wait to see what amazing things you accomplish. As you step into your future, continue being kind and listening to your heart and trusting God. As you have done the past four years, continue playing hard and going for what you want. We believe in you, and we stand beside you, always.

Our prayers and love are with you as you journey into the next phase of your life. We are proud of you. We love you. We wish you blessings and a long life of joy, prosperity, and dreams coming true.

Love,

Your family

Blessing Laina

Alaina Beth Johnson, daughter of Rachel, daughter of Barbara, daughter of Bonnie, daughter of Iva, and sister of Alexia Devin. Alaina Beth, you are of the Crawford - Cunningham Clans, the Johnson - Kellhofer families, and the Rineharts.

Laina, you are a daughter of the American Revolution. A daughter of the Native American Cherokee tribe. A daughter of inventors, leaders, homesteaders. You come from those who blaze their own path and those who fight for freedom, those who create and those who work the land, those who help others and those who teach, and those who heal and those who survive. Ultimately, you come from those who make things happen. 

A farm girl, beach girl, big city girl, you know how to navigate many worlds. Like the time when, barely 16, you followed me from Missouri to Florida, and then at 18, you drove alone from Florida up to the Smoky Mountains. Or when you trained as a gymnast for 25 hours a week at age ten. And, I remember when you were only 16 and we were visiting Lexi and you hopped off the subway train in New York City alone at dusk to shop and your cell phone died but you were able to find your way back to our lodging. You are fierce, fearless, resilient, and resourceful.

When I look at the headlines and statistics around this country and in this world today and see all the devastation to our planet, the dangers, and the problems that your generation faces, I cringe to think this is what we leave you.

Yes, the world might seem scary and dark sometimes, and you have already endured so much more than I wanted you to have to deal with--too much heartache, loss, and pain. At the same time, you have also already seen great kindness, compassion, and goodness from others for which I am grateful.

In the past two years alone, you have lived through four moves and too many losses, but through it all, you have stood on a strong foundation, a foundation built from the sphere of your family, friends, and ancestors, from the land that has been in our family for over one hundred years, and from God.

Through it all, you have remained pure and kind and good and light. Yes, dark and light both exist, but remember that light can chase away the dark. Shadow disappears when light shines on it.

“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”

James 1:12  

When you were a child, I thought that you were poetry in action, and now that you are a young woman I see a firecracker who was born during Fourth of July weekend, and I know that your heart and your creativity and your smarts and your talents will come together to do some good in this world. Sassy and full of fire, you are the light this world needs.

“Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity.” 1 Timothy 4:12  

You've got this. Whether you follow your gifts or whether you follow your intellect or your beauty or all three, continue following your heart and you will leave an impact on your community and your country and your world, an impact that you have already started and that I'm so proud to see.

What we remember most, George Saunders said in a graduation speech at Syracuse University, are acts of kindness, so the most important thing is to be kind. I don't have to tell you this because you have the biggest heart of anyone I know. If the first rule is to be kind, then you have mastered it. I see the seeds of kindness in everything you do. I think of the time when your 9^th grade teacher lost his dog and you picked out a special card, wrote in it, and gave it to him. Or when you, a stranger in a new school for your senior year, befriended the newer new girl who had nowhere to sit and knew no one. Or when you rescued the kitten, befriended the dog, wanted to take in every lost animal.

“May he give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.” 

Psalm 20:4 

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Laina, there are so many things I can say that I like about you. To start, you have a genuinely good spirit. You are a caring, intelligent and nurturing person who is beautiful on the inside and out. I’m so proud of you for graduating high school. This is a big transition for you into adulthood, and you will have a lot of fun and freedom that comes with it as well as responsibilities and trials. But when the challenges come, remember to use them as motivation to keep going and grow from the experience. Let each challenge help you grow and become the person that you are meant to be. I know that God has a great plan for you and that He will help you grow into the amazing woman He designed you to be. I’m so glad that you are my sister, and I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else in the world.  I love you, Laina.   Love, Lexi

Alaina: simple meanings; Little Rock, beautiful, light, torch, bright.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. For the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9  

Characteristics of Alaina:  cooperative, considerate, compassionate, nurturing, sensitive, patient, loving, kind, gracious, balanced.

I am proud to say that you are a perfect embodiment of every one of those characteristics. I pray you will stay true to them and seek God's will for your life. I pray you will continue to be the bright light that you already are in this ever-darkening world where light is so desperately needed. 

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6  

I cherish every moment I was able to spend with you last semester. I pray you will be a force for good everywhere you go. May the Lord bless you and keep you and make His face shine upon you and give you peace. Love you, Granny

“But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.” Hebrews 11:6  

Graduation is just the beginning; let the Lord reveal his plan for your life by submitting to his Lordship.  Love and prayers, Uncle Bob

“Know ye that the Lord he is God: it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture. Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name. For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations.” Psalm 100:3-6  

Twice-Laine, Congratulations! Remember, sometimes all you can bid is glasses. Love, Fred (Uncle Sonny’s ghost-friend).

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Alaina, you are a blessed and beloved daughter of God. You are loved, you are wanted, you are wise, you are safe, and you are strong. Your family, your friends, and those who we lost too soon are with you. For instance, Grandma Johnson is watching over you, your special angel. Wherever you are, our hearts and love are with you. Wherever we are, your heart and love are with us. Our hearts and spirit are with you always.

It has been my honor and privilege to be your mother and to see you grow into this amazing, talented, kindhearted, bright, beautiful young woman.

And so with our blessing, we send you out into the world to work, to travel, to live, to love, to laugh.

The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace.” Numbers 6:24-26  

Together, we offer you our blessing. Now, we watch you flip into the wide world waiting for you as you tumble into your future of beauty, kindness, creativity, peace, and love. Travel with God’s love, His presence, His Word, and His promises.

With all our prayers, blessing, love, and faith in you,

Your family