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

Seventy

Dear UD,

Seventy years ago you were born. Seven zero. Seven decades. Seven times ten. The world welcomed you for sixty-one years. Seventy minus nine.

 

“Minus,” a simple word, holds so much. Less than. Subtracted by. Diminished. Changed.

 

You, mom, dad, the others gone so soon…those of us who remain are changed by the subtraction. Our lives altered by your absence on this earth, but also transformed by your example in our lives.

 

Your years are over, and you are all missed so much. Yet your legacy and love and lessons live on in those you touched, live on in our memories, in our hearts, in our descendants.

 

For nine years, I have written letters— words to remember you all, words to share your lessons, words to honor our heritage.

 

Thank you, Uncle David, Mom, Dad. We wouldn’t be who we are without you, and we are grateful.

 

Love, Rach 

Signs of Spring

"I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face. " 

~Langston Hughes

Dear UD,

 

I walk around the lake, grateful for the cooler temps and the sunshine peeking between rain clouds. The trees are green, and ducks dive for fish creating a gentle splash in the water. For a few moments, I forget the war in Ukraine, the rising gas prices, the astronomical increases in rent, the lower student enrollment impacting schools around the country, and the tumult over the recent pandemic.

 

In this moment, I’m just a woman walking in nature, putting one foot in front of the other as I breathe deeply and enjoy the crisp breeze.

 

One step. And then the next.

Abruptly, I spy green shoots springing up through the dirt, and I am stunned. Paralyzed by an overwhelming grief that sprouts from my heart and throughout my body. Signs of spring will always and forever remind me of you, Uncle David, and of mom, and I didn’t expect to see that one here in Florida. I kneel down, gazing at this reminder of beauty, hope, and renewal. A reminder of you and mom. So many memories flood my mind of hunting for signs of spring with you and mom. As I pause to take it in, the grief flows through and out, and I am filled with memory and love.

 

Today is your seventh birthday in heaven, UD. Seven birthdays without you here on this earth. Seven years of missing you. Same for dad…seven birthdays without him, seven years of missing him. And this year brings the fourth birthday without mom, four years of missing her.

 

Every day, I still miss you so much, miss mom, miss dad. Wish I could talk to you all again, share birthdays together, eat your specially crafted omelet and mom’s homemade rolls, play Bridge or Spades, and hear your voices and laughter. Each year that passes both dulls the ache of the loss yet sharpens the twist of living life without you. How I wish you had all had more time with us here. How I wish you were all here now and part of DJ’s life. I know you all watch over him from heaven, and he will know you all through memories, lessons, legacies passed down from you to me to my daughters and now to their children.

 

Happy birthday, UD. Thank you for the memories, the foundation of time together and unconditional love, and your model of creativity and excellence.

 

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:

Facing It (Without Mom)

Dear UD,

It’s August, Mom’s birthday month, and I can’t believe she’s not here. I am almost exactly 20 years younger than her, and I counted on her turning older a few months before me. Mom would have been, should have been, 69 this year. How do I face turning 49 without her to show me the way?

Everything, everything, everything reminds me of her.

I walk to the pool and find mushrooms, sprung up overnight, and I think of Mom. I spy wildflowers growing near the fence, and I think of Mom. I see rippling rivers, and I think of Mom. A fog rolls in, and I think of Mom. The sunset or sunrise splashes against the sky, and I think of Mom. The moon rises, and I think of Mom. I reach for the phone to send her a text or call her to tell her about something, and I think of Mom.

Everything, everything, everything, all day, every day, reminds me of her.

There have been too many changes in the past five years and way too many changes this year alone. How do we face all of these changes? How do we face it when life changes everything and everything changes? How do we face it when we no longer have you or Dad or Mom to talk to?

I went back to Missouri this summer for Crawford Camp, our family reunion, and it was bittersweet. Precious because all ten of us kids and most of the grandkids were there. Special because there were strong connections yet little drama. Good because we played hard and had fun. Nourishing because we had delicious and healthy homecooked meals, like Mom taught us. Difficult because it was our first time there without Mom. Challenging and sad without her, without you, without dad. Her spirit, her lessons, her voice permeated everything we did that weekend. We congregated in the kitchen or outside, cooking, talking, laughing, but every second we were one hundred percent aware that Mom wasn’t there, that we missed her. On Saturday morning, I woke up to fog and sunrise over the river, and tears rolled down my face as I thought how much Mom would have loved that. Will we ever have Crawford Camp again? How do we face family reunions without Mom?

The next week, I stayed with Jill and spent time with various family members during the week and helped with VBS at Bado Church. The past two summers, I’d helped Mom prepare for VBS and taken photos of the kids during it. This summer, it was surreal, distressing, devastating that she wasn’t there teaching one of the classes. And three of her grandkids were baptized that Sunday. I snapped photos of this joyous occasion, but I almost didn’t make it through. Mom would have loved that night so much, and it’s heartbreaking without her there. How do we face it? Sherry helped when she said she knew Mom was rejoicing in heaven that night. But will I ever be part of VBS at Bado Church again? Will the next generation still go there?

I went to Union Cemetery to visit Mom and Dad. First, I picked wildflowers and took them to the grave. I cried and talked to Mom. It’s still so unbelievable. Words can’t convey the pain and difficulty of facing a mother’s gravesite.

As I drove away from the family farm and the town where I grew up, I wondered if I’d ever stay there again? If I’d ever attend a holiday celebration there again? How do we face it when our childhood memories are being obliterated so that we can’t even recreate them for the next generation and the only thing left is memory?

Summer 2019—the first summer in my memory where I didn’t eat anything fresh out of my mom’s garden when visiting that area. How do we face the lack of bounty? I found some jars of canned beets and tomato juice, and this year, I shared the beets with my sisters. The tomato juice sits in my fridge unopened. Once that is gone, I will never again have anything to eat or drink that my Mom made. How do I face that?

Too many changes. Too much loss. How do we face it?

UD, the Amazon, the lungs of the earth, is burning. Every day, it seems, there’s a new nightmarish headline, and those unbelievable stories combined with such personal loss is staggering. Cataclysmic. How do we face it all?

It’s August and Mom’s birthday. Three years ago, I hosted a birthday party for her, and all the family came. I hold precious memories of that day, the last birthday I celebrated with Mom in person. I want her to have more birthday celebrations for me to attend. Today, I want to call her up and wish her a Happy Birthday and tell her how much I love her. But I can’t. How do we face the day without her?

I don’t want to face it…

In “the Journey Through Grief: The Mourner’s Six ‘Reconciliation Needs’,” Alan Wolfelt states, “Grief is what you think and feel on the inside after someone you love dies. Mourning is the outward expression of those thoughts and feelings. To mourn is to be an active participant in our grief journeys. We all grieve when someone we love dies, but if we are to heal, we must also mourn.”

Although I don’t want to face her birthday without her here, it has come regardless, so I will surround myself with some of Mom’s favorites. I brought home sunflowers for the dining room table, and I’ll listen to the Beach Boys sing “Barbara Ann.” I’ll make an egg sandwich for breakfast, and for dinner, I’ll eat the hamburger, potato, carrot dish that I made from Grandma Bonnie’s recipe in the family cookbook. Then, we’ll watch Prince of Persia, one of the last few movies I watched with Mom and one that she loved. And, I’ll drink herb tea and light a candle that smells like honeysuckle. Every moment of this day will be in honor and love and memory of Mom.

UD, I’ll end with a Bible verse that she loved and lived: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Philippians 4:8. I thank Mom for the gift of her example, and today and every day, I aspire to be like her and live this verse.

Love, Rach

Mothers Carry Love

Dear UD,

It’s May, the month of mothers, May flowers, and graduation celebrations.

“I remember all the flowers you picked for me for Mother’s Day,” Mom said when I stayed with her last December. I remember too. I see me at 14, walking the family farm, hiking the rivers, climbing the bluffs, clutching a fistful of Missouri wildflowers. Purples, yellows, whites galore, but on I walked, searching for the rare red ones to round out the bouquet. Every year until I married and moved away, I brought Mom a handful of colorful wildflowers.

The past two summers I stayed with Mom in July, and even then, I hunted for wildflowers to bring her. Wildflowers and rocks with holes in them. I just realized that I don’t know why rocks with holes were so special to her, but she collected them so we searched for them anytime we walked or swam the rivers.

And now there’s a hole in my life because she’s gone.

I never even contemplated a Mother’s Day without Mom. Incomprehensible. Inexplicable. Inconceivable. Completely and utterly unfathomable. Unimaginable. Unbelievable.

At least not this soon. Not this quickly. Not when she was only in her sixties.

Aidan is graduating this month, and his Granny won’t be there. An empty seat that should be filled. An empty place that once was filled. That only months ago would have been filled. A generation of grandkids who will miss her, some who may not remember her. Unthinkable. Unacceptable. Unbearable.

This week is rough, UD. I’m heartbroken. All the time. Everything reminds me. Makes me sad. Everything, everything, everything.

Mom is irreplaceable. Rare. Exceptional. She is loved and missed more than words can convey.

Moms are life; they give birth to new beings. Moms are selfless; they sacrifice for their offspring. Moms are home; they offer grounding, place,

and foundation.

It’s Mother’s Day, UD, and we’re motherless. Motherless, without a mom here on this earth. Motherless—no synonyms, substitutes, replacements for mothers. Motherless for the rest of our lives. How do we go on from here? You lost your mom, Grandma Bonnie, in your thirties. How did you do it? How did Mom?

But you had each other, and we had you both. It’s so lonely without you, without Mom. I miss her voice, her fresh garden vegetables, her smile, her cooking, her advice, her adventurous spirit, her welcoming and giving service to everyone. I miss her presence here on earth, knowing I could reach out and she would be there. Knowing I had someone on my side, always. Knowing I had a place to go, no matter what.

One of the most precious lessons I learned from Mom is this—to include and welcome everyone.
Mom never met a stranger, and her home was always open for those in need. Like a mother hen collecting chicks, Mom surrounded herself with those who needed. Always, she gave, fed, welcomed. Her love carried on her hands as she gave to others. Her love carried on her heart as she shared with others. Her love carried on her prayers as she remembered everyone.

And now, UD, even though we are motherless, heartbroken, devastated, and inconsolable, we must survive, remember, and band together. Through the tears and grief, remember Dad, you, Mom. Through the pain and sorrow, remember the moments we treasure. Through the anguish and loss, remember the lessons and love from you all. Together we stand stronger. Together we welcome others. Together we carry love on our hands, hearts, and prayers.

Love, Rach

PS: Thanks to my sister Jill Adams for some of these nature photos.

Of March and Memories

Dear UD,

First dad, then you, and now Mom. Gone. All within a few years. We lost you all too soon, too young, too quickly, and I can hardly stand it.

I didn't want to write you again because it makes it more real that mom's gone. When we lost you four years ago, I wrote about feeling “unmoored,” like I’d lost a rare safe haven in this turbulent world.  And now that we’ve lost mom too, I feel like I’ve lost my touchstone. Talisman. The saying that we don’t know what we’ve got until we’ve lost it is so true. You helped us process everything that life throws at us, and we felt wanted, loved, safe in this world. Mom prayed for us and guided us as we turned to her to measure everything in us, everything in this world. With a million little things throughout our life, every day, in every way, she helped us, and we felt wanted, loved, safe in this world. The matriarch of our family is now gone, and I don’t know how to feel safe in this world anymore.

Orphaned. On the way to your funeral, I rode with Mom and Sonny, and I remember him telling the story about how, at your dad’s funeral, you repeatedly cried, “We’re orphans now. We’re orphans now. We’re orphans now.” I remember that day and how you wept unashamed in front of all of us. At the time, I had no idea how you felt. Now I do. Orphaned. There are no words to describe it. Losing that sense of knowing and being known completely by someone who's known you from birth. Looking at the preceding generation, at the place your parents occupied, and seeing it empty. There are no words for such loss.

No wonder I’ve been plagued with anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, and sleeplessness since losing Mom.

After I wrote the first part of this letter, I discovered this quote:

“A person who has the habit of hope also has the habit of remembering. Hope needs memories the way a writer needs notes. This is partly because hope depends so much on imagination. Our images of the future are sweepings from our remembrances of things past. If we expect to keep hope alive, we need to keep memory alive. Happy memories of good things we hoped for that were fulfilled, and grateful memories of bad things we survived.” Lewis B. Smedes, Keeping Hope Alive

I found the quote in my new Jeremiah Study Bible, the last gift Mom gave me. Last December when I stayed with her, she said that she wanted me to have a good study Bible, and we picked this one out together. During that month, I made many new memories with her, some happy memories and others difficult ones because it was so terrible to see her struggle, to watch her body betray her as the aggressive cancer advanced. But one memory that is both happy and difficult (happy because I shared it with her, tough because of the reason that I needed to read to her) is of me reading Psalms to her one Sunday morning. Normally, faithfully, she went to church every Sunday; however, by then, she had no energy and too much pain. Also, she read the Bible daily and was in the process of reading through Proverbs and Psalms in a month; however, she could hardly keep her eyes open on that morning, so on December 23, I read Proverbs 23, Psalms 23, 53, 83, 113, and 143 to her. Then, we sang several hymns and prayed together. I am grateful for moments like that, for so many memories and conversations.

But this week as I struggled through the grief of missing Mom and the sorrow of missing you, I read that quote and Psalms 63.

When I remember You on my bed, I mediate on You in the night watches. Because You have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings will I rejoice. My soul follows close behind You; Your right hand upholds me. Psalms: 63 6-8

I was reminded to remember those moments, to celebrate the love shared, and to find hope in those memories, that love, and in God. Hope that God is with me right now, hope that He is with me when I’m tossing and turning in bed at night, and hope that we will all be together again in heaven one day.

UD, it's your birthday month and Dad's, and I would give anything if we could all meet again at your place for cake, cards, celebration with the family. But all we can do is remember you, remember Dad, remember Mom, remember those we lost too soon. I imagine you all together in heaven, celebrating your birthdays, watching over us. I raise a toast to you today, and I want you all to know what you meant to us, to me. How you shaped our lives, how much we miss you, how we love you so.

Love, Rach

Barbara Ann Cunningham Crawford

A Legacy of Faith, Family, and Forgiveness:
Barbara Ann Cunningham Crawford aka Granny

She is worth far more than rubies. Proverbs 31:10

         Barbara Ann was born on a grain and sheep farm in Kansas in late summer of 1950 to Robert Bruce Cunningham and Bonnie Jean Volesky. She grew up on the farm with her brothers Bob and

David until a job change took the family first to Dodge City, Kansas and eventually to Clinton, Missouri where Barbara graduated from Clinton High School. Last summer, she attended her 50-year class reunion where she found a newspaper article from her senior year that said, “Friendly, lively, being gay and always wearing a big smile are only a few of the many features that crown Barbara Cunningham. She is very active in sports, her favorite pastime.”

            After high school, Barbara attended college at the University of Missouri for a year before taking time for exploration as young adults often do. During that period, she lived in California for three months where she went sailing for the first and only time before moving back to Missouri, worked as a waitress at a local restaurant and as secretary at the Chamber of Commerce, married Shelley Gene Rinehart, and had her first child. Within a year, the marriage ended, and in August of 1972, Barbara married Newton Ulysses Crawford, Jr. and started a family. They moved several times and had a few children before settling in Kansas City where they attended Baptist Temple and where they were both baptized. Barbara, who was saved at 13 at a summer Bible camp and then who rededicated her life to God when she was baptized, said that “knowing and having a relationship with Jesus saved her,” and over the years, it transformed her life and family.  

            Another job change came after a round of layoffs at TWA airline, so Barbara moved with her family to Houston, Missouri for a few years before relocating to the Crawford century family farm in Cabool where they lived for over thirty years. There, she raised a family of ten children, helped take care of farm animals (chickens, calves, goats, rabbits), gardened, attended church, welcomed anyone and everyone to her home, helped take care of her twenty plus grandkids, kept bird feeders that eventually fed a variety of birds every winter, feed numerous barn cats and dogs, worked as an enumerator at the Department of Agriculture, and took care of her inlaws when they became elderly. From taking care of children to working the land, Barbara was a hard worker. And through it all, she prioritized time with God and time with those she loved, making many memories and creating lasting experiences. 

Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing. Theodore Roosevelt.

With 10 children, 26 grandchildren, and one recent addition of a great-grandchild, Barbara’s house was always full of noise, craziness, rivalry, rowdiness, wrestling, fun, laughter, love. She loved watching her children and grandchildren in their various sports or extracurricular activities and never missed a game or concert. In recent years, she had a grandchild in nearly every grade in the Houston School District, so she attended numerous events. She also loved exploring nature, swimming, and walking the river with her kids and grandkids. She loved playing Scrabble and Bridge and watching sports, especially

football. Every spring, she planted a flower garden and a vegetable garden, and she enjoyed working in the garden and eating the fresh produce, especially her asparagus. Barbara attended Bado Church and loved taking her children and then grandchildren with her. She also served at Bado Church as needed on Sundays, in the summers for VBS, and as part of the women’s prayer group.

Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain. 1 Corinthians 15:58 

Every fall, she attended the Cunningham Family Apple Butter Day, and every summer, she hosted Crawford Camp at Baptist Camp. For events like these, all family and friends were invited, and she helped plan and make delicious, homemade meals. There was always enough food to feed an army, but with so many family members and friends, the food was always eaten.

Last Christmas at the family dinner, we watched some old family videos, and one of the them was Katch’s second birthday where Carly kept opening all of his presents for him. One thing he got was a Tonka truck, and Mom said that was a story she loved. Little Sonny and Aidan were about 10 or 11, and they were upset that they’d missed sledding that winter, and they thought it would be like sledding so they took an old Tonka truck up to Possum Creek hill and took turns riding it down. She laughed as she retold the story. 

She was always about bringing people together and letting go of bitterness and anger. For instance, in the summer of 2018, she hosted a reunion and reconciliation for extended Crawford family.

In recent years, she was known to remark on how lucky she was and how much she loved her life—the days of having her children and grandchildren visit, attending family events, working in her garden, attending her church, taking road tips to see her brother, enjoying special lunches with her friends. She enjoyed life, and she loved us all.

Reading through her last journal, a picture emerged of one who always thought of others, one who always praised God, and one who gave of herself. Throughout 2018, she wrote about spending time with her children and grandchildren, about praying for them, about concern and love for her family and friends. Even though she was in intense pain for months, she rarely mentioned it, instead focusing on what mattered to her—God, family, friends, prayer, experiences. In her journal, her spirit, grace, positive attitude, kindness, and love shine through. 

Strength and honor are her clothing; She shall rejoice in time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, And on her tongue is the law of kindness. She watches over the ways of her household, And does not eat the bread of idleness.  Her children rise up and call her blessed; Her husband also, and he praises her:  “Many daughters have done well, But you excel them all.”  Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, But a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands, And let her own works praise her in the gates. Proverbs 31:25-31

A beloved mother and grandmother, a virtuous wife, and a loving sister and friend, she leaves a legacy of faith, family, forgiveness as well as Christian living, homemade cooking, and sacrifice.

Thich Nhat Than said, “If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.” So I will look for her influence inside me and my siblings and all of those she touched with her spirit and generosity, her dedication and support, and her strength and positivity.

Mom/Granny, we love you. Thank you for always being there for us, for welcoming us, for loving us, for feeding us, for teaching us so much, and for praying for us. You are loved, and you will be missed more than words can say. We are blessed that you are our Mom and Granny.

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We want to honor Mom, her life, and the ways that she influenced us, so if friends or family have a memory and/or photo that you want to share, feel free to email it to me to add to this blog or any of you can add your memory in the comments below.

Remembering Barbara (Mom/Granny)

Rachel:

I read recently that simply hearing your mother’s voice lowers your stress level. I also read recently that mothers and their children literally share DNA, share cells.

            I think of memories, some sweeter than others, some mundane with daily chores and living, some filled with adventure and joy, some complicated with misunderstandings or emotions, but every piece of me is layered with pieces of you. Your words (advice, lessons, criticism) surround me, fill me, build me. Whether I want it or not.

            How I cook, how I speak, how I think, how I clean, how I view the world, how I learn, how I love—so much shaped by your hands, your heart, your voice, your behavior, your life, you. 

I can't imagine the world without you in it and don't want to. Only one thing has not changed during my lifetime, and that is you in my world, my mom.

Adventure as in viewing life as an adventure. As in going on adventures with you. As in finding adventure in every day details. As in hunting for rocks with holes in them at the riverbank. As in apple-picking, mulberry-picking, blackberry-picking. As in walking to the slab, walking the river, hiking to the narrows in snow and 20-degree weather that feels warm after the temperatures had fallen below zero. As in naming the tiny river turtles we found Mishas and putting them in a fish tank. As in searching for arrowheads in the cemetery when mowing it. As in mushroom-hunting, even in a thunderstorm. As in going outside to see the tornado funnel in the sky. As in stopping to roll down the windows and howl at the full moon on the drive home. As in listening to you read books to us.

Bridge as in playing Bridge with you. As in crossing bridges to get to the family farm. As in swimming near the bridge at Flat Rocks. As in water over the bridge. As in a bridge between you and me, always. 

Churches on every street corner in the Bible Belt; churches in our lives. I first remember Tri-City Baptist Church in Kansas City, Missouri, where we were saved and baptized. During that time, I went to a Christian school, but then we moved back to the family farm and went to First Baptist Church in Houston, Missouri, where I would one day marry my college sweetheart as you sat in the front pew. We attended First Baptist until you switched to Bado Church, a small country church, where you still take your grandkids and where you lead the prayer group. Churches where

Christianity is taught, where Christians fellowship, where Christ is celebrated. Christmas programs in the church. When I was a teen, I wrote and directed a play at Bado. Two years ago, I helped organize a play where Alaina played Mary and Aidan played Joseph while other cousins played various characters, again at Bado. A beautiful and fun Christmas program that we still talk about to this day. This year, we watched the Bado Christmas program where Cassius sang a solo and Jessalyn played a character. Christmas Eves where I babysat while you and Dad went shopping. Christmas Eves where you made a birthday cake for Baby Jesus, read the Christmas story to us. We sang Happy Birthday to Jesus and

blew out the candles. Or we gathered around the piano and sang, “Do You Hear What I Hear?” while Dad played. Christmas mornings where I passed out the presents to everyone, and we each took turns opening our gifts. Christmas Days where we played games, ate a huge Christmas dinner, and hung out. Churches where we memorized Bible verses and went to church camp in the summers. Churches—where your heart is, there your treasures lie. Churches—as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

Dinner at six sharp every evening with freshly homemade rolls. Dinners started with a prayer of thanksgiving. Dinners ended with homemade desserts. Daily dinners when we shared food and family, conversation and laughter.

Farm eggs, farm animals, farm-fresh beef, farm-fresh milk, century farm, farming. Growing up, we had chickens, rabbits, goats, cows, horses, dogs, cats. We hauled hay, jumped from the barn rafters, and helped work the farm—steering cattle, tilling dirt, planting seeds, hauling hay, milking goats and cows, fishing in the pond for catfish or bass or perch, mowing the lawn, picking the garden, shelling the peas, snapping the beans, shucking the corn, canning pickles or beets or tomato juice or salsa.  

Garden, gardening, gardenia, keeping a garden, no matter where you lived, you have always had a vegetable and flower garden.

Journals, journaling, journal writing, writing in journals. When I was little, you bought me a little pink diary that had a lock and tiny key. I remember writing in it. When I was older, you gave me notebooks to use as journals. For as long as I can remember, I’ve journaled, filled notebooks, written words of my daily life and innermost thoughts in journals. All because you first bought me a diary and invited me to share my thoughts on paper.

Kids, 10 kids, 25 grandkids, 1 great-grandkid, babysitting kids, teaching kids, watching kids play sports, talking to kids, walking with kids, swimming with kids, reading to kids, chasing kids, loving kids. House full of kids. The noise, the craziness, the rowdiness, the wrestling, the tea parties, the sleepovers, always you love a house full of kids.

Pretty smile, pretty spirit, pretty woman.

Service, selfless, giving of self to others…your greatest lesson to all of us. You live this, love this, show this in all that you do every day in every way.

Wild flowers— I remember all the flowers I picked for you for Mother’s Day. I walked up and down the Ozark hills, through the woods and fields of the family farm, over the rivers, hunting for splashes of red, purple, blue, yellow. One by one, I picked the flowers and walked back to hand you a colorful bouquet of wild flowers.
Jill:

The pain felt upon departure of loved ones from this life will generally mirror the joy we felt while they remained with us. –Sam Storms.

I can only speak for myself, but one thing that I know for sure is that my mom brought me more joy in this lifetime than any other person, therefore her death stings in a way that is hard to describe. My heart will always both ache and leap for joy at the sound of her name and every day will hold a little reminder of her as her name no longer flashes across my text or call screen as it did every single day before. My mom was an incredible woman. She loved her children and grandchildren deeply. If you know her at all, you know that I don’t say this lightly. She was there. At every event, every game, every award ceremony. She cheered us on, bragged on us, and prayed for us daily. We can each say that she was our biggest fan and we each know that she loved us in a unique and incredible way. To love 10 kids, 26 grandkids, and one great grandchild so deeply takes a very special kind of woman. I would say with great confidence, that there is no other person on this Earth that could have done a better job of loving all of us than she did. This death that we are mourning today would completely wreck me if it weren’t for one thing. That is my hope of eternity. I take comfort in knowing that I will see my beautiful mom again one day. I take comfort in knowing that my mom is in a beautiful place with a new, healthy body and is experiencing unspeakable joy. Death from cancer is a very difficult thing to experience.

Watching someone that you love desperately who is vibrant and full of life decline so quickly hurts in a way that is difficult to explain. The minute I found out that my mom had cancer, I knew that God had called me to go to her. To help her in any way that I could, so I went. The experience was both beautiful and traumatic and I know for sure that God carried me through every bit of it. As I sat by that hospital bed and held my mom’s hand and stroked her hair, every bit of me just wanted to scream in frustration. Why was this happening? Why my mom? Why so soon? Why did she have to suffer in this way? In the midst of this heartache, God threw his arms around me and stilled my heart. He strengthened me in a way that I can’t explain, and I stood to my feet and began to tell my mom of her future. She already knew, but I told her that she was on her way to Jesus, that she would soon run into his arms. That she would be out of this hospital bed and instead dancing in his presence. I told her that she would receive so many crowns for her steadfast life and that she would never ever feel sorrow again. These words, breathed through me by the spirit of God, brought me comfort in an indescribable way and I know they did the same for her. As I was telling her all of this, I replayed a conversation that we had earlier in the week when she was coherent, and I’d like to share part of it with you today.

The following is a message that she personally asked me to pass along in case she didn’t get the chance to: “I have greatly enjoyed every minute that I have spent with my children and grandchildren. They have given me so much joy. I need them to know though, that it all will be for nothing if they don’t join me in eternity. I really hope that each of them will accept Jesus as their savior so that I will see them all again one day.”

It is easy to wonder after a loved one passes, what they’d say if you could have just one more conversation with them. Today you have been given a beautiful gift of knowing exactly what she’d say if given the chance. I am hoping that this message from the grave is one that is taken to heart by every person in this room even if you didn’t call this woman Mom/Granny.

This next song is a song that I played for Mom, in her distress, on her death bed. I hope that you will listen to it and imagine that you are in her place when I played it for her…think about whether or not the words would give you peace in that moment. If they wouldn’t…if the thought of those words doesn’t stir your heart with great anticipation of eternity, if it doesn’t make your hair stand on end and your heart leap for joy, then I desperately pray that you evaluate your heart and make the decisions you need to get to that place. What this song portrays is something that nothing and no one can ever take away from you. Not death or life, not cancer or any other disease, not fear or failure…nothing can separate us from this beautiful reunion with our savior. That you would secure this destiny was her hope. It is what she lived her life for. It is what her legacy was meant to represent and, in my opinion, the greatest legacy a person could possibly leave. I am so grateful to her for being the example that helped me find the incredible love of God. I have had much suffering and heartache in the last month. Everyone in this room has. There have been so many tears shed, and so much sadness. I can only imagine what it will be like when tears will never fall again. When every bit of life is filled with joy and my heart will never break again. When I get my inheritance…not the one on this earth that moths and rust destroy, but my inheritance of eternity, I hope the mansion God prepared for me is right by hers.

The song that played after was “I Can Only Imagine.”

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In Barbara’s words:

I was born on a grain (corn and wheat)/sheep farm in Kansas in 1950, and we lived five miles from town, next door to my grandparents (Myrtle and Claude—Grandpa Bruce’s parents). My dad helped his dad farm but always had to take other jobs working on the turnpike and such, things that took him away from home, to make ends meet. Daddy’s brother, Uncle Jim, lived on a farm on the other side of town, and they once bought a buffalo and Daddy rode the bulls in the rodeo and Mom (Grandma Bonnie) got so mad that she made him shave off his beard. John Charles was born at seven months, and he died. Back then they didn’t have the technology, though now he probably would have lived. In 1952, Bob was born, and in ‘54 David was born.

We had a pony and Daddy was off working on the turnpike; we had a drought and by the time he got back, the pond had dried up and the pony had died. I remember the trailer taking the pony away. One time, Daddy brought home baby skunks; we kept them in the tractor-trailer sandpile and played with them. One night it rained really hard, and they all drowned. We had a dog named Lassie, a Collie. She wasn’t fixed, but since we lived close to the highway, most of her puppies were killed on the highway. A miniature Shelty showed up once, and we called every name we could think of and the dog finally came to Nicey so we named her that and took her with us when we moved.

We went to a two-room schoolhouse, riding the bus, and Mom made me take my egg sandwich on the bus because I wasn’t eating it. I was so mad I threw it under the bus when we were leaving.

We had rock collections and would go to this wooded area on the other side of our garden where we built forts and played.

When I was eight, Daddy needed help in the field, so I had to stand up to drive the grain truck. It was huge, and I was terrified, and to this day, I hate driving big things.

Daddy took us out to teach us to shoot. When I shot the shotgun, I remember it about knocked me over; I was around seven.

Bull snakes were everywhere (yellow but similar to Black snakes in Missouri). My mom would open up a closet or cabinet and find a snake. Daddy would always catch them and show us how to hold them, and we played with them all the time. In high school, when boys tried to chase me with snakes, they failed.

Every Easter, Mom got us a baby duck or chick, and we would play with them until eventually the cats or dogs would get them.

One time my mom told me to play with the kitties in a shed or outhouse. I was playing with them when my mom came to check on me and discovered that a tomcat had bit off all their heads. At age five or under, I was just in there playing with them.

One of my favorite things was that we would go to the barn after they parked the truck of wheat. We’d climb up into the rafters and jump down into the bed of wheat. Probably dangerous, you could suffocate, but it was fun!

We were wild, and we played up in the barn with forts. One time my cousin Tim was scared to jump from the loft onto the ground, so I pushed him, and he broke his arm.

I love windmills, and I still remember my grandma’s windmill. Would love to see it again. After grandpa died, we found a dead baby bird and put it in a matchbox. We went up into the windmill and held a funeral for it.

I always felt sorry for my mother because she went to high school when she was nine and lived in an apartment in town until she was 13 and then went to college and lived in a rooming house and got degrees in foreign languages and business. But she never learned anything about cooking or keeping a house. She met Daddy at K-State, got married, and went to live on the farm. Grandma Myrtle was an accomplished, high society person (she was featured in Life magazine for her mint-chocolate sherbet ice cream—she had an herb garden that I loved, and in a tree by it, she had a Baltimore Oriole nest that was so cool), and Aunt Betty had a degree in home economics. Mom learned quickly and worked hard, but it was difficult for her.

Mom was in Life magazine for being a “wonder” kid, starting high school at nine. Here’s how it happened: she went to a one-room school house with her sister. Aunt Carol was a few years older than her, but Bonnie had a photographic memory. She listened to everything when Carol was studying for the test to pass high school and memorized everything. She took the test and passed and moved into town with her sister.

She was offered a job to go to South America and work as a secretary but instead got married and had kids. On a typewriter, she could type 80 words a minute. She was a secretary off and on throughout her life.

When I went to kindergarten, she got a job to pay for it because you had to pay for it back then.

I used to love when they sheered sheep. We had 500 sheep, and there was always a lamb that wasn’t claimed, and we’d have a Coke bottle with a black nipple on it, and we’d feed them. When they sheered the sheep, they had big rectangular bags and would throw the wool in there. We would stomp on the bags to compact the wool and thought it was fun.

Bob and I had the measles and had to lay at my grandma’s in a dark room and couldn’t go anywhere.

When I was nine, Grandpa Claude died suddenly of a heart attack when in a meeting. He’d been a senator in the state office, professor of math at K-State, and a judge at the state fair. I remember going to the state fair and seeing a huge fat man who weighed a 1000 pounds and would say in a slow, monotone voice, “Don’t ever eat enough to get like this.”

After Grandpa died, Daddy bought a bunch of irrigation equipment, feed, and seed, and then found out his mom had signed over the farm to the government for money. They paid you not to farm. He was devastated. We had to move from the farm to Dodge City, Kansas where there were 42 kids on one neighborhood block. Daddy got a job as an agriculture salesman and would leave every Sunday night and get back on Friday evening. Mom got a secretary job.

Bob went everywhere with Daddy on the farm while David was always with Mom. I ran across the field through cedar trees to get to my grandma’s house and was there a lot. I remember making cinnamon rolls with her, learning to play cribbage, having tea parties together, and working in her herb garden. Once Daddy had a job that took him away every week, it about killed Bob. I remember Bob watching for Daddy to come home, and sometimes Daddy would go to the bar instead. We always had a garden, even in town, and each of us kids had our own garden too. Once, some neighborhood kids came over and stomped on our gardens. Bob wanted to beat them up, he may have, and David went across the street to one of the kid’s house. He had something behind his back and knocked on the door. When the kid answered, he gave him a cookie to make peace.

We were backward and didn’t know how to ride bikes. The other kids made fun of us.

We had tall trees in our backyard and would climb up in them and fly when the wind bent them low; Spookyville—we called the trees. We were still wild.

Once we got used to all the kids, we played games with them: walk the chalk, kick the can, draw a face on the old man’s back.

There were dust storms there….one year it was so bad it was black out, and we couldn’t see out the window at all. One year on David’s sixth or seventh birthday (March 15), we had a blizzard, and it was so bad that we couldn’t get out of our back door while our neighbors couldn’t get out of their front door. The snow was piled up to the roof!

We lived there for two years…

I don’t know how we dealt with all the moves. Kids just survive things. You just survive it.

            Daddy got what he thought was a great job in Garden City, Kansas. We moved there, and he started the agriculture job only to find out that one of the numbers he originally saw was missing. The pay was so bad (like $6000 instead of $60000) that he immediately quit and got a job in Sublet. He worked there while Mom and us kids went to stay with my Grandma in Marysville, Kansas for December. Then, Daddy got a better job, still with agriculture sales, with Chevron in Palmyra, Missouri, and we moved there for a couple of years. When they transferred him to Clinton, Missouri, I did not want to move. I told my parents that I refused to move. Once school started in Clinton, it ended up being better, but I threw a fit and hated everything that summer. When Daddy was 50, Chevron let him go so that they wouldn’t have to pay him retirement. It was age discrimination. He fought it and then bought the Mayview Plant Foods and started his own business. Daddy and Mom moved to Higginsville, and he eventually bought RB’s Feed and Seed and built his business up so that he had a quarter of a million dollars at the end.

            I want everyone to hear these stories and remember those who came before.