I told her to keep up

To walk a little faster

Her legs weren’t moving quick enough

And she would fall behind

I told her to listen

To all I had learned

The would was moving quick enough

And she would fall behind

And she stumbled along the way

Scraped her knees and tore her clothes

But she got back up without tears

And hurried along

Somewhere along the way

She grew taller than me

She read more books

And curiosity caught the cat

And she told me to keep up

To walk a little faster

I wasn’t moving quick enough

And I would fall behind

She told me listen

To all there is to learn

The world is moving quick enough

And I would be left behind

Looking back, I really did get a lot of good papers out of 10 years of college. Grin. I did an interview with Anna where I had to type up 20 minutes (9 pages) of conversation. And be a helper. And then I had to label all the things I did right…ha!

*** 

Client (Anna): “You have to look at the camera.”

Helper (Rachel) : “I don’t have to look at the camera.”

Client: “You told me I had to.”

Helper: “Ok I have to type everything you say. I have to type everything you say for the next twenty minutes. Don’t say any of those things.”

Client: “Haha. Oh! Ok.”

Helper: “I have to type everything you say for the next twenty minutes.”

Client: “Let’s start over. Alright, let’s go.”

Helper: “So you have been married six months now, and how has it been?” (Open-ended question)

Client: “Um, Well, actually, I have always been a firm believer in you don’t get married until you are about 30 years old or something like that. Still people ask me to this day, and I say, “30 years old.” I mean, I haven’t changed my mind, you know, and so that was really weird having that, just um, how that happened. I did not get pregnant, that is not why we got married. So I guess we got married because um, we had went to Chicago, and we were going to travel everywhere, and hitchhike and have adventures, and he was, I guess, the first person who like you know, male or female, who actually dropped everything, you know, and I said “I am leaving and I would like it if you would come but it is completely up to you.” And he sold his truck and came. But um, so I guess, looking back that is probably why I married him because so we could have all these adventures together and all that stuff, and he married me because I am enthusiastic and I am exciting  and I listen to him you know, I am a lot different than he is. So.”

Helper: “So you didn’t get married for the “normal reasons,” as you would say, you are saying instead that so basically the reason you got married was he was the first one that really went with you in your dream. And so you would say the reason he married you would be…”  (Reflective statements)

Client: “Because um, I guess He was closer to me than anyone else. We just had something really, really special in Chicago, I can remember he was proposing to me I was almost said no and I was freaking out and I was shaking and it wasn’t so fun. But hahhm. And at the beach it all made sense, and it was just great and I called you right actually right afterwards I was like “I have to call Rachel I am so excited.” It was like the first time we had ever really talked about it. I don’t know it just really made sense. We wanted to go to all these same places and why not get married. If we want too…It really made sense, if you already know you are going to spend the rest of your life together having adventures, not being traditional and such, being, I don’t want a traditional marriage. And we said we were not going to have a traditional marriage and then I found out that he liked that, he wants…”

Helper: “The traditional marriage?” (Open-ended question)

Client: “He wants the whole wife/ husband, I don’t want to change my last name, but I know he would like it if I did. He got annoyed with my crazy loud wild side. Just there was lots of little things that would never bother him before he would just get really upset and I would just like “what the…who is this?” You know?” We still want to do traveling and all that, I know there is part of him in it. He just doesn’t really like…(Pause). Shoot.”

Helper: “Well What? What do you think he does like?” (Open-ended question)

Client: “He likes me. He likes me a lot and I know he loves me more than like anything else. And sometimes I don’t know what to do about that because my love kinda sucks because he just like loves me so much more than I love him because just I don’t love anybody as much as you possibly love me. But he um, he…he read this book, he got really into this book and one of the things he heard was to not take all these emotions personally, you know?”

Helper: “Oh that is important.” (Affirmation)

Client: “You know, listen to them (the emotions)…I never would have been like “read this book” you know. I don’t like marriage books. but he was the one that got it so I was like “pppphh, nerd” and so he read this and started, you know, listening and being nice when I was angry And I was like “Why are you hugging me and being nice when I am a jerk—I don’t understand.” And so for me, a big thing is…like how have I changed—let me think…one thing is compromising and another thing is letting him be the man I guess which, which is really hard because it seems like it is hard for him to take that and just go with that, you know. One of the things that was big with him, we always had this big confrontation on saving money because he likes spending money and he likes getting me stuff, real nice stuff, but I mean, huh, “How we are supposed to do anything?” So just giving that up and letting him take care of the money, which I have kinda done and kinda not but I said I would and that helped him.”

Helper: “So you have come up against a lot of struggles and things that actually come up in uh, marriage. What do you see, where do you see things heading from here? Like um, like you going to school, you mentioned that, but the staying here but not traveling—travel hopefully being as a future ambition?”  (Summary and open-ended questions)

Client: “Well, it depends on how often I snap I guess, because I do that a lot and I am always worried that I will snap worse, you know. Like, you know…I just don’t like living in thick society. What I always wanted was to travel and not have a home ever, you know, to come back to my parents. I love my family but…he likes having his own place, you know? So I guess where I see ourselves, us going is…ahhh…it’s difficult because now he wants to have a family. I think that I see us—best scenario would be if we got involved in something we were both interested in, either in music, volunteering…a mutual outlet of some sort. You know, just having more than the traditional stay home and party sometimes or watch movies.”

The online dictionary defines faithful as:

1. Adhering firmly and devotedly, as to a person, cause, or idea; loyal.

2. Engaging in sex only with one’s spouse or only with one’s partner in a sexual relationship.

3. Having or full of faith.

4. Worthy of trust or belief; reliable.

5. Consistent with truth or actuality.

Faithfulness is commonly connected with God and with marriage. God is faithful. We thank God for His faithfulness—it is how I know He will be there tomorrow as He was today. Because He cannot deny Himself. “It is of the LORD’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.” Lamentations 3:22-23

Sternberg’s theory on a successful love relationship (and he is from Yale, so there,) is that you need three parts: intimacy, passion, and decision/commitment. Intimacy brings together, passion drives forward, and commitment maintains. Faithfulness is what keeps it going. (http://www.psychwiki.com/wiki/Sternberg’s_Triangle)

“I choose faithfulness…Today I will keep my promises. My debtors will not regret their trust. My associates will not question my word. My wife will not question my love. And my children will never fear that they father will not come home.” –Max Lucado

The first time I remember hearing my parents yell at each other I remember turning white as a sheet and raising my hand. Yes, raising my hand in the middle of their argument. They were so surprised that they asked what I wanted. With a quivering voice I asked “Does this mean you are getting a divorce?”

I thought it was the beginning of the end of the world. For all I know, it could have been about pizza toppings. My mother stopped and came over to my side, reassuring me with a hug, saying “No honey, we are just working things through loudly.”

My parents have been married for thirty years. They both can hardly remember life before being with the other; before making a choice, and maintaining that choice. They are examples of faithfulness to me.

Faithfulness doesn’t always look pretty. It seems to be one of the more raw, basic, fruits of the spirit. In the nitty gritty. It is after a long day of work, when you want to drive anywhere but home. It is getting up when the baby screams one more time in the middle of the night.

It takes a long time to notice faithfulness—that is the point. It takes even longer for faithfulness to be celebrated, and even then, it is normally underappreciated and overshadowed by other

qualities.

But it is what is required. For our relationships, for our beliefs, for who we are. “By faithfulness we are collected and wound up into unity within ourselves, whereas we had been scattered abroad in multiplicity.” -Saint Augustine

I am beginning to realize that the difference between being a child and an adult is the permanence of my investments: my faithfulness. When I was younger my goals were to make it through the day. To learn something interesting. To get a good education. Short-term goals where I could see the results quickly. The younger I was, the more cheering on I needed—the more hands to catch me when I fall.

Growing up translates into long term goals. Long term investments and relationships like having a career and a calling. Getting married. Having children. Things that you cannot close up at the end of the night and say goodbye to. No quick payouts. No checking things off the list. Day in and day out faithfulness. It is exhausting.

I have been able to see what faithfulness looks like my whole life. My father has consistently shown faithfulness in being my daddy, in taking care of our family, and in caring for his aging parents. My mother has so accurately portrayed faithfulness in serving our family that it is something I will not enter into lightly, but tread softly. I know the way to walk because it has been something real to me.   

 “I do not pray for success, I ask for faithfulness.”—Mother Teresa. The problem with a wonderful heritage is the expectation to continue it. The bar has been set high, but I long for it and desire it. Life isn’t just the bang of discovering God’s plan for you, it is walking in the light that He shows bit by bit: before, after and during the “bang.” Faithfulness. May it be said of me.

“The bravest love is wildly faithful and it falls hard again every morning.”—Ann Voskamp

I also wrote college papers about Anna. This was about delinquency.

Anna is a 21 year old, white, middle-class female. I put the interview into first person narrative, but it is at best a paraphrase.

***

I was from a very conservative family that went to church and homeschooled their children. It was put on me by my peers that I was naïve; and that bothered me. It was always in the back of my mind that I didn’t know enough about the world. Be it my inquisitive nature, plus trying to over-compensate for my naivety, I had it in my head that I would try everything once, just once, no matter what it was. This was magnified by my nature, which is very restless.

For a lot of children, when they would get depressed, they would feel suicidal. I always wanted to run away. I always wanted to do something—to be somewhere else. That was always my answer. I didn’t mean it as an end all solution, but rather as something hopeful: maybe I would find “it”—something better. While I never ran away from home without telling anyone, I was always one step away from it in my mind. When I got older, I knew it was stupid to go alone, so I connected with anyone who would go with me. Those were my close friendships.

I always gravitated to friends that were also labeled “crazy.” They were the people who wanted to try new things—were curious and restless like me. Whenever we got together we would try to find adventure. Our goal was not to get in trouble, but that sometimes happened. I would have gotten in worse trouble growing up if I would have had destructive friends, but the ones I was with were more curious than disruptive.  Even at age 6 I would run around, wanting to explore things: I was determined to never say I was “bored.” I would just find something to do.

The first time I stole, it was an accident: I had put a bracelet on my wrist and forgot to take it off. My mother made me return it, and that was embarrassing and I cried. There were a lot of factors that went into my stealing when I was older. I was fascinated by the scene in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” where they take simple things just for fun. I read a book on anarchy and “How to Steal This Book,” and they made it sound like you were doing something courageous—not stealing from an individual, but from the “system.” Once you get used to doing something, you rationalize it any way you can. When I got caught for shoplifting, I was calm. I just did what they said and they were nice about it. I had to go to court, but they worked with me.

Stealing isn’t fun anymore. Getting caught broke my habit and made the association of stealing with unpleasant results and feeling guilty. When I was younger, stealing didn’t bother me so much because it was just me if I got caught. But now I can’t be so selfish—I have a family.

People often say I seem cynical. But while I see the bad, I choose to see the good, blocking out the bad. I have learned that you can have fun adventures that are not illegal. There are so many options—safer ways—out there. My past delinquency was made up of wanting to break my naivety by trying everything once, curiosity, restlessness, desire for adventure, and socialization/connection. I have learned how to not be overly cautious, but to be sensible.

To children leaning towards delinquency today, I would tell them to know that they could be caught at any minute—so don’t make it the stupid thing you do that they catch you at. It really does effect others and it often leads to doing bigger things that you would not have done otherwise. If you have a lot of friends that are into delinquent activities—get new friends, because otherwise it will make it harder to stop when you want to.

***     

PS—she doesn’t steal anymore. And I didn’t post this until I had her permission.

I wonder if they made fun of him. Oswald. It is sorta a funny name. Had some really great times with God lately. Me, God, and Oswald.

“The mature saint is just like a little child, absolutely simple and joyful and lively. Go on living the life that God would have you live, and you will grow younger instead of older.” –Oswald Chambers

“I can never sanctify to God that with which I long to satisfy myself. If I am going to satisfy myself with the blessings of God, they will corrupt me; I have to sacrifice them, pour them out, do with them what any common sense man would say is an absurd waste…What has been like water from the well of Bethlehem to you recently? Love, friendship, spiritual blessing? Then at the peril of your soul, you take it to satisfy yourself…I have to prou them out before the Lord, give them to Him in my mind, though it looks as if I am wasting them.” –Oswald Chambers

2 Samuel 23: 16 (David was like “MAN, I want that water from the well!”) “So the three mighty men broke through the camp of the Philistines, drew water from the well of Bethlehem that was by the gate, and took it and brought it to David. Nevertheless he would not drink it, but poured it out to the Lord.” (I can understand why, and it is a beautiful and extravagant gift…but I think if I were one of the three mighty men I still might be a little ticked off.)

To all the men

Who have lost their fathers

From time or death

From circumstances or location

May God fill the empty void

Of something sacred taken away

May you find a guide to lead you

And seek to help others who are hurting too

To all the men

Who have never known their fathers

From birth or abandonment

From rejection or neglect

May God be all they should have been

And fill with love

The part of you you’ve never known

Because you didn’t have a father

To name them

To all the men

Who are fathers

Spiritually or physically

By choice or by accident

May God give you the words of life

To speak vision to your children

May you find humility to ask forgiveness

Learning from mistakes you have made and will make

May it never be too late to hold your child

To all the men

Who will be fathers

Tomorrow or in nine months

Or maybe only someday

May God speak your name and heal the broken pieces

May He give you a band of brothers to walk with

As you conquer the world and the unknown heart

To all the men

Who have fathers

Near you

To celebrate and remember

May God give you the words to show your gratefulness

May you let go of any bitterness and learn to see

The simple gift of presence

He looked up from underneath the car, an oil smudge on his left cheek. His tanned arms turned the nut one more time and the stream of oil ran out. The brown fluid slowed to a trickle, and then dripped peacefully into the pan. His grey eyes watched the sunrise orange sky. He took his time to slide out from under the car, his back cracking from the effort. He rummaged through the garage to find the red oil can, filled up the car, tightened the cap, and continued a mental checklist of basic car maintenance: windshield wiper fluid, battery fluid, water coolant. She is so forgetful to do these things.

His dirty hands released the hood with a noise that broke the morning silence. He fingered the keys in his jeans pocket with one hand, and looked at his watch on the other: he still had time. He opened the door and tried to sit down, but his long legs protested until he released the lever under the seat. Now adjusted for his height, he grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror and adjusted it to see the glowing sun behind him. She is so much shorter than he is.

He pulled out a long silver device from the glove compartment and stepped out to check the pressure in the tires. He stooped back into the driver’s seat to release the gas flap. The wind blew through his flannel shirt, and leaves traveled past and settled at the next pump. The numbers swirled quickly as the gas pumped freely. He watched the amount without noticing the price. She is worth it.

He paid, looking at the tired cashier with a fresh good morning. Another look at the clock and he picked up his pace back to the compact blue car. The drive home was a simple right, left, right. He briskly walked up to his white house and opened the door quietly. He rested the keys on the table, got his lunch from the refrigerator, and slipped off to work without a word to the still, steady breathing of the loved ones inside. She will always be taken care of.

My mother’s hair shined in long, deep brown waves. It stuck to her forehead in thick chunks when she spent 30 hours delivering me. I wrapped it around my finger, stroking it like a teddy bear, claiming it as my security blanket. She cut her hair when I learned to walk, after I grew accustomed to latching onto her hair, pulling myself up like the prince trying to reach Rapunzel.

As I grew, so did my mother’s muscle problems. Her hair was one part of her I could touch without causing her pain. I added barrettes, covering her with multicolored plastic animals facing every direction. I saw her curly hair surrounding her like thick thunderclouds, as she lay in bed, too sick to finish our home schooling classes. I closed the door, took my books to the next room, and watched my own straight hair fall forward as I leaned over to finish my lesson as she slept. 

peeking over the crib, my short seven-year old legs up on tiptoe could just see her. My little sister was an angel, with golden ringlets framing her chubby face. I gave her a lollypop while she sat on my mother’s lap, to make her stop crying. It was always a fight to get a comb through her hair. I held her hand tight, as strangers in the supermarket would stop to tell me how cute Shirley Temple was. I know it, I said as I thrust out my chin.

At 11, I was still short enough to have to stand on my tiptoes to see into the mirror at my grandparent’s butterfly brown bathroom. With one long, cold snip, the hairs slipped to the carpeted floor and I stooped to pick them up before anyone saw them. They noticed well enough as soon as I rolled back the door—my bangs were only a half inch long. It was my hair, I had control. It would grow back, along with the tingling hope that one time I would cut it and the reflection would look just like one of those girls in the magazine.

I tentatively reached out to touch one perfectly white curl, but I couldn’t do it. I returned to my seat next to the rest of my grieving family as they closed the casket. I would never again see my laughing grandmother’s eyes, or feel her soft hair as she leaned in to give me a hug. Hair grows even after you’re dead, or at least it looks like it does.

He sat on the couch with the scissors laying next to him. His lower lip was protruding in defiance and his face was hard. “I want my hair this way.” He said, as I stared at him, and the random patches of hair, missing. At six, he knew what he wanted. When I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said a daddy, because they take care of things. I told my little brother that was a very admirable goal. And then I buzzed the rest of his hair off.

It didn’t help that I was white, with skin that rejected melanin. That I liked boy’s flip-flops instead of girl’s high heels, and my basketball shorts and t-shirts yelled “I am American.” That short hair seemed sensible for a summer in the tropics. I woke up drowsy from layovers and missed flights to find many eyes staring at me in a new country. Eyes that belonged to girls with bronze skin, revealing tank tops, and stunning shoes. Girls that tossed their long hair and walked away before I could see their condemnation. My hair was not long enough to hide behind.

I heard him before I saw him. All grown up, I hadn’t been home in months, but my father’s voice still made me laugh and come running. Stopping in mid-step, I controlled my facial expression, asking, “What happened to your face?” Months of scraggly whiskers moved to reply, “I was waiting for you to come home and trim my beard.” I had become the family hair-cutter, after a weekend of training years ago. I quickly stepped back into my responsibilities.

Long hair was pure, fluid, graceful, and religious. When I picked up scissors I was letting legalism fall in circles around me, some still sticking to the back of my neck and telling me to take another shower to stop the itching. Cutting hair was letting go. I felt lighter, leaving responsibility in the dustpan for the trash man to take away. Cutting hair was a gift.  Donating to Locks of Love transformed an object of selfish beauty into eternal glory.  Growing and cutting became a cycle, a habit, a transformation.

I also did college papers on my little brother. I didn’t even change his name.

***

My field experience assignment is about John, four years old. John is an active boy that runs out of steam right after lunch, when he takes a nap. While has been able to make it through the day without one, he is more cheerful and content after a one to two hour nap. There was no lack of observing John run, throw, jump, hop, and catch. He is a bundle of energy that his mother finds hard to keep up with. John rides his tricycle over grass, stones, and sidewalk with ease.

John has mastered the use of scissors recently, as he had cut papers up all over the floor. He loves to draw, and often draws people. The last picture I saw was a self-portrait that included his knees being all dirty from playing in the mud. He can distinguish from writing and non-writing, as he clearly knows what he creates with letters, though they may not form an actual word.

John has mastered dual representation with the ability to make a gun out of food items, sticks, blocks, legos, and etcetera. He knows his mother does not like it, so after “shooting,” he will quickly say, “But mom, it is just a stick (etcetera)!” John spends a lot of time playing with his train set and legos. His creativity is unlimited. His thinking is very logical, and he often takes things apart to see how they work.

John does not make up silly explanations, but shows causality in familiar situations. I asked him if food magically came into the refrigerator for us to eat and he said that the food came from the store. He told me that he was going to sit in the bathtub until all his mosquito bites fell off into the water, but this deduction came from his father telling him that a bath would make the bites feel better.

John enjoys classifying objects hierarchically, as long as it is not putting up his toys in the right place. I found him organizing his “desk for school” and putting all the papers in one place, the pens in another, and the crayons in another. He often plays alone, but most of the speech involved is different notices like shooting or car motors or train whistles, rather than private speech. Perhaps this is a boy thing.

John is learning to sit still at the table and at group functions for a more sustained time. He often visits to the zoo and uses script to recall and retell what animals he saw and what they did. He likes to make books of his favorite memories, “writing” pages and adding pictures and telling the same story over and over.

John sometimes has a difficulty with lying. When he knows he will be disciplined, he often states that he did not do what was just observed. Also, when asked, “John, did you know that it was wrong to do that?” and he sometimes responds with, “Yes, but I wanted to do it anyway.”

John can recognize his name and the letters in his name in any word. He also has other words memorized such as cat, dog, mom, dad, and Anna (his sister’s name). He normally uses these letters in varied combinations to make up any other word he wants to write. He cannot sound out words yet, but he is very quick to find words of things he likes such as trains, trucks, ice cream, McDonalds, and so on.

John knows his numbers and with the aid of fingers can add them. He understands cardinality as he will often count and then on the last number say, “So I have ___blocks!” John is a very good talker, and often does not know where to stop. His sentence structures are simple, but he combines them with an “And…and…and then…” as he continues to think of more things he desires to say without stopping for breath. He treats boys and girls the same, which often gets him in trouble.

He relates to each family member differently. He knows that he cannot get away with misbehavior with his father, but can at times with his mother. He can play and goof off with his (younger) older sister, and often treats her as an equal even though she is 12 years older than him. He knows that his older sister will do fun activities with him, but only if he has a good attitude, and so generally strives to have one.

John’s self-regulation is astounding if he is promised a good reward for good behavior. He has sat quietly for over an hour with the promise of future candy before him. John’s instrumental aggression has decreased since he can communicate his desires better, but he has started saying “I don’t love you anymore” when he does not get his ways, trying to hurt the person’s feelings.

Overall, John is friendly and cheerful. He told me about his first friendships–Seth, Petey, McKayla, and so on—and their different adventures and falling-outs: “Lillie does not like me anymore.” Once, when he was playing with dinosaurs with another little boy, the other boy was hitting another dinosaur and John asked him to stop. John ended up hitting the other boy to make him stop because John was so upset that the boy was not being nice to the dinosaur. John knew what was morally right, even though he did not handle the situation correctly.

***

It goes on. Conclusion: the book of milestones for John’s age (4) says he is normal. That is nice to know.

Growing up, I remember being agitated with a relatives as they would go on and on about dates and names of people I did not know and did not care about. Many of our family vacations were spent visiting places where my grandparents had grown up. We would travel around and take pictures of plots of land. Meaningless to me, precious memories to them.

 With all of my grandparents having passed on, I now look back on these “meaningless” escapades with warm fondness. They have gained meaning to me as I treasure the great people who have created and passed on part of who I am today. I come from a two parent home, and both of my parents did as well, making four grandparents that I clearly remember.

GRANDPA COOMBS

I remember Grandpa C. the least because he died of an abdominal aneurysm when I was little. John Aaron Coombs was born July 20, 1913 in Hardinsburg, Indiana. His father died when John was 2, and so his mother and his two unmarried aunts raised him. Grandpa’s mother came from the Cravens line, which had many famous and rich people. His two aunts were related to the Hardens (form whom the town was named after) and the Lanier’s of Madison, and also related to President Benjamin Harrison and William Henry Harrison. My (four greats) grandfather served under Lincoln in congress. I am not sure when they came to the US, but it was quite awhile ago, as they were closely involved with the government for so long.

I do not know very much about Grandpa’s father’s side of the family. He did not ever know his father, and I know that was hard on him. He was Scottish, and there is a castle known as the “McCombs” castle that could be in the family line.

Grandpa did not pass down many traditions or customs except for a great love of knowledge. He was a fact machine, and I remember as a little girl not wanting to “turn on” the flow of facts or I would be stuck to hear the end of it. Grandpa did not have a father figure, so became very close to his neighbor and best friend, Roy Mertz (and fell in love with Roy’s sister Janie when she was 13). He graduated in engineering at Purdue, but had many skin problems and so took a job traveling around inspecting places for insurance feasibility for Royal Globe Insurance.

He moved to Cleveland in hopes for the hospitals to treat his skin problems, but liked the diversity and stayed there. He had five daughters (the youngest being my mother) that he worked hard to put through college. I think this is the main thing that has been passed on to me: a great desire to know more and to be involved with what is going on. I hope to continue the great line of American history-makers.

GRANDMA COOMBS

Grandma Coombs was Janie Hutton Mertz before she got married. She was born January 5, 1918 in New Albany, Indiana. She was given her mother’s maiden name for her middle name, as was often the custom. Janie’s grandparents (from her father) were first generation immigrants from Germany who never learned English. Her father was a butcher, and so although they were never wealthy, their table never lacked fresh meat.

Grandma had two brothers and a sister, and grew up with other various relatives around the house, including her favorite, Uncle Darcy. Their house always seemed to be alive and busy with cards and drinking, while Janie’s mother was a great praying woman. Many of the German customs were lost on Janie, as she could not communicate with her grandparents.

Most of the customs that I remember from Grandma have to do with family getting together, but she herself began most of them. My Grandma was very beautiful until the day she died—Grandpa fell in love with her when she was only 13. She married him and had five daughters. Her life was characterized by a gentle sweetness and peace that I have found in very few people. “Prayer” would be her champion word.

Specifically I remember the Christmas traditions that we would have one the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We would gather together to celebrate birthdays, births, anniversaries, graduations, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years all at once. There would always be the Christmas story and stockings, supplied with attic relics from my mother’s childhood.

Grandma died December 2, 2003 in hospice care with her daughters around her. She has passed on to me a joy of growing old as I see how beautifully it can be done when you spend your life loving each person with every ounce of yourself. She also passed on the tradition of family gathering together and a great love for a big house bustling with people from floor to ceiling. She is one of my heroes.

GRANDPA WINZELER

Raymond Herman Winzeler and was born on October 15, 1914 in Tremont, Illinois. Grandpa’s great-grandfather was born in Switzerland (very close to the German boarder). When he was 29 he came to the US and settled in New York and the family slowly migrated west to Illinois. They were always hard working, and mostly worked as farmers. In Switzerland (and sometimes Germany), the Winzeler’s were “Wine Sellers.” Our family crest has grape clusters on it. While the family did not sell the actual wine product, they were involved with the caring for the grapes and were very well settled in the area.

Grandpa passed on his hard working skills as a farmer to my father, and also passed on a long history of religion. Most of Grandpa’s family was in the apostolic church—beliefs that went back to Switzerland and into the Anabaptist movement in Europe. They were a strong, proud people, ready to give their lives for what they believed. This sometimes carried over into the extreme, edging to legalism if not carefully protected. Their hard working ethic and strong religious beliefs formed who they were. Grandpa also came from a close-knit family, and I am glad that he always went the extra mile in getting the family together and providing for his parents as they were older.

Grandpa devoted his life to the farm, and it was not until he was in the hospital for gall bladder surgery that he really stopped and examined his life and began to serve the Lord with his whole heart. After this time, he devoted his time to sharing the gospel and giving generously to others. Whatever Grandpa did, it was with everything he had. I had the chance to live with Grandpa and Grandma Winzeler for a couple of months before they moved to a nursing home. I will always treasure that time as I got to see life on the farm, and learn from Grandpa’s wisdom and generosity. Grandpa died in April of 2002.

GRANDMA WINZELER

Pearl Lucille Troxel and was born in Wolcott, Indiana on December 23, 1914. Of all the families, except for closer family, the Troxel reunion is the only yearly one that is still in practice. Every August I hear about more names and dates (which still do not mean much) and I try to listen, knowing that someday I will appreciate it.

Grandma was always nice, soft, fluffy, and smelled good. She was the complete “farmers wife” with the huge Thanksgiving turkey just like Betty Crocker. Grandma was known for her love as she taught Sunday school almost all her life long. Grandma’s great grandparents on one side came from Alsace-Lorraine, France, as children. That part of France was sometimes controlled by Germany, so the German-French history is sometimes tangled. They, like my grandfather’s family, were hard working farmers and deeply dedicated to their religion.

Grandma had a series of strokes when I was younger and if affected her mind. She could not remember a lot of things, including the love of her family and of God. I had the opportunity to help take care of her, and sometimes it felt like she was a little child looking up to me. She left a legacy of serving others, teaching children, and playing “Jesus Loves Me” on the piano. She died in November 2002.

These are pieces of some of the things that have made my parents, and that have made me.