looking through me

Tag: family

February 19, 2015

pearl necklace

I clasped the delicate silver chain around my neck and ran my fingers down to the single pearl.

I love this necklace . . .

The summer I turned 17 I dug out a wallet-sized picture of my mom. Her dark hair cascaded softly over her shoulders. She wore a dark mock turtleneck. And a single pearl.

I found my short-sleeved, purple mock turtleneck. I pulled part of my hair up, and curled the rest to fall over my shoulders, and then I borrowed her pearl on the gold chain.

My hair wasn’t as dark, my smile wasn’t as sweet; but there we were—frozen in time in our matching senior pictures.

As high school graduation approached, I wanted two extravagant gifts. I wanted to go to Michigan with my grandma to see where she grew up and meet my extended family. And I wanted my own pearl.

My parents gave me the invaluable trip back in time. Grandma showed me the plot of land that birthed a childhood full of stories. We climbed through the overgrowth to peer into the massive chicken coop she braved daily while collecting eggs. I met generations of relatives.

And my grandparents gave me my necklace.

I was older than Mom was when she received her pearl. It was her second present from my grandpa. The first was Barbie’s wedding dress when he began dating her mom. Then after proposing long distance from his parents’ home in New York to my grandma in California, he returned with a ring for her and a pearl necklace for my then 8-year-old mom.

The necklace we wore in our senior pictures . . .

This evening, as I took off my necklace, I paused and exhaled a deep prayer of thankfulness for this family and for the amazing man who married my exceptional grandmother, adopted my mother and loves us all.

 

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December 17, 2014

Christmas . . .

I unwrap past Christmases with each ornament and hang them on the tree. The bell from Uncle Bob. The angel Mom gave me one of the Decembers I was too sick to decorate with the family. The ornaments Dad brought back from business trips. The ones I made in preschool. The heavy 125-year-old orbs passed down from Great-Grandma. The ornaments chronicle my life almost as well as the Christmas album does.

One year Mom turned a fat, ordinary, three-ring binder into a padded, fabric-ed, lacy album. Decades later I still love flipping through the forty-plus years of Christmas pictures. Children have been born and had children themselves. Faces have disappeared. Traditions have evolved.

Tonight I sit in the dark as Christmas music fills the air and the lights of the tree play off the ornaments.

The memories are thick. Dozens of loved ones crowd against me on the loveseat. I hear the laughter and feel the hugs. I smell the lingering scents of dinner and see the platter of cookies and candies Mom has made. I hear my brother’s voice reading the gospel account. I catch a glimpse of the Advent calendar with all the flaps of the story opened. I feel my own conflicted longing for the quiet that will descend once the crowd leaves and the longing to never be parted from these ones I love.

Tears threaten to spill from my blurring eyes. Because this year some of those faces will only be present in the album.

The tree lights smudge. As I blink the tears away I see the crèche on the hearth. In the dim light I catch the outline of a kneeling Mary cradling the infant Jesus.

And in that yet to grow and die and rise again representation of my Savior hope overcomes my pangs of grief. The sorrows are real. As are the joys. And someday this dying world will be made new. The tears will be wiped away.

Jesus is coming . . . again.

 

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