What is a Love Story?

I took my kids for a quick visit with some of their cousins at my mom and dad's this past weekend.  They ran around my childhood home, creating "escape rooms" in the basement, performing puppet shows, throwing water balloons, making jelly soaps and bath bombs, and driving Grandpa's tractor.  We also made our usual rounds--eating lunch at The Old Dairy, pizza at "Aurelio's", and visiting with my bonus-grandma, Mrs. Snowden.

We did make a couple new stops this time.  We drove to the town a few miles over for lemon soft-serve ice cream, and, on the way home, stopped at the cemetery to visit the grave of my bonus-grandpa, Mr. Snowden.  He died in February of 2016 at the age of 96.  Mr. and Mrs. Snowden were our neighbors for as long as I can remember until they moved into a smaller home several years ago.  Mrs. Snowden always had the most beautiful flowers around her house.  She never got mad when I "popped" her unopened lilies' buds or poked my small fingers into the snapdragons' "mouths."  She allowed me to spend (what seemed like) hours gazing on her multitudes of treasures from their extensive travels that were displayed throughout their home.  She taught me to do cross-stitch and shared many of her beautiful creations with our family over the years.  When my mom came home after working a night shift as an ICU nurse, Mrs. Snowden would get me off the bus from half-day kindergarten and make me chicken noodle soup and hot dogs for lunch, serving me milk in a special strawberry shortcake glass.  Mr. Snowden taught me what it looked like to be a truly good neighbor.  While he spent a lot of time working in his own yard, he also spent hours maintaining common grounds and inviting many others, including my dad, into service with him.  One of my favorite memories of Mr. Snowden was when he "rescued" me as I feared I had clogged the kitchen sink at the house where I was dog-sitting.  He calmly turned on the garbage disposal and made no comment about why I hadn't known how to work it.  His kindness and respect for me in my youth made me feel dignified even in my panic.

"Love you Mr. Snowden.  Thanks for a ride on the glof crat! Love Owen"  This was placed on a table at Mr. Snowden's visitation a year ago.  

Ryne and Mrs. Snowden

They were there for my brothers' and my own weddings, and were one of the first visits we made when our babies were born.  My kids have grown up feeling loved by Mr. and Mrs. Snowden, and, I think, seeing the love I have for them as well.  So, now, for them, visiting Grandma and Grandpa also means visiting with Mrs. Snowden.  She knows all their names and remembers their interests.  This past weekend when we were there, a gentleman who lives in her apartment building came by as we were chatting and watching the kids interacting together.  She told him, "These are all my grandkids."

I am not totally sure why this fills me with such emotion as I type.  I don't know if it's this stage of life I'm in--looking back on my childhood through not only my own memories but also from the perspective of one parenting kids and understanding that what we are doing now is creating memories for them--or just my own deep gratitude for all the ways in which I have been blessed to receive love throughout my life.

At church last Sunday

 A few weeks ago, I accidentally shared some pictures taken of my extended family.  I really only meant to share one picture with my parents in the foreground with my brothers and I and our families in the background.  I had posted it with this quote from Don Snyder: "Let us hope that we are all preceded in this world by a love story."  When I did, I was thinking mostly of my parents and their marriage that has lasted 48 years thus far.  However, my friend Linda commented on my post that the pictures showed "a three generation love story."  I've turned that over in my mind since then, not unaware that I am blessed to come from where I did, to be born into the family I was, to always know that I was loved and accepted.  And so, I gained a deeper appreciation for the family "love story" that has not only preceded me, but still surrounds me.

And after this past weekend, when Mrs. Snowden claimed my children as her grandchildren, I realized it goes further still.

I cannot claim any credit for the blessing of how my parents raised us.  And, I cannot say that I always felt "blessed."  I was typically teenaged and sullen at times and remember feeling weighed down by the parents who never seemed as cool as my friends' parents and certainly (in my mind) didn't understand my life.  My upbringing didn't prevent me from being diagnosed with depression as a senior in high school, or from experiencing periods of that same depression with the delightful addition of anxiety in the years since.  But I look back and see how my parents responded when I was diagnosed--by literally stopping what they were doing and just being with me as we took the first steps together to get help.

My family--then or now--is not perfect.  But my parents created every opportunity they could for us to be loved, whether it was by our family's relationship with the Snowdens, or by insisting we spend time together as a family.  And this past weekend, as I watched my kids experience the fruit of that, I was immeasurably grateful.