One of the real pleasures of having grandchildren is watching them grow into very distinctive individuals.
One minute, there is a little new born baby, looking sweet and untouched. Then, in what feels like no time at all, you suddenly have a child with a strong personality. It is quite breath-taking.
It’s a well-known fact that I’m a big proponent of “seconds.” All sorts of seconds, from second helpings (that’s where the “big” comes from) to second chances.
The last 2 weeks have been spent having summer fun with kids and grandkids. These experiences amplified the discussion that was already going on in my head. What will I leave as a legacy? What will be left behind when I am no longer here?
Recently a violent summer storm swept through the Atlanta-area community where we live near our grandchildren. My seven-year-old grandson Owen, who only a few weeks before had finally become comfortable with July 4th holiday fireworks, rushed from his bed to his parents’ room.
I was only a teenager when I lost my mom to cancer. At the time, the emotions that I felt were sharp and hard, like crystal being thrown against a wall.
Will she go or will she stay? Recorded by the group, Journey, these lyrics from the song, “Never Walk Away,” are about impetuous young lovers who married quickly then realized they didn’t get along. That situation doesn’t apply to me but the question is one I’ve been asking myself for nine months.
What is the key to a meaningful relationship? Not just the one you have with your husband, lover, or partner, but any relationship. As we get older, our life journey becomes shorter and time becomes more precious. The answer to that question becomes more urgent. It is more sought after, and often more difficult to achieve.
Divorce for women over 50 gets a bad rap. We have this cultural conditioning where we tend to see a divorced woman left with nothing. She has nowhere to turn and having no clue what to do with the rest of her life.
My mother’s last journey on earth was in the fall of 2014 as her casket was carried from the Presbyterian Church to the cemetery. As we drove behind the hearse through the village of Wendell, Idaho, I recognized the three-mile trip as a snapshot of her life.