For the love of the crock pot

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One of Andy’s favorite stories to tell about my cooking ability is from the first time I invited him over for dinner. I made him a ham sandwich.

And I saw exactly zero things wrong with this at the time.

My next meal involved the stove, barely. I boiled water, threw in some spaghetti and opened a jar of ragu next to the boiling water to “warm it up” (my words that he likes to repeat with air quotes) and pour over the noodles after they were cooked.

All this to say, Andy didn’t marry me for my cooking skills.

But in the last few years, I started to discover and truly love, the crock pot. I learned to cook some of my most edible meals in it. Chili, pulled pork, red curry lentils, (careful, that last one makes 16 servings- ask me how I know) and more.

Then, Superbowl Sunday happened. Our crock pot made a popping sound and set off a huge spark. Our friend noticed exposed wires in the back and told us he wouldn’t trust it anymore (I didn’t either).

Our other friend tried to encourage us, saying, “Hey, your marriage outlived your crock pot, that’s a really good thing!” Andy said he had bought it used, so it wasn’t a big loss. But I was a little sad. It had become my favorite kitchen appliance.

The next day I decided to find out if a crock pot was one of those things that needed to be recycled. (I don’t know these things, but I was sure google could tell me what to do.) I couldn’t find anything on recycling it, but a comment on a blog showed up with someone talking about a free repair event, hosted regularly in our area.

Basically, anything that can be carried in can be repaired, or at least attempted and then if it can’t be fixed, there’s no loss. I thought it was a pretty cool idea and I was reviewing things that had been repaired before (fans, dvd players) I figured our crock pot could be a great contender.

Then I remembered that my cousin likes to tinker with things and has a strong electrical background. I texted and told him I was pretty sure our crock pot was broken, but did he want to take a look at it? He replied, “I’m always up for a challenge.” I dropped it off the next day.

My cousin is amazing! He figured out what was wrong, replaced some parts with things laying around his house, and a few days later he was testing it by cooking in it. It worked again; I was floored! I felt so green. I wanted to fly a banner in the air that said, “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle… or Repair!”

To be honest, I feel a little stupid that I didn’t think of the possibility of repairing it. But I’m so thankful I have a cousin who likes to fix things, and that our crock pot has lived to see another day.

It’s time to make some pulled pork sandwiches again.

My brother, the wordsmith

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My brother was a skilled user of words. Okay, fine, that’s the exact definition of a wordsmith- but I’m not the one with the impressive language skills, he was. Justin loved words so much that when an opportunity came up to take a vocabulary class in high school- he jumped at it.

The first story I remember about Justin’s abnormal vocabulary was when he was somewhere around the age of two. My uncle would show him off like some people show off a cute puppy. For full effect, he would gather a crowd around before asking, “Now Justin, what’s that thing called when you can see something out of the corner of your eye?” Two year old Justin, who could barely pronounce the words, would proudly exclaim, “peripheral vision!”

Once he took the vocab class in high school, he was off and running. Justin took a lot of joy in knowing the meaning of words that others didn’t. He would drop impecunious into conversation just as easily as circumambulate (two words he taught me that mean ‘having little money’ and to ‘walk all the way around something’, respectively). He had an incredible memory and only had to hear something once to remember it and repeat it for the rest of his life.

One of my favorite memories where Justin’s imagination and love of words came together was one winter in elementary school. We had a large sledding hill in the back yard and he made up a creative game called, “Hi, Jack- bye!” or it could also be known as, “Hijack, bye!” through a little wordplay. Justin loved a good pun.

The rules were simple.

If you were on a sled going down the hill, you were, “Jack.” If you were, “it” your job was to run and jump onto the moving sled once Jack was midway down the hill and hijack their ride. First, you had to greet them with, “Hi, Jack” then you had to try to shove them off their sled while yelling, “Bye!” If you were successful, you rode their stolen sled the rest of the way down the hill like a boss while Jack watched on from the middle of the hill.

It still makes me laugh to think about it. It was a physical game and it usually ended with someone in tears, what with all the snow, ice, running and wrestling on a moving sled kind of stuff.

I’m glad I was able to grow up with a brother who came up with such fun things for us to do. Love and miss you, Gus.

The people before me

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When I am in a new situation I don’t know much about, my default mode is research. I dive into books, articles, anything I can get my hands on to learn more. And when possible, I love to learn from people who have been through the same or similar situations.

One person  who had a death in her immediate family told me that people stopped asking how she was doing after six months. She didn’t know if they were tired of asking, or if they thought she should be further along in her grief by that point. She wished people still asked how she was doing with missing her loved ones.

Another friend described her experience following her Mom’s death. The people she thought would be there for her, weren’t. And the people she least expected showed up out of nowhere and were amazing, present and helpful.

Others talked about shifts in family dynamics after a death in their family that were truly heartbreaking.

In a weird way, I’m grateful for the people who went before me in grief. It sounds terrible to say that, because I would rather they never had to go through the loss and I wish their loved ones were still here. I guess what I’m actually grateful for is that they were willing to share with me what their experience was like. To give me a glimpse of what I might find in my own grief.

Many people sent cards after Justin died and I have read and saved every. single. one. There was a card with a handwritten letter inside that I can’t stop thinking about, even nine months later. A friend shared about what she noticed and appreciated in Justin’s life through reading his CaringBridge for almost two years (she had never met him). She also talked about things she learned in the three years since her granddaughter died. When she talked about her grief, I treasured each word, because I knew I was hearing from someone who had suffered a deep loss and was still working through it.

One thing in my friend’s letter stood out. She wrote that she was sure Justin and her granddaughter had already met in heaven. She said maybe Justin had already given her granddaughter a motorcycle ride. It was such a simple sentence, but I haven’t been able to get the idea out of my head. And I don’t want to.

I can picture Justin in my mind, laughing and racing down the streets in heaven, maybe even with a couple kids in tow.

It’s hope found in small things like this, that help redeem a bit of the hurt in loss.

Nicknames

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When I started writing, I figured it would be mostly current events in my not so interesting life. But recently, every time I sit down to write, words upon words about my brother come out. I decided that’s okay. At some point I will naturally talk about him a little less, and that will be okay too.

But for now, he’s often on my mind.

When he is especially on my heart and mind, I wear my “Team Justin” bracelet from his benefit two years ago. When I want to be slightly more discreet about it, I wear two bracelets my friends gave me after he died. One has a motorcycle charm, and the other a personalized name of, “Gus”, my brother’s nickname from when he was young.

When we were teens my brother and I gave each other the nickname, “Fatty” and greeted each other with, “Hey, Fatty” for years. Soon after Justin died, I just wanted to see his handwriting again. So I pulled down a box of letters from my closet and found a card he had mailed to me in 2003. He had listed, “Fatty” as his return address. I smiled and laughed as I read it because he always sent me the most inappropriate cards. I loved it.

About a year ago he asked me to stop using that nickname for him. I asked him if Gus was okay. He replied, “that works.” And so I switched. My friends took note of it when they decided to give me something to wear when I’m missing Justin.

Sometimes people’s thoughtfulness is overwhelming in a good way.

Three questions

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When meeting new people it’s not uncommon to be asked, “Do you have any siblings?” An unsuspecting person asked me that last December. Tears welled up in my eyes and I somehow sputtered out, “Yes, a brother. But he died.” Fortunately, it was a sweet man in his seventies and we sat at a piano bench talking about life, death and family. I’m glad he was so gracious.

I’ve found that most people ask three questions when they find out my brother died. The first two are variations of the same question:

“What happened?” and “Was he sick?” I prefer the first question to the second. Even though there was cancer involved, I like the open endedness to the first question. I can answer it however I want to instead of ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

The third question is usually, “Was it sudden?”.

I haven’t found a good way to answer this one yet. Because logically, if I look at a calendar and the 20 months between Justin’s diagnosis and his death, and the 6 or 7 times the cancer returned to his body, well yeah, I suppose I could have seen it coming and it wouldn’t have appeared so “sudden”.

But I was too close. I didn’t really see it coming. Or more accurately, I didn’t want to see it coming. I was surprised. I mean, I knew in my head it was a possibility and that is why I prayed more for my brother than I’ve ever prayed for another human in my whole life. But I didn’t let the rest of me accept that possibility. Just a little corner in my head had those thoughts and I tried to shut them up all the time.

I think I come by this stubbornness naturally. In my family we’ve had several people cheat death.

My Uncle was diagnosed with renal cell cancer when I was a teenager. He was given six months to live more times than I can count. He lived for 18 more years. We were able to say goodbye to each other several times before it was the last time. In his last week we got to spend a morning together and he mapped out his favorite route for riding motorcycles out west. My husband was taking a trip with his buddies that summer and I was getting the low down on all the best spots. He knew the owners of little hole in the wall places and marked them on the map too. It’s one of my favorite things from him.

My Grandma was diagnosed with terminal lung disease when I was young. One time a woman lectured her on smoking when she saw my Grandma hauling around her oxygen tank. Grandma leaned into the woman and pointed her finger in her face and said, “Lady! There has never been a cigarette between these lips!” before huffing away and leaving the woman speechless. Grandma was diagnosed at the same time as another man with the same disease, same stage and roughly the same age. He lived 4 months, she lived almost 10 more years. As a grandkid, I credited it to her stubbornness of wanting to see all of us grow up.

My Mom was killed in a car accident, and after having a conversation with God, she came back to life. This probably sounds crazy, but no one was more shocked than the paramedic on the scene. He had checked for signs of life, found none, and completed the fatality report by marking all three people in the vehicle as dead. He came running back to their crunched car minutes later when he heard my Mom yelling the name of Jesus (no lie).

So, the history of not taking illness or even death too seriously was pretty well ingrained in me by the time Justin received his first diagnosis of tumors in his chest. I was scared. And I bawled my eyes out the moment I heard the news. But each time the Doctor would give him a course of action to take, I would relax a little bit because there was a plan. And Justin always talked about everything going on in his body with such confidence and conviction. He was easy to believe.

So yeah, it was sudden and it wasn’t. But it was to me.

Sharing stories

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A few weeks after Justin died, a friend kept reaching out until we had a date on the calendar to meet for lunch. Andy came too, so the three of us sat down to catch up. I don’t remember much of what we talked about, but I do remember this. My friend said, “Tell me your favorite story about your brother.”  My mind went blank, “My favorite!?” She rescued me a moment later, “Okay, not your favorite, just any story.”

I thought for a minute. “You know how Junior High boys go through a stage where they realize that girls like cologne?” She immediately started nodding and laughing. I said, “Justin was no exception to this…and it was the mid-nineties, so do you remember Cool Water?” This led to a tangent about Cool Water cologne samples in teen magazines and lots more laughter.

Justin also had a cologne by Tommy Hilfiger called Tommy Boy (I’m pretty sure the cologne came before the movie). Most teenage boys often think “more is better.” Examples: Axe body spray, Old Spice, etc. Justin took to wearing both colognes at once, if for no other reason so that when girls asked him what he was wearing he could honestly answer, “Cool Boy.”

He never lacked for confidence.

It took me months to realize the gift my friend gave me by asking me to talk about Justin. She had never met him but had heard me share stories over the years. I don’t think she was asking to be polite, or because she thought it was the right thing to do. I think my friend could see that I was broken over the loss of my brother and she wanted me to know she cared.

I’m so glad she asked.

What I’m not reading

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Andy and I went to a conference in 2013 where a speaker talked about his “Family Rules.” We loosely implemented a few of them in our home- primarily as a way to gently tease each other when we do something poorly.

One of the Family Rules is “Finish the job.” Whether the job is unloading the dishwasher, folding laundry, whatever, you keep going until it’s done. Logical? Yes. Easy for me? No. I’m a pretty lousy housekeeper. Just ask the friend who visited while Andy was out of town and upon taking two steps into the house had a receipt stick to her foot.

Anyway, I was reminded of this rule when I decided to see how many books I have started but not finished reading. This is what I found:

  1. Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl. I started this book over a year ago and stopped when I was crying too much while reading it. I still have a bookmark in it for when I’m emotionally ready to read about the holocaust again. (who is ever ready for that!?!)
  2. For the Love by Jen Hatmaker. I started this book when it came out this past summer. And I stopped for no reason whatsoever. I have five-ish chapters left and should just stop this post to finish the book now.
  3. Vagabonding by Rolf Potts. This indulges my dream of travel and I have read it slowly because I’m adding little sticky notes throughout the book. I have about one chapter left, I made some progress on it this week.
  4. The Shack by William P. Young. I started this about a month ago and have been loving it. Again, just a few chapters left.
  5. Through the Eyes of a Lion: Facing impossible pain finding incredible power by Levi Lusko. Oof, this one is good and hard to read, which is probably why I put a temporary hold on it. The man writes of losing his daughter suddenly. My counselor recommended it and I said, “Oh, I own that one, just haven’t read it yet” (a related problem I have) so I picked it up but put it down again after some tears.
  6. Out of Sorts: Making peace with an Evolving Faith by Sarah Bessey. This one is really good but it’s due back at the library so I think I’ll need to re-check it out again. I regretfully didn’t get to it fast enough.
  7. The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown. This one I just started yesterday so I don’t feel bad about it not being finished yet, but it is already SO good. This was a gift from Andy this Christmas.

I’ll admit I was a little surprised to see the number so high- I thought I had four or five in process. In between starting books 2-5 I did read other books in their entirety. Maybe I’ll get to sharing about them on here. But for now, it looks like I should keep reading to get a few of these off my nightstand.

Our first Christmas together

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This Christmas was our tenth one together, and for the first time it was just the two of us for the whole day.

The night before we tried to make the last Christmas Eve service at our church, but we cut it too close and missed it. When the service was starting and we were still on the road I said, “Chinese sounds kinda good right now.” Andy burst out with, “I was literally just thinking the SAME THING!” We called in an order and picked it up on the way home. We watched a couple of 30 Rock episodes and started falling asleep before 7pm. Luckily “It’s a Wonderful Life” came on TV to keep us awake and restore some Christmas balance to the night.

We slept in Christmas morning, made orange rolls and exchanged gifts. My last present from Andy was a stack of photos of my brother that Andy had chosen where he felt Justin looked “most like him.” Pictures of Justin laughing, looking surprised, grinning, happy. He included some frames too. He said he thought as time went on it would be more important for me to have pictures of my brother around. I’m crying again just writing about it. His thoughtfulness in knowing me and in missing and loving my brother too continues to give me pause to appreciate what a good man he is and how kind he is to me. I’m grateful.

Andy opened a new puzzle and worked on it all day until it was finished. I read a book. We made Quiche Lorraine together for the first time (it sounds fancier than it is). I took a nap. We ate leftovers from my work Christmas party for dinner. We tried to find a Christmas movie on TV and, “Look Who’s Talking Now” was the only one.

Seriously.

I was hoping for, “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”, “A Christmas Story”, or really, anything else. As it turns out, we watched it anyway and it was cheesier than I remember. Actually, whinier, I couldn’t believe how much Kirstie Alley whines in that movie.

It was a great long day together, the perfect mix of doing less for Christmas this year.

Christmas 2015

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Each Christmas we spend time with three out of four sets of parents that live locally and we see a few extended family celebrations too. I’ll dive into all of that in a minute, but first a little grief glimpse.

This Christmas was the first one without my brother that I could remember. In preparation, I read devotions on grief and ‘surviving the holidays without your loved one’ type articles. Each one echoed the same thing, “Take care of yourself, do what feels most comfortable for you.” It sounded like a pretty selfish message to me. But the family, friends and counselor I ran the idea past all agreed it was good advice.

One post in particular talked about how some people like to throw themselves back into the same family traditions and remember the joy they had in those traditions with their loved one. And some need a mellower holiday with space for quiet and solitude.

I shared these thoughts with Andy and told him I felt more comfortable with the quiet and solitude. We have also been trying to reduce the “hurry” in our lives lately and decided to do one family event per day. We hoped to not stress ourselves out like we have in years past, often arriving at the next family event wiped out from the one before.

It turned out to be one of the best ideas we’ve ever had. The time with family wasn’t rushed, it was fun.

The Lewis family kids chose their own Uncle to play Santa this year (he was offered $1 for his service) and we enjoyed visiting with each family. We played Cranium with cousin Georgia and caught up with the Haislet families. We made ninja cookies with our nephews and enjoyed the McKown Christmas.

We watched Charlotte unwrap a present and excitedly shout, “Newspaper!” before realizing there was a gift underneath it at the Mills/Harris Christmas. The Mills Christmas is being rescheduled due to the flu but that will be fun too (bowling this year!). We missed the McKown extended family Christmas in Chicago. But we did get to see most everyone there over the summer when we celebrated my Father-in-law’s 65th birthday.

It seems like a lot when it’s written out like this, but Christmas really was nice and not overwhelming. There was plenty of space between each get together and the time with our loved ones was sweet.

I’m grateful for each person we get to call family.

Silence for thoughts

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Christmas is less than a week away and the idea that my brother won’t be here is still weird to me.

I don’t think about that reality all the time, like I did when it was fresh and new. But when things are quiet or I’m alone, he pops back into mind. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I just whisper his name aloud and tell him that I miss him or that I love him.

The first few weeks after he died I drove around in silence, the radio would have have been too much competition against all the tumbling thoughts in my head. It took a while, but I remember the day I turned the radio on again and sang along loudly and poorly on the way home from work.

I wasn’t aware of it in the moment, but I was making space for the healing to start.