How do you know?

Even though I've done many things in my life that I'm sure the Lord OK'd, it's still sort of a mystery to me how exactly it is that we know.  A lot of it has to do with feeling of peace we get when we are poised to do something that it seems He's approving of (this isn't the end of a sentence, I can use a preposition if I need to!), but it's sort of a far cry from an exact science.

I've been praying for quite a while about quitting my job.  Recently a few other work-type options seemed to pop up, and then fall through, and I was sort of left without other things to do.  Now, I've had three jobs thus far, the dental assisting (haha, that was an easy job to land, thanks, Dad), the nannying (it was more like babysitting, actually, but hey, I didn't complain), and the insurance job I have now.  Each one was orchestrated of the Lord--I literally had to do nothing to get them, and they each provided what I need, and worked with my schedule exactly just so.  Before I got my current job, the insurance gig, I felt at loose ends.  The nanny thing was no longer an option (full-time school?  What is that all about?), and my grandmother with whom I had been helping frequently had just passed away, so I would no longer be needed there, either.  I remember frantically looking for a job for a while, till an older woman whom I respect very much told me that I should use my time at home to help my mom.

Good point.  I stopped looking for a job, focused on helped my mom at home (it was the start of Hobby Class season, so there was plenty to be done!), and let the job part rest.  Then, a friend of mine told me that she was shortly leaving her insurance job and that if I sent her my resume she'd get me a job there.  I put it off for a few days, and then sent her the resume, only to get (and start!) the job within a week.  I've been there for over a year, and have known for a while now that my time was pretty much up.  But that left the question, what do I do without a job?  Before I had a "real job" I kept very busy, this much is true (my friends with jobs would frequently say that I seemed busier than they were, which I don't understand, because now with my real job I'm busier than ever, but anyhow, that's beside the point), but I was hesitant.  Did I just quit with no prospects; go back to being a stay-at-home daughter and granddaughter?

This past weekend I was in St. Louis.  I was praying about the job situation, because I felt it was just time.  Time to be done, time to move on to whatever else the Lord had for me.  So I decided that I would come home, work a week, and then turn in my resignation on Monday (the upcoming one, the 6th).  Well, on Monday (the one we just had, the 29th), I'd been back at work for about four hours, and all of a sudden I stopped and thought, "Is it now?  Should I quit now?"  Quit, obviously, being code-word for two weeks' notice.  Anyhow, I was in the conference room when I had this thought, and literally stopped in my tracks.  I had no idea what I should do, and actually dropped to my knees on the floor of the conference room, right then and there, and begged the Lord for guidance.  Something told me to wait, so I did.  I got up, finished cleaning off the table in the conference room, and went back to work.

But Wednesday.  That felt like the day.  I had woken up that morning and felt peace.  It was time.  So that day (there's a longer version of the story, but I'll spare you) I talked to my boss and co-worker and explained that I was leaving.  It didn't go so well (again, another story), but the moral of that story is, I'll be here for another two weeks, and then I'll be through.

At that time, I had no idea what I'd be doing.  None.  There are leads on a potential nanny job, but who knows if that'll work out.  I got home for dinner that night, only to hear that my grandfather wasn't doing well, and would perhaps shortly be admitted to the hospital.  We went over and visited with them, and he seemed to be doing fairly well, as did my grandma.

But then yesterday, my grandma had a stroke.  As of right now, I'm not sure exactly what that means for the future, but it means at least some time in physical therapy and other such doctor-related visits.  So we have a grandpa who has kidney failure, and a grandma with a stroke, and a granddaughter who shortly will not have a job.

So I still don't know what I'm doing.  Maybe in two weeks they'll be somehow all better, or maybe they'll be with the Lord.  I don't know what a day will bring forth, but I know that if they still need help in two weeks, I'll be free to help.

It's times like this that make me so incredibly thankful that following the Lord's directives really works.

Anyhow, sorry, I didn't set out to tell this whole lengthy story, but I started writing and this is what came out, so...  well, enjoy!

My Father's Shoes

Last night I had dinner at my grandparent's house. My whole family (all of the unmarried parts, at any rate) was there, as well as two of my aunts and an uncle. We also had another close friend of the family, and it ended up being rather a party-like situation. But then, of course, we got sidetracked (long story) and started reading poetry. Not like Robert Frost-type poetry, but poetry my aunt has written.

All was going well until we had my dad read a poem called "My Father's Shoes." It's a poem my aunt had written for one of my grandpa's birthdays, and it was just one of those poignant poems that make you cry, because my grandpa's health is failing, and it was just that kind of poem. Well, we didn't all cry. My aunts and dad did, along with my mom and my grandpa. But my grandma? She was in one of those jovial moods and would not be deterred. Every time someone shed a tear, she made a joke. When my grandpa started telling a story about one time when he thought my aunt (the poem-writing one) had died (she was little and swallowed something sharp), he was in tears and my grandma was just serenely saying, "Well, I never saw him cry so much. He really thought you were dead." and just carry on eating like it was no big deal.

Honestly, it was hilarious.

As badly as I felt for those shedding tears, the dynamic between the all of them was just so funny. And there was no way to sober my grandma up. When my grandpa told this story about some girl who held her little sister in her arms as she breathed her last (he was in this weird let's-talk-about-sad-things mood), I asked when that was, meaning how long ago. My grandma just goes, "When? It was when she died!" And that was that. I couldn't even pretend to be solemn any longer.

But it was sort of sad. How many more times will my family be sitting around like that? Even my immediate family is at risk of changing, due to the increasing ages of those of us not as yet married. So, even though I took sides with my grandma and we just laughed our way through dinner, I wasn't quite as jovial as she.

All good things must come to an end though. Except Heaven. That's one good thing we can all count on lasting for, well, an eternity!

Misspeaks

Last night 'round the dinner table we were remembering some particularly funny times when someone has been reading the Bible and spoke amiss. My all-time favorite was when my little sister was just learning how to read and we were reading the parable of the guy who sent his only son and she said, "This is the hair; come, let us kill him, and let us squeeze on his inheritance." And I just laughed. Nobody else remembers, but I wrote a note in my Bible, and every time I come across it I just have to laugh.

Then, of course, were the time when we'd have Bible study at our house for the neighbourhood teens, and every once in a while they'd say something funny. Like once my dad asked what "swine" were (parable of the prodigal son) and one girl said, "they're those, like, pretty white birds?" No, no, those are swans.

At Sunday School once a boy whom I've always thought of as pretty with it was asked what a "pardon" was. "A.... squirrel?" No, Lorenzo, that's not it.

Back to the dinner table. Once, when my grandma was still with us, she was at our house for breakfast and our family reading happened to be in Matthew 11. My grandma wasn't paying much attention (being 93 will do that to you), and so when it came time for her to read she didn't know where we were. So my mom, being ever helpful, started out the verse for her and pointed her in the right direction. "Woe unto thee, Mummy," she said, hoping that my grandma would pick up from there.

So my grandma repeated after her. Verbatim.

"Woe unto thee, Mummy."

We all cracked up, and my poor grandma didn't understand why we thought it was funny. Needless to say, I can't ever seem to read about Chorazin without remembering my dear grandmother saying, "Woe unto thee, Mummy."

I remember someone once mis-reading loaves and fishes as "loaves and smishes." Two words: Church. Giggles.

Zzz

It's no secret that I love my sleep, and I need it. It seems a little dramatic to need sleep as much as I do, but it's a true thing, my friends. I need my sleep.

So when I get the chance to go to bed early, say, maybe 7:30 or 8:00, I'm willing to jump for it. Which is why, when my 85-year-old grandpa called me on Monday night at 7:15, I was all ready for bed. When I told him I think he just about choked. Of course, when I arrived at his house to help him garden (why are my grandparents up later than I, and why are they gardening? I don't know) some fifteen or twenty minutes later, he was surprised to see me in real clothes.

"You could have come over in your pajamas, we wouldn't care."

"Uh, your neighbors might mind having a hobo in the area."

He's deaf, so he didn't really hear what I said, but I'm pretty sure his neighbors would rather not see me wandering around in my pajamas. Though their immediate neighbors don't speak any English, so I guess even if they cared, they wouldn't be able to complain to my grandparents. It was the rest I was worried about.

So, I helped them hang some tomato plants, anchor a shepherd's crook, and spray some hibiscus plants for Japanese Beetles. (Would that be hibisci?) Then we sat down for a few minutes, my grandparents and I, and visited, until finally I got tired, and so did they. When I left at around 8:30 we were all planning on going straight to bed.

It's times like this that make me realize why it is that people see me as being such an old person. Then I think, "Yeah, but I need the sleep, so I guess I'll just not succumb to the wakeful peer pressure and sleep anyhow." That's usually when I leave whatever is going on and find a bed. Or some chairs to lay down on. (Lie down on?) The way I see it, He gives His beloved sleep, and I am well in that category. I just appreciate the gift a little more than the rest of you.

When I was a child

Yes, yes, I'm a child. This was recently proved to me a few weeks ago, when my grandparents gave me a sticker, explaining that they'd been to our family doctor and he'd sent me a sticker (of a little lamb; my first thought was that maybe he'd gotten saved and the lamb was a reference to the Lamb of God. Alas, not so much) via them. Then, when I went again, today, he gave me not one, but two stickers. These were of raccoons.

But it made me laugh to think that I garner such childish perks. I like!

To throw, or not to throw

I'm currently (with the help of my brother) packing up my grandparent's house. It's been sort of a large job, and not exactly getting smaller, in addition to the fact that we don't have a lot of time in which to work. But we go over, put in a few hours here and there, and it's a pretty good system.

One thing that we've been doing, that I'm not sure my grandparents really had in mind when they suggested this job to us, is throwing away stuff. Fake flowers? Chuck them. Broken toys? Toss. Things that look odd and we don't know how to label? Adios.

Now, to our credit, we're pretty familiar with my grandparents and their wishes/tastes. When I throw things away I think 1) will they miss this? and 2) would they miss this if they knew about it? I've pretty much decided that using those two simple questions, I should be safe.

But my brother and I have had many interesting conversations about what we'd keep and throw away in our own home, should our parents pass away and leave the cleaning-out job to us. (My brother, just last night: "We'd be able to pay the property taxes, right?" For some reason that struck me as funny.) The thing is, our house has a ton of books. Loads. I don't even know what we'd do with them, or how we'd divvy them amongst our siblings, or whether we'd just pack them into storage. But my brother and I were talking about the books, most of all. The other things in our house, apparently, have almost no relevance to us. We don't like our couches, though, so they'd have to be tossed.

Anyhow, I must admit, I don't intend on ever having to sort through my parent's things, due to the rapture, but I find it interesting to take a step back and ponder what's really important, apparently, to my brother and I.

Books.

I'm not all that surprised.

Going nowhere fast

At my prompting (I chose the parking spot), my brother got stuck in the snow on Monday night. But we didn't realize this until long after we'd parked (I was already in bed, which means it was at least 9:00) when he was trying to head over to my grandmother's, and wasn't able to move the van.

Oops.

I heard the sound of nothing being accomplished (you know the sound; wheels spinning, an engine roaring), bounded out of bed, threw some boots on, and went to go help him. Now, here's the best part: I had some version of the flu and wasn't feeling well, and he had some sort of cold/fever and was vaguely delirious, and rather weak.

So I told him to drive, I'd push. I wasn't ready to faint, at least. So, pushing and pulling, shoveling (with an honest-to-goodness garden-variety shovel) and shoving, we got out. I knew it was taking a long time, but it wasn't until my mom showed up (my brother and I had been the only ones in our family at home--everyone else was away being useful at my grandmother's) fearing for our lives, that we realized that almost an hour had passed as we had struggled to get the van out. My mom had tried to call me (believing me to be in bed and available to answer the phone) and getting no answer from me (any of the four times she called) and since my brother hadn't materialized, she decided it was high time to come home and see what ailed us. Ironically, I gave the van the last needed shove just as she came up the driveway to meet us, and we could have had my brother to my grandma's within 10 minutes.

As it was, we all went back in the house, cleaned up (my pajamas were totally covered in muck from the spinning tires, ew!) and went to bed. I'll say one thing for the experience--all that running around sure did put me into a deep sleep that night!

Shapes in the dark

I love my room at night. Well, I'd love it a tiny bit more if it were darker, but that's beside the point. What I love so much about my room at night is that all I can see are the shapes around me. And I'm not usually a shape person--all it took was a year of geometry to solidify that thought forever in my brain--but I love the feeling of being surrounded by solid patterns and shapes.

I think this love of the concrete stems from the fact that for most of my childhood my room was markedly NOT full of clean lines. I tend to be... well, messy, and my room is the first to suffer from my not-so-tidy habits. Since I have been endevouring (for the past eight or ten years) to put away my childish things, I tend to keep my room a little cleaner than it once was. For instance, my dressers typically have tops not covered with things, these days (though today they are covered with pictures, and books, and hairbrushes, and to-do lists, so today isn't a good day for this illustration), and so when I look out at night, I just see the square shapes of my furniture.

But what I love best are the walls. I love to look on the far wall and see a cacophony of squares, rectangles, and circles. It's like geometry exploded on my wall, but in a happy way. I can't even explain why this makes my tired heart happy, but when I look out at night and see a patchwork of shapes, I just have to grin. I think, maybe, it's because I look at those shapes and think "that's the needlepoint that Grammy made me when I was born," and "that's a photograph of my first and favorite (I mean, uh, they're all my favorite) niece," or, "that's the verse Mom and Dad got me for my birthday one year," and the list goes on. Actually, most of my shapes are from posters of sunrises and sunsets, but they don't usually show up so well in the dark, due to the high amount of brightness-from-sun in them. Ah, well, the rest are cool.

So there we have it. Sometimes, orderliness and... shapeliness?... are actually things I appreciate. It's like pigs are flying overhead this very second.

Uh, and I hope we all realize that I don't mean shapeliness in the traditional way. I mean, actual shapes. So, yeah.

Of apples and trees

We had supper the other night at my grandparent's house. The food was delicious, the fellowship was wonderful, and the conversation... familiar. Familiar, because it was the same conversation we have every time we go. The embarrassing thing? I haven't even memorized it yet.

I love it, don't get me wrong, I just appreciate the humor of the whole thing. What happens is we talk about this and that--what various family members are up to, who's studying up on what Biblical topic, what we feel about chiropractors or torture chambers--and then, all of a sudden, we're talking about Israel. And that's fine, truly it is, I love all things Israel. What makes it so familiar is that the conversation almost always goes the same way.

My grandpa talks about how Israel is being protected only by the hand of the Lord, and how nations are retarded to try to fight against Israel. My dad backs this up with recent news items about countries who want to attack Israel. They talk about American politics for a moment, then revert back to all the points in history wherein Israel was protected in miraculous ways. Anyone who's had a meal with these guys has no doubt heard at least some of the stories. 90 Minutes in Antibe being a fairly popular one. They also talk about the times when the Israeli soldiers would stand out in the open and always hit their guys, while the enemy always missed them. The time when Israeli planes came to a Russian airfield and managed to knock out all the actual fighterly planes, and somehow miss all the decoy planes is a good one, too.

It's always interesting, and about 20 minutes into this hour-long ordeal my grandma falls asleep and my brother and I start conversing among ourselves. But one day (if the rapture holds off for a while longer), no doubt, I'll find myself having a meal with my brother and his family, and he and I will start telling all of his bored children about all the miracles the Lord performed for Israel when they didn't even know it. And they'll roll their eyes and start talking about something else. That's OK, they'll no doubt get a chance to hear it again, if they choose not to listen that time. And again. And again.

All for the sake of posterity

Some people keep journals as a record of their life for the sake of posterity. Others, like me, keep a journal to keep from exploding from the excessive amounts of words inside of them. Honestly, I like my way better, because it seems more interesting, plus, I can write or not write whenever the Spirit so moves me without worrying that a grand-niece of mine might one day wonder what I did on that illusive missing Tuesday. Even better, once I burn my journals, they'll never be the wiser as to the fact that my Tuesday was missing in the first place.

But... should the Lord wait a while before rapturing us, will posterity actually want something through which they might be able to understand what sort of person I was? Not that I think I'm that interesting (because trust me, I don't), but because history is so deeply ingrained into us humans that I feel like somebody should would want to have a part of my life just because it was a life that was lived. For instance, I love to look at pieces of my grandparents' and parents' lives. Mind you, I've certainly never been allowed to look at journals of any of my relatives (maybe they've burned them?) but I like other parts of their lives, like a pair of my dad's baby shoes, a childhood book of my grandma's, my mom's old school projects. I love to look at things like that!

But those things are collected as we live. By virtue of the fact that I was a baby, I have baby shoes (actually, I'm pretty sure we don't have any more of my baby shoes, but since I've never liked shoes I've never worried about whether or not that particular item was preserved in any capacity), and because I did school, I'll have old school papers. The fact that I come from a hugely readerly family indicates that I'll have plenty of my childhood books for my descendants to have. But sometimes I like to write random things that I think would be fun to look back on, should someone care.

But what I wonder, while doing things like this: will anyone really care? Because things about me aren't that interesting, neither do they really have a historical factor. For instance, I have a love/hate relationship with carrots. But such jumbled feelings regarding carrots isn't really something I would care to know about my great-grandpa Harry (I have no idea how he felt about carrots, just so you know). Or is it? My great-grandmother used to love licorice and she would give one piece a night to her kids while their dad (aforementioned Great-Grandpa Harry) was away Bibleing around. I think that's fun to know. But carrots aren't quite as interesting.

For at least 20 years of my life I managed to never break a bone or get stitches--though I'm a klutz, and expect this to change momentarily. But... that's not really interesting. I just wish I had more things from my own past (AKA, more information about my great-grandparents and such), and wish I could somehow create something that would be a part of life right now, in 2009, to show what they (which is to say, posterity) missed by having the misfortune of being born later on in life. I mean, I was around when we had nine planets! I remember the day Pluto got plutoed! Is there a way to portray that, and still be able to burn my journals?

I guess this is what scrapbooking is for. And stories. Maybe the Lord will tarry and I'll grow up and have some younger relative who loves to collect and file away family stories. Or maybe I should collect and file away family stories. I've got enough memorized already--This is the pond where we got our fish, Freddy. This is the pond where mom almost died. This is the silo dad used to climb around on when he babysat grain during harvest. This is the tree under which mom and dad got married. This is garage where dad backed up with the car door open and removed the car door. This is the old couch we used to have in the dining room where all of us kids used to sit on, half-asleep, while we waited for breakfast. This is the typing program we all used to learn to type. You get the idea.

But I feel like those are things that would be insanely boring to collect and preserve. Especially the typing thing. Yet... when my nieces and nephews grow up, will they even know about typing on computers? We laugh to think of things beyond computers as we know them, but my parents used typwriters in school (not that I view that as too crazy--my dad still uses a typwriter at his office, no joke), and I think it's interesting to hear them talk about "erasing" stuff on typewriters and such.

Clearly I go on too many bunny trails to be able to accomplish such things as these. I'd be discussing my parents' wedding tree, and then I'd ramble about how it was so early in the morning... but they got crapes for breakfast, so it was OK... and how one of the groomsmen was so tired he forgot to wear a vest like the rest of the guys... and my dad forgot to wear actual nice shoes, so he just wore his ugly ol' everyday shoes to the wedding... and how the dresses were lovely for that day, but frightfully unattractive to my eyes at current. Which says nothing about the tree under which my parents got married. Which is mostly acceptable, I guess, since the tree just sits around at the park and gets more and more bug-eaten year by year.

I'm not sure why I wanted to write about that tree, after all. It's nearly dead these days. Which doesn't seem nicely symbolic, like I first thought it would. Oops.

Overaged

Some people are superstitious, this much I know. For instance, the number 13 seems to be basis for a number of popular superstitions. If I were superstitious (which I am not, no matter how many times my foot/nose/palm itches and people tell me I'll walk new ground/kiss a fool/get some money), I might think it was a superstitious event that my older brother died when I was 13, or that my grandpa died the day before my little brother turned 13, or, better yet, I might have a crazy theory about today.

Today, if you'll recall, is the 13th day of October. It's a Tuesday, so there's certainly nothing Friday-like going on, but today is just an odd day. My little brother? The one who is three years older than I, the one who was six or so years removed from my older brother? Yeah, well, today he's exactly two months away from being 17. Which isn't that crazy in and of itself (except that, aww, he's growing up), except that it means that he's officially as old as my older brother was when he died. Several hours older, in fact.

And it feels so funny to be measuring things by hours, after six entire years have separated us from the death of my older brother, but I can only seem to wrap my mind around the hours thing right now.

I remember the day I turned "older" than my older brother. I sort of wanted to vomit, truth be told. It's such a lost feeling, having the laws of nature do that to you. Naturally speaking, when one person is born before another person, they are older than the second-born. But when death switches up the picture, rules like that don't apply. I remember trying to mentally sort out what it even meant, turning older than my elder. I never really came up with a good answer, I guess, and clearly I still can't articulate it very well.

But I'm happy for my younger brother. I'm happy that he and I are friends, much like my older brother and I were. I'm excited for him, that he's been able to walk the paths he's walked, and come out on the other side. Does it weird me out that he's gotten farther in life than my older brother ever did? Yeah. But it doesn't feel like as much of a betrayal to my older brother as I sometimes mused it would be. Because life doesn't follow rules like we think it should. Life happens, and it's only through the strength of the Lord that we're able to make it day by day, even when the days feel like they come completely out of order.

But I guess, when you think about it, that if our steps are ordered by the Lord, than the days in our lives can't really come out of order. Which is a good reminder, since I'm apt to be dramatic about pretty much everything. But with the One Who ordered the Universe on my side, I know that my life is similarly ordered, and as such, I have nothing of which to be afraid.

Summer couldn't last forever...

Well, I had a great summer. I was away from home from May to the end of August, basically, and it was swell. So why is it the end of September and I'm only just now writing? In short, I'm slothful. And sluggardly, actually. A friend and I were discussing the other day whether or not it was a sluggardly sloth, or a slothful sluggard. Suffice it to say, I usually put off until tomorrow what I could have done today. Of course, since I'm actually doing this now, and it's within the first hour of today, I think it's only fair to say that in this case, at least, I've very decidedly NOT put this off.

All that aside, it's good to be back.

If I were a good blogger, I'd write all about my multitudinous summer adventures (and they were many, my friend) but... well, I just don't feel inspired to do so. Which is terrible! I was just looking through some old journals of mine, and I actually feel vaguely cheated out of all the events I didn't bother writing about because of sheer laziness (what was I just saying about the sluggardly sloth? Yeah, I wasn't joking). For instance, one summer I traveled extensively out West, and forgot my journal. So when I got home I wrote a list of the places I went, and that was that, no funny stories, no anything. There's a whole summer of my teenage years I'll never remember. I run across stuff all the time in my journals that I'd totally forgotten about. Sometimes I wish I could have forgotten them forever (read: anything I ever wrote about the male species, ever), but in general, I like to have at least some sort of documentation of my life.

But... like I said, I won't be able to blog all the time. Also, I have a bunch of blog entries I wrote back in the day (uh, earlier this summer...) that are now vastly outdated, but I figure one day I'll just post a bunch, with the appropriate notes stating that these are old and maybe even boring, but words for those starving for copious amounts of verbiage. Ooh, for instance, I wrote a blog post about a book at my grandma's house that I LOVED, and then she died, and I inherited it. Talk about a swell deal: she's in Heaven (!!) and I got a sweet book. Clearly she came out the victor in this situation, but hey, I'm making the best of still being here on Earth. Which is fine, living is Christ, after all...

So, all this was to say, I'm back. For today, anyhow. We'll see how I do as time ticks by. I trust the Lord is coming soon enough to make this post superfluous, but if He tarries, and you happen to read then, well, welcome, and feel free to smack me if I forget to prepare wordy snacks for your eyes every once in a while. Well, maybe minus some actual smacking. I sure do sound violent. I don't try, I promise!

That's actually something I've been meaning to work on, but that's a whole separate story for a separate post...

Confusion

When people get old, they get confused. It's pretty much a rule. But that doesn't make it any easier for those who have to see it happening. For instance, my grandma just turned 96 the other day, and, although she still lives alone and can do a lot of things herself, she does get confused. But like I said, it doesn't make it any easier to watch, even though I know that it's something everyone deals with.

The other day my sister was over at my grandma's house one morning, and told me that she (my grandma) had climbed the stairs herself and had been looking for something. That was odd, since she usually stays on the main floor and doesn't look for things.

So when I went to my grandma's house later that day, to spend a little time with her before bringing her back to our home for dinner, I was wholly unprepared for what ended up happening.

She had been puttering around, moving things from one counter to another in the kitchen, but that was nothing unusual. She was a very orderly housewife, and she often does cleaning sort of out of habit, even though her cleaning skills are less than stellar. Actually, a few weeks ago she kept on being worried about the kitchen floor. She kept on thinking it was dirty (it may have been, but not visibly so) and actually went so far as to get down on her hands and knees to feel on the floor and make sure it didn't have stuff on it. Thankfully we got her back up from her prayerful position, but it was just sort of an odd happening.

Anyhow, so she had been puttering, and finally I told her it was time to leave for dinner, and I help her put on her coat and she's standing sort of by the door, so I leave for about five seconds to go turn the lights off. I come back and she had taken off her coat. I tell her that it's time for supper and help her put her coat on again, which she promptly takes off.

"Can I get you anything, Grandma?"

"Well, yes," she said, slightly exasperated, "where are the children? I have to go and get the children."

At this point she starts trying to climb the stairs (so that's what had been going on!) and I'm pretty much half out of my mind with worry.

"The children? Grandma, do you mean A-- and O-- and S--? The ones who call you to sing to you?" (my nieces and nephews often called her to sing songs with her on the phone, and she routinely calls them children.)

"No. My children."

I rattled off the names of her own children, long since grown, and she told me that, yes, those were the children she was trying to find.

Like I said, I was basically sick with worry.

So we talk for a while about how her children have their own homes, and they're not upstairs, and finally I try to placate her by asking if she wants to call my mom and ask her about it. She basically charges to the couch (as quickly as one charges, using a walker) and I help her call my mom. I have no time to warn my mom about what's going on, obviously, so when my mom picked up the phone to hear her rather worried mother demanding to know where her children were, my mom was more than a little taken aback. But she rose to the occasion, asking what children she was looking for, and explained that indeed, all of her children had homes, and they were with their own families for supper.

My grandma finally understood, I think, and remembered that her children were indeed grown and married and not upstairs after all. I helped her put her coat back on, we went out the door with no further trouble, and by the time we got to my house for supper, she was completely back to her normal 96-year-old self.

But it frightened me, I'll admit. She does this sometimes, but it's never any easier to see her deteriorate like that. But I guess that's part of what love is--sorrow when one you love is suffering.

Which is just one of the many, many reasons I'm excited for the rapture. Heaven, besides having the Lord (which is the real reason I'm excited, obviously), is also a place of no more sorrow or tears. Won't that be amazing?