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1936

Abstract

and bought a one-way plane ticket. It’s a peculiar phenomenon to realize there’s no going back to what I called home for over half a century.At the Bloomington airport, my son-in-law greeted me, and we drove to their home — where I would be living in a downstairs room for an undetermined amount of time.I entered the house and dropped my suitcase. My two grandsons, aged two and four, came gleefully running into my arms. After too many kisses, they went off to do what toddler boys do. I watched in amazement that my rambunctious sword-swinging grandsons were like aliens compared to the three girls I raised. (And I learned boys have uncontrollable laughter with any sentence containing the word poop.)Next, I entered the family room, where my daughter was the centerpiece of mounds of laundry, holding her tiny one-week-old baby girl. That was the moment I met Grace— my first granddaughter.Fast forward eight years: It turns out that I am still living in my comfortable downstairs room. As one year rolled into the next, it worked out well for all of us. My repotted roots became nurtured, and I even blossomed a bit in Bloomington. I tell my grandkids that their hugs are keeping me alive — as proven by science. (Sneaky Grandma)Grace and I talk about how lucky we both are to be living in the same house together. She tells me most of the kids she knows aren’t as fortunate as her to have a grandma in the house.I often think about how living in a multigenerational home is the norm in many other cultures. I know firsthand what many nuclear families are missing due to American cultural norms and our pride in independent living.Grace turned eight this month. It is no surprise that she was born on the first day of spring in March — <a href="https://www.verywellmind.com/optimism-month-ho

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w-and-why-to-celebrate-3144447#:~:text=Remember%2C%20March%20is%20the%20official,you%20observe%20it%20in%20March.">Optimism Month.</a> I could fill page upon page of our many adventures, inside jokes, and rocking chair moments together. I could rave about Grace’s accomplishments, including her unique creativity and love for all things pink.<figure id="aaca"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*mFEHvSir-Et4KnA9MTgSfQ.jpeg"><figcaption></figcaption></figure>But the thing I love most about Grace is her unbridled love for everything and everyone. (Except green beans.) She meets each day with a shower of bubbly enthusiasm. Being around her is like breathing in a constant source of pure joy. Living with her has unlocked my heart and kept me from entering the bitter path of regret and resentment — thousands of times.In case my other seven grandkids happen to read this story — each of you holds a place in my heart that adds up to a bouquet of sweet miracles. (Including my other three grandkids living about 700 miles away in Atlanta, Georgia.<figure id="3df1"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*ljahUcOFwjpA4TzNG8eQmw.jpeg"><figcaption>Living in Atlanta, GA: Scarlett-1, Everett-6, Oliver-4</figcaption></figure>Presently, the grandkids I live with are age 8, 10, 12 — plus our new 3-year-old Niki, recently adopted from Bulgaria — and my daughter is due with her fifth child in a couple of months!<figure id="361e"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*l6c-vqF5HJV5wmhUF0pa-g.jpeg"><figcaption>Niki-3. Grace-8. Jonathan-10. James-12</figcaption></figure>Soon it will be time for me to move —because, well, there’s just no more room here. Rest assured — I’ll find a place nearby— because of the joy of Grace and by the grace of God.</article></body>

The Joy of Grace

What it’s like to have your heart unlocked

The year is 2013, and I make a decision that will change my life forever. I will move 1800 miles from Spokane, Washington, to Bloomington, Illinois.

Having lived in my hometown for over 58 years, I own countless memories containing an array of emotions that stretch from ecstatic to devastated. I feel like an old potted plant with entangled roots, loving the familiarity of my soil — my pot — even my root rot.

I lived alone in my apartment for four years, having a good job and loving friends and family. But something’s askew—my three grandchildren are blossoming in Bloomington without me. I don’t want to be the “visiting Grandma” anymore.

It had been four years since my tumultuous divorce in 2009, and then my Mom passed in 2010. After three soul-searching years of processing my grief, I slowly adapted to the reality of my circumstances. But the question, “Now what?” continued to haunt me.

I pondered if I earnestly wanted to stay here and someday retire to solve crossword puzzles and TV murder mysteries. Hungry to devour FaceTime encounters while I marked the days in my safe and tidy nest.

But the day came. That one day when I just knew — it was time to go.

So, in March of 2013, I hired a moving company and bought a one-way plane ticket. It’s a peculiar phenomenon to realize there’s no going back to what I called home for over half a century.

At the Bloomington airport, my son-in-law greeted me, and we drove to their home — where I would be living in a downstairs room for an undetermined amount of time.

I entered the house and dropped my suitcase. My two grandsons, aged two and four, came gleefully running into my arms. After too many kisses, they went off to do what toddler boys do. I watched in amazement that my rambunctious sword-swinging grandsons were like aliens compared to the three girls I raised. (And I learned boys have uncontrollable laughter with any sentence containing the word poop.)

Next, I entered the family room, where my daughter was the centerpiece of mounds of laundry, holding her tiny one-week-old baby girl. That was the moment I met Grace— my first granddaughter.

Fast forward eight years: It turns out that I am still living in my comfortable downstairs room. As one year rolled into the next, it worked out well for all of us. My repotted roots became nurtured, and I even blossomed a bit in Bloomington. I tell my grandkids that their hugs are keeping me alive — as proven by science. (Sneaky Grandma)

Grace and I talk about how lucky we both are to be living in the same house together. She tells me most of the kids she knows aren’t as fortunate as her to have a grandma in the house.

I often think about how living in a multigenerational home is the norm in many other cultures. I know firsthand what many nuclear families are missing due to American cultural norms and our pride in independent living.

Grace turned eight this month. It is no surprise that she was born on the first day of spring in March — Optimism Month. I could fill page upon page of our many adventures, inside jokes, and rocking chair moments together. I could rave about Grace’s accomplishments, including her unique creativity and love for all things pink.

But the thing I love most about Grace is her unbridled love for everything and everyone. (Except green beans.) She meets each day with a shower of bubbly enthusiasm. Being around her is like breathing in a constant source of pure joy. Living with her has unlocked my heart and kept me from entering the bitter path of regret and resentment — thousands of times.

In case my other seven grandkids happen to read this story — each of you holds a place in my heart that adds up to a bouquet of sweet miracles. (Including my other three grandkids living about 700 miles away in Atlanta, Georgia.

Living in Atlanta, GA: Scarlett-1, Everett-6, Oliver-4

Presently, the grandkids I live with are age 8, 10, 12 — plus our new 3-year-old Niki, recently adopted from Bulgaria — and my daughter is due with her fifth child in a couple of months!

Soon it will be time for me to move —because, well, there’s just no more room here. Rest assured — I’ll find a place nearby— because of the joy of Grace and by the grace of God.