Wholehearted living somewhere in the middle of all my years.
Aging parents, grown kids, and grandbebes everywhere!
Married to my love and lifelong best friend, Dave for 33 years now. We raised 5 kids and lived to tell about it.
My life's mission is to declare the great faithfulness of God to the next generations, especially those in mi familia!
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It’s spring and the sun is brighter for it. Life can bring disappointment, but the Month of May dances in to save the day.
It was 82-degrees and gentle today. A light rain showered us in fine mist for 15 straight minutes at 5 o-clock in the late afternoon. Or is that early evening? The sun shined on, despite the clouds moving about, so the whole thing looked like diamonds falling from the sky.
And then, it was gone. The squirrels resumed their scampering, birds went about their business and people reemerged from their house-hiding.
And then…what is that? The sweetest response to the short rainfall: the lilacs effused and the slightly moist air became heavy with the heady fragrance of springs most generous bouquet. *deep, long inhale…Yes, the air was filled with the lilacs’ full and glorious scent and I may or may not have become somewhat intoxicated.
On Thursday July 1, 2021, Norma Jean Moslander, loving wife, gracious mother, and wildly adored grandmother, passed away at the age of 83.
Norma was born to Everett W. Allison and Bernice (Quick) Allison Hallett on June 8, 1938 in Des Moines, Iowa. Always a daddy’s girl, she grew up planning to be a horse-riding cowgirl and spent her childhood in western wear and spurs, going to Dale Evans-Roy Rogers matinees every Saturday, and, with a rope in hand, lassoed many an imaginary horse.
On August 24, 1957, Norma married A. Ross Moslander. They raised five children, three sons, Joe, Tim, and Dana, and two daughters, Jeanie and Tami.
Besides marrying Ross, an ordained minister and the man of her dreams, raising her children was the great love and achievement of her life. She served beside Ross as a dearly treasured pastor’s wife in multiple congregations across 6 states. In ministry, she was known for her great compassion, and as a sensitive prayer warrior for others. She was an avid camera buff, becoming a professional horse photographer in her 50s with magazine covers to her credit. Norma enjoyed creativity and art and won ribbons and trophies for her entries at the county fair. She could play any instrument she picked up and her piano playing was the sound of the Moslander family upbringing, where her children would join her to sing gospel hymns and Dottie Rambo songs throughout their growing up years. Norma could communicate and gain the trust of all animals and whistle the birds right out of the trees. She had an unusual exuberance about life and the beauty in the world, and never met a person she didn’t end up loving with every ounce of her heart. Not once. She was truly like Nathaniel in the Bible when Jesus said of him, “in whom there is no guile.”
Norma passed away following a long bout of Alzheimer’s Disease. But as with everything in her life, she managed to laugh and silly-dance through this “long good-bye” with strength and grace, looking for and creating joy and fun for her family and friends. She loved spending as much time with her loved ones as possible, insisting they traipse through the meadow with her to see flowers, chase butterflies and smile for her camera, again and again. On her final day, she got to be home, with her children, Tami and Joe, and with her husband whispering loving words in her ear, releasing her, and letting her go.
Norma was preceded in death by her father, Everett W. Allison, her beloved stepmom, Opal Allison, her mom, Bernice Quick Hallett; her sisters, Diane Brown, Helen Baker, and her brother, Everett “Cab” Allison.
Norma is survived by her five children Jeanie (Dave) Rhoades of Firestone, Colorado, Joseph Allen Moslander of Valrico, Florida, Timothy Joel (Julie) Moslander of Butte, Montana, Tamara Dawn (Gerron) Ayento of Valrico, Florida and Dana Mitchell Moslander of Hobart, Indiana; and two daughters-in-law, Robin Niewenhuis and Dawn Moslander. She also leaves behind 15 adoring grandchildren, Tara (Dave) Rhoades-Powers, Stephanie (Tristan) Rhoades-Kelley, Tredessa (Ryan) Rhoades-Faaland, Rocky (Jovan) Rhoades, Stormie (Adam) Rhoades-Haag; Elise (Matt) Moslander-Leonard, Ross (Kayla) Moslander, Christiana (Christo) Moslander-Wolmarans, Corbin Moslander; Zachary (Heather) Moslander, Seth (Lizzy) Moslander, Caleb Moslander; Jordan (Alise) Moslander, Jared (Brittany) Moslander, and Austin Moslander, along with 27 great-grandchildren and another due in August. She is survived by two sisters, Pat Cocke of Warsaw, Missouri, Judy Allison of Ames Iowa, and a brother-in-law, Don (Helen) Baker of Des Moines, Iowa. Norma also leaves behind many beloved nieces and nephews including her two very close nephews, Billy Heard and Steve Lame, spiritual children and devoted friends across the nation from every church she and Ross pastored, and a deep love for the nation of China, where she left many Bibles, words of hope and encouragement and seeds of the Gospel.
A Celebration of Life Memorial Service will be held at the Living Faith Church of God, 3777 Nolands Fork Rd, Richmond, IN, at 11 o’clock A.M. on Saturday July 31, 2021. All friends and family are welcomed to attend to share in celebrating Norma’s life. The immediate family will gather for a private burial at a later date in Ravenwood, Missouri.
Flowers may be sent to Living Faith Church. 3777 Nolands Fork Rd, Richmond, IN
Memorial contributions to honor Norma Moslander may be sent to Smokey Mountain Home for Children, 449 McCarn Circle, Sevierville, TN 37862
The family would like to thank Brandon Funeral Services of Brandon, FL for their kind assistance in handling the details surrounding our beloved Norma Jean’s passing.
I got to spend time with my mamala for her birthday. She is wonderful and she is perfect. And she is worried and fearful that something may actually be wrong, or maybe people just think something is wrong and she is perfectly fine. Either way, she is bothered.
I wasn’t able to make her laugh as much this visit. Making her laugh has been my focus for the past few years, because it is such good medicine. We laughed this visit, but less. If I’m wry or sarcastic, it’s totally lost on her now. I have to be very gentle with teasing or she might think I’m being mean.
And then there was the coffee. She and my dad make half-caf, so when I visit, I always have to bring my own high-powered coffee. For the past couple of years, she had taken to grabbing my coffee, cup after cup every morning, and “doctoring it up” the way she likes: lots of artificial sweetener and a generous swish of milk to lighten it up. I’d sometimes have to make coffee 4 times just to get to enjoy a cup of straight black before she got to it and thought it was hers. It drove me crazy.
But this visit, she never reached for my cup. She didn’t even try. She waited for me to bring hers to her, and then we both had our coffee, the way we each liked it.
You may not think that is a big deal, but I see her changing, backing away, noticing less each time. She is getting smaller, not just physically, but in the way she occupies the atmosphere. I am mourning the parts of her I will never see again. But wait…for a flash, for a split second, there it is again…but then gone.
It really is the long goodbye.
She asked me to teach her to use the TV control. We worked and worked on it. She used to be the techie in the family, she was the one who would hook up the TV to the VCR to the DVD player and whatever else or call Dave for computer help and she’d figure it out. It’s gone now. After 15 minutes, she still could not retain that the on-off button was top, right.
“I used to be able to do this. What in the world is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this anymore? It’s like I am going backwards or something,” she kept saying to me.
It’s the same question she asked about the washer and dryer and her CD player and the telephone. She doesn’t even ask about the gas stove. The microwave is starting to become mysterious, now. Sometimes you put your coffee in and it comes out hot and other times, it doesn’t. Why is that, she is wondering?
I told her gently, very gently. Yes. These medicines are because you were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Yes, your memory problems are part of Alzheimer’s. Do you know very much about that?
It perturbed her. “You mean that is what they are saying I have? That is why they keep giving me these pills?!” as if a diagnosis is an accusation of some sort. She doesn’t like it. But I know she won’t recall it anyway. Tomorrow, she’ll wonder why she “keeps going backwards,” remembering just enough to know she is losing something…
But I told her that she is doing fine, just fine. And then I promised her I would remember for her, so she shouldn’t worry. And she cried. She just fell into my arms and wept.
And I assured her that love isn’t a memory that can be forgotten, that it will always stay up to date, so we would just keep on loving each other. Every little thing will be alright, mamala….
And I just held her for a while.
—————–xoxoxo——————
You can learn more about Alzheimer’s at www.alz.org. There are articles about the signs and symptoms and great resources for caretakers. They remind us that everyone with a brain is at risk for this. And I am passionate about raising awareness because this woman, my sweet mom, is the last person on earth who would deserve to be fighting this battle, but Alzheimer’s doesn’t care. So I hope we can find a cure so my own children and theirs are not left watching the pieces of the people they love fall away, and are not left holding the bag as this insidious disease ravages our nation and the world.
Alzheimer’s is the only disease among the top 10 causes of death in America that cannot be prevented, cured or even slowed. – alz.org/facts
#endalz #thelonggoodbye #alzheimers #igopurplefor my mamala…
Sometimes I feel sorry for myself about this, which is the most selfish thing ever!
She is the first human being on earth who knew anything at all about me, from that first tinge of morning sickness. The longing of her heart, and lucky me! God chose her for me.
My mom delighted in me, her first child, after losing other babies, “miscarriages,” not sure she would ever carry to term. But she did. Then she delighted again in my brother Joe when he came along 18 months later, then Tim, then Tami and finally Danny. She had 5 babies in slightly more than 7 years. And it has been her heart’s joy to love us and ponder all the things about us.
“I have the greatest kids in any city or state. That’s the honest truth. I love my kids and I want to tell everybody and I don’t care who it is. I have the best kids and now I have grandkids and greats and I love it. I love every single one of them! It might take me awhile to remember all their names, but if I had time I could…” -my mamala, today on the phone
More than all the “adopted” spiritual sons and daughters and the thousands of devoted and treasured friends she has amassed along her life’s journey as a pastor’s wife, she has delighted and reveled in loving her five children, her babies more than anything.
There are boxes in her closet filled with scraps of paper, journals, and backs of church bulletins where she has scribbled notes, a story about one of us or a scripture she felt was meant for me or a sibling. There are lined pages with our names at the top documenting the funny things we said or did, cute quotes, all the things she thought were so brilliant she never wanted to forget. All through our lives, she has loved to tell and retell our stories. She’ll say, “Remember when you thought eyelashes were ‘eye-blashes?’ Or when you didn’t like sour foods because you felt they were ‘screamy?'”
She kept record that my little brother, Joe, called hub caps “cupstacks,” and referred to his pant legs as “pant sleeves.” And she wrote down that our baby sister, Tami, called cow’s milk “wet whip cream” and freckles “sparkles” because it was cute. Danny, the baby of the family, referred to yesterday as “last morrow,” which is pretty astute, actually. And what do these silly moments have in common? Nothing but a mom who thought they were amazing enough to save them.
And because her attention to us and love for us are grooved so deeply in her heart and brain, many times she can still access these same memories as if nothing is wrong, as if this form of dementia isn’t reaching in and stealing from her. But other times, she can’t.
The person who has carried the memory of me longer than anyone, who has documented and celebrated every day of my existence, the woman who has cried with me in hard times, paced the floor praying with me during crisis, danced and rejoiced over my victories, encouraged me to do things that scared me because she thought absolutely no one could do it better than me, the one who has believed that I was heaven-sent and wonderful in every way and has oohed and aahed over even the insipid mundanity of my life and days – she is living with Alzheimer’s.
This woman, who has catalogued our lives, collected the bits and pieces of us, set herself to create and then commemorate each memory, and share it with enthusiasm and joy across the years, she is battling a memory thief.
She is living with the disease, and she is working hard to hold on. She says to me, “It’s like I’m going backwards. What is happening to me?”
But here I am, feeling sorry for myself.
Who will remember my first solid food and be able to tell the story with such glory? Or how fantastically I navigated those concrete stairs when I first saw them and how even though she wanted to stop me so I wouldn’t get hurt, she let me try anyway? She tells the story with great tension and animation, as if I am the only baby ever to have climbed stairs, and she tells me how she cheered for me as I reached the top and turned around and sat down, satisfied with my victory. She was so proud. Who will remember or care about those things? In the scope of everything, what does that story matter anyway? But still. She was keeping it for me, periodically encouraging me with a glorified vision of myself as a baby…
No one else will ever know me like my mama does.
It’s what we do as moms. Like Jesus’s mother, Mary, she “pondered these things and held them in her heart.”
Today, when we spoke on the phone, as if everything were as it has always been, she blessed my future, she gave me a message for Dave and said I needed to get a dog, both for protection and to avoid loneliness. Such wisdom, such good advice.
Then she started telling me about a most wonderful day she had experienced ” a week or two ago,” about going downtown to a coffee place and eating outdoors at a sidewalk table and then going across the street to “that big, beautiful building” and how she so wished I could have been there and hopes she gets to do it again and I can come along. She forgot that I was there, I took her to those places.
It made me feel sorry for myself.
But it’s my turn to keep her memories for her now.
– – – -#endalz- – – –
Important information
June is Alzheimer’s Awareness Month and it is my mom’s birth month. I am talking openly about a disease that kills people because I want to raise awareness and say we need to act. There is no one less deserving of Alzheimer’s than my mom, no one. But it doesn’t care who you are. The Alzheimer’s Association will say anyone with a brain is at risk, as this disease is set to reach epidemic proportions in our lifetime, according to researchers.
I want our generation to set themselves to stopping this disease before it reaches predicted, staggering numbers which will be visited upon our children and theirs. Let’s spread the word!
“It’s snowing!” she squealed with sheer delight, lifting her dazzling smile to the sky and throwing her hands into the air.
“Look, mommy, it’s snowing,” three-year old grandbebe, Bailey, declared as the cottonwood seed-fluff nearly white-out blizzarded on our picnic at the beach the other day.
We were grabbing covers for food and waving it away from our faces with frowns of aggravation. But Bailey saw the fun in it. Right here in the summer sunlight, while she was wearing her cute new swimming suit and playing in the sand: snow.
Sometimes, in an effort to grow up, be mature, represent our religion by “putting away childish things,” we forget that Jesus wants us, for all times, to remain childlike: full of wonder, hope springing eternal, looking for the good in everything around us. “Unless you become as little children,” He said. The path into the Kingdom of heaven starts with that premise.
Jesus: “I assure you and most solemnly say to you, unless you repent [that is, change your inner self—your old way of thinking, live changed lives] and become like children [trusting, humble, and forgiving], you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Amplified
Do you remember? Can you recall when life was an invitation to joy, to experience whatever happened, to see a complication as an adventure to explore? Remember innocence? Whatever will be, will be…
Oliver recently visited the beaches of Florida. This was old hat to him.
Childishness? No. Put that away. Don’t be a selfish, self-centered booger demanding your own way.
But childlike in spirit, in hope, in wonder, like a little one full of innocence and trust, pure-hearted and content in what comes? Oh yes. Be that.
Even though we all had cottonwood fuzz in our hair, probably ate some in our S’mores and had it stuck to our skin with sunscreen (and I nearly choked on a breath-full walking to our shady picnic area from the beach), it didn’t hurt our day in any way that mattered. Like so many things, tiny annoyances we have come to barely tolerate in life, we should just let the fuzzies float by against the blue of the sky on a sunny June day, like a sweet child would. Like Bailey did.
Childlike.
Played all day
Matthew 18. 1-3 NIV “At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, ‘Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’
He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them.And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.'”
Oh, we stayed until that sun set.
PS- Don’t make fun of colorful Colorado for DIY beaches on homemade lakes. It’s our can-do attitude! We’ve got the Rocky Mountains already. You can’t replicate that. :)
“I’ve got pieces of April, I keep them in memory bouquet. I’ve got pieces of April, but it’s a morning in May.“* All the hopes that sprang in April now blossom in May. Remember what your Kindergarten teacher told you, because it is true: April showers bring May flowers! {*Pieces of April, a song by Three Dog Night, naturally}
Tara Jean, Stephanie May and Gemma May: all born in springs’ most surprising and spirited month. They’ve each taken on those characteristics!
Stephanie let me make her a 4-layer, wedding-white cake with buttercream icing, topped with baby’s breath and scattered caramel macchiato macarons from Happy Bakeshop in Longmont (Cake design inspired by the amazing Constellation Inspiration).
Fully leafed trees, that bright, light, spring-green thing that happens. And carpets of lush green grass, chlorophyl all around!
I love these bright, sunny days that give way to sudden, dark, thundery showers, then perk right back up to sunlight and a spring song. The sunsets are more colorful, the air is cleaner, and the grass even greener.
Memory: splashing in curbside puddles after a spring rain as a kid. Wish I’d done that more. I wonder what the neighbors might think if I…
Store-bought tomatoes (at the best markets) are beginning to have some flavor again while my heirlooms are settling in their soil, gearing up to give me brag-worthy homegrowns come July.
I painted my nails with purple polish to match my pansies and freshly potted petunias, but it didn’t last, not even 2 days, because it’s May! Yes, of course I have very pretty sky-blue gardening gloves. But sometimes, you must sink your hands into the soil, to really understand the essence of living. I came from the dust of the earth. Plunging my hands deep as I plant, I am home…
It is the anniversary of our very first date, Dave and I. He said today, on Facebook, “The beginning of my life…” I melt. I didn’t know it was a date (I hoped), he did. It involved a Rock Hudson movie and Barry Manilow. And it has worked out for us, I am happy to report. Dave is the one. :)
The world’s favorite season is the spring.
All things seem possible in May.
Edwin Way Teale
I love the month of May and wish we could have another 3 weeks of it, at least. And I love making lists. May all things seems possible for you today! In May… :) xoxo
When the buds unfurl, when the pear trees blossom, as the lilacs burst forth in their purple glory, when the grass grows green and the gardening bug bites, you can bank on it:
some freak winter storm will zoom through the valley in a mix of wet and white, create a rush on milk, eggs and toilet paper, and break the branches on our flowering trees, generally creating havoc.
Never you mind that we always need that moisture in these arid parts. By this late date I just want to be living in flip-flops!
Shame on you, Home Depot and Lowes, for enticing shoppers with those tender tomato plants and petunias.
People, dear friends, do not be deceived by this. Wait until after Mother’s Day to plant petunias, zinnias, squash, beans, tomatoes, and cukes! Wait, I say, waaaait!
April 28, and the forecast is rainy mixed with snow = heavy, wet slush. There go my lilacs, darn it!
On a bright, warm, sunny Saturday morning, just minutes after she arrived home, she just sort of sat down and collapsed and gasped a few times and she was gone, her hair shimmering like silver diamonds in the morning light on a soft bed of fresh spring-green growth.
Dave was with her. “It’s ok, you’re home now,” he said. Then he told her it was ok for her to go. And so she did.
She came.
We got Sandy almost exactly 14 years before she died.
Steph was a college student working part time at the BFI landfill office near Denver International Airport. Some one had abandoned this woolly, frightened mutt there and she was running wild, looking for food and afraid of everyone and her own shadow. Stephanie spotted her and started working on becoming friends. She mentioned maybe bringing the pup-dog home and did not get an enthusiastic response from me. Not at all.
But for some reason, Dave went to see Steph one day and he returned with this crazy-looking, fuzz-exploding full-grown dog.
She was afraid of her shadow, this canine, afraid of us, afraid of the freak spring-snow we’d just gotten; she was afraid to move off the oval rug, her feet planted firmly as though she were hoping Scotty would indeed beam her up and away from our staring eyes. Her little spirit had been broken, somehow, by the completely stupid idiots who had dumped her at the landfill. Their loss was our total, joyful, utter gain!
We always joked that we found a junk-yard dog and she never quit looking like she was fresh from the junkyard. She loathed baths and thought any sort of grooming was pure torture. She was a trembling, hairy mess, but we quickly saw the rich sweetness of her, the deep pools of love and loyalty behind those brown eyes.
What shall we name her, we wondered? We toyed with Chewbacca (“Chewie,” for short), for she was similarly furry and gentle. But we couldn’t resist the name of the dog from the Annie movie the kids had grown up watching and since her hair was a millions shades of beige and brown, gold and copper, silver and cool grey, plus black and brown – “Sandy” seemed appropriate.
Ever heard the song from the musical, Annie, “Sandy?”
True he ain’t pedigreed, Sandy, there ain’t no better breed.
And he really comes in handy,
‘Specially when you’re all alone in the night
and you’re small and terribly frightened it’s
Sandy, Sandy who’ll always be there!
Well, our Sandy was a girl. But those very words could have been written of our dog, “it’s Sandy, Sandy who’ll always be there…”
She actually got to play Sandy in a community theater production of Annie. This was a publicity shot in 2010.
She won our hearts
So we had this wild mutt. She became one of us immediately. She fit. She was born for us, for our family, I am completely certain. Sandy-the-dog was perfect for us.
We didn’t know her age, but she was full-grown. An early vet visit declared she was “4,” but another one several years later also declared her “4.” So, we know she was probably 1-2 years old when we got her fourteen years ago.
But she was an old soul, right out of the gate. She was able to navigate our huge family (5 kids, high school and college age) and our loud house full of friends and visitors. She was wise and deep in her devotion, love-filled and loyal, generous in adoration of her people and affectionate, loving those belly rubs and declaring anyone who would take the time to pet her to be her best friend for life! She just made sure you knew she was right there if you needed her.
My mom and Sandy, summer 2009. They’re like sisters from different mothers, personality-wise. It was as if they’d always been close.
She was Steph’s dog, then Steph got married and she became Rocky’s dog. Then he got married and she was Stormie’s dog. Then Stormie bought a house and she became my dog and I didn’t even really want that, but good grief, how had I lived without that? She was my buddy, my friend, my shadow. She worked with me in the garden, or she napped lazily there while I worked, but we loved spring and sunny days together.
She sat as close to me as possible at all times and was my most trusted confidante during hard times and when I cried, she would move in close, place her paw and her face on my knees and look me straight in the face, as if to say, “There, there – everything will be ok. I’m right here.” She caught my tears when they fell.
She lives for love and lives to love. The slightest kindness or gentle word from me and Sandy thumps a Morse-Code message of affection back to me with her ample tail.
Sandy was totally undisciplined, as “good” dogs go, never really trained for “show.” She lived her life with us sort of free–form and relaxed. She feigned deafness when it suited her, but could hear the crackling of a bag of chips from miles away. Her breed, German Wire-Haired Pointer, hunts birds, so she’d bark her head off at a bird flying overhead, then just lie quietly, her head on her paws and watch little birds bathe in her water dish on sunny days on the patio. She’d even welcome them to her food, gentle spirit that she was. Or fraidy-cat, whichever. :)
But she was a good dog. Because a good dog teaches us so much about love and loyalty and forgiveness. Sandy did that for me. She was affectionate and humble, sweet and protective, saving me from many a solicitor at the front door. Her bark could scare, but we always laughed that had a burglar just reached out to her, she’d have given them anything and everything they wanted.
I loved her stretch, her behind in the air, back-back-back, then forward lunge, with her face to the sky, all the while making a loud old-man stretching sigh. Or how she’d grab a dryer sheet and waller all over it, so she’d smell nice for us, I assume.
A few months before “the day”
My old Sandy-girl, she was faithful and loving and loyal to all of us, the whole tribe of us, including each new grandchild as they came. Once she learned on the first grandchild, how to love and protect, she always understood, new baby by baby. They trusted her, too. She was our dog and we were her people.
Sandy with my grandson Kai. He was 1 3/4. About 6 months before Sandy died.She patently waits, hoping he’ll send chicken her way.
Sandy never met a human being she didn’t want to love zealously with her whole heart and to forgive if they didn’t like dogs or just couldn’t return her affection.
Oh, she was a lover.
The end.
We were planning to put her down soon, as ailments of old-age were taking a toll, but on that Saturday morning, when my husband took her into the backyard on the brightest and loveliest of spring days, she just dropped and gasped a few times and he gently gave her the ok to go.
I wasn’t ready…
And even though I ran out, dropped to the ground and called to her, Sandy-girl, hey girl, are you ok?, Hey Sandy, come here, girl...trying to woo her back, gently jostling and petting my old dog to awaken her, she kept on going.
The birds were singing in the blue, blue sky, and the old trees were filled with youthful, green buds for a new season, a new life; and the day was alive, humming its spring melody, so perfectly beautiful – just like every day Sandy gave us for 14 years.
Hey, Sandy-girl, dear old devoted dog. You are not forgotten. Your people still love you…
While I was sick last month with the winter-crud, I binge-watched the final season of Parenthood. My favorite scenes were always where the whole family came together to share a meal. Dave loves the show Blue Bloods for the same reason – those Reagan-family Sunday dinners.
At exactly 5 o’clock pm while I was growing up, every night of the week (except Sunday, when we’d wait to eat until after Sunday night church service), my mom had dinner on the table. Like all families, we were busy with life, mostly school and church. And since my dad was the pastor of the church, he was preaching mid-week services, or visiting the sick, or leading board meetings a lot of the evenings. He worked hard all day and continued his ministry in the evenings. So that 5 o’clock suppertime was our family time. Ross-the-Boss, Mrs Moss and all the Little Landers.
Though I couldn’t have realized then the power of the connectivity of those simple meals, usually always served with white bread and butter on the side, I cherish those people and those nightly meals in the halls of my heart. I cannot imagine a simpler, nor safer time, than around that table.
When Dave and I were raising our kids, we ate around the table, too, though the hour could be anywhere from 6 to 8 o’clock, even later (which my parents found mortifying). We ate at the table until life got really hectic as the kids got older and we let up. As the first of our kids became busy teens, we drifted from the table. We still hung out together as often as possible, had “family days” with just us, sometimes eating on the back deck or at a local eatery, but often it was a pizza while watching a movie. Together, but not talking, not having “face time.”
These days, 4 added-on children by marriage plus the ten grandbebes they have blessed us with, it’s hard to find a table big enough. But each time we can make it happen, find a few hours to get together and share a meal in a crowded room or at a park, our hearts nearly explode with love.
We’re a big group now. 21 of us, so far. If we thought the late nineties were a challenge with 7 of us, we could not have comprehended these days.
The Dave & Jeanie Rhoades Tribe, Christmas afternoon, 2015
Last night we all came together. We gathered for the first time, the whole bunch of us in one place, since Christmas. It was “Italian night,” with pastas in cream sauce and paleo variations, too. We topped it off with the seriously sweet “Fruit Pizza” in celebrating Averi’s 8th birthday. And some of us ate in the kitchen and we popped up a table in the living room and some ate seated on the floor or sprawled on the couch.
And I am fully aware, in a way I didn’t understand 20 years ago, that these moments together are not promised, and they’re not easy to come by, but they’re worth the work to make happen.
Whenever I get the chance to nose in and disperse advice, I tell young families:
“Eat together. Eat supper (or dinner, or whatever you want to call it) around a table together. Make it a deal to set the table and cook the food. And don’t make my my mistake and let that go too early. Turn off the TV and talk. Talk about your highs and lows or how your day went or any number of mundane topics. Just look at each other and talk.” -this advice brought to you by an older and wiser woman
And I mean that. No matter how hard it is to establish the routine. or how many complaints you hear, this will be the most impactful hour of each day for your familia. I truly believe this: this is where family magic happens – breaking bread together, sharing daily life, being comfortable with “just us.”
I came across this commercial today and wanted to share it with you. It is what instigated this post.
Who Would You Most Like to Have Dinner With? By Masterfoods, Australia
“Let’s make time for the people who matter the most.”
Gather – Cook – Eat – Repeat
Face time your family. But for real, in person, around the table. Have dinner together. It will be the most powerful hour of your day. These are your people, they need your face, your words, your time and your love. Gather ’round the table and eat. Listen and share, give and receive. The family table is where it all begins…
{source}“They broke bread in their houses and ate together with glad and sincere hearts.” Acts 2.26, Those Fixer Upper people do the coolest things – like that scripture on this wall!
You don’t give Your love in pieces, You don’t hide Yourself to tease us…
My youngest daughter, Stormie, introduced me to a song a few months ago that is a powerful tribute to Love, true Love, the God-kind of Love; the Real Thing.
Amanda Cook and Steffany Gretzinger wrote this song, “Pieces.”
