Pancake Bites

Today I made pancake bites.  Pancake bites with bananas and blueberries.  I had surgery 2 weeks ago tomorrow and this is the first thing that I have cooked or baked since.  Sure, it was only the gluten free mix and a cup of water, but I did add fruit, so that must count for something. I have made a sandwich, I have poured a bowl of cereal, I have warmed food up in the microwave, but today, I feel like I have conquered something.  Pancake bites.

In these past two weeks, I have read two books, watched 4 documentaries and watched maybe 6 movies. (The best being- Woman Walks Ahead.) I have edited 10 articles, written one article on Comfort Foods for an overseas website, and started proof reading submissions for a journal that I have been asked to serve as guest editor for the flash fiction section for the month of April. I have also taken 1482 naps.  I am so tired.  I have no energy whatsoever.  I am reminded daily that the exhaustion is just my body working very hard to heal itself.  Well, I would like some more healing to happen quickly. 

I also should tell you that I had to take a nap in between paragraph two and three while writing this blog post.

Each day I set a goal. Someday's it is practical things like,  shower before 10 am.  Or eat more protein. Monday, Tuesday and today, the goal was to try to figure out how to lay on couch without causing any pain.  That will also be my goal for Thursday since it hasn't happened yet.  I am also going to add -figure out how to load the dishwasher and front loading washing machine.  (I am not joking.) 

Every day, I try to do a little something.  Separate three loads of laundry with Lily.  Play a game with Zach.  Load the dishwasher.  Change the tablecloth on the dining room table.  Just something.  There are a million other things that need to be done, but I feel a great sense of accomplishment when I do any of these things. Today, it was pancake bites. Breakfast for tomorrow has already been made.  Done.

Tomorrow, I might even wow myself.  Dust the mantle. Read another book.  Watch another movie.  But by Sunday, I want to have driven the car at least around the neighborhood.  That is my new big goal and I am sticking to it.

Check back with me next week. I might have even gone and made some actual pancakes by then. Probably not.

The House In Maine

The House In Maine

By: Kelli J Gavin

My husband asked if I wanted to take one last look  One last look at the house,
the remaining contents, everything I was leaving behind.  I wasn’t sure I could.
Could I walk back into the home where I grew up and not be blasted by every
beautiful, every breathtaking, every heartbreaking occurrence that took place
within those walls?

The trailer was packed, so was the car. Only enough a room left for the two of us
in the front seat.  I sifted through everything in house as quickly as I could.
Leaving donate piles, garbage piles and clear instructions of what furniture should
be sold and what should be loaded onto the the trailer that would return to my home.
I carefully packed keepsakes and treasures myself.  I located the wooden crate in the
back closet next to the fireplace in the living room which contained my grandmother’s
journals which she had begun keeping at the age of 10. That crate would be loaded
into the car. I found her beautiful costume jewelry and scarves and handbags and pulled
a special few to be packed away for me.  Treasures of which I had used as a child when
I liked to play dress up. Such a simple time. When all that mattered was that my
diamond earrings sparkled and that my handbag matched my shoes.

My mother and I moved in in with my grandmother when I was 7. Mom said Cancer
in her bones would take her within the year and she wanted to make sure that I was well
taken care of.  Where would this cancer in her bones take her? I didn’t understand but also
didn’t ask any questions. I had never met my grandmother before. She lived in Maine.
What was Maine? I was told it was state very far away from Chicago where we lived.  
My mother never spoke of my grandmother and only mentioned her name when I asked
mother is she had mother. She smirked at me, “Vera, everyone has a mother. Some are just
better than others.”

We arrived at the worn down home in this odd place called Maine that smelled of fish and
mold. Everything seemed dirty and boots were needed just to walk outside as the rains had
turned the ground to thick mud that you would sink into if you didn’t keep putting one foot
in front of the other. Grandma, or Gran as she requested to be called, was short and thin with
beautiful white hair.  She wore sweater sets with matching shoes and brooches and pearls.
Gran looked exactly like what my 7 year old mind thought a grandmother should look like.

We were welcomed quickly, ushered in swiftly and tucked into our quarters immediately.  
I do not believe that Gran was slow at anything. Everything was done in haste as if there
were bigger and better things to do next. Always something to be done. Something to be
accomplished. Gran never sat still.  She polished silver, she organized the china hutch,
she folded and re-folded linen napkins. She applied lipstick and smoothed her skirt that
didn’t need smoothing. She smiled larger than necessary and poured more tea even when
it wasn’t requested or had already been refused. Gran a was nervous force to be reckoned
with.

My mother slowed down quickly after we moved in. She began to request meals on a
tray be brought to room two weeks after we arrived in Maine. Gran and I were happy to
oblige. Constance, the housekeeper arrived every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning
at 8 a.m. sharp.  She cleaned and cooked and did the laundry and often left me Butter Rum
Life Savers if I helped hang the laundry on the lines. She was kind and sweet to my mother
and hummed Hymns as she worked.

Mom died 6 weeks after we arrived in Maine. She passed quietly in her sleep.  I laid next
to her for half a day before going with Gran to the kitchen. My grandmother arranged
everything with her local church and funeral home. The funeral would be in a couple days.  
I sat with tears in my eyes looking at Gran as Constance poured us both a cup a tea.
“What happened with you and my mother? Why didn’t I know about you until now?
Why have I never met you?”

“Vera. I loved your mother very much. She was my only daughter. I hurt your mother
a number of years ago and she was never able to forgive me.  I told her last night that
I loved her and how sorry I am that we wasted all of these years away. I told her how
enchanting you are and how I was learning to quite enjoy being a Gran.  Vera, I am sorry.
I will love like you are my own daughter. You can live here as long as you like. When it is
time to go to college, everything will be taken care of. This is where you can call home.”
Gran leaned over and gave me an awkward kiss on my forehead.

My young mind couldn’t figure out how Gran had hurt mom years ago.  I thought about it
for a number of years but then I eventually stopped caring.  Gran and I developed a great
relationship. She enrolled me school, helped with my homework and encouraged me to
get involved with extracurricular activities. She had Constance drop me off at church on
Wednesday nights for Youth Group, and a local mom brought me home. I made friends,
I enjoyed school, and I learned to like living in Maine.  

I always missed my mother. Nothing could fill that void in my heart.  I started writing and found
that stories of my mother and Gran were what I enjoyed the most.  I went to the local college and
majored in Creative Writing. I received my Masters in English with a focus in Literature. Gran
couldn’t have been more proud.  She begin to decline in her later years and Constance had passed
away when I was an undergrad. Lucille came to clean our home and take care of Gran. I would go
home on weekends. To visit and smile and read to Gran. Our time together was nothing short
of magical.  

When Gran passed, I found it difficult to return home. I should have rented the home out. But
couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else living there.  I married the love my life and we enjoyed
living in New York City. My husband told me it was time to sell the home as it had fallen into ill
repair. We hired a team and it took us three days. The project was complete. And the final clear
out enable the home to be put on the market as is.  I prayed for some amazing home improvement
lover of broken homes to come along and restore the home to its original glory.

After walking the perimeter of the home, I went in for one last look. “Are you leaving that
chair ma’am?”  One of movers asked as I was startled.

“Oh yes, just for a few minutes please.”  I approached the chair next to the fireplace and gently
sat down in Gran’s chair.  Gran had always liked this chair. It wasn't particularly comfortable.
But I am came to find out it had been her father’s chair. Gran said felt close to him when she sat
in it. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.  I could swear that the house still smelled like Gran’s
perfume and Constance’s chocolate chip cookies. I savored these smells, these memories and wasn’t
sure I was going to be able to remove myself from the chair anytime soon.

I heard a heavy shuffle of feet behind me and a gentle placement of hands on my shoulders.
“I have made a mistake.  I need this chair to come with us, honey. Can you find some rope and
figure out a way to strap it to the top of the car? This chair can’t be left behind.”

My dear husband.  After I finished making my rounds of each room of the house, I found him
outside with rope in hand securing Gran’s chair in place on top of our car.  I smiled as tears poked
the corners of my eyes. Yes. Now I had everything I needed from the house in Maine.

Difficult Conversations

I had surgery this past Thursday.  Three surgeries were planned and an additional surgeon showed up unannounced to perform an additional procedure for which I am very thankful.  A dream team of doctor's came together to figure out what the best course of action was for me and prayerfully provide long term relief. 

Surgery went well and recovery is a challenge, but I knew that it would be. When this much surgery takes place,  it takes an excessive amount of time for the body to heal.  I am instructed to do nothing for two weeks. Bed to couch and back again.  I may or may not have washed a counter without reaching and may have folded a few towels.  I was so exhausted from that, I couldn't do anything else. I rest a lot, nap a lot, and dream about the next time I can rest again. It is hard for me to slow down and do nothing. But this time is welcomed.  Because when I do start feeling better,  when my body starts really healing,  I will no longer struggle with daily pain.  I will not longer tell my kids we can't leave the house because I don't feel well.  I will no longer have to decline invitations from friends because I do not know how I will feel.  I will be able to resume activities that I love and jump back into life and actually have fun every day.  

Leading up to surgery, there were a number of things that I needed to do. I scheduled a Pre Op Physical.  I called both surgeons and asked my list of questions.  I called the insurance company with CPT codes to make sure that my three surgeries were covered by the company. I had to pack a bag for an extended hospital stay. I had to inform teachers of my surgery and make sure that rides and meals and after school care was coordinated.  I had my husband arrange so that my amazing mom in law came the night before to spend the night and make sure that the kids got off to school okay in the morning and then to come back again after school to get them off the bus and give them dinner.  I had to fill out paperwork and make sure I had my daily meds packed.  

One of the forms requested was my Living Will.  I have completed a Living Will because of past surgeries. Not every 43 year old has a need for one. But it gives me peace of mind knowing that mine is in place.  My Living Will states that if I am ill, not able to speak for myself, what I would and what I wouldn't want done.  It states that if something happens and I will not recover from it and will not survive, to make me comfortable but do not use any extraordinary measures to prolong my life.  I have seen too many children holding on way too much by prolonging the life of a parent in hopes that they will improve against medical recommendations. 

Times like this, when facing serious surgery where complications are even expected, difficult conversations had to take place.  On Wednesday night after the kids went to bed, we prayed. We prayed for a long time. We also talked briefly about the hard stuff.  I said I knew he didn't want to talk about it, but I reminded him that he is my overall Health Proxy. He has been given the right to speak on my behalf. I reminded him that my major goal is to be kept comfortable.  I also reminded him of the risks of these surgeries I was facing.  We reviewed the paperwork together again, just so we both knew all of the information that they contained.  I told Josh that if something were to happen to me during surgery, and I would not make it, that I would want him to make sure that every organ that could be used would be donated to someone that needed it. That all my blood, any tissue, even my horrible eyes, everything should be donated.  He knows how I feel about organ donation.  He understands that something good can always come from something horrible. 

I want the little girl who has sat in the hospital waiting for a new heart to play outside with her puppy.

I want the burn victim to have skin their arms to no longer feel the need to cover themselves when they go out into public.

I want the child who needs a new liver to dance with joy when the phone call comes that one has become available. 

I want the mother who has prayed for her child to see, to have eyes that will see green and blue and yellow and pink and purple and red all for the first time. 

I want those that would go without or those that would lose their own life to know that there is hope. That strangers care. That there is a way. 

Reflecting back, nothing went wrong during my surgery. Everything went quite well, even better than planned and relief is in sight. But one thing remains, when faced with the choice of what I would do if surgery becomes a reality again in the future, the same conversation would take place.  I will still tell Josh that I want him to help where he can.  To do everything that can be done. To preserve nothing.

I will not need this body. It will be cremated or placed in the ground.  The Bible says, I am promised a New Body.  A body where there is no pain.  And that sounds like an amazing promise to me. 

Connie is a Hugger

There is a very kind cashier at the Dollar Store in Richfield.  She is so welcoming and always asks if I found everything I was looking for.  I joke with her that I was never really looking for all the crap I am buying, but...we snicker longer than necessary.  She says she struggles the same way at Target.  It is like we are sisters or something. Oh the struggle is real.

Last Tuesday afternoon,  there was quite the line, and I was in a hurry. Usually I am not.  She hollers over to me, "Kelli! Come on down! I am ready for you!" She knows my name.  I mean, I know her as Connie, but I didn't think she would ever remember my name.  She waits on so many customers each day.  After one of our first meetings when I was sure to go to her lane,  I introduced myself and saw her name on her name tag and told her it was nice to meet her and I enjoyed talking to her.

I noticed her hands were very rough and one knuckle was bleeding. I told her on her break to go and buy one of Dove extra moisturizing lotions and that her hands would feel so much better. She told me the gluten free protein bars that were new at the end of her register were very good. But that I should buy the carrot and black bean not the carrot and corn bar.  She was right. It was really good.

Connie asked what the rest of my day looked liked today as she was ringing up my items.  I told her I was done with work, heading to the grocery store and heading home. I was planning on cooking a ham and making a salad and then bringing my son to youth group.  She laughed and told me I was ambitious. I realized too that I wasn't going to accomplish everything that I wanted to.  I asked Connie the same.  She paused for a minute and said that when she was done with work, she would stop at her mom's apartment, make her some food and do some light housekeeping before going home to her family.  Connie told me that she is her mother's primary care giver.  And her mom really isn't able to take to care of herself anymore.  She stops in every morning to get her up and moving and fed, showered and changed and then she makes sure she is comfortably seated in her lounger with at least three books, her water bottle, snacks, a phone and the remote.  She said she always puts a plate in fridge for her mom so she has a nice easy meal to eat in her absence.

When Connie explained what her days look like, she didn't once complain. She wasn't telling me so that I would give her accolades or feel bad for her situation. She was sharing with me all about her daily life, because it is her current reality. She felt comfortable enough to reveal herself.  I asked if her mother was ill. She said her mom had a few ailments, but that she had never been the same since her dad died.  She said the last two years had been really hard on her mom and she felt she had witnessed her mother age a lifetime right before her eyes.  Once vibrant and always ready for an adventure, now needed help bathing and and putting her socks on. She then told me her mom is only 60.

I was taken aback. The lines thinned out behind me and no one else was waiting to check out as they had all gone to other check out lanes. Connie and I then spoke about the physical and mental affects of sudden onset grief.  She said she feels like she has earned a college degree in care giving and felt like it wasn't a degree she ever wanted.  I was silent for a bit when Connie told me this.  What a revelation.  Knowledge and experience not wanted. A degree not sought after.

I shared with Connie, that my mom had passed away almost 6 years ago and lived in an assisted living facility as her physical needs were too great.  That she passed away within 2 1/2 months of being diagnosed with a stage four rare liver cancer. I told her that I hadn't been her caregiver. But I did learn a few important lessons.  I learned to ask questions and ask even more questions. I learned to get second opinions and google and get feedback from friends and family. But most importantly, I learned to listen to my mom.  About what she was thinking and feeling. About her dreams and desires and also about her fears. I learned to listen to what she wanted and didn't want when her time came.  I also learned that promising my mom that I would honor her wishes brought her peace and comfort. These lessons were learned at a very challenging time. But these were lessons that I needed to learn. And it was my mother who was the best teacher.

Connie and I both teared up a bit.  She handed me my receipts and my three small bags.  I thanked her for sharing with me.  "Connie.  I see you.  Know this time spent loving and serving your mom is time well spent.  It is hard and challenging and sometimes so exhausting. But this is also time you will never regret."  She smiled walked around from her register and hugged me.  I let her be the one to let go first.

I love interactions like this.  The meeting of two hearts who have something in common.  And that hug.  I might need to go back for another one next very soon.  :)

Grace, Understanding and Kindness

I had a challenging experience this morning at church. This is the second Sunday in the new large auditorium. The size enables the entire church body to worship together during one service at 9:30 a.m. We sit usually in the same location and let Zach pick wherever he is most comfortable. It changes from church to church or at different activities but it is usually middle, main floor, near the back. He likes to sit in the second chair, I am always on his right and Josh is always on his left.

The service started and about five minutes in, a couple in their fifties came and sat in front of us. I didn't recognize them, hadn't seen them before, but that is nothing new as it is only the second week of combining both services. The topic today was on Biblical Sexuality. We are working our way through a great study called Messy. Because, let's just face it, we all are messy. Life is messy. Relationships are messy. Zach loves Pastor Troy Dobbs. He loves his slight Southern accent, his hand gestures and his intonation. He loves his word choices and sometimes when he is funny. Zach normally doesn't like it when people laugh. Especially if it is loud and often. He struggles with what he views as the intensity of emotion. So, Zach will often let out an awkward laugh to match that of those around him, even if he doesn't understand what everyone is talking about. Today was a tough one. There was laughter, uncomfortable laughter, and Zach kept latching on to the harsh consonant of the S in the word Sex. He repeated the word over and over. I reminded him he needed to be quiet and not to talk during the service multiple times. If Zach is agitated, (laughter) his need for conversation and reassurance is frequent. I finally got him settled and into a groove, and then sermon notes started. Zach loves to complete his sermon notes. He struggles to do it in the time when all the words are still on the screen. So I often end up signing the letters to him so he can complete his notes. Today, he struggled to focus on my hands signing so I had to sign directly into his hand to keep his attention and enable him to complete his notes.

I saw the woman in front of me taking notes the entire time. She then bumped her husband and pushed her notebook closer to him so that he could read what she had written. Her beautiful script where she had been taking copious notes had turned into an angry, large, block print. The first sentence began to describe the boy sitting behind them who was "extremely distracting." I gulped, and leaned closer to read the rest. She went on to write, "HE SHOULDN'T BE IN CHURCH IF HE IS GOING TO BE MAKING SO MUCH NOISE. REMIND ME TO NEVER SIT BY THEM AGAIN!"

My mom heart broke a bit. He shouldn't be in church? Wait, she wanted a reminder not to sit by my amazing son ever again? I started to fume and caught myself. -Hold every thought captive.- I did what every mom of a special needs kid would do. I let it hurt for only a minute and then I moved on. I did spend a minute preparing a response just in case she addressed me after the service. But I knew she wouldn't. And she did not. However, when she stood and turned to exit, I made sure I greeted her with a warm smile.

What would I have said if she complained or did verbally confront me? First, I would never apologize, but would say something like this:

Hi. My name is Kelli. This is my son Zach. He is almost 16 and has Autism. We are so happy how engaged Zach remains in the Sunday morning service. Many kids and teens often check out. Zach enjoys completing his sermon notes, but needs a little extra help. At times, some of his behaviors can be a bit distracting. We are fully aware of that. Zach wasn't able to enter a sanctuary for a worship service until he was 10 years old. We are so blessed to now be able to worship together as a family on Sunday mornings. It was pleasure meeting you.

No ill will. No snarkiness. No apology. I am not ashamed of Zach or the amazing young man he has become. He is loud and loving and caring and funny and silly and engaged in a Sunday morning worship service. Those are things I can't apologize for. But I can educate. I can explain. I can let people know that there are special needs present. I can let people know that there is genuine joy in my son's physical presence during a worship service, because 6 short years ago, that wouldn't have even occurred. I can also enable her to understand that I quite possibly had seen what she had written, and given her an explanation when one isn't ever really needed.

What happened to grace and understanding? What happened to kindness? I know that sometimes people don't possess grace and understanding or kindness. And they never will. But that doesn't mean that I shouldn't extend it to others. I feel that we are called to extend these things to others even when we know it will never be offered to us in return. And even though it was particularly challenging today, I had to make the choice to do just that.

Zach will continue being loud. He will continue needing lots of hand holds, tight embraces, boisterous signing into his hand and assurance that he is okay even in the presence of people laughing and babies crying. But he will also continue giving his people the best Sunday morning hugs and high fives they have ever received. He will make sure that the little kids he adores get plenty of hand shakes and knuckles and compliments on their new clothing and shoes. Zach will make babies feel like they are the highlight of his day. He will love his church body they way they love him. Accepting Zach for who he is and all that it entails. And Zach will be eternally grateful. So will his parents.

The Last Picture I Will Take

The Last Picture I Will Take

By: Kelli J Gavin

I stand here looking out over the blinding white snow, the white clouds, the white peaks.  Some say it is beautiful.  I think the stark landscape and the silence is deafening.  

I never wanted to be a landscape photographer. I had lofty dreams of becoming a criminal prosecution lawyer.  I lasted two years into college and realized I couldn't do it.  Too much paper work, not enough court room exposure. Not what I thought it would be. Who am I kidding?  I was horrible at it.  I hated the work, I hated being told what to do and that I was always doing it wrong.  I was told I had an attitude problem and that I would never amount to anything.  I no longer desired to be a criminal prosecution lawyer, but I never really told anyone what happened.  I never admitted to a personal failure.  I told my family and close friends that it wasn't what I thought it would be and it didn't work out.  A few skeptical eyes lingered on me for longer than necessary.  Everyone kept telling me that I would figure it out.  That I would find something to do with my life. 

If I was honest with myself, I didn't really want to do anything else.  I didn't possess talent of any kind.  I didn't want to work when I really reflect back on that time.  I enjoyed taking pictures, but only as a hobby.  One of my pictures caught the eye of an author friend of mine who asked for permission to use it on the cover of her book. I said yes of course, for a small fee and for a photo credit on the inside book jacket cover. Apparently, my friend is an amazing author. Her book sold over 500,000 copies in the first 3 months.  I said yes that she could use the picture because it was an easy $500.  The offers came rolling in. Some for portraits, some for landscapes. I guess I had a bit of talent.  I loved lighting, natural sunlight and discovered the natural beauty that is all around us.  The commission contracts were fantastic and I was able to quit my part time job within the first three months. 

A wilderness and adventure magazine contacted me after they saw my pictures of Central Park. I enjoyed taking pictures of nature in settings you wouldn't suspect.  The film turned out great.  It appeared as if I was deep in the forest, when I was dealing with angry joggers and bikers who were competing for space at my heals on the walkway. I signed a two year contract with the magazine.  Not only did it enable me to travel and to research and request some of my own destinations, everything was paid for.  I traveled about three weeks out of every month.  And occasionally came home so that my friends knew that I was still in the land of the living. 

I have now been taking pictures for 12 years and turn down additional business daily.  I am 34 years old, have more money than I will ever need and have traveled the entire globe.  I am lonely, wish for someone to keep me company and have always wanted children.  How did a job that most dream of turn into a distraction from real life? Apparently, women don't enjoy dating men who travel constantly.  I dated casually each time I head home to New York,  but my lack of communication while traveling, never encouraged women to stay around for very long.  I find myself contemplating what bachelorhood for life would look like.  It doesn't look very exhilarating to me. It looks like more lonely nights and an eternal empty bed. 

This is my last assignment.  Quite possibly the last picture I will take. I am not filled with regret or even any emotion over this fact.  I was never meant to be a photographer in first place.  You do what brings you a little happiness and hopefully make some money along the way.  So long white snow. So long white clouds. Goodbye silence.  New York is calling my name. Home is calling to me.  The desire for a life well lived is shouting at me now.  

Finding Christ in Christmas

So much sadness seems to be evident around Christmas time.  The recent loss of a loved one.  The memory of a loved one enjoying Christmas.  Family and treasured friends separated by time and space. Relationships that are no longer are fostered. Marriages that have fallen apart. Children that are grown and forget to call home once in awhile.  Grown children who have walked away and have never turned back.  So much heart hurt.  And Christmas seems to make it hurt even more.

Personally, our Christmas is full of family, but a bit on the quiet side.  Christmas Eve celebrated with my husband's family and Christmas Day with my family. We are very fortunate that most of our family all lives in the Twin Cities local area.  We are able to enjoy a Christmas meal with each other, catch up with loved ones and indulge in treats aplenty. We will celebrate as a family of 4 on Christmas morning and open stockings and a few presents.

I find myself missing my mom so very much. She passed away almost 6 years ago at the very young age of 67.  I miss her love of Christmas. Her ability glorify the Lord in all she said and did.  I miss her love of making banana bread and Christmas chocolates. I miss her love of reading Christmas books to my kids.  I miss her hugs and hand holds. I miss her words of encouragement, and her ability to know when to be quiet and just listen.  I miss that this was her favorite time of year and she always took the time to tell everyone she met why it was so amazing.

A baby was born in Bethlehem.  A baby that grew to be a King.  A King that died on the Cross for our sins.  A man that rose again and promises to return.  The Glory of Christmas is found in the birth of one small baby.  Christmas isn't about presents and Santa. It isn't about perfect wrapping and Christmas cards and letters. And it surely isn't about anything material.  But it is about celebrating the birth of the most amazing baby.  The King of Glory.  The King of Kings.  Our Savior and King.

My mom taught me this. My mom taught everyone who would listen this very important lesson.  Christmas begins and ends with Christ. When my focus is on Christ, my heart hurts a little less.  Enjoy your family and your friends. Always treasure these times together as they are so precious and few. I will continue to share stories of my mom with kids and family. I will share about the horrible Christmas meal she made one year that left us all in fits of laughing tears. Or the time she hid our presents so well, she forgot where she put them. However, what I will share most is her love of the Savior, The King of Glory. Because Christ is always the only important focus of this holiday we celebrate. 

Merry Christmas!