Where Are Your Stories Told? (legacy)

Last week I attended a funeral and this one, like all funerals, caused me to drop all the business of life and consider the memories my life is making. My husband’s grandmother, Margaret DiDio, died at 95 years old. Although she journeyed here from Sicily as a teenager, till the day she died her English was almost swallowed up by a very heavy Italian accent we all cherished. She became a bride at 17 to Chris’s grandfather, who was 35.

This couple went on to have 6 children who knew the committed love of their mother and father. They understood that family, for all its good and bad, was an unbreakable bond. The kids learned early on that everyone pitched in and life was meant to be shared. The siblings all joke how one toy belonged to everyone so God help the child who broke it!

As the family grew, Margaret brought laundry and tailoring in to the home to help put food on the table. That food was pasta, everyday, as Chris’s dad Angelo likes to point out with a grimace. Ang jokes whatever else they managed to have, didn’t matter what it was, it went in the pasta pot. This is why Angelo today is the only Italian I know who doesn’t eat pasta!

Angelo and his five siblings all knew when they returned home from school there was tailoring and laundry work to help their mother with before they were set free to play. When they found ways to earn money outside the home, the money wasn’t considered theirs. This was money to help keep the family afloat. Whatever little bit they managed to hold back on the sly was like a kings ransom jingling in their pockets as they made their way to the corner store for candy.

When I first met Margaret over 20 years ago she welcomed me into her Baltimore home and I was ushered right past the immaculate plastic covered living room furniture, down to the basement. I wondered why we weren’t visiting upstairs, until I was met with the aroma of her sauce as I entered the basement. I realized immediately, this is the room where family happened. My senses were electric with the smells of her legendary sauce and the loud commotion of a family all talking and laughing at the same time.

This was the place where the light as air pizzas with no cheese were created. This was the place where Chris told me he would eat until he felt like he was going to burst. This was the place where babies were born and lost, marriages were made and broken, stories were told and retold, laugher and tears flowed as easily as the wine, dreams were born and died, lives were encouraged and loved ones were remembered. This was where family was grown, not the fairy tale kind that only exists between the pages of books, but the nit and grit of everyday family life. This was where bonds went through the fire and found strength resolved.

It was immediately obvious that Margaret took a quiet delight in preparing food for the people she loved, while she was surrounded by them. Her cooking was undaunted by all the chaos that surrounded her. One of her great grandson’s was racing around the kitchen running head first into the wall. At this point I was years away from having children so when Grandmom yelled, ‘Anthony, Anthony what are you doin’, your gonnna breaka my wall!’ I erupted into laughter. The wall I thought, no concern for his head?

Now that I have three boys, I get it. Grandmom had already raised three little boys and she was well aware that walls give much more quickly than little boy heads!

As I sat at her wake, I couldn’t help but remember ‘you breaka my wall” and Grandmom's quick smile with sweet nostalgia. Her son Sam spoke at her service, ‘you know, when I came home from being out I’d always say, ‘mom, I’m home.’ I just always assumed I was the most important thing to her and she knew it was me when I said that. That’s home and that’s the kind of mom she was. She made everyone feel special.”

Sam went on to talk of trips to the beach where neighbors would all caravan along with their family. Metal baby wash tubs full of fried chicken and pasta were all strapped to the top of the car. I can just imagine what the house must have smelled like for days as Grandmom spent cooking to prepare for these trips.

Grandmom had a stroke several months ago and when it was time for her to leave the hospital, her daughter Evelyn who she lived with said, ‘I’ll continue to care for Mom.’ This strong woman who had spent her entire life caring for all around her would now need care and it would be in the loving hands of those she had spent her life caring for.

After the stroke Grandmom was unable to care for the home she shared with her daughter’s family or prepare food she was famous for her whole life. Unable even to get down the stairs without assistance, Grandmom was confined to her bedroom for most of the day. This was not a life Grandmom had ever known and it was not one she would adjust to.

A beloved neighbor, who I’m sure never measured five feet tall in her highest heels, also from Italy told me of her relationship to Grandmom. “I called Margaret ‘Mom’ because she told me to. She said I was like another daughter to her and she was like a mother to me.’ She said this with a distinct mix of pride and obvious loss. She went on to tell me how she and Grandmom would sit on the front stoop speaking Italian to one another, reminiscing about the old country. Wouldn’t I have loved to be an Italian fly on the wall during those times!

Grandmom lost her will to live when she stopped being able to care for the ones she loved. When a life has spent 95 years caring for others the switch to being cared for is not an easy one. Laying back to be cared for was just not in the DNA of this strong woman. Friends and relatives tried to cheer Grandmom up and set her sights towards getting better but her reply was, ‘I no happy. I ready to die.’ Problem is, no one was ready to let her go.

The family gathered together after her funeral at Carrabbas to share a meal in Grandmom’s honor. The time would have been exactly as Grandmom would have had it: plates piled high with pasta, wine glasses full, raucous laugher, story telling hinting at the DiDio connection to the mob, singing, Aunt Edie teaching the little boys how to do a James Cagney “you dirty rat” gangster impression, and more laughter.

Grandmom’s love of cooking was something she shared with Chris’s mom Joyce. Anyone who knows Joyce has at least three dishes they look forward to having when they go the DiDio’s to do life together. Annually, to the delight of all who attend, Joyce reproduces Grandmom’s meatball soup at her Christmas party. Grandmom taught Joyce to prepare dishes with a reassuring ‘”it comes good” as they shared time in the kitchen. Joyce’s love of cooking was something I was introduced to as a teenager who must have eaten pounds of shrimp creole in their old Klee Court kitchen. It was difficult for me to say what I enjoyed more, the food or the time spent around the table long after the food was done. I have gone on to establish time around the table, sharing life, over mounds of food as a foundation in my home. Reaching out with love and food is just the DiDio way.

I’m struck by this legacy of time around the table sharing life and how it’s thread has been woven into all the DiDio homes. I'm struck by Jesus' example of sharing meals with those He was building into, those He loved. The photos that show our family around the table doing the everyday business required to build strong bonds from within are some of my favorites. I say this to encourage you to spend time around the table as a family. Tell your stories so they may be carried on to future generations. Take pictures that show the bonds within your family for they will be the ones that tell your story to future generations! Let your story of God’s goodness be told and retold around the table in a way that inspires future generations to invest in the love God has placed in their lives!

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"A good woman is hard to find, and worth far more than diamonds. First thing in the morning, she dresses for work, rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started. She senses the worth of her work, is in no hurry to call it quits for the day. She's skilled in the crafts of home and hearth, diligent in home making. She's quick to assist anyone in need, reaches out to help the poor. She always faces tomorrow with a smile. When she speaks she has something worthwhile to say, and she always says it kindly. She keeps an eye on everyone in her household, and keeps them all busy and productive. Her children respect and bless her; her husband joins in with words of praise: 'many woman have done wonderful things, but you've outclassed them all!'" Proverbs 31 excerpts

**these photos are an homage to Grandmom DiDio’s inspired Italian creations in my kitchen. Thanks Grandmom for sharing your love of Italian cooking so we would realize all the delight awaiting us in tiramisu, bruschetta, italian bread, sauce, pizza, tomato caprese, meatball soup, minestrone, zupa toscana, and stromboli!

Needles (fear)

Three moms and 8 little boys all were headed home on a three hour journey after a beach weekend away they would not soon forget. The weekend was full of laughter, sun and surf, “booger ice cream”, Thrasher’s fries, bingo, Stratego, hives, and one little boy’s first time ever sleep over.

There was one issue though that kept rearing its ugly head throughout the weekend though, a 7 year old boy’s struggle with Type I Juvenile Diabetes.

Carson’s not a kid who lets his diabetes stop him from any typical little boy activities. I had known him for months on the football field before I ever even knew he had diabetes.

But not being able to wear his pump at the beach had really thrown his diabetes into a terrible cycle of highs and lows. His mom’s best attempts to reign in this unpredictable beast proved to be a lesson in futility. IV lines jammed with sand, sun took it’s toll, supplies ran low and mom’s concern only continued to mount as her precious son just wanted to run in the surf with his friends and forget about the disease he lives with daily.

Diabetes and one mother were squaring off toe to toe that weekend. This fight required a delicate balancing act. But, despite her best efforts, diabetes quite simply refused to submit to every effort to manage it. The worry was evident on mom’s watchful face.

The last day on the beach had seen a turn around because a dressing had been found that would allow Carson to wear his pump on the beach. Scales were tipped in favor of mom’s perseverance to provide a ‘normal’ day of play at the beach for her boys.

However, hours later while driving home Carson’s numbers were telling a different story. His body would not respond to adjustments made through the pump and mom began to fret over the decision that she knew was right around the corner.

‘I really should give him a shot. Ohh, but I really would just like us to get home first because we are getting so close and it’s not going to be pretty,’ she said.

‘Do whatever you need to do to keep him safe. If we need to stop, we stop. If he throws a fit because he has to get a shot, then he throws a fit. It doesn’t matter, you just do what you need to do and tell us how to help,’ I said.

Carson knew what was coming and fear crept in, ‘no Mom, I don’t want to get a shot, I don’t want to!’ he said with urgency and obvious trepidation. Despite his best effort to hold them back, the tears began.

Wyatt seeing his friend in distress asked, ‘does Carson need to get a shot Ms. Kelly?’

“Yes, he does Wyatt,” she replied.

“You can give me his shot,” Wyatt replied with an obvious desire to take this pending pain from his friend.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever been prouder of him than in that moment. Sometimes the impulsiveness I'd been working so hard to try and reign in and redirect with Wyatt led him to moments like this. This was the sacrificial love we had talked about in theory when we studied God’s Word but now here it was in practice!

In my mind I was taken back to when Wyatt was a year and a half old.We were in the doctor’s office getting shots and he had gone first. Then his twin brother went and I’m quite sure Will’s howling could be heard rooms away.

“Oh, did you see that look he is giving me and that stink eye! He is mad at me!’ the nurse said.

‘Yes, I saw! Wyatt’s not hiding how angry he is that you just hurt William. He’s letting you know the best way he can as a one year old,’ I laughed.

We still joke and reproduce that furrowed brow, angry leaning in face with an angry snort that Wyatt gave the nurse that day. Today he likes to say he was trying to blow boogies on her to make her stop hurting Will!

Now, here he was 5 years later still not wanting to see someone he loved get hurt. Only now he had the words to convey his intent and he was willing to take onthis hurt himself.

Kelly thanked Wyatt and explained that it wouldn’t help Carson if he didn’t get the shot, but what a wonderful friend he was to offer. Carson seemed to perk up a bit and we began to talk about what all the boys could do to help their friend.

“You can pray for Carson that he’ll be brave for his shot. Maybe we can sing him our song we sing when we are afraid---‘brave like David in the lion’s den, brave like Jonah in the belly of a whale, brave like Joshua at the battle of Jericho….” I sang knowing we were moments from pulling over for the shot.

We pulled over and I gave all the boys drinks while Carson went to get his shot in private. As I stood handing out drinks Carson came to ask for one.

“Oh, not yet, you need to get your shot first and then see how your numbers are,’ I said.

“I did get my shot and it’s ok,’ he replied non chalantly.

“What! Get out! I didn’t hear one peep out of you! Are you kidding me!!?? That’s it, we’ve got a new line to add to our song. It’s going to be, “Brave like Carson when he’s getting a shot,” I said.

Carson’s smile beamed ear to ear and so did the other boys. I marveled how a lesson God had taught me about using his Word to combat fear in my boys lives was rising to the surface again years later (“Lord of the Flies—Worry,” June 2010 blog). Carson was the brave one and now he had been placed in the ranks of biblical heroes like Daniel and Joshua. That’s the power of the Word of God to build courage into a life!

I thought how quickly we are to wish and pray away all these uncomfortable/messy/sad/devastating and anxious moments and ask God to replace them with predictability. We want moments that make us comfortable, but as Rick Warren reminds us, God’s more interested in our character than our comfort and our holiness than our happiness. It seems predictability is never where the Spiritof God is developed in our lives. Love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control are truly grown in the trenches!

In this moment I understood what God meant when He told us to come to Him with thanksgiving for everything. The diabetes I had been cursing because of the strain I saw it place on people I love, had now become a conduit to develop God’s kindness and gentleness between two friends. I was able to tell God, ‘thank You that You take sordid things like diabetes and use them to grow beauty. Thank You for making devoted mothers like Kelly who goes about her day with such sacrifice to all her around her. Thank You for giving her strength to rise to each new challenge she faces to protect her children. Thank You that You invest in our lives through the things we would wish away so that you can develop beauty not found in the comfortable spots we seek.

Carson enjoying his first ever sleep over (Mom was one room over so she would be able to check his numbers in the middle of the night) while Tad reads him a story.