Eighteen

                                                                             

Last June, on the eve of his 18th birthday, I looked at him and thought "nothing has really changed about him but everything is different".  That is Eighteen, a contradiction of epic proportion.  He still wants to be in his childhood with all of its carefree, limitless wonder but he cannot wait to grow up.
He loves our house and the home we've made in it and he cannot wait to leave it and reside farther away.  He needs to show me he is an adult even at the times when his innocence and naiveté show me he is not.

18 is the year I couldn't imagine ever coming when he was born.  It is the year I have watched looming as he's grown.  It is the year that I will know him a little less and he will become a whole lot more.  Most of his life from this point on will happen away from our family rather than within it.  This is a bittersweet realization, but one I am most grateful for.  He was safely in our nest, wrapped in our love and fortified with all the gifts we could give to make him stronger, more independent and full of happiness and self-satisfaction.  He has thrived, he grew, and he flew.

Even he can't believe that he is 18.  When I tell him he must register for the selective service and to vote, that I can no longer make decisions for him at the doctor, and that I won't call in sick for him at work, he pauses and is taken aback.  Eighteen wants to be an adult, but not if it means more paperwork or inconvenience.  Eighteen is full of confidence, physical strength, and the stamina of youth.  He has never been more beautiful or more clean.  His personal hygiene is impeccable.  He never needs me to remind him to shower, brush his teeth or put on deodorant.  He smells good all.the.time.
He rinses his dishes and sometimes even loads the dishwasher himself.   He rarely leaves a mess in the house and cleans out my car after he has borrowed it.  He still throws every article of dirty laundry including wet bath towels on the floor of the bathroom.  He has been told a billion times not to do that and fearing it will be a lifelong habit, I remind him again.  He wonders why I do this, and so do I.  There must be a time when he will have heard it enough, but how will I know when that is?

Eighteen thinks the drinking age should be 18.  I am the bearer of bad news.  Eighteen thinks he does not need a curfew.  I bear more bad news.  Eighteen wants to spend every spare minute of his time with his girlfriend.  He dreads the day when he and his friends will leave for college.  He tells me how much he will miss her, how much their closeness has meant to him, and how he hopes it will stay this way forever.  I am indebted to these wonderful young people who have taught my son so much about loyalty, trust, companionship and love.  I ignore the lump in my throat and do not tell him that I feel the exact same way about him.   He has been surrounded by people who have known and loved him his whole life.  He knows how lucky he is.  He is even starting to appreciate it.

18 is still living in our house.  I can tell Eighteen what to do and what not to do, until he leaves for college.  That would be foolish though, wouldn't it?  We are on a trial run now for adulthood, so I let him make most of his own decisions and step in only when I cannot help myself.  I try not to treat him like the momma's boy he no longer is, he tries not to act like the sarcastic teenager he once was.  Most of the time we are both successful, sometimes we aren't.  We look at each other and laugh.  When he is unhappy, he reminds me that soon he will be gone and that I won't be able to tell him what to do any longer.  Eighteen tells me this both to remind me of his need for independence and to hurt me a little bit.  In getting ready to leave, some small part of him is hurting too.  When he defies me, I can see that my means of control have slipped away.  I am depleted of all my tricks, my bribes, my pleas.  He knows them all.

Eighteen wants to push his father, his brother and I away and hold onto us at the same time.  He forgets to tell us where he is and when he will be return, then runs through the door with a hug or a high five, plopping down next to us to ask about our day.  He makes plans that don't include us, argues for the sake of it, and walks away from the dinner table too quickly.  Yet, he brings his brother home from school every day and if he can't, he makes sure to tell us of his change in plans and confirm his brother has a ride.  As the reality of him leaving confronts me, I remember that the obnoxious behavior is only temporary and that a markedly changed young man will be home on college break next year.  The caring and responsible adult shows his face now and I get a glimpse of what he will become.

18 loves his dog.  He is old enough to understand that this means he will someday suffer the death of him.  He picks him up and talks to him.  I hear him tell him that he will miss him next year.  That he's a good boy and that he is so sweet.  Eighteen knows that kids often get "the call" about their dogs when they are away at college and he doesn't want that call.  18 wants to play an endless game of "tug".

Eighteen is no longer simply living in time, but is now truly aware of it and feels it slipping away.  While he has so much to look forward to, he understands for the first time that he now has so much to look back upon as well.  18 experiences that pain of knowing we feel as adults when a precious moment has passed and we can never really return to it.  As he lets go of his childhood and readies himself to leave, he is fully aware of the fact that life has drawn a big red line at 18 and he is crossing over it.  Eighteen leaves little marks on his mama's heart, like a stinging paper cut as the time winds down and I see we no longer have years together but rather months and weeks.  I miss him before he is even gone.  I will be sad once he leaves.  Eighteen is drifting slowly away toward graduation, and summer and loading up the car and then he will really be gone.  I can do nothing about that except what I've always done. I can just help him on his way.  I love you, Eighteen.

Adapted from Grown and Flown, 12/09/14 and dedicated to Samuel Willson Barsness





 

Sistering

There is a term in carpentry called Sistering. I was reading about it on Glennon Doyle Melton's blog today, and this is how one Momastery reader defines it:

"Sometimes an existing joist, which was designed to handle a certain load, becomes too weak. Maybe it was damaged by water or fire. Maybe it still has structural integrity… but,  now it is not as sturdy as it needs to be…the new load [it receives] is going to be a lot heavier than before.  When a builder needs to strengthen that joist, she puts a new member right next to the original one and fastens the two together. Sometimes, two new joists are needed- one on either side. Do you know what they call that? A Sister Joist.  And builders use “Sister” as a verb, like, “We need to Sister the joists in the east bay about four feet.” Even better is the nonsensical: “Sistering” as in, “Are they finished Sistering the roof rafters?” "

It got me thinking. Is this not the perfect solution to when the load of life gets too heavy for any one person? For times when we might be mangled, bouncy, or sagging and need additional support? So, I did some additional research into how Sistering is used in construction and engineering to restore structural integrity and provide long term rigidity.

Here's the thing.  When houses (or people) are around long enough, something in their basic structure is inevitably going to get broken, twisted or split.  Right?  Typically, if additional support is added, it needs to happen right alongside the existing structure so the two are fastened tightly together. The attachment is the key.  If the original structure is good to start with then doubling it with the equal or larger sister support ups the safety margin.  But, ONLY if and when it is properly attached in the first place.  

For example, a damaged floor joist or roof rafter generally causes a low or sagging spot on the structure.  You need to raise this bouncy low spot to stiffen the floor or roof and raise it to it's original height. You brace the compromised joist along it's low point by jacking it up with a sister board of the same length and depth that is then carefully glued and nailed in place. You always want to be sure the sister board has enough extension to bridge the defect in the broken board. Glueing and nailing on a piece of wood that is the same depth and full length as the original board really increases the load carrying ability of that board.  Of course, you must take care not to jack the low point too quickly or the the walls above or below will crack.  When you put a new piece of wood against an old piece you want to strengthen it not take the old piece out or bring the house down entirely.

So, there you have it.  Sistering is the solution.  Makes perfect sense to me.  This old house has been relying on it for a long time now and I'm grateful for the support.

              This post is dedicated to Beth Willson Bassett with love.  She knows why.

Worms, Weeds, Keys and Questions- a Prom Proposal

Greg came over to me while I was working at my computer this morning, his eyes shining and a little grin on his face.  "That was kind of cute," he said, "watching Sam leave to go fishing with Aubrey."

Samuel had gotten up bright and early for a Saturday morning.  A man with a plan, he was putting the finishing touches on a wooden box he was making.  He bought the unfinished box earlier in the week, had wood burned "Aubrey" into the top in sweet little cursive letters, and had risen early to give it a final coat of varnish.  He tucked a note inside the box asking her to go to prom with him and he secured  it with a shiny silver lock attached to a latch he had mounted on the outside of the box.  He checked his tackle box for supplies and loaded his fishing pole into the back of the car.  It was a cool, sunny morning and he'd been waiting all week for the best day to take Aubrey, his girlfriend of 9 months, fishing at a pond nearby. He hummed as he packed up the car.  He hums constantly- just like his Dad. 

Sam asked Greg to make sure he had everything and Greg peaked into the tackle box.  Next to the lures, bobbers, and hooks sat an old baby food jar.  It was crusted with dried mud, and was starting to rust around the cap.  Greg smiled and said, "Gonna use this for worms?".  Sam replied, "That's the plan." The tackle box was a gift from grandparents given when the boys were probably 2 and 4.  Some of the lures were still in their little plastic bags and most of the bobbers shiny and new.  It had been used for fishing at the cabin and on family picnics and now was carefully stored in the kid's workbench Greg built for them in the garage.  The baby food jar was probably left over from one of Sam's first meals.  Greg saved them all and has used them for nails, screws, paint, etc. over the years.  He remembered using the jar to dig in the dirt with the boys, searching for worms to fill it prior to each fishing excursion. Afterwards, dumping the leftover worms and mud from the jar into the water to "feed the fish" before putting it back into the tackle box for the next time.

This morning, Sam arrived at the pond first to hide the box safely in the duckweed and sedge. He cast in his line with the key to the lock tied firmly to the end of his pole in place of a hook.  Aubrey, always a good sport,  arrived a bit later unsuspecting and enthusiastic.  The plan was perfectly executed, Sam texted me later and went off without a hitch.  He nonchalantly asked her to reel in his line for him and played confused upon discovering the key.  Sam then hinted as to the location of the locked box, she found it in the weeds, opened it and quickly answered "Yes!" (as if he really had any doubt).  Mission accomplished for Sam, my romantic young man who celebrates his 18th birthday three weeks after prom.  Greg and I had a little laugh over the irony of our soon-to-be adult child heading out fishing this morning with his little green tackle box and baby food jar for worms.  Another of those circle of life moments that comes whizzing at us out of nowhere, reminding us of how fleeting childhood is and what tender memories it holds.

Samuel going fishing in 2006

Mojo and my Messy, Beautiful Boys

Lately, my teenage sons have seemingly lost all their motivation and turned into these young men I hardly recognize anymore. It's like searching for Sasquatch- I don't know who they are or where they are going.  I've lost sight of them. Neither one studies as much as I think they should or is as eagerly involved in school activities.  They have mutually decided that family fun isn't so much fun anymore.  They argue, complain, and generally find their father and I annoying and boring.  In fairness, they are your average teenage boys.  Tall, thin, lanky-limbed and easily distracted.  They are mostly concerned with looking good and smelling good.  Their rooms are disaster zones of piles of clothes, cluttered desks, and loud noises.  They wrote the book on "whatever".  They are a mess!

The definition of motivation is to give reason, incentive, enthusiasm, or interest that causes a specific action or certain behavior.  When I step back and look carefully at who and what my boys are at 16 and 17 years of age, I realize that perhaps it's just semantics. As Chase Mielke says on his blog Affective Living perhaps "there is no such thing as an unmotivated person.  There are only unmotivating contexts."   We can't motivate or change the person themselves, 
but we can "look for the flaws in the context."  Mielke says," We can change how people see the who, what, when and why (of a situation) and thus create contexts that enhance motivation. Just because you don't do something doesn't mean you are a lazy person.  All it means is that the context does not motivate you."

To illustrate his point, let's go back to my messy, beautiful boys. Both of them ARE certainly enthusiastic and interested, just not in the circumstances and places I'd like them to be.   They have reason and incentive toward personal goals, just not the goals my husband and I identified and set for them on the days they were born. They want to come up with their own game plan and go about things their own way. They have taken their God-given talents, combined with the opportunities we provided them and forged ahead down their own path toward their own lives. 

Weren't they supposed to ask me if I was ready for this or gave them permission to grow up?  I know the answer to that.  No, they were not.  They are actually doing just what they are supposed to do at their age.  They are standing on their own two feet and testing their weight in the world.  They are learning to think independently, making clear and conscious choices for themselves.  They are figuring it out all on their own.  This is good.  This is healthy.  Steady Mom!  Take a deep breath, make a wish, trust, and hold on. 

When I wish they would be more focused on their academics, they are off playing their musical instruments or listening to their newest record album (my boys are old school!) and singing along.  Sometimes, Sam is writing a song and Joseph is improvising from a favorite tune.  RIght now, their music is their first love. Not with strict instruction, evaluation or study of music theory, mind you, but in a context that suits their needs and desires.  For Joseph that is with a laid-back hippie guitar teacher who let's him guide the lesson.  For Sam, after four years of formal lessons, sitting at the piano all alone is a form of stress relief. It is both his downtime and his excitement after a long day at school. I don't have to nag him to practice daily.  He chooses to play on his own every day. He is motivated to do so.

When I nag them about going to church, giving back, and getting those FREAKING service hours they need for EVERYTHING nowadays, they say no to every opportunity I present.  But, when their Dad sings in choir for special occasions or holidays, they are always beside me in church to show him support.  Joseph is the first one to ask for money for EVERY service collection campaign their school is having.  If I don't chip in, or forget to give him a donation, he makes one on his own out of pocket and never says a word.  Later, when questioned, he just says it's taken care of.  He seeks out homeless people in public downtown, asks them questions, and gets to know them.  Scary for this mama, yes, but life-changing for a 16 yo.  He offers them what he can give; sometimes bringing them coffee or bottled water.  Other times, just listening to their stories.  Samuel doesn't want to get involved in a service club at school, but he and his girlfriend initiated a once a month commitment to serving a meal at our local homeless shelter.  He also thrives in a part-time job that teaches him the value of commitment, teamwork, and cooperation.  Giving in their own way, on their own time, with their own spirit of contributing to the greater good through dedication, sacrifice, and hard work.

When I casually suggest it would be nice if they would join a sports team or engage in regular physical activity (like I always had them do when they were little), they shrug their shoulders at me and walk away.  Sam, however, gets himself faithfully to the athletic club 3-4 times a week to lift weights and run with friends.  Joseph, who has never enjoyed playing sports goes to most of his buddies games and is their number #1 fan and cheerleader.  He can't drive himself yet, so he walks almost everywhere he goes and is the healthiest eater in our family.  He constantly reads labels, encourages organic ingredients and coaches the rest of us in better food choices.  They are taking care of their bodies in ways that are comfortable and convenient for them.  They remind me constantly that they aren't using alcohol, taking drugs or being careless or naive in sexual activity (like some of their friends! Gulp!)  Both strong, healthy boys with respect for their physical and mental well being. Beautiful boys inside and out.

When I jump on that competitive bandwagon of comparing them to peers and friends, I get overwhelmed with worry for their futures and what will become of them.  Yet, they are constantly reminding me that they are who they are.  They do things differently than I had presupposed, or than others their age, but they get things done.  They have goals and dreams.  They work hard at school and at life.  They try amid a thousand pressures, questions, and expectations hounding them every day.  They've got this!  It's their life to live, not mine.  Where they go and who they become is their choice.  I can look at them and see them for who they are-REALLY ARE- or I can keep seeing the things I don't recognize.  The boys I thought they would be but aren't.  The road I thought they would travel, but haven't.  The path I wanted them on, but they didn't want to go down.  Yes, it's their personal reasons, choices, and incentives that lead them to their interest and enthusiasm for life.  Its their motivation to behave in ways that bring them their own happiness and fulfillment.  When I look at the messy,beautiful way they are living, I fully realize that this is all I ever really wanted for them- happiness and fulfillment.  

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

Jail Buns

My husband was called for jury duty this week and it reminded me of when I landed in court last summer.  Thankfully, it was as a juror and not a defendant.  I was seated on a Monday and the criminal trial wrapped up on Thursday after 5 hours of deliberation.  I have to say, I was dreading it. Two weeks of a commitment to be in the courthouse either awaiting jury selection or actively serving on a trial in the middle of the summer?  Well, it ended up being a really invaluable experience.  I found it educational, enlightening and exhausting.  And the biggest perk of being a juror in Olmsted County Circuit Court?  The jail buns!  They served them to us every morning before entering the courtroom, the best darn cinnamon rolls I've ever had- golden, light, and perfectly swirled with just the right amount of cream cheese frosting. "Jail buns" the bailiff called them because they bake them at the county jail overnight and bring them to the courthouse first thing in the morning.  You could make a case for other positive aspects of the call to legally serve: first-hand experience in the judicial system, satisfaction in witnessing the due process of law, and a prime parking spot in the juror's lot.  But, I'll take the jail buns for the win. Yum!  So, when Greg headed out the door this morning, I said, "Go get 'em, Tiger!" and he thought I meant the bad guys, but I didn't.  I meant the jail buns.  Seriously, they are worth the wait!  I want him to be selected because you don't get them unless you are seated on a jury.  So, good luck, Honey!  Stay impartial, but I hope you get the guilty pleasure of eating a jail bun or two.  After all, it's your civic duty.

                                                  Photo source:  www.foodnetwork.com

The Gifts of a Child

Ok, so Glennon Doyle Melton re-posted an essay on her blog (www.momastery.com) today entitled "Every Child is Gifted. Every.Single.One".  I love Glennon and no doubt her post will get a bazillion hits.  I wrote about the same topic in an essay titled "The Gifts of a Child" waaaaaay back in 2010.
Thanks for reminding me, Glennon and here's my own thoughts on the topic:

From the time my sons were born, I’ve fought the urge to compare them to other kids their age.  Baby playgroups were my worst nightmare.  If we weren’t talking breast feeding or sleeping through the night, it was “who did what the first, finest, or farthest!”  We regaled each other with tales of accomplishment, always in a loud voice and with a little self-righteous smile.  No wonder the babies all ended up crawling in a circle and high-fiving each other!  (Ok, they were fighting over the same toy and hitting, but it could have happened.)  I hated myself for getting sucked into the commentary and for thinking that it even mattered.  I had studied child development and knew that there was a spectrum of skill acquisition.  There would inevitably be the precocious child who was not only clever, but beautiful and well-dressed to boot. There would also be the late bloomer, the runt of the litter, who just needed time to come into his own and grow some hair on that tiny, bald head.  As for the rest of the group? Well, they were just your average chubby, drooling babies in Gap overalls and swim diapers who cried when hungry, tired, or strapped into their car seats for the ride home.

As my boys have grown, I’ve watched them become who, I think, they were always meant to be.  My husband and I have spent countless hours analyzing where their strengths and challenges came from.  They must have gotten his intelligence, determination, strong will, and drive for perfection. My abilities shine in their sensitivity, common sense, and senses of direction and humor. Surely it is HIS stubbornness, controlling nature, and volatile temper they’ve got.  It couldn’t possibly be MY impulsivity, need for attention, change, and drama!  The bottom line is, IT’S JUST WHO THEY ARE WIRED TO BE!

Children are born with unique brains and therefore, unique intelligences, learning styles, and potential.  Throw in cultural influences, socioeconomic status, and geographic location, not to mention global warming, mad-cow disease, and prenatal exposure to caffeine, and it’s a wonder they even come out at all!  Regardless of limitations or talents, I believe every child has a gift and is therefore, gifted. It’s up to us, as parents, to work with these gifts and teach our children to do the same.  The talent is in how you use what you’ve been given. I am convinced that all children can, and will, through continued hard work, motivation, hope, and support, achieve to their fullest potential and soar. Some of them will go higher and sail on the breeze, some of them will flap harder and fight the wind. They all have wings, we just need to believe they can fly!

I marvel at children who were born with physical or mental challenges, knowing how hard it is just make it through the day.  Mine and my children’s lives, have been enriched beyond measure by the experience of knowing kids like Jesse, who has congenital heart disease and can’t play contact sports, but runs faster than my boys.  Like Annie who has autism and tells us she loves us with her smile instead of her words; or Zeke who is learning disabled, but eagerly repairs a lawn mower or car engine for the neighbors next door. It would be easy to say they didn’t meet expectations, failed, or even humiliated us. Instead I choose to cheer their attempts, their persistence, the grace with which they face their disability; they are often the strongest, happiest, and most proud among us.

 I’m equally enthralled with the kids for whom it comes easy, wondering if that will always be their life experience. Like Jane, who took apart her mom’s vacuum cleaner and put it back together again before she went to kindergarten; or Sami, who is in third grade, but studies calculus online during math class.  Then there is Johnny, who made the varsity squad in three sports, at the age of ten.   I’ve watched them lead the line, win the gold medal, and graduate before they hit puberty.  I admire their determination, perseverance, and strength.  I try not to label, judge, or pretend I’m not envious of their triumphs.

I know the key lies in differentiating children’s learning styles, accepting that some are accelerated and some slower learners.  Some kids need to work at an advanced pace and a more challenging level than others.  Many just need extra time or repetition to get it right.  Of course, there are also those that require specialized classrooms or time pulled out of regular education for individualized interventions.  At home, school, on the playground and in life, these children must exist side by side without being defeated or stigmatized.

All children can grow, with love and acceptance, into just who they were meant to be. All kinds of minds can be counted and valued.  The common goal can be the smile they share, the laughs they leave behind, and the happiness they get from doing their best. We can cherish the strengths, and embrace the weaknesses, for the beautiful gifts they are…the gifts of each and every child.

Stephanie Barsness, 2010

Eulogy for Ednard Barsness, Jr.

My name is Stephanie Barsness and I have been married to Ed’s oldest son, Greg for 20 years.  Ed was my father-in-law and my friend.  I am honored to speak for our family in remembering him. 

Over the past year and a half, I had the privilege of attending medical appointments at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester with Ed and Josette.  As you can imagine, those visits were some of the most difficult and challenging times of his life.  Ed fought a long, hard battle with multiple myeloma for twelve years, enduring chemotherapy, physical discomfort and pain, yet always proving to be the model of strength, determination, and good cheer. It didn’t surprise his family and friends, as that is the way Ed chose to live his life…with strength, determination, and good cheer.

Ed grew up in a family of women in Starbuck, MN.  For those of you who aren’t Norwegian or from MN, it’s the lutefisk and lefsa capital of the United States.  His two sisters, Geri and Karen, and mother, Geneva were ever-present in his life while his father, Ednard Sr. was often employed away from home to support the family.  From them, Ed learned the value of hard work, a strong devotion to family, and a kindness and gentleness of spirit.  He carried those strengths forward in his daily life.  Ed liked to tell stories about growing up- of his high school shenanigans with Ed Rasmusen and Chuck Brown, of his neighbor’s dog “Inky”, and his job at the Dairy Queen.

After high school, he was drafted into the United States Army.  Following his service, he was employed by the JC Penney Company in sales.  He enjoyed his time selling menswear- especially fitting suits and shoes.  Take a good look at the Barsness men upfront here.  I know where they got their good looks, good taste, and who taught them how to stand tall and proud in a well-cut suit. Ed prided himself on his strong work ethic and appearance and devoted himself to a job well done.  He was a steadfast and loyal employee, determined to succeed in his career.  Upon retiring from Penney’s, he obtained his Real Estate Broker license and enjoyed 10 years selling homes in St Cloud.  Always a salesman, Ed charmed everyone he met with his humor and grace right to the very end.  Nursing and clinical staff all commented on what a “good patient” he was and how willing he was to follow orders and please his doctors and care team. 

Ed and Josette started dating while they were in high school. Old photos of the two of them show a handsome guy with a snazzy ’57 Chevy convertible and a pretty young girl on his arm.  They fell immediately in love and were faithfully devoted to each other through 52 years of marriage.  They were married here at Hennepin Avenue United Methodist Church in 1962.  They were a good team- Ed and Josette- they had a true care and concern for each other and were always quick to share a smile and a laugh.  As a couple, they enjoyed dancing, television, movies, golf, travel and time with family and friends.  They spent almost every night of their married life together, ordered for each other in restaurants, ate off of each other’s plates, wore each other’s glasses, and modeled for their family steadfast love and dedication.  True companions and best friends, they provided for each other with amazing strength in mind, body, and spirit.  Josette proved her love for Ed beyond measure this past year in her excellent caregiving.                 

Josette, I know you will never doubt for a moment that you provided him with his every wish and fulfilled all his deepest desires.  You were his soul mate.

Ed and Josette raised their sons, Greg and Brian to be strong, loyal, hard-working men who now are loving husbands to Sara and I.  Ed was an extraordinary father.  He called Greg and Brian both ”Buddy” and always stood behind and beside them, sharing their accomplishments, hopes, and dreams.   I see so much of Ed in his boys. Their quiet voices, perseverance in education and careers, gentle care of their children, loyalty to their friends…and the same adoration of their wives.

Greg and Brian hosted a wonderful family gathering in their Dad’s honor last night.  We joked, laughed, and toasted Ed amid a few tears. 

Greg and Brian shared a love of sports with their Dad- playing golf, fishing, attending Twins and Saints games, watching Gopher and Duke University basketball together and always, ALWAYS talking scores and strategy.  Beginning 15 years ago, when we lived in NC, Greg would call his Dad after every Duke BB game to rehash the play by play.  Last week, they watched their last game via Skype together.   Coach K better take that Duke team all the way to the Final Four this month and when they win it, we will all know which angel to thank.

Greg and Brian, you have big shoes to fill-on and off the courts, and I know you will.  You couldn’t have proven your love for your Dad more than you have over the past few days.

Ed was a wonderful father-in-law and friend as well.  Tender and kind, I will miss him calling me “dear” and cleaning my glasses diligently for me on our visits. Ed was always quick with a joke or a story.  He loved to read the newspaper- folding it back in proper order when he was done.  He was a history buff and enjoyed reading and studying maps.   He listened to WCCO radio and liked to talk politics.  He loved music- especially Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash, but always joked that the only instrument he ever played was the shoehorn.

Perhaps the fondest memory I will have of Ed is in his role as grandfather.  When Samuel, Joseph, Erik and Eva were around, Ed was the happiest man on earth.  His love and affection for them was always evident.  He never shied from holding the kids as babies and never missed an opportunity to watch the four of them grow and learn. 

Sam, Joseph, Erik and Eva, he was your first babysitter, your loyal audience at sports, music and school events, and you were his little “buddies”. 

Sam, I hope you always remember him pitching a tent and camping with you in the basement.  Joseph, you know what a good sport Grandpa was.  There’s a photo on the board out there of you and Grandpa with your hair dyed green on St Patrick’s Day.  Ed was our Norwegian Irishman.  Erik, you will never eat another strawberry, chocolate or vanilla wafer cookie without thinking of Grandpa.  Eva, you were his only little girl- ever.  That made you special to him.  Grandpa Ed gave the best hugs and fist bumps and could not have been prouder of the children you are. Thank you for the joy you brought Grandpa and especially for the compassion and care you showed for him this past year.

Strength, determination, and good cheer. 

Ed Barsness exemplified these qualities and many more.  He was a good man, and lived a life well-loved.  Our family wishes to thank you for your presence with us here today, your love and support, and for honoring and remembering Ed as he was- strong, smiling, and full of life. 

Rest in peace, Buddy.

 Delivered 3-12-14 at Hennepin Ave United Methodist Church, Mpls

What I Know at 50

Last September, I turned 50.  It's taken me a few months to settle into it.  Middle age is the eye of life's storm.  The turbulence of growing up is behind me while the peril and wreckage of aging lies ahead.  I'm sitting in the quiet calm of it both appreciative and afraid. I don't sweat the small stuff anymore because the big stuff lurks large around the bend.  I'm free from the should-could-would of the past and linger longer in the right here and now.  I look back on my days full of a quicker pace and a faster dance, but have come to terms with the days I currently squander in a slower groove.  I now give myself permission to be in the moment.  I'm more contemplative, more complacent, more accepting, and yes, more at peace.  I have much more patience and tolerance at hand.  Life is too short to waste any more negative energy or to have a bad time.  I'm coasting down the hill now.  Most of the hard work is behind me and there is really only one more mountain to climb.  

So, this is what I know right now:

I am an expert on most things.  I've lived long enough to have tried it, tasted it, had it happen, or at least heard of it.  I'm wise now. I know that I know things.  Not everything, and not all things but enough to speak from experience, give sound advice and state my opinion with confidence. My brain may have reached it's capacity for new learning and my memory seems to have a slow leak but I've vividly retained the most important facts.  I know what's right, true and real. I remember the people and places, sights and sounds of my life.  I can still feel the experiences and state the facts.  I think I've figured out how the whole thing works. Go ahead, ask me anything.  If I don't know, I'll get back to you but only if I can find my cellphone and then figure out how to Tweet.

I'm much less "presentable" than I used to be.  I still have good hair days, but most of the time get by without makeup in yoga pants and clogs.  My idea of dressing up is to throw on a pair of Spanx and wear dangly earrings.  I'm comfortable and I'm me.  Fifty means I'm ok with living in my own skin. It wasn't that long ago I was the cute college coed, but I don't necessarily want to be her anymore.  My stomach and my boobs are my badges of honor from motherhood, and I wish I felt differently, but cosmetic surgery and underwires terrify me. I'm not convinced that ALL bodies need to be seen as beautiful. I'm enhanced by my Rubinesque qualities and still paint a pretty picture.  You see my true colors shining through and that's why you love me.

I have daily moments of both bliss and despair.  I find myself appreciating the simple seconds of the day.  Smaller things make me smile.  I find happiness in easy, unexpected ways and look for joy right in front of me rather than searching for perfection.  That sunshiny spot to curl up in on the couch, my pup at my feet, and a cup of Chai in the owl mug- life is good!  On the other hand, I feel the tragedies of life more deeply too.  A suffering friend, an ailing parent, a smart ass teenager can all rock my world and shake me to my core.  I've lost that confidence that makes youth so much easier. I'm more vulnerable now.  I spend as much time looking outward as I do in.  I feel the pain and suffering of those all around me and I wear it like a cape across my shoulders.  I share the load, but find myself hoping more of it falls on me than on those I love.  Fifty is full of life and oh, so bittersweet. 

I have become my mother…and my father too.  I am no longer mortified by the things they are and do.  I am thankful for the things they've handed down.  I accept their positive qualities as a tremendous hereditary gift and reject those less than desirable traits with confidence.  I know they have always meant well and tried hard.  I have worked to emulate the good and eliminate the bad.  It's gotten so much easier to understand them. I see things from their perspective and know the circle has come full.  It's unbroken and I will never stop needing or wanting their influence in my life.  I choose to be like them. Just wait, they said.  Just wait, I say now.  I know someday my children will realize the same and that makes me smile. 

I count my blessings while simultaneously calculating when my luck will run out. I know the scales have decidedly tipped.  I no longer languish in what I don't have and instead love all that I do. In my marriage and family life, I cherish the shared wit, the knowing looks, and the quiet conversations.  I'm slower to anger, quicker to forgive, and content to linger in just being together.  When I look at my children, I thank the heavens that we've raised them well and also wonder what in hell will become of them.  Despite the evidence that all will be well, I know it won't be over til it's done.  I knock on wood, cross my fingers, and pray.  Trust is my word of the year and for the next fifty years as well.

When I blew out the birthday candles in September,  I wished for good health, 

more time, and a happy life.  

That is it.  That is me.  Luckily, that's what I know right now.