Family
stories told at the holidays increase in meaning as death nears.
Guest blog by Lisa Calderone-Stewart
I remember an
Easter morning in Montgomery, Alabama. We were trying to put up a makeshift "outdoor
gathering space," with a parachute and poles, since our church didn't have any
place for people to stay and chat.
It was so
windy that we were forced to give up. Later during Mass, we found out that a
tornado was threatening to touch down. We could hear the winds, and see the
ushers looking out the back doors, ready to warn us if it came our way. In the
meantime, we just kept praying the Mass. What better place could there be
during a tornado? The plans was that if the tornado came toward us, the ushers
were going to give the priest a sign, so he could tell everyone to get under
the pews. It never touched down, but it made a great story!
I remember an
Easter vigil in Saginaw, Michigan. Somehow a cloth caught fire from the paschal
candle and it started to spread. It was quickly put out by using pitchers of
water from the baptismal pool. An obviously shaken Bishop Ken Untener, still
huffing and puffing into the microphone from the ordeal, announced something
like this to the assembly: "We just extinguished the Easter fire with the
Baptismal waters, and theologically, I'm not even sure what that means!"
I remember an
Easter morning when my brothers and I were children; we all found cute little stuffed
animals in our Easter baskets. My oldest brother and I received bunnies, my younger
brothers got a duck and a chick. We named them right away and continued to play
with them until our parents woke up.
Barbara, my
youngest niece, loves to hear family stories like this–especially ones about
her dad when he was young, and about herself. It's easy to start the stories
going. We just say something like, "Do you remember the Easter when…?" and
everyone seems to have a memory to share.
The last few years, when I was well enough to travel to New Jersey a lot, I usually
stayed in Barbara's room, which used to be my room, and every night before we
fell asleep, we had this ritual, a simple version of the Ignatian "daily examen."
We would talk
about our favorite part of the day–the things we were most proud of, the
things we enjoyed the most.
Then we would
talk about the "worst" part of the day–either the things that made us the most
sad (like noticing how Grandma looked weaker at the hospice) or the things we
weren't very proud of and wished we
could do over (often things we ended up apologizing for).
Then we would
talk about where we thought God was. I was always so surprised to hear all the
times Barbara found God in the "worst" parts of the day.
Then, when
that serious conversation was over, she would almost always say, "Now tell me a
funny family story." And I would try to remember a funny story about her dad
and me growing up, or a story about her when she was younger.
When Bernadette
(her older sister) graduated from eighth grade, I gave her a topaz ring that my
mother had given me when I graduated from eighth grade. Topaz is the birthstone
for the month of November; my mom (Bernadette's grandmother) was born on
November 2 and Bernadette was born on November 5. So that was the perfect
birthday present for Bernadette.
Barbara
whispered to me, "When I graduate, will you give me something that has a good
family story about it?" I promised I would.
When Barbara
was really young–maybe four or five–my mom had picked me up from the airport
for a long weekend visit and told me this story while Barbara sat in her car
seat listening:
"Yesterday,
Barbara came with me when I drove over to Uncle David's house. Barbara asked
me, ‘Grandma, why are we picking up Uncle David?' and I told her, ‘Because
Uncle David's car died.' And she told me, ‘Grandma, cars don't die. People
die.' Isn't that amazing?" And we both laughed.
Immediately,
Barbara spoke up from the back seat. "Aunt Lisa! Did you know about the time
Grandma and I went to pick up Uncle David? I asked Grandma, ‘Why are we picking
up Uncle David?' and she said, ‘Because Uncle David's car died.' And I said,
‘Grandma, cars don't die. People die.' Do you remember that?"
Her grandma
and I laughed again. She laughed, too.
I said, "Yes,
Barbara! I do remember that story!"
She said,
"Aunt Lisa, tell me that story."
Even though I
was still laughing, I managed to tell her the whole story all over again!
When I
finished, she put her head back, smiled and sighed, and said, "I remember
that!"
How many
times have our children and grandchildren asked us to tell them family
stories–even the ones they have heard over and over again? I think it's one of
the best things families can do together!
You might say
I'm dying to tell all the family stories I can remember!
Guest blogger Lisa Calderone-Stewart is the
director of Tomorrow's Present and an author and speaker on
youth leadership. She was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. For
more on her story, see "The dying wish of a youth ministry pioneer." You can also read Lisa's personal blog Dying to Know You Better.
Guest blog posts express the views of the author.
They do not
necessarily reflect the views of U.S. Catholic, its editors, or
the Claretians.
