Mother – Barefoot Lily Lady

5 Years Ago

We’re back from our Hawaiian adventure with Mia. What a grand adventure.

Now I am settling back into the comfort of life’s routine. Sleeping in my own bed with my favorite pillow. Spending Sunday with our church family. Doing laundry in my own washing machine and not having to put $7.00 worth of quarters into the machine for each load!

Today I slept in until my body woke me up….and was almost late for work. It brought me joy being in BeeHive’s kitchen baking up treats for our residents again (many thanks to Karen who filled in for me while I was away).

In the midst of my baking joy, my heart remembered that my journey with BeeHive began 5 years ago today. March 25, 2019 was the day I accepted the help of BeeHive in caring for my mother in her journey Home with Alzheimer’s.

Facebook confirmed that memory with two reminisce posts. Many of my friends and family were praying as I moved Momma out of my home and into her new bedroom at BeeHive. We arrived just in time for lunch. While mom and I ate lunch, Wayne and Beth moved mom’s things into her new room, setting it up much like her bedroom in my home. After lunch, I walked mom into her new space and she settled right in and was soon napping.

I sat in her room watching her sleep for a bit, then met with Gina to go over some move-in details. When we were finished, I was not quite sure what to do with myself. I wrote about that here…

Momma would live here for the last 14 months of her sojourn on earth. Here she would be loved and cared for with the level of care I could not provide. She had friends around her, good food, fun activities, someone to help her every hour of the day or night, and someone to help her to shower (something I couldn’t offer her at my house).

Placing her in assisted living memory care was a hard decision. And the right decision.

Thank you, BeeHive!

Birthday Blessings

It’s January 17, 2024 and today would have been my sweet Momma’s 90th birthday. It’s nearly midnight and sleep has not yet come to my weary eyes, so I decided I would not let this day pass without taking a moment to acknowledge the great blessing God gave me in this lovely woman.

The last birthday I celebrated with her was her 86th. Mom didn’t participate much in the celebration. There was a delicious cake, a bouquet of flowers, a few gifts to unwrap, and cute birthday balloons. But Alzheimer’s had already taken away her ability to understand what the joyous fuss was about. She enjoyed eating the cake I made her, so that blessed my heart.

While I cannot bake her another cake today, I can stop and thank God for blessing this world with Charlotte Louise Peet Boyles–the woman I would call Momma.

“Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.”
Proverbs 31:30-31

By God’s Grace and for His Glory

A sweet friend and aspiring blogger once asked me to guest write on her fledgling blog. I was happy to do so, as I was trying to get my own blogging endeavor off the ground and thought exposure to someone else’s audience might be helpful. As we all know, life doesn’t always follow our plans. God had other plans. My friend’s life filled up with the other good things God had planned for her life, and the blogging endeavor went by the wayside.

I almost deleted the article I wrote as a guest, because it remained unpublished in my draft folder for years. Before hitting “delete,” I re-read it and decided to hit “publish” before another year passes. It is my hope that this post will encourage another caregiver. I hope they find that no matter where life leads us, with God’s assistance, we can live by God’s grace and for His glory.

A New Full-Sun Flowerbed

One major item that has been near the top of my list for several years now has been to cut down two diseased and unsightly spruce trees in our front yard. I was out pulling weeds one day earlier this summer and noticed there were tree trimmers working in the neighborhood, so mentioned it to my hubby. He surprised me by immediately walking down the street and engaging in conversation with a young man on the crew–the son of the owner of the company. A few minutes later, they came for a look-see and before I knew it we had a contract and the trees were felled by the end of the day.

Now that the spruces are down, we have a brand new full-sun garden space, and I am enjoying choosing what to plant in that space. First order of business, however, was to deal with the weeds that had gotten a foothold underneath the spruces. We also needed to relocate some of the shade-loving hostas to a more wooded location in the backyard. For the most part, I’m able to divide some of my existing sun-lovers from other flowerbeds, so I moved in a few daylilies and a trio of Allium ‘Millenium,’ an ornamental flowering onion that literally blooms all summer long.

Even with this good start, this new flowerbed was the perfect excuse for a trip to our local garden center. I knew I wanted to add a flowering tree, so Monrovia’s Magnolia ‘Elizabeth’ now graces that flowerbed. I look forward to its giant, tulip-shaped, creamy yellow blossoms in the next year or two. I’m also quite in love with hydrangeas these days, so two of them hopped in my shopping cart and now anchor the front side of this flowerbed (I really wish I had bought a third).

Inspired by Butch and Pam over at Everyday Living, whose annual plethora of gorgeous zinnia photos caused great envy, I planted more than my usual packet or two of zinnia seeds this year. My husband bought a big canister of Renee’s Garden heirloom zinnia seeds for me while we were on vacation in June. I lost no time in scattering the seed when we returned home. Wowzers! They did not disappoint. Look at all that amazing color!

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that my sweet mother passed away in 2020 after a valiant battle with Alzheimer’s. You might spot two of her blue flowerpots in the photo above. Those flowerpots sat on the front porch of our family home for several years. When dementia took its toll, I moved her to live closer to me, bringing those blue flowerpots along as a connection point to her past. Oh, the stories she told about those pots! I planted some annual ‘Hawaiian Punch’ hibiscus in them this year and set them toward the front half of the new flowerbed. I think mom would have approved.

Books: Access to Knowledge

One story my mom told of her childhood sticks out in my mind today, but is a bit fuzzy around the edges — how I wish I had paid closer attention and written down the details while I had the chance.

Mom told of an aunt and uncle who owned a restaurant. When mom would visit, this auntie would let mom explore the former bookstore on the other side of the building she owned. When her aunt unlocked that door, mom had personal access to all of the books that were still nestled on each shelf of that now abandoned bookstore. A whole new world opened up to her as she fingered the pages of each book that she read. It is no wonder that mom carried the love of reading with her throughout life, until Alzheimer’s would overshadow her ability to read in her last year of life.

In 1964, a new branch of the Milwaukee public library opened up on Capitol Drive, in a neighborhood very familiar to my parents. Just a handful of years earlier, I had been born in the Capitol Drive hospital (where mom was a nurse) just a few miles east down the road, and my parents had lived in the house just behind that hospital for the first years of my life. Looking back, it’s no wonder my mom would be one of this library’s early patrons, or that some of my earliest memories are of her helping me choose books from its shelves. What a wonderful feeling it was when, a few years down the road, I received my very own library card, giving me my very own access to countless adventures in books, plus the resources I would need for school research down the road a few years.

Yours truly in kindergarten, the year my adventure in reading would begin. Note: mom was much better at helping me choose books to read than she was at cutting my hair.

Fast forward to 1969 when another library opened up to me. This library of just 66 books was contained within one greater volume. Yes, the Bible. It was during the 12th year of my life when I, by faith, met the Author of this book. In the very moment that I placed my trust in Christ, His Spirit came to dwell within me, unlocking and giving me full access to the truths within the pages of my Bible.

I learned a verse during that year which helped me understand the importance of this Book of all books in my new life as a believer and why it continues to speak to my heart and change me from within each and every time I spend time within its pages.

All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work.
2 Timothy 3:16-17 (ESV)

Mothering Moments

Okay friends, you are going to need to cut me some slack on this mothering moment that I’m going to share. I had only been 20 years old for about 14 days when my first baby arrived in the world and probably not even 22 when this story took place.

I was pregnant with baby #2 and exhausted. Usually a good sleeper, lately Matt seemed to sense the moment my weary head hit my pillow. Well, on the night this story took place, I was settling in for sleep for what seemed to be the umpteenth time when my not quite two-year-old little Matt cried out for me from his crib with his loud toddler voice,

“Mommy!”

I shudder to think of what I did now because it is so contrary to good sense, but I was a gullible young mom who apparently believed this ad.

On that night I grew tired of getting my very pregnant self in and out of our waterbed (anyone remember those?). I desperately wanted to get my little guy to lie back down and go to sleep, so I gave him a bottle hoping he would fall asleep and let me get some sleep. I wanted to save the little bit of milk we had in the fridge for breakfast in the morning, so watered down some Tang breakfast drink and put it in his bottle.

Not two minutes had passed after I dragged my weary self back to bed when I heard the familiar squeak of Matt’s crib. We had a tiny house and I didn’t want him waking his sleeping daddy who had to get up early to go to work, so I got up and went to his room. He was standing in his crib again, arm extended out to me with an empty baby bottle in hand.

“More, Mommy, more.”

I couldn’t believe he had drained that bottle so quickly. I made him another bottle of the stuff then checked to make sure his diaper was dry. He took the bottle and snuggled in for what I had hoped would be the last time until morning’s light. Bleery-eyed with weariness, I then crawled back in my own bed hoping not to make too many waves.

Unbelievably, before I could pull the covers up under my chin, Matt was again yelling,

“More, Mommy, more!”

I made the trek of five or six steps to his room again and turned on the little Humpty-Dumpty lamp on the dresser. I couldn’t believe my eyes – his bottle was empty again! Checked his diaper again too – it just had to be wet, but it wasn’t.

Bordering on sheer exhaustion (and also a wee bit suspicious), against my better judgement, I fixed him another bottle. I turned off the light and then headed out of his door, this time waiting around the corner to spy on him and see what on earth was going on. Sure enough, I had every reason to be suspicious. My clever and mischievous little guy sat up in his crib, unscrewed the top of the bottle, then stood up and proceeded to pour that orange drink down the wall, then picked up the nipple end of the bottle and screwed it back onto the empty bottle.

I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I did know that if he could figure out how to do all of that, he was much too old to still be drinking from a bottle. I took the bottle out of his hand before he could say, “More, Mommy, more” and told him to say “bye-bye” to his bottle.

Matt never saw the bottle again.

Churchly expect Image — Pastor Matt and his wife Kelly

Interesting note: Now, 40-some years later, Matt is an elder and discipleship pastor at Wildwood Church in East Moline, Illinois. On a recent Sunday, Wayne and I were able to worship with Matt’s faith family at Wildwood and were blessed to listen as our son preached from Luke 22 using this story from his childhood as a sermon illustration. I’m not proud of this mothering moment of mine, but it did make a pretty nice sermon illustration. It warmed this momma’s heart (and his dad’s too) hearing Matt sharing God’s Word as he preached. I invite you, dear readers, to give that sermon a listen right here.

Putting Away Christmas

I had planned to keep my Christmas stuff up well into January because it just felt like this year needed a little extra sparkle for just a bit longer. I’m not a perfectionistic white-glove housekeeper (by any stretch of the imagination), but I do like a certain level of tidyness and order. Before I knew it, the niggling longing for order won out and those green and red plastic tubs were making their annual trek back up from the basement storage area so I could begin putting back all those pretty Christmas-y decorations.

Each ornament goes back in its original box, or gets wrapped in newsprint or tissue and placed in a protective box or tin. As I carefully stacked those boxes filled with fragile baubles into one of the three larger bins, there was a sense that I was, in a small way, packing up and setting aside some memories that would be unwrapped and remembered once again in the hope of next Christmas.

“Putting away Christmas” is theologically impossible. Christ’s advent, God’s gift to the world, cannot be wrapped up in tissue paper and set aside the day after Christmas. Emmanuel, God With Us, cannot be stuck in a box to be forgotten about until unwrapped again next year. When I “put away Christmas,” it is our somewhat clouded by glitz and glitter attempt to remember his advent each year that we are really putting away.

As I filled the third bin with my tissue-wrapped baubles, I noticed the corner of an envelope hiding in the bottom of the bin. It was tucked under a box of lights I haven’t used in years. I pulled it out and discovered a gift I hadn’t opened this year. It was a letter addressed to me in my mom’s familiar cursive script.

Years ago, Mom had taken the time to write out the words to the poem “My First Christmas in Heaven.” I’ve read it many times before — maybe you have read it too. I know that a few of you, my friends and loved ones, experienced the fresh sting of grief in your heart because a loved one was missing at your celebration this Christmas, so I will include an image of the poem here for you.

It says “Author Unknown” but I think most sources now attribute the authorship to Wanda Bencke, whose daughter died just after Christmas in 1997.

The postmark on the envelope was clearly stamped 10 DEC 2009, so it was fitting that when mom copied the poem’s title, she neatly crossed out the word “First” and wrote above it, “Second.”

Mom’s little personal post-script penned beneath the poem sheds light upon the reason why.

Last Christmas, I kept running the last line through my head but could not remember the rest of this old poem. This year in Reminisce Magazine it was printed in their December-January 2010 issue.
Love, Mom

I just love this little find, yet another of God’s little grace gifts in my life. You see, she sent it on my dad’s second Christmas in heaven, and here I was re-reading it 12 Christmases later, just after she celebrated her first Christmas in heaven.

An ornament commemorating my momma’s last Christmas on this side of Heaven

A Family Story Found in an Unexpected Place

According to my Facebook post on January 1^st of 2015, on that date in history I found one of my mother’s memories from January 1^st of 1955!

How cool is that?

I had been going through mom’s jumble of paperwork, trying to find the important documents I would need as her power of attorney. Mom’s once neat filing system was a jumbled-up mess, due to the confusion of her mind caused by Alzheimer’s. I recall I was making good progress taming that paper tiger and that I found a few delightful surprises in the process.

One such surprise was a file folder labeled “Peet Family.” This file contained many treasures. Old black and white photos. Letters and cards. Newspaper clippings. Obituaries. Genealogy timelines. Tucked into this file category was a simple green pocket folder. I flipped it open, fully anticipating that it had something to do with the Peet family genealogy.

And it did – sort of.

It was a cookbook filled with favorite family recipes which had been compiled for a family reunion in 2000. I had fun taking a break from my sorting project to page through the recipes. The faces of family I had only seen when I was a young child came to mind as their names popped up on the righthand corner of each page. It was exciting to see the name “CHARLOTTE PEET-BOYLES” pop up here and there.

“Charlotte’s Layered-Spinach Salad” was in there, as it should be. It was one of those salads she made often for potlucks or when family would gather at her house for birthdays or holidays. Another family favorite was “Charlotte’s Dream Whip Torte”! My sister would often request that dessert for her birthday. It was not a surprise to find her “Never Fail Pie Crust” recipe was in there too. She never liked making pies until her friend from work shared that recipe with her.

As I flipped through the cookbook, I noticed that some of the recipes had a family story included. Once I realized this, I went back through the recipes attributed to mom to see if I could find a recipe where my mom had contributed a story. And there it was included under a recipe called “Clara Gall-Peet’s Upside Down Cake.” Clara was my grandma, so I felt like I had found a double-treasure with this recipe and the giggle I received as I read the sweet little story mom told about her early baking attempts.

The date confuses me a little, as mom and dad were married in July of 1955, but, at the bottom of the cake recipe, my mom had reminisced,

“My Mom was a good cook and if you arrived unexpected at dinner-time she always had room for you at the table and enough food to go around. This is the first cake I tried to make after I got married. In fact, the date was January 1, 1955. Total disaster for there was no cake – all bottom or top, depending which way you look at it. I had copied 1 ½ tablespoons flour instead of 1 ½ cups. It took me three tries before I got it right.”
Charlotte Peet-Boyles

The Gift of ‘Present’

Well, it’s Tuesday already, but this post is part of the Five Minute Friday blog link-up ( check it out here) where I’m joining up with a community of writers and bloggers of all ages and stages who gather around a single word prompt to freewrite for five minutes without editing. This week’s prompt is [Present}.

Facebook has a feature I enjoy called “Memories.” One click on the memories tab gives me visual reminders of things I have posted on that site a year ago or more. It’s a virtual photo journal reminding me of special times in my life like birthdays, vacations, Bible verses that spoke to my heart, time with the grandkids, or what was blooming in my garden at that time. Many of the photos from the past decade feature my sweet mom. Those photo memories of my mom generally bring a smile, or a hearty laugh, and (only sometimes) a few tears sprinkled here and there. But this week, the fact that I was able to take so many photos of her served to remind me of the amazing opportunity God gave me to give my mother a very special gift in the last years of her life.

The gift of being present.

Momma loves Pastor Jeremy and his family!

Present. The gift I’m thankful I could give.

Grandma’s Wonky Christmas Tree

My Christmas tree is a little wonky-looking. A bit oddly shaped, no matter how I fluff it, stubbornly refusing to stand up straight in the rotating base. It has a bit of a wobbly jewelry-box ballerina pirouette going on as it twirls round and round slightly askew. But I love how my wonky tree sparkles as it does its little lopsided twirly dance.