sadness on Christmas morning

It's Christmas morning, and I don't want to get out of bed.

Getting out of bed means Christmas is here, and my Bebe is not.

Last night at church, a hundred memories came flooding back into my mind as soon as they started playing the first song. Every memory was from last Christmas when Bebe stayed with our family here at the house. She alternated each year between our family and my Uncle Steve's family. How could we have ever known that last Christmas would be her last?

As I sat in church last night, my mind kept running through a few specific scenes. First, how Bebe was sitting next to me at church last year. She sat to my right. When they started playing "Silent Night" at the end, I lit her candle for her and she held my hand while we all sang. I nearly lost it last night during that part of the service. My next thought is Christmas morning, with Bebe in her robe (just like every other Christmas she ever spent with us), sipping on coffee while we all waited on my sister to roll out of bed. Last year, we gave Guitar Hero to my Dad. Bebe sat upstairs in the TV room with me and Emily later that afternoon and just laughed as tried to figure the game out. When my sister got booed off the stage the first couple of times she played, Bebe's response was "Honey, you're not a loser in the game of life." Oh, Bebe :) Bebe spent the day with us, and later that night we all went to Steve and Laura's house, something we do every Christmas. After all the gifts were opened, Bebe reached into her purse and pulled out those five small envelopes. We all knew what was coming, we got the same thing every year. Each grandchild got a twenty dollar bill. For a woman with not much, this gift was more than sacrificial.

Today is one month. One month since the world stopped turning for our family. On the whole, I've been relatively okay. I've had my moments, for sure. Today is different, though. Today, we are supposed to celebrate the birth of Jesus. As much as I hate to admit it, that truth is taking a backseat to my family's painful reality. I miss Bebe a lot today, and I don't know how to balance that pain with the joy that defines Christmas.

this year's must-have for christmas

my sweet Bebe

I'd like to think that all granddaughters have a close relationship with their grandmother. The more I talk to people, the more I realize how special my relationship with Bebe was. Of all the people in my family, my Bebe knew me the best. She understood what makes me tick, she stood up for me, and she loved me for me.

My Bebe passed away on Tuesday, November 25th. I was with her when Jesus called her home, a moment that both haunts and comforts me in the late hours of the night. In the past two weeks, it's been a struggle to be present in a world that keeps spinning even though it feels like mine came to a screeching halt.

In the 24 years I knew her, Bebe was a beautiful, special woman. Full of life and never short on red lipstick, she never missed the chance to tell you how much she loved you. Yesterday, at her memorial service, my sister, my cousin, and I had the honor of sharing some words to remember her. We chose to use the theme of "Lessons Learned," in an effort to summarize some of the most important lessons Bebe passed on to her granddaughters.

If I had to summarize Bebe in a few words, there is a plethora of words I could choose: memorable, unforgettable, beautiful. But, if I had to pick only one, I'd have to choose the word love. Bebe was a well-loved woman--the evidence of this is in how many people were so deeply sorrowful when they heard of her passing, or the number of cards that filled her hospital rooms. More importantly, Bebe loved her family and friends, those dearest to her, so well, both through her actions and her words. Whether it was her red lipstick on your cheek, her holding your hand in hers during church, or her slight southern drawl as she told you how precious you were to her, Bebe never missed even the smallest chance to tell you how much she loved you. Although she made sure to pour her affection on you when you were with her, she continued to love in other ways when you weren't with her. Every time I talked to her on the phone, she told me how proud she was of our whole family. She did the same with all her friends at Campbellstone and Peachtree Road. With Bebe, there was never a shadow of a doubt that she loved you. Of everything I ever learned from Bebe, I'd have to say that this is the most important lesson of all. It can be summarized by this--a few weeks ago, I was sitting in her room with her at Piedmont, just the two of us. She said these words to me, "Its nice to be important, but its more important to be nice." If I could sum up my Bebe, the beautiful woman that she was, in just a few words, I'd rephrase this last lesson to me: Its nice to be well-loved, but its more important to love well.

I miss her already, so much sometimes that my body aches. Her voice is the last thing I hear at night before I drift off to sleep. This Christmas will be hard for our whole family; it just won't be the same this year. While we can all take comfort in the fact that we will see her again one day, for me the most comforting truth has been this: Bebe can see again, she can see for the first time in thirteen years. Her eyes have been healed, and she can see her Jesus with new eyes. I can't imagine what a sight it must have been for her, that moment when Jesus came to take her home. The first thing she truly saw in thirteen years, the face of our Savior, welcoming her with open arms. While the pain of the reality that she is gone from this earth is deep, the joy of imagining that precious moment for Bebe is all the more comforting. My Bebe is home now, and she can see again.