On endings and beginnings.

"All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well." Julian of Norwich

When I started this Substack, my mom and dad were still living. That a little over a month ago.

Today, my parents are gone.

We celebrated their 177 combined years of life with a double funeral, two days before Christmas, which happened to be my birthday.

I personally love a good Catholic funeral, and my parents’ funeral had some extra sparkle to it if you are into that sort of thing. All four Advent candles lit, evergreen trees adorning our exceptionally beautiful hometown church where people from all parts of our family’s life gathered to pray, to mourn, to celebrate. Cousins came from near and far, accompanying the few remaining aunts and uncles, each one carrying the memory of those who'd gone before into the pews with us.

Best yet were the rows and rows of grandkids - 25 of them, the most beautiful bunch you’ve ever seen. Some still kids, several fully grown with spouses and little ones - 19 and counting - each one cuter than the next; all more solemn than usual.

As I etched this scene into my memory, my deepest hope and prayer was that at long last, my parents’ souls could truly feel their worth as their weary world rejoiced.

After Mass, we buried Mom and Dad next to each other in the frozen ground on what must be the windiest hill in Iowa. We said the final prayers. We pulled flowers from their casket sprays and blew them one last kiss goodbye.

We went to City Hall to eat ham sandwiches and salads made with Cool Whip and homemade desserts made with more Cool Whip. We hugged people, we thanked people, we said goodbyes, we drove our separate ways.

That night, my family of six spent the night in a dingier than usual hotel somewhere almost halfway home to Wisconsin. We ate burgers in bed under thin polyester bedspreads and watched the Packers. The kids made silly TikToks together. We told the youngest not to roll around on the dirty carpet so much. His six year old eyes, twinkling with innocence and anticipation, subtly reminded us of all we needed to do yet to make Christmas happen. I made an earnest wish before I blew out the candle on the slice of grocery store cake that we split six ways. May there be some magic for him this Christmas.

We woke to Christmas Eve morning hotel lobby breakfast - heavy on high fructose corn syrup, low on caffeine, ample amounts of tragedy blaring on the cable news overhead. We packed up, found decent-enough coffee, drove home.

I had the urge to text Mom to report our safe return. Sigh.

We napped. We set an alarm to ensure we’d get to the store before close with enough time to get what we needed to hit all the marks. For our kids, yes. But also for my husband and me. We knew without needing to say it out loud to each other. Our parents, all gone now, will live on in all these small traditions that they gave us to pass on to our kids.

The eggbake, the star jell-o, the ham and cheesy potatoes, cookies for Santa and surprising gifts under the tree, yes. But along with it, a story so great it begs to be acted out: a King born in a stable, to a lowly peasant woman hand-picked by God; angels singing to bewildered shepherds; Magi following a star to pay homage to a humble child - Emmanuel, God with us.

Target at 5 pm on Christmas Eve is, I believe, one possible definition for hell on earth. People were edgy, shelves were ransacked, nothing was where it was supposed to be, lines were long. Truth told, despite the desperate circumstances, something in me was different. Call it a Christmas miracle, but I wasn’t uptight. It would all be just fine. All shall be well. This, dear readers, has nothing to do with me and everything to do with grace. (And maybe a little to do with the cold brew coffee I had the presence of mind to grab before we left the house.)

My husband picked me up and we headed home to unload the groceries, feed the kids, pick up the house and prepare for Santa. Tucking our youngest into bed that night, he added this intention to the bedtime prayers: “May there be joy this Christmas.”

And there was. Not because everything was perfect or because the gifts exceeded expectations. We didn’t even have bacon in the eggbake - deli ham was a good enough substitution. The dog’s stocking was filled with dental treats from a grocery trip weeks back that we hadn’t opened yet. We forgot the star jell-o and the birthday song to Jesus, my mom’s quirky signature tradition.

We were together and the rituals of the day felt familiar enough. It was enough. Grace was with us. God was with us. And, leaning into the faith handed to us by our ancestors, our parents were with us, too.

Though their lives are over, bodies in the frozen ground, their energy and memories live on - in the sparkle of my son’s eye, the stories my kids ask to hear again, the artifacts of our childhood homes on the mantle, in the cupboards, on the walls, in the rituals that carry us through the thresholds of life.

When I started this substack I promised a bulletin: calls to action, practices to help us through life, you know, typical coachy stuff. I’m not really in that place quite yet, my heart still drawn quietly inward. Perhaps there’s some coach-like wisdom in that though, like a good coach would say after a tough loss: take time to be grateful, to feel, to lean into your people, to soften, to strengthen. Let the loss be your teacher.