How I wish you were here.

Sometimes I miss my grandmother Phyllis a lot. I want to tell her about what I am doing in my life so she can sincerely marvel, as she always did, at my meager accomplishments. I want her to meet my boyfriend. "Delightful" she would say after meeting him. And she would remember his name. Shea. Not like my last boyfriend whom she always mistakenly called "Brandon." I miss her always recounting some way God had answered her prayers that week, or how she saw His hand in a friend's life. I miss her telling me she didn't care what I did so long as I was happy and embracing the truths she held sacred.

Sometimes, when I miss her, I look at her blog which is simply composed of pictures from a family party years ago. I look at the pictures of myself. Hair too long, too skinny, donned in clothes that have long since left my wardrobe. A girl trying to figure out what she wanted out of life. A girl yet to discover what she loved in life. I look at my sister and her daughters. all blond. All of us on the "ninja turtle" scooters- the staples of fun at grandma's house. I look at my grandmother's yard. Her pride and joy. And her other pride and joy- her family. She was so happy when we all were there. Cousins pregnant with kids who are now graduating pre-school. Cherub-faced children snacking on potato chips. The unnatural, superficial conversation between relatives that spend too little time together. "Are you still writing that missionary?" "Let's see now, what year are you in school?"

My grandmother had a book that she kept. It had everyone in it. All of the children and their children, and their children. Conversation was never unnatural for her. She thrived off of it. Funny how generations pass. And those left behind are left wondering so much about those who were gone before. I wonder so much about my parents now. Will I take the time to ask them about what they thought about at my age? Who did they want to date? If they ever did their homework on time? Did they procrastinate like me? How did they know what they wanted from this life? What did they think when I was born? Were they ready to be parents? Will I ask them? Will they ever tell me without me asking? No.

As I see my parents become the next generation, I can't help but think that death escapes no one, the rich and the poor, all die. I can't help but think about man's mortality. I want to ask those questions. I want to learn from all around me. I never want conversation to be forced. I want to send random notes in the mail with old things, just like my grandma. I want to be stuck in simpler times with different cares. Yet each generation has their burden to bear. Perhaps my generation must suffer from the lack of connection. Maybe I must work to be a conversationalist when deep emotions are expressed through icons from a keyboard. Grandma, I miss you and your bad cooking, life-risking driving, and poor budgeting skills. I miss all of your flaws, for I see the beauty in them now. Here's to hoping I can make the most out of my generation. I have so much yet to learn.

http://phyllisthomson.blogspot.com/