Harlan Place

Eleanore Zeiss Bradway
August 23, 1921 - January 11, 2007

Dear Grandma,

I was just reminiscing over the long treks we would take to Wisconsin each summer when I was little. I don’t remember what started the tradition of driving to camp instead of flying. Maybe it was that Grandpa didn’t like to fly. Or maybe long-distance driving is just in our blood… and we embrace the allure of the open road and mile after mile of highway. Whatever the reason, I delighted in those trips. No single memory from my childhood stands out as pleasantly or with as much clarity as the moments that I would be roused from sleep by the soft glow of halogen lights, the scent of gasoline, the distinct absence of the highway buzz and car vibrations that had lulled me to sleep, and lastly (but most notably) the soft murmur of you and Mom talking. Within moments of waking, I would drift silently back to sleep, always with a smile on my face and an unmistakable feeling of contentment. To this day, the rare but delightful occasion that results in me waking to the sights, sounds, and scents of a late-night gas stop brings my thoughts immediately to you, and a smile creeps across my face as I drift back to sleep.

A child’s memory is a funny thing. I’m sure that you never could have imagined that stopping for gas would be my reigning memory of years of Wipigaki road trips. It must just be that all of my senses were brought to life in those moments, and yet the moments were so intermingled with my own sleepy dreams that they continue to live in the part of my brain that embraces pleasure and fantasy. But I haven’t forgotten the memories that you no doubt embrace above all others when you reminisce of our summer road trips. Most people on long road trips fuel up on burgers, sodas, and junk food at rest stops along the way. But not you, Grandma. You and Grandpa would chart the course for grand banquets at fine restaurants. If there wasn’t silverware, buttered bread, and some vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce for Grandpa, it just wasn’t a meal.

We always seemed to leave late for our trips. We’d head over to your house, bags packed and ready to go, and we’d wait. And wait. But I don’t think we really minded. Because waiting at your house, watching as you finished laundry and rolling quarters for the ice cream store, and whatever else you busied yourself with was just part of the adventure. And I guess that somehow, it all fit into your overall plan. Because no matter how many extra hours it took for us to finally get on the road, we always managed to time our restaurant stops perfectly. We never failed to arrive at your favorite restaurants at just the right time. And we always made it to the cabin just in time to navigate our way down the bumpy path in the black of night. I loved that even in a sleepy haze, I could always traverse the darkened path effortlessly – every stump, every root, every step etched perfectly in my memory from the year before.

It didn’t matter that we arrived past our bedtime. There were no bedtimes at Wipigaki. No matter how much excitement filled our days, our nights always seemed to come to life with renewed vigor. Mom said you were a night owl, and for the time we were together, I got to be one too. I would stay up late sitting by the fire, playing board games and listening to your stories. Stories about how you and Grandpa met, stories about your adventures in Mexico… anything and everything that I quizzed you about to extend our nights together. I don’t think my dad understood why Mom didn’t set rules like strict bedtimes while we were at Wipigaki, but maybe she just knew: that was my time with you.

I won’t forget the sleepy gas stops in the middle of the night. I won’t forget the elaborate road trip dinners. I won’t forget doing my best to fight sleep so I could be your night owl companion. I won’t forget… you.

I hope you are dancing the night away with Grandpa tonight. And maybe my babies are your new little night owls … watching and enjoying you, just as I would if I were with you. Kiss them for me, will you? And tell them it’s okay not to have a bedtime. This is their time with you.

Goodnight, Grandma. I love you.

~jessie

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” Psalm 147:3

Today, we are brokenhearted. We lost our baby to miscarriage and are filled with sadness. Yet despite the emptiness that we feel, we are blessed and comforted in the knowledge that Jesus is now cradling two of our precious unborn children in his arms.

And as we seek to embrace the healing that Jesus has for our broken hearts, we are holding ever tighter to our precious miracle baby, Joshua. I think our broken hearts are mended with every bright smile that flashes across Joshua’s face, every enchanting glimmer of mischief in his eyes, every echo of his laughter, every tender embrace… every outpouring of the joy that is embodied in his sweet innocence. Thank you, Jesus, for our little boy.

With grateful hearts, we wish to extend our sincerest thanks to each one of you for your prayers, love, and support over the last couple of weeks. We’ve been incredibly blessed by your faithfulness in friendship.