Today is Easter Monday - a day of continued celebration for the life and amazing joyful surprises that Christ's love means for us! Today is a "stay home day," as my kids call it, when we can play and live and come up with joyful surprises of our own. Today is a happy day!
But today is also April 17th - a day when my Grandpa would have celebrated his birthday and all the amazing surprises that 90 years of life can mean. Today is also the day that the Barn, where Grandpa milked cows, made his livelihood and raised his family for decades, had to come down. Today is a grieving day.
But as I have learned - in grief and in life - it is seldom only bitter, seldom solely sweet. The two are excellent dancing partners, working well together in their tango of mixed emotions.
This past weekend I had the chance to visit both my Grandpa's grave site, and the Barn. Calling up memories (oh, so sweet memories) and saying good-byes (oh, so bitter good-byes) at each. The bitter-sweet tango.
The following is a poem I wrote after visiting the Barn this weekend. Here is to all the years of memories, relationships, scrapes, life and laughter that fell upon generations of Nystroms there, and to the memories, relationships, scrapes, life and laughter (and pieces not falling upon us) that await future generations!
The Barn
Here's where Jake fell off the conveyor,
a pebble from the concrete below wedged in his hands,
but where we refused to tell any grown-ups, for fear of getting in trouble for climbing.
Here's where I learned I was terrified of heights, as I went up the ladder through the hole in the floor,
but where I learned to rejoice when I got there, and celebrated the site of "stars" at Midday.
Here's where I named all of Jordan's first litter of pigs,
watching in amazement the vision of new life and growth,
but where I quickly learned not to get attached, as death is also a part of life.
Here was where I could smell the special scent of milk in the bulk tank,
even years after we had stopped milking,
and where I watched that room wither, and the scent fade as more years went by.
Here was the backdrop to where my brother got kicked in the head by a cow,
where my Mom's imaginary friend got buried in the corn-crib when Grandpa had had enough,
and where my cousin got married, on the day I told my future spouse I hoped it would be us one day.
Here was where Grandpa and Grandma raised their family,
where their family continued to gather to feast and celebrate and play Starlight-Moonlight,
and where my kids now see only dilapidation, an empty climbing adventure.
This was the structure that stood strong through generations of farming,raising cows, to pigs, to goats, to great-great-grandkids,
but where wood now falls down, an unsafe haphazard has-been.
This was the red wood that felt like "home" to many,
whether we lived across from it, or visited only once or twice a year for bonfires,
but this home is now ready to move on.
This was "The Barn" in all its glory,
all its joy and life and love and farm and family,
but this is no longer the Barn of my memories.
Each memory I have there both bitter and sweet,
a mix of joy-filled and difficult moments,
where pain and fear and fading life, met adventure and accomplishment and new life.
Each year of its aging both bitter and sweet,
a tango of celebrations and tragedies,
where the Good LORD giveth, and the Good LORD taketh away.
Each piece of wood both bitter and sweet,
having seen the sunshine as well as the storms,
where generations learned how to weather both, and how to shelter one another accordingly.
Here's where Grandpa farmed,where his son tried,
and where his grandkids started again.
Here's where memories were made,
where stories of those memories were told,
and where new memories will now unfold.
Here's where our family started,
where our family continued,
and where - despite its absence - our family will go on.
This was "The Barn,"
This was an important symbol,
but this was never the important things themselves.
Our family will still be family,
The farm can still be farmed,
Memories can still be made.
Each memory both bitter and sweet,
like so much of life,
like saying good-bye to the barn,
like The Barn itself.
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