Thoughts to fingers, for all the world to see..

My Singing Grandma

Things you should know about me: I love to write, I love to talk, I love to laugh, I love my family, I suck at good byes, and I cry at the drop of a hat. So when I was asked to write a eulogy for my grandma after she passed away on Valentine's Day 2019, I immediately said "yes" (well, after realizing that my grandpa asking if I wanted to be a "eulogist" wasn't some doctor that specialized in whatever body part the eu was... in my defense, we had just spent 4 very long days meeting with every -oloist you can imagine while praying that the right one would walk into the room to help my grandma.. but God had other plans). I really struggled and wrote and rewrote the thing from scratch more times than I can count and I finally clicked Print and wouldn't let myself make any other modifications. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to make people smile, I wanted to try not to cry, I wanted to honor my grandma, and I wanted to point to Christ.

Here's my eulogy. Posting this here mostly for me, but also a little bit so that you can know her better.

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Growing up, my sisters and I were lucky enough to have three sets of grandparents. Our grandparents were never “Grandma and Grandpa Weisenberger” or “Grandma and Grandpa Beatty”. They were never “nana” and “papa”. They had other names.

My dad’s parents are Tiki Grandma and Grandpa (named after their dog Tiki) and Smokey Grandma and Grandpa (also named after a dog, and not because they smoked - which I didn’t learn until about 5 years ago). But my mom’s parents, Chris and Carole Beatty, didn’t have real dogs that we could name them after. I suppose we could have gone with a location-based nickname: so they would have started as “Texas Grandma and Grandpa” and then changed to “Nashville Grandma and Grandpa” and then switched again to “Myrtle Beach Grandma and Grandpa”… but that’s just confusing for everyone. So these grandparents have always been appropriately named: “Singing Grandma and Grandpa”.

This nickname probably makes a lot of sense to most of you – Chris and Carole Beatty are Vocal Coach. But my Grandma was never the singer. You wouldn’t hear her singing a song on stage at a church or a concert hall - that has always been my Grandpa.

She would sing about other things.

She would sing about her Yankees. Actually, if I’m honest, you would probably hear a mixture of her singing about her Yankees and her yelling at her Yankees. If you knew her well, you knew to check if the Yankees were playing before calling her. You knew that in February and March every year she relocated to her home away from home for Spring Training in Florida - where she could sing about them.. and yell at them.. in person.

I would hear her sing about the girly things: nail polish, makeup, and jewelry. My Grandma’s nails were always perfect. I have very distinct memories of being an 11-year-old chatting on AOL Instant Messenger with her singing about what nail polish remover we should be using because the acetone was just making our nails way too weak. When she found a nail color she liked, I would then get that color for Christmas. I remember her painting her toe nails a b­right, bright green, and then her singing the story of the fish in the ocean nibbling at her toes. My obsession with always having my nails painted came from her.

Visiting Singing Grandma and Grandpa when we were younger meant going through bags and bags of old Clinique eye shadow, blush, and lipstick.

I was able to go to Nashville and help pack before they moved to Myrtle Beach in 2016, and while sorting through her jewelry I commented that I had always loved this big, silver, heart necklace that she had. She gave it to me without question - while singing a story about how when I was little I would always pop the cold, silver heart in my mouth while she was holding me – I guess I really have always loved it.

I have an obsession with accessories - specifically sunglasses and making sure I match - and I’m fairly certain it comes from watching her get ready in the mornings when we were together.

She would sing about Myrtle Beach. She loved this place. Myrtle Beach is so drastically different than where she lived in Nashville and it was a little difficult for me to picture her here. Even while the house was being built and I got to see floor plans and pictures and videos, and hear her sing about the different cabinets that were being installed and all of the different features being added.. I still couldn’t picture it - I didn’t get it.

And then I came out here.

I feel like I can hear her singing in my ear as I see more and more of Myrtle Beach - and I finally realize that the house was just the perfect cherry on top to why she loved this city. I can now hear her singing about the neighborhood where she lives – where dogs ride shotgun in golf carts, I can hear her singing about the palm trees as they sway in the wind.. and then the wind would be too cold and she’d need a blanket, and I can hear her singing about the friends that she’s made in Market Commons.

And I can hear her singing about this church. My grandparents have a way of being instantly loved and welcomed everywhere they go - whether it’s a new city, a restaurant, a doctor’s office, or the Apple Store, my grandparents always seem to have made new friends - and this church is no exception. I am thankful for the deep friendships that have been built through this church.. I can hear her singing about the people, the relationships, and the teaching. Trinity helped make Myrtle Beach home.

My grandma would sing about my grandpa, Chris Beatty. To my sisters and me, my grandpa has always been Gaston from "Beauty and the Beast" - not because he’s scary and mean (quite the opposite) but us Southern California, born-and-raised girls associated the biggest and strongest character from a Disney movie with the biggest and strongest man in our lives - our grandpa. But to my grandma, he wasn’t Gaston.. He was Prince Charming.

She would sing about their adventures together. She would sing about how much he made her laugh. She would sing about how he was always, always by her side. She would sing about how well he served her. She would sing about how much she loved him. My grandma got to sing with my grandpa for 42 years. She had her happily ever after with her Prince Charming.

But the thing that my grandma would sing about the most, would sing the loudest about, and would want you join in singing about, too: would be Jesus Christ.

I’ve spent my entire life watching her, hearing her, and learning from her as she clung to He Who is stronger, wiser, and the most loving.

During great times - she prayed and thanked God.

During bad times - she prayed and thanked God.

During still times - she prayed and thanked God.

Her steadfast love for Him was undeniable and something that you couldn’t miss.

If you ever wondered what it was about my grandma that made her who she was - it was Jesus.

If you ever wondered why she cared the way she did - it was Jesus.

If you ever wondered where the joy came from - it was Jesus.

If you only have room to remember one thing about Carole - remember Jesus.

Grandma sang about a lot of things - I didn’t even talk about her singing about New York, or singing about being Jewish, or singing about how much I know she loved my mom, dad, sisters, and me.

But there is so much joy and peace in my heart in knowing that my Singing Grandma is singing at the top of her lungs with her arms raised high in the presence of God. And knowing that is what makes today a genuine celebration of the life, love, and faith of my Singing Grandma, Carole Maxine Beatty.


Incomplete.. but still thankful

I would have thought that it would get easier to send my sister off on these "trips", but the problem is that they keep getting longer ("see ya in 6 weeks!", "see ya in 7!", "these 3 months will go by so fast!", "you'll be home right after VBS!", "two years is nothing!"). And the goodbyes don't get easier. And her being gone isn't any easier. In fact, even the conversations don't get any easier.

Most conversations with my sister involve tears of some sort - sometimes during, sometimes after. Especially because of where she's located, for her safety we can't talk about everything, so sometimes the conversation feels so superficial, because that's how it needs to be. And I hate that.

Most conversations even just about my sister promise tears later that day. But that doesn't mean don't ask about her.. Because not talking about her can lead to the same problem. People stop asking about her, and that gives me a fear that people aren't praying for her - they forget she's not here (please don't stop praying). And then someone does ask about her.. and it's hard to decide in the moment whether you should tell them a) she's doing great! b) there were gunshots in the background of our last phone call or c) we haven't been able to talk in a month, but always d) I miss her a lot. 

I have yet to pray for her without crying.

Getting together with family is bittersweet. We love being together, but it's glaringly obvious that she's not there. We're incomplete. At least some point during every time we're all together someone will tear up. Sometimes we're lucky enough to be able to get her to join us over FaceTime while we're all together.. But even though we'll take silly pictures of it - man, does it suck that she's not actually here. And the FaceTime is awkward because we want to talk with her and we know she wants to be part of what's happening, but it's hard to eat turkey and open presents while holding an iPad in one hand and she's ten hours ahead.. It's just not the same.

And then there's a bunch of little things that no one warns you about..

Did you know that Sprint doesn't have a "long term missionary" phone plan? My mom has been trying to figure out what to do about her phone line since August. In the midst of a frustrated call with Sprint the other day, I said "what do you do if someone's in the military!?" to which the Sprint representative said that there was a special plan for those situations and asked if my sister was in the military.. And I responded in an extremely calm and loving way (or not..) stating that "No, my sister is not in the military, but she's in the same country as them and she doesn't even have a gun to protect herself!". Not my finest moment, but clearly I was having a moment of missing my sister.

What do you do with their room? Keep it exactly the same or turn it into a guest room - that of course she can use when she comes home, but then will it really feel like home for her?

I struggled with buying Christmas presents this year - shouldn't I take the money I'm spending on people and just send the money to her for this month? Or do I not buy anyone any presents and instead save the money to put towards a plane ticket to go visit her?

It's hard not to try and live like time is standing still while she's gone - I don't want her to miss out on anything! I recently moved out and it's been a lot of fun, but I hated packing and moving without her being here to help and be a part of it. I don't really want to date anyone because I don't want to risk falling in love and her not getting to know the guy and watch it happen. I'm so excited that she'll be here for VBS this summer, because I'd rather her be here for it than for me to exhaustingly recap it at the end of the week for her.

The hardest part of it all.. Is that saying this stuff feels wrong. For a lot of reasons. There are people going through life without a loved one because they've passed away, but my sister is alive and is a text or FaceTime call away (most days). She's healthy. We know she's coming home (even if just for a few weeks). And she's doing what God has called her to do.

That last one is really the thing that I struggle with the most. It feels WRONG to miss her and wish she was here.. When she is right where God wants her to be. I regularly wrestle with an insane amount of guilt for just wishing she was sleeping in her bedroom at my parent's house or teaching Sunday School with me. I've been told countless times that it's okay to miss her even if she is serving God, but it still feels wrong to say it. It feels like I'm doubting God's placement of her and control of the situation, even though I know she's exactly where she should be.

All this to say.. The holidays have been tough this year. I wish my sister was here.

But even through the tears (goodness, this post was tough to write out), I'm thankful for who Christ is, for how much He loves us, and for the love that my sister has for Him. That even on the toughest days, I can be confident in knowing that she is right where He wants her to be.

And if you've read through all of this, the next time you say a pray for a missionary you know.. Pray for their family, too.

Sticks and stones may break my bones..

...But words will never hurt me.


That's a lie.

I can't sleep. And normally when I can't sleep, I end up staying up trying to figure out why I can't sleep. But not tonight. Tonight I know exactly why I can't sleep.

I received a lot of compliments today. I wore a cute dress and my hair looked pretty great. A compliment on Sunday morning tends to happen most weeks in some capacity, and I've been working on accepting them gracefully instead of turning them into moments of "thanks, but I hate my shoes". Today I received a bunch more than normal, and it was a nice little plus to my morning.

At some point this evening, I pulled into a parking lot and as I opened my door I got a text. I grabbed my phone to respond it and two people on bicycles rode by - looked like they were having a nice evening date. The girl then said to the guy "look at that fat*** being lazy in her car". I heard it, and thought "what a rude thing to say about someone", hit Send on my text.. And then realized.. She was talking about me.

She was talking about me. Because I was sitting in my car responding to a text (instead of running while responding to the text?), she felt like resorting to Junior High name calling because she didn't like how I looked. I didn't know what to do. I mean, there wasn't really anything I could do - they were skinnybutts being active on bicycles so they were no longer around.

I don't pretend to be a skinny girl. I should eat better. I should exercise more. But I am how I am right now, and I'm not going to hide in my bedroom avoiding the world until things change. I'm sociable, so I'm gonna be out and about, and I'll try and look cute doing it.

However... As they rode away, I wish I could say that I remembered all of the compliments from earlier, laughed it off, held my head up high and just continued on with my day. But I didn't. I sat in my car and cried. Now I was being a fat*** crying in my car. I haven't cried because of name calling in a very, very long time. I finally stopped crying, went inside.. Found a restroom to make sure I didn't look like I'd been crying.. And started crying again. Eventually the tears subsided and I kept doing what I needed to do 

I've stopped crying, but I haven't stopped thinking about it. And I'm not sitting here thinking about what I can do to prove her wrong. I'm not sitting here staring at a mirror, finding every flaw. I'm not sitting here thinking of all of the names I could've called her. 

I'm sitting here unable to sleep because I'm angry at myself for letting that one comment ruin my day.

I let that one negative comment overshadow everything else that happened today. I shouldn't care about what anyone else thinks - whether what they think is good or bad. But I let it overshadow the joy, love, happiness, and beauty that I have in Christ. In my moments of solitude tonight, instead of enjoying the silence I heard "fat**.. fat**" over and over again. I let that one negative comment completely wipe away anything positive that was said earlier in the day.

I could bust out a 1 Peter 3:3-4 quote here or Proverbs 31:30 about not caring about what you look like on the outside and how our focus should be on the inside. I could - those are great verses. But, the one that comes to mind right now is one of my favorites, and has nothing to do with beauty:

"For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ." Galatians 1:10

I had that verse written on my mirror for over a year at one point, and it's what I'm saying to myself now, as I'm trying to get it to replace the fat*** comment. I'm not the type of girl that tells herself "you're beautiful" or "you look great today" when I look in the mirror.. Just because that's not me. But I'm the type of girl that tells herself (and will respond to) "Remember Who you're serving. Remember Who matters. Remember Who loves you. Forget the rest. You're a servant of Christ." 

I shouldn't be upset that I didn't get that girl's approval. I'm certain I fail to get the subconscious approval of tons of people every single day. Sometimes they vocalize it, sometimes they don't. But. Who. Cares. Their approval doesn't matter. The only approval that matters is from an audience of One.


(Please do not take away from this post that I'm looking for compliments because I need to have the rude comment erased from my brain. Not what this is about.)

It's a weird Mother's Day

The only thing my mom ever wants for Mother's Day is to go to Philippe's in LA as a family for lunch. I can only think of one Mother's Day in my memory that we missed it (and that was last year). We've gone with just our family, we've gone when grandparents were in town, and we've brought along other close friends. But Sunday afternoon on Mother's Day is meant to be spent in LA.

However, it's currently Mother's Day afternoon, and my mom is sick in bed. Which means Mother's Day is staying in the 714 area code. And her youngest daughter is over 7000 miles away. It's a weird Mother's Day. We'll be celebrating another day..

On my way home this afternoon, I started thinking about my mom. And the thing that kept coming to my mind were peas. I am an extremely picky eater, and one of the things that I will not eat are peas. I remember eating chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas when I was younger, and trying to hide the peas behind my drumstick, hoping my mom would think that I already ate them (because if I didn't eat them, they would be my dessert and then breakfast and then lunch until I finally did). Everyone always tells kids that "you'll like ____ when you're older".. But not me. I still hate peas (among most other things that I hated to eat when I was younger).

There is this really good pasta salad that my entire family loves. There's nothing really special about it - it's just your basic boxed pasta with seasoning. There are also little bacon bits, carrot strings... And peas. Ugh, the peas. Whenever I decide to make the pasta on my own, I know that I've got to set up the kitchen with multiple bowls to sort out the peas from the pasta in the time it takes to boil the water. I know that when I make the pasta, it takes some extra commitment. The other night, there was a HUGE thing of the pasta in the refrigerator. I was so excited, and then I mentally prepared to eat the pasta while digging around the peas. But I opened up the tupperware.. And there wasn't a pea in sight. My mom had removed all of the peas for me.

I know it's silly, but I may have teared up. I rarely sleep at home (#housesitterproblems) and I eat at home even less frequently. But, on the off chance that I happened to open the fridge on one of the nights that I was home before the pasta had been consumed by other family members.. My mom removed all of the peas. For me. Everyone else is fine with the peas, but I'm the picky one, and my mom removed them for me.

From being on PTAs and PTOs, to helping run a non-profit childhood cancer organization, to running the nursery for years at church, to being the best band booster President someone could ask for, to helping parents handle life with a child with cancer, to organizing grad nights, to teaching people to play instruments, to helping behind the scenes at church, to planning weddings, to sewing costumes and flags, to being an ear to kids that don't get an ear at home, to caring as a teacher in ways that students don't expect.. To being a mom that has supported her children in sickness and in health, while thriving and struggling, through tears and laughter, through teenage (and twenty-something) mood swings.. She's a woman that hates to say no to helping people and doing things. 

In the last year I've seen her sacrifice more of herself because of how much she loves her family. In the last year I've seen her trust God in new ways. In the last year I've seen her love people that were difficult to love. In the last year I've seen her take on new challenges. In the last year I've gained a new appreciation for all that my mom is.

I love you lots, Mom. You're the best!

P.S. I'm sorry I punched you on your birthday that one year. But this will always be one of my favorite pictures.

A Little Bit About My Dad

It's Father's Day. My dad is currently 2,400 miles away in Ohio visiting his mom, step-dad, brothers, sisters, nieces, cousins, and who knows who else.. And I'm sitting here, not sleeping, sitting in bed with a snoring dog, thinking about my dad.

My dad can build. And not just like "here's a box". My dad can BUILD. Anytime we needed any sort of backdrop made for any band, guard, or drumline show, there was no doubt that my dad would be able to do it. If something breaks, my dad can fix it. Giant, moving triangle backdrops made out of mostly styrofoam? Yup! Cupcake stand? Yup! Stranded at the top of a hill in the middle of the Philippines with a car that won't start? No worries! My dad is like Bob the Builder, only way, way better because he doesn't have an annoying theme song that gets stuck in your head.

My dad talks. That might be a weird thing to say (most dads talk), but most people at first think of my dad as very quiet - which he is by default compared to the Weisenberger females. But anyone that has had any conversation with him will stop using that as their first word to describe him - it normally changes to "wise" or "smart". And while he is those things, I also think he's funny. Growing up, most of my friends were "scared" of him (just like I tended to be scared of their dads). But one time a friend came over for dinner when we had "breakfast for dinner", and my dad ended up serving the pancakes "air-born" style (chucking them across the table).. That friend thought it was hilarious and never used the word "scared" to describe my dad again. Ask my dad a question and you won't just get a "yes/no" answer.

My dad is patient. He's lived with four females (plus every dog we've had has been female) for a very long time and we are all very, very talkative. He had to deal with girls being teenagers for about thirteen years straight. He's watched us girls grow up. He's seen us make good choices. He's seen us make bad choices. And he has loved us through it all. He's heard me complain about things that are stupid and things that are important, and has never told me that he doesn't want to hear it. 

My dad is never satisfied. He is never satisfied with who he is - in the best way possible. My dad wants to be more like Christ. He wants to be different than this world. He wants to soak up all that he can learn about his Creator and be who he is meant to be in Christ. He is always reading. Always. And most of the time, that reading isn't the latest pop-culture autobiography (that tends to be what's on my most recent Amazon receipt), it's a book to better himself (and not in a "self-help" kind of way). His office walls are covered in books and that doesn't include the hundreds (if not thousands) of books on his Kindle. He recently quit the job that he'd had for most of my life because it was what God was calling him to do which has given him more time to focus. Not focus on himself, but focus on Christ.. Because being satisfied with who you are with God is being content, and being content is not growing, and if you love God, you should be growing.. And my dad knows that.

And last but not least, my dad loves. He loves me. He loves Jenna. He loves Selah. He loves my mom. He (most of the time) loves Sousa (the dog). He loves the Lord. And he doesn't just love all of us, he loves us unconditionally (okay, maybe he does love the dog all the time). And I don't think love like that needs any more explanation.

There are so many people that either don't know their dad, don't like their dad, or think that their dad doesn't like them. But I'm extremely thankful this Father's Day that I know my dad, that I love my dad, and that I know that my dad loves me.

P.S. My dad also blogs. That's right, he blogs. And he blogs some good stuff. You should go visit his site.