Kenny and Vannie's Wedding

I pray for Kenny and Tommy to marry nice girls. They're only toddlers, but I figure you can't start too early.

Kenny and Savanna

Kenny is a freshman at Denver University when he falls in love the first time. He brings home a girl too shy to speak to us directly.

"Would you like sour cream with your enchiladas?" my husband John politely asks at dinner. She is horrified to be put on the spot in such a blatant manner. Finally she whispers her preference to Kenny.

Slightly embarrassed, Kenny responds. "She doesn't like sour cream, Dad."

The next day I start a 58 day Novena prayer. It's what Desperate Catholic Mothers do. I plead with God.  "Get rid of her,"  

By day 23 she's history. But I finish the Novena anyway. I like to cover all my bases. It is the last time I pray for a girl to go away. I'm not entirely comfortable ordering God around like a mafia hit man.

Two years ago, Kenny brings home Savanna. "Vannie", he calls her. She has purple hair, majors in English, is a sometime vegetarian, and waits tables to put herself through school. My big, gruff husband doesn't scare her in the least.

"You're a vegetarian?" John says in mock horror. "I killed a buffalo for you!"

She cocks an eyebrow. "I didn't say I was a good vegetarian."

I like this girl. I like her a lot. Kenny does, too. In fact, it's as plain as the nose on his face that he adores her. Laughing, they tell us how they meet each for the first time through an online dating site. Kenny has posted a ridiculous photo of himself. He has decided, he explains, to be completely honest. Vannie, when she sees the photo, makes a quick decision.

Kenny's online dating photo

"I figure either he's a complete freak," she tells us, "or that he's the perfect guy for me."

She's the perfect girl for him, too. Vannie falls in love not only with Kenny but with his big dog Sarge. Vannie, in fact, is passionate about all animals. She interns for a pet shelter and bonds with mysterious breeds of animals that I am afraid to look at let alone touch. An iguana lovingly wraps itself around her head. She builds by hand a doggie wheelchair for a pup with paralyzed hind quarters. One day she adopts a sweet shelter dog called Luna who, along with Kenny's Sarge, completes their crazy quartet.

Never in my life have I met a girl like Vannie. She is an inveterate reader.  I remember the day she texts me a picture of the book she loves most - a well worn, dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. I gasp. Jane Eyre is my all time favorite book. I am not acquainted with one other person who loves it like I do. In that moment, I know she will marry my son.

"Because of Jane Eyre?" my husband snorts. Laugh all you want, I think knowingly. She's the one.

Vannie and Iguana friend

And she is. Last Friday, on a warm day in June, Kenny and Vannie tie the knot under a cloudless blue sky in Colorado's Denver City Park. The place is full of poignant memories for my siblings and me. We grew up in this park paddle boating on the big lake with our Starbuck cousins on the Fourth of July. Dad hurled my brothers and me in our saucer sleds down the big hill in front of the Museum of Natural History. City Park was home to us 45 years ago, and I wish with all my heart that Mom and Dad were here for this great day.

But John's 92-year-old mother is still with us, and surrounded by her children and grandchildren before the ceremony, Ruth Howard chokes back tears. I do not become emotional until I see my own siblings marching up the rise toward us like a small army. My sister-in-law Sheryl leads the charge. Wave after wave of brothers and sisters and spouses and children and our stepmother Kris come all the way from our small town in Nebraska to celebrate with Kenny and Vannie.

It is a wonderful day, pure and simple. Vannie is a vision in her dress. She wears no veil. Her hair hangs loosely around her radiant face, and peeping below her dress,as she marches down the aisle, are blue denim shoes. I smile. My beautiful daughter-in-law is uniquely and proudly herself.

Later, we crowd into the boat pavillion for eating and dancing. Vannie's gorgeous mother Ronda and her talented friends have transformed the ancient boathouse. With warm Texan hospitality, Ronda charms our huge family and guests while her affable husband Rob takes care of things behind the scenes. Vannie's handsome father Bobby offers a loving toast to the bride and groom. Our younger son Tommy, as his brother's best man, offers his own toast. He recalls the day long ago that he snatches the last Little Debbie from our cupboard and flaunts it in front of Kenny who immediately smashes it so that neither one of them will enjoy it.

"When you crushed that Zebra cake, Kenny," Tommy laments, "you crushed a little part of me."

My evil sister-in-law Mary Turner nudges me. "So you're the kind of mother who let her kids eat Little Debbies?" she mocks me. She loves it that I have no homemaking skills

"I couldn't bake that day," I pretend to be indignant. "I was behind with my scrapbooking." We laugh raucously.

Vannie's sister Ashley, the maid of honor, offers a toast with sisterly words of love and tenderly kisses Vannie. Then we dance. Vannie's mother has secretly arranged a flash mob dance inviting all of us to participate. She leads the crowd assisted by Vannie's father and beautiful stepmother Sherri. I am not a dancer, though, and think I will bow out. My sisters, however, will not allow me to retreat.

"Loosen up!" my younger sister Mary scolds.

She is absolutely right. How many times does your oldest son get married? We dance and laugh and sing. Kenny hikes his pants up to his chest and struts his moves like Pee Wee Herman. Even on his wedding day, my 6 ft. 10 son cannot find a suit with sleeves long enough to reach his wrists. My sister Terri, beaming like a teenager, bounces out on the floor to match Kenny's outlandish dance moves, and I think I have never laughed so hard.

Suddenly the DJ is playing We Are Family. We sing along in thundering unison. It is absolutely the cheesiest moment ever, but it occurs to me that in this hot little pavillion, I am surrounded by almost all the people in the world I love most. My dad's cousins, Peggy and MaryLee, whose voices I have known all my life, are here with their families. Past and present generations of Browns, Howards, Hansons,Turners, Tighes and Ryans mingle together. A new generation will begin with this eventful night. It is a moment divine. Perhaps the highlight of the evening, however, is Vannie's delightful grandfather,"PaPa", who strums his beloved guitar and sings for the newlyweds.

"I only like two kinds of music," PaPa's eyes twinkle. "Country and western!"

Finally, I slip outside for a breath of cool air. Ashley, Vannie's sister, is also there, snatching a moment of quiet.

"I was so nervous about my toast," she confides all at once. "There was so much I wanted to say."

She tells me about "Sibling Night", a weekly event which she and Vannie and their younger brother Ben hold dear. They cook and talk and spend time together.

"Then Vannie brought Kenny, and when Tommy moved to Denver, he came, too," Ashley explains breathlessly. "And now Kenny and Tommy have become like my own brothers. And that," she finishes at a gallop, "is what I really wanted to say in my toast."

Vannie and Kenny - June 17th, 2016

Suddenly, I like this lovely, regal girl very much. Wordless, I grip her arm. Ashley cannot realize how happy she has made me. Kenny and Tommy are on their own living 400 miles away from us. In a flash, however, I know if anything should happen to my sweet boys, they will be among family. I try to thank Ashley but realize I will only sound like an over-emotional mother. One day I will try to tell her what a great gift her words were to me on the day of my son's wedding.

On June 17th, 2016, Kenny and Vannie's wedding night, the moon is full. I take a moment to stand by myself and savor the cool night air and the City Park lake shining in the moonlight. Mom and Dad feel very near. I hope they know about Kenny and Vannie - about their tender hearts and their quirky humor. I hope they know that a beautiful girl has captured their grandson's heart - a girl who loves helpless animals, blue denim shoes, and Jane Eyre.

And a sweet, lovely, very tall boy whose sleeves are never long enough - not even on his wedding day.

Carry Short

Even when she's five, my sister Carry is a drama queen. Nobody can turn a skinned knee into a near death experience quite like our baby sister.

"My knee! Oh my God, my knee! Oh my God, Oh my God!"

We are forbidden to use the Lord's name in vain. Ever. But Carry's entire vocabulary is built upon her histrionic invocations to God.

Carry (front) with our siblings Mary, Rick, Terri, Tom and Jeff

She is a little like the Boy Who Cries Wolf, and we tend to ignore her outbursts. One afternoon, however, when we are all lounging in the tv room, we hear her shrieks from the kitchen. Her OhMyGod's seem even more desperate than usual.

My mother rolls her eyes. "Somebody better check on our little Sarah Bernhardt," she says to no one in particular.

It's probably good that we do. Nimble as a monkey, Carry has maneuvered herself up the kitchen cabinets to secure the peanut butter from the top shelf. Losing her tenuous grip, she tumbles but is saved when her underwear fortunately hooks to the knob of the silverware drawer. Suspended in mid air, she flails furiously.

"My God, my God!" she hisses when we laugh helplessly but make no move to disengage her. "Why don't you help me!"

In spite of her passionate dramatics, we adore Carry. She is the eighth child of the ten of us. I am the oldest and nearly 13 when she is born, and the second she comes home from the hospital I am utterly captivated by my baby sister. Like Mom, she is a dark-eyed beauty. Small and lithe, she darts around the house and through the yard like a long legged nymph. She is not tall like the rest of us. Rather, she is so small that she burrows next to our giant of a father in his huge recliner and all but disappears under his big arm.

When Carry is 8, Mom is diagnosed with breast cancer. We are a family in denial and refuse to believe she will be taken from us. Her death knocks us off our feet. In a bewildering cloud of grief, we understand our lives will never be the same. But our small siblings are especially vulnerable.

Dad is our savior. In spite of his own terrible pain, he makes the ten of us feel safe, and we try to embrace the new normal. Dad rouses us all for school in the mornings when the alarm blares. As soon as he closes the door in the bathroom to shower, Carry crawls into Dad's big bed, the bed he shared with Mom. She yanks the covers around her and listens to the sounds of Dad gargling and showering. Paul Harvey spouts his morning perspective from the bathroom radio. It is the only time she feels safe.

My siblings and I become especially close after Mom dies, and we are especially protective of Dad and each other. Carry and I, in fact, become like mother and daughter.

She grows into a beautiful young woman, and I am proud of her. Immediately after high school, all by herself, she bravely moves to Denver to become a nanny. There she meets Craig Short, and by the time she is in her middle twenties, Carry seems to have everything she has ever craved - a husband, a family, and a beautiful home.

Her children - Morgan, Jonathan and Joseph - are her life. Carry romps on the floor and plays with them,and I think I have never seen a mother who enjoys her children so much. We are delighted when they all move back from Colorado to Omaha.

Carry with kids Jonathan, Joseph and Morgan

But the marriage does not survive. Carry is a stay-at-home mom with no college education. After her divorce, she is paralyzed with fear. Nevertheless, she forces herself to march into an Omaha car dealership to ask for a job. She gets it, too. Not only that, she becomes one of the top sales people at Baxter Hyundai. She is still a drama queen, to be sure. But the girl's got guts.

Life careens along. Until 2010 when our little sister Terri is diagnosed with breast cancer. Scared to death, she elects to have a double mastectomy. Before we can even catch our breath, however, my sister Deb is diagnosed with hyperplasia, a pre-cancerous breast condition. The jig is up, and we know it. Breast cancer killed Mom and her grandmother, and now it's gunning for all of us. Deb, Mary and I, like our sister Terri, decide with great trepidation to undergo preventive double mastectomies. But Carry digs in her heels.

"I am not having a double mastectomy," she snaps at Mary who pleads with her to consider the surgery. I can hardly blame her. She is a 42-year-old single mother. In her eyes, preventive surgery means the end of her life. I cannot tell her it isn't so. In any case, she is determined that the family gene will never claim her as its next victim.

But it does. Six weeks ago, she discovers a small lump, and by the end of  the month, she has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Carry is 48-years-old. Mom was 48 when she died. There was a time when none of my sisters or I  believed we'd ever live past our 48th year. We convince Carry that she's lucky. She's found this cancer early, and Dr. Janet Grange, our own surgeon, will probably perform a simple lumpectomy.

Carry with daughter Morgan

But it's not that easy. A few days later, as Carry and I sit side by side in  a tense examination room, Dr. Grange explains that Carry's tumor is aggressive. It must be treated immediately with chemotherapy before surgery is even considered.

Carry groans, drops her head and wails. Dr. Grange and I try to comfort her, but Carry, when she raises her head, is angry. "So it's already gone to my organs! AND I'm losing my hair?" she lashes out at Dr. Grange.

I attempt to intervene, but Dr. Grange waves her hand at me. "No," she cautions. "She's just received terrible news. Let her deal with it."

Carry pulls herself together, but she barely listens as Dr. Grange explains that chemo will kill any errant cells. "This is a treatable, winnable cancer," she tells us. Later, though, in the elevator, Carry sobs. She is my heartbroken baby sister, and we cling to each other for dear life.

It is not fair that my two little sisters have been stricken by this terrible disease. Terri and I are in the car after visiting Carry one day. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by the family affliction. When will we be done with it? I have 18 gorgeous nieces. Must they all live in fear of cancer? Are we a family of women destined to lose our breasts?

"Terri," I sigh, "do you ever wish sometimes we could just all go to Heaven and leave this business behind?"

But Terri's having none of that. My little sister is a cancer survivor. She's fought too hard to wish her life away. "It'll be okay," she says soothingly.

Immediately, I am comforted. Terri is the sister who made all the rest of us brave. She will make Carry brave, too. And she has. My brother Joe, a cancer survivor himself, texts us. "Everything will be all right." My brother Rick sends us a special prayer to say. We band together, like we always do, and I am supremely grateful for my good brothers and sisters. It is one more hurtle we will conquer together.

Only a few days after the terrible morning in Dr. Grange's office, Carry makes an appointment to be fitted for a wig. Yesterday, Dr. Grange inserts a port in her arm, and next Wednesday, she will begin her first chemo treatment. Her close friends will invade her house this Saturday, and they will shave Carry's head.

"I'm not waiting for my hair to fall out," she says briskly. She has also decided, after her chemo, to have a double mastectomy. In the meantime, she is taking caring of her children and selling cars. She is that little girl who climbs the kitchen shelves determined to get the peanut butter - all by herself.

But she doesn't have to do this by herself. Surrounded by her kids and good friends and family, Carry will plow her way to the other side. Because that's what she's done all her life.

She's a drama queen, my baby sister. But she's a tough cookie.

And we'll be with her all the way.

Sheryl Strobel-Brown

You should meet my sisters-in-law.

Sheryl and Tom

Every last one is gorgeous. And smart and strong and funny. As well, they're hopelessly devoted to my brothers. To be fair, they didn't have to grow up with them like my sisters and I did. They never endured underwear shoved over their heads or being pinned to the floor forced to swallow brother spit. Just the same, they manage my brothers very well, and they welcome with open arms the rest of our enormous and hugely dysfunctional family.

My sister-in-law Sheryl and my brother Tom usually host Christmas. All 60 of us tumble into their big beautiful home. We read the tender story of the Nativity aloud, sing carols - the three we remember all the words to, exchange with hilarity white elephant gifts, and eat and drink much more than we really should. Mostly we enjoy each other.

Tom and Sheryl, who never worry about spills or small house fires, make it look easy. Even as we sing and laugh, though, I am drawn to the sweet girl in the picture frame across the room. She is caught in time - a laughing, eager teenager with her brilliant smile and eyes that brim with fun. Only 15-years-old, she is a joyous extension of my sister-in-law.

She is Frankie.

I have never met her, but I feel close to her. Sheryl tells me stories. About Frankie's reluctance to be a cheerleader for her high school in the village of Clarks.  "Mom," Frankie rolls her eyes, "I'm not a shake-your-poms-fake-kind-of-smile-girl."

About how Frankie excels in volleyball, basketball, track, and does, after all, love being a cheerleader.

About her devotion to her younger brothers, especially her baby brother Ace. "Boo Boo!" she croons.

And about the time Sheryl asks for a good place to hide a pair of leather gloves she has purchased as a gift for Frankie's stepfather.  "Hide 'em in my underwear drawer," Frankie suggests. "If he finds them, we'll know he's a pervert."

Frankie loves to help her mother with projects around the house. She helps Sheryl remodel their kitchen. She loves to bake and meticulously copies a recipe for monster cookies. "Walnuts optional," she prints carefully on paper.

She thinks about going into the field of advertising someday like her mother. In fact, she wants more than anything for her mother to be proud of her.

One November day, Frankie drives to basketball practice, her school driving permit in hand, but turns right back around to collect gas money.

"I've got just 11 bucks!" Sheryl hands her a fistful of cash.

Frankie throws a brilliant smile over her shoulder and dashes back out the door again. From the window, Sheryl watches her daughter drive away.

Sheryl and Frankie

"God, I love that kid," she sends a prayer of gratitude to the heavens.

It is the last moment she and Frankie will ever share.

On her way home from practice, Frankie loses control of her vehicle, rolls down into a ravine, and is thrown 200 yards. It is Sheryl's brother who tells her over the phone that Frankie is dead.

Sheryl remembers only that she drops to her knees. The words are incomprehensible and have to be a mistake. Later, at the funeral home, she stares down at her daughter's body. Frankie is wearing her blue Hyvee shirt. She is unchanged. Suddenly, a small mucous bubble erupts from Frankie's nose, and for one wild second, Sheryl believes her daughter is alive.

"It's just the body shutting down," a funeral home attendant tells her as kindly as possible. The day her daughter leaves this earth is at once the end and the beginning of everything. All the rest of Sheryl's life will be divided into two parts - before and after Frankie. She cannot know on that terrible day that her marriage will fall apart. That even as she can hardly breathe, some friends will fail to understand her seemingly endless grief and others will tell her that Frankie's death is part of God's plan.

Frankie and her dog.

Sheryl cannot fathom a God who would allow her child to be taken. Even so, she cannot live the rest of her life without the belief that somewhere, Frankie's spirit exists, understands, loves and waits for her.

As a single mother, she has two small boys to raise. When the grief threatens to overwhelm her, she shuts her eyes and tries to talk to Frankie. Making an appointment with a counselor, she begins the long process of working through the pain and making a life for herself and her boys. She learns to find comfort and strength in the wisdom and words of others.

"The only kind of courage that matters is the kind that gets you from one moment to the next" becomes one of her mantras.

When Frankie's anniversary rolls around, Sheryl leaves her world for a day and takes a solitary road trip. "I try to have no expectations," she says, "except to think about Frankie all I want, write, and just be with my sadness by myself."

Eventually she is hired by NTV as an account executive. It is 2007, three years after Frankie's death. Sheryl is at the Grand Island Conestoga Mall working on a Christmas ad when she meets my brother Tom, the head of security.

"Sheryl," her friend Melissa, part of the mall management, slides up next to her, "Tom Brown thinks you're kind of cute."

Sheryl blinks. "Who? That guy with the short pants?"

Sheryl isn't sure after two marriages and the loss of Frankie that she's ready for Tom. But Tom is no stranger to grief. He is ten-years-old when our mother dies. I remember at Mom's funeral the way Tommy sits next to our heartbroken grandmother and softly pats her back as she sobs. He will not be put off by Sheryl's own grief.  My little brother is as good and gentle as a spring rain.

"You know, Mom," Sheryl's son Jake says one day after she and Tom are married, "I think Tom saved you."

Maybe they have saved each other.

Frankie has been gone 11 years now. Five years ago, Sheryl and her nieces instituted the "Frankie Lyn Anderson Volleyball Tournament." More than 300 people arrive in Clarks to play sand volleyball each year. Sheryl's brothers build the court, and even Sheryl's mother, who deeply loves her lost granddaughter, helps with the day. The money raised is donated to Frankie's high school in Clarks for band camp, athletic camp, science camp or any kind of school camp scholarships.

Fifth annual Frankie Lyn Anderson Volleyball Tournament

Sheryl forges ahead with other dreams, too. Although Tom and she have combined Tom's three children - Karley, Casey and Kelsey - with Sheryl's two, they decide to take in foster children. Two years ago, 16-year-old Alyssa arrives followed by brother and sister duo Chris and Kaitlynn, 9 and 7. This last summer, they load everybody in the car and head to the Lake of the Ozarks for a family vacation.

Tom, Sheryl and the whole crew at Lake of the Ozarks.

Their house overflowing with eight children is all because of a bright, beautiful girl called Frankie. On the outside, her mother Sheryl's life seems happy, full and busy. If it is, it's because Sheryl's made a conscious choice that it should be that way.

Even after 11 years, however, there is still the fresh and piercing pain that takes Sheryl by surprise. This Christmas, she finds Frankie's carefully copied recipe for monster cookies.  "Walnuts optional" she reads in her daughter's handwriting through a sting of tears.

These last 11 years, she has tried to be the mother Frankie would be proud of. She tries, in fact, to be the person Frankie was. On Frankie's grave marker, Sheryl has the following words set in stone to describe her daughter:

  "To value God's creations, to find the best in others, to give one's self, to leave the world a little better, to have smiled and laughed with enthusiasm, to have shed tears with a tender heart, to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived...This is to have succeeded."

Frankie's marker.

Perhaps it is only Frankie herself who truly understands her mother's heart and the monumental courage it's taken for Sheryl to travel this long road without her.

Sometimes Sheryl thinks about a particular date - April 10th, 2020. That will be the day, Sheryl says, that Frankie will have been gone from this earth longer than she inhabited it. She doesn't know why the day has become such a significant milestone.

"Perhaps it's because I have always, as long as I can remember, been Frankie's mom - from the time I was a kid myself, really," Sheryl ponders. "Maybe on that day I am going to climb a mountain. And maybe," she smiles, "it will be just a mole hill. I will figure it out as I go - one moment to the next."