Before I even became a parent, I had always heard that it takes a village. Then, I became one, and that saying rings truer than ever.

I often see memes on social media with proclamations from tired parents, “Where is this village they were talking about?”

I see “parent influencers” drone on about not having a village, so they created their social media platform to make an online village for exhausted and lonely parents.

Yet, there is something deeply lacking in these sentiments. Sure, social media can be great for helping parents feel as if they aren’t alone in their parenting journey.

The relatable content makes me laugh and let out a sigh, “Okay, other people’s kids are doing that, too. Phew.”

And I have found some wonderful advice on the internet from other parents.

But this isn’t the so-called village everyone is talking about.

The village is there for you both, near and far.

The village sends you all the supplies you could ever need when you get a call saying that the baby you are adopting is here, and you have to leave now to go meet him. The village shows up with meals, cards, and a shoulder to lean on when your mom unexpectedly dies much too soon.

How did I get my village? I got it from my mom and dad. We had the best village growing up. These people would still be there for me in a second if I asked or didn’t, for that matter.

I vowed to have a village for my kids when the time came.
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Here’s what they taught me about having a village.

As I watched my mom die twenty-seven minutes before my 34th birthday, I had the foresight to know that my mom would never just cease to exist on this earth if there wasn’t a greater reason at play. Yes, I believe in all that religious stuff concerning God’s greater plan and even the cringeworthy adage “everything happens for a reason” (although I would never utter that to anyone after a tragedy).
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After all, my mom was a devout Catholic and raised me as such. But, I knew, if there were to be anyone to confront God and talk him out of his Greater Plan, it would be my mom.

My mom had a penchant for being, well, a mom long past her expiration date for needing to be one. Evident by pestering me to bring all my dirty laundry to my cross-country meets in college and sending me home with freshly folded clothes.
Or, likewise, the meat on my plate was always nicely cut up due to years of habit.
There was no way she would leave me, her daughter, in the throes of my own motherhood to raise her precious grandbaby without her.

So, as I stood there watching her take her last breaths in that hospital room, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I was somewhat curious to find out what this Grand Reason would be. And if it could hurry up and present itself soon, that would be great to make her death a tad bit more manageable. I silently prayed this on the long walk back to the car.

Then I screamed into the night.

I’ll spare you the ugly details of grief. But, as it turns out, my mom died two days before I was to return to my thirteenth year of teaching, and I couldn’t bear to go back. Not yet, anyway.

And because I decided to postpone my educational duties until I confronted the grief headfirst, my administration and colleagues switched my schedule to be less stressful to help me ease back into my return.

My first day back to work was November 2nd, All Souls’ Day in the Catholic Church. The feast is a day of prayer and remembrance of the faithful departed. The symbolism isn’t lost on me, and it should come as no surprise that this day would commence the day I found out one of the Grand Reasons for my mom’s death.

Grandma, are you in pain?” That’s what my son repeatedly asked my mom during a trip to the beach.
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My husband, son, dad, mom, and I decided to take a trip to the beach before the school year started because both my son, a preschooler, and I, a teacher, were about to return to the classroom and wanted one last summer hurrah.

My son, Henry, was excited to ride in the car with his Pop and Grandma, but the whole time in the car, he kept asking my mom that question.

My mom, an active, vibrant, *mostly* healthy 62-year-old, kept answering him with, “No, silly, I’m not in pain. Why do you keep asking?”

Henry didn’t have an answer to that question. In his childlike wonder, he just laughed and then spent the weekend enjoying the waves, building sandcastles, eating ice cream, finding sand dollars, taking ferry rides, and having fun with his family, who loved him so much.

That was the last time Henry ever saw my mom.

Exactly a week later, she went into what we thought was routine surgery, came out of it, and then had, for some unknown reason, a stroke which put her into a coma that she never recovered from. She passed away on August 19, 30 minutes before my birthday.

The next week was a whirlwind of planning the funeral, traveling for the funeral, and having the funeral amidst the absolute devastation, shock, and grief we all felt over my mom’s loss.

As the time came to head back to our home in North Carolina, my dad and I were packing up the car. Henry was playing by himself when we heard him say, “Are you in pain?”

We were immediately taken back to the beach trip. My dad and I looked at each other in awe. We both had forgotten all about my son’s asking, “Grandma, are you in pain?”

In disbelief, we pondered what this all meant.

“Why did Henry keep asking Grandma if she was in pain?”

“Lauren,” my dad said, “what did Mom say to Henry when he asked her that?”

“I don’t know. What did she say?”

“She said, ‘No, Henry, I’m not in pain.”

I thought back to what we had told Henry about Grandma’s death. We told him that she got sick and her body stopped working. We told him that she died and is now in Heaven with Jesus.

Of course, he would wonder if she was in pain, but little did we know that my mom had already let him know that she would be okay and in no pain. A true miracle.

Later that evening, I was having a hard time and missing my mom terribly. I looked up and cried out, “Mom, God, Jesus, please give me some comfort. Just for this moment.”

Seconds later, I heard a noise, and Henry walked into my room from his. Silently, he reached out his arms to hug me, and I quietly led him back to bed.

I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. I still am so incredibly sad and miss her so much, but I’m thankful for the small miracles and signs she performs through my son to remind me that she’s always near and that I have him, my blessing.

​When I first had my son six years ago, I pictured dinners and sleepovers at Grandma and Pop’s house. I envisioned trips to the zoo, library, beach, and museums. I imagined holidays spent together, with my mom passing on all her beloved traditions to my son. I dreamt of art projects, days lounging at home, pool days, watching classic Disney movies, hikes to waterfalls, and everything I enjoyed with my grandma.

I got that and so much more.

But tragically, it was all cut short a day before my 34th birthday and a month after my son turned 4 ½.

My mom, my son’s grandma, died. Words I never thought I would have to utter until at least 20 years from now, and my son had become an adult with plenty of memories and experiences stored in his memory bank.

Now, my son is a boy with a grandma in Heaven. It’s an unsettling reality to know that one day the memories he has of her will gradually fade, until the line becomes blurry between what he remembers of her and what he knows about her from the stories we have told about her.

While a daunting task, I will keep her memory alive. However, little did I realize that this wouldn’t be too hard, as I’m getting a little help from the other side. My mom is still a grandma from Heaven. And always will be.

One of her first acts of love toward my son came immediately after the funeral. I was having a hard time and missing my mom terribly. I looked up and cried out, “Mom, God, Jesus, please give me some comfort. Just for this moment.”

Seconds later, I heard a noise, and my son walked into my room from his. Silently, he reached out his arms to hug me, and I quietly led him back to bed.

I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. She was still being a grandma.

Another time, she bestowed upon my son her grandmotherly wisdom during my son’s last year of preschool.

My mom instilled in my brother and me that we should always be aware of who could use a friend and someone to talk to. We were to include everyone and always make sure others felt like they belonged, even if they were “different.” This adage is etched into my brain, and she had already started preaching that to my son, even at his young age.

My son isn’t always the most outgoing of kids, but he has been blossoming this year. Much to my delight, I received one of the sweetest messages from his teachers. She mentioned that he had befriended and taken a rather quiet kid who had been playing alone under his wing. The two have become best buddies. Thanks to my son, this other boy is now blossoming and coming out of his shell.
I smiled and thanked my mom. She was still being a grandma.

Additionally, we are preparing for kindergarten next year. Getting a Catholic school education is something we have been praying about, and my mom was excited to see my son receive it. We applied to the school just in time for the deadline, as my journey with grief has cluttered my mind. A week later, we received an email that we had been waitlisted because they were already full. I admonished myself for not getting the application in sooner; however, I still called up to see where we were on the waitlist. The lady told me that we were number one, but I still should make plans for a backup. Sighing, I wrote down another thing to add to my to-do list. Then, not even an hour later, the lady called me back and told me that the principal somehow found a spot for my son. He was in!

I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. She was still being a grandma.

With every kind word my son utters…with every prayer he says…with every time he preserves through a challenge…with every hug he gives me to comfort me when I am sad…with every word he writes in his journal to Grandma…with every sentence he speaks to her picture on his nightstand…with every time he asks if Grandma is laughing at him because he’s being silly…with every time we sit in her house with my dad and husband and spend the day in carefree timelessness soaking in the gift of another day, she is there.
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She will always be his grandma. A grandma in Heaven.

Joe became the father of Roger, Roger the father of Gregory, the husband of Jonette. Of her was born Kyle, who is called KBNoSwag.

Now this is how the Bethlehem Scandals came about. When KB’s mother was betrothed to Gregory, but before they lived together, she made Gregory promise that one day they would move back to Wheeling, West Virginia, after residing in New Jersey for a few years. 

Now, in the year KB was born, Jonette reminded Gregory of his promise. Jonette’s father owned and worked in the construction business. There was no room, at the time, to build new property in Wheeling, so the grandfather of KB broke ground in the small, humble village of Bethlehem, WV. 

Jonette wrapped small baby Kyle in swaddling clothes and laid him in his crib in his new room in his new house in his new town. 

The family rejoiced and gave praise to God. 

“Glory to God in the highest and peace to his people on earth.” 

The child grew (kind of) and became strong (not really), filled with wisdom (ehh); and the favor of God was upon him (to be debated).  


Scandal One: The Scandal of the Smallest Tomato 

Every year, the village of Bethlehem would host the Tomato Festival. It was like Traverse City’s Cherry Festival, except without hit recording artists TI, Hoobastank, Weird Al, and Trace Adkins; the bustling lakeside town with numerous shops, restaurants, and breweries; and a sprawling display of cherry activities like a parade, carnival rides, shows, and more. 

The Tomato Festival was held by a ballpark, a municipal building, and a semi-dilapidated mini golf course. 

In the weeks leading up to the festival, Gregory found and plucked a tomato the size of a pea in his father-in-law’s yard. He gave it to his wee son and instructed him to enter the tomato into the Smallest Tomato Contest. 

“Though it is the smallest of all tomatoes, yet when it grows, it will be the largest of garden vegetables and become a staple in a salad, so that the birds and squirrels come and  nipple on its juicy roundness.”

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