Judy

I’ll be the first to admit, I was skeptical. It seemed too soon after my mom’s death that my dad was taking women to see “Forrest Gump”. I knew he loved my mother, I knew that her long battle with cancer had worn on him, aged him, but I didn’t see what the rush was to find someone new.

I’m not sure I remember exactly the first time I met Judy, although she probably remembers meeting all of us. I’m sure we were all glazed over with cynical eyes and judgmental hearts. I remember visiting her adorable little house and while I’m sure I complimented her on it, I also know I didn’t want it to be adorable. I didn’t want her to be nice, to be a teacher, to make my dad laugh. I remember the day we all went to dinner (or something) and then we walked around Lake Geneva (or parts of it). Dad and Judy were way ahead, walking at what we would later deem “Judy Speed” and the rest of us falling behind, complaining that we never had to walk with Dad before, and whose idea was this anyway?

They announced their engagement, although I don’t really remember how they told me. I just remember that my brother, still living at home, in the house my mom had passed away in, was really struggling with the idea. I remember fighting with my Dad because I stood up for my brother when he refused to stand up for the wedding.

The wedding was really beautiful. It was small, and filled with family, just like mine had been. What I remember most was the toast that Judy’s son gave. How he addressed the fact that she had been married twice before (a fact we couldn’t get our narrow sheltered minds around) and how wonderful my dad had been to her. I realized that day it wasn’t about us. It wasn’t even about my mother. It was about my dad being happy. And Judy made him happy.

I can’t say I still didn’t have my moments. The first Thanksgiving, back in my childhood home with Dad and Judy with the table full of dishes I couldn’t identify. She had been kind and had made several that were my mom’s recipes, and yet, still, my focus was on all the things that were different. The most blaring example being Judy herself.

It wasn’t that she was the opposite of my mother, just that they were remarkably different. Judy had been a single, working mother. My mom had been fortunate enough to stay at home for nearly her entire adult life. Judy had two grown sons, one of whom was married with a child. My mother had raised two girls and then a son. My mom cooked with simple “farm” ingredients, very limited spices. Judy cooked anything and everything. It had been a remarkable statement when my dad, after perhaps 15 years of eating a large, thin crust ham with mushroom pizza from Pizza Hut every Sunday night, ordered a Hawaiian pizza one day. With Judy, her pizzas came with every topping imaginable. My dad, a non-drinker suddenly had boxes of wine in his fridge.

They have been married for more than ten years now, and I now see things so differently. Judy wasn’t looking to get remarried when she met my dad. But God brought them together at the right time. My dad, I have no doubt, had been lonely for years, living by my mother’s bedside as she fought and finally lost her battle with cancer. Judy opened not only my dad’s eyes, but our whole family’s to new ideas, new beliefs and new opportunities. More than just an introduction in “How to Cook Using More than Five Ingredients,” Judy taught us how to disagree and still love each other. I don’t remember my parents fighting because they disagreed on a topic (my mother believed the husband was head of household and had final say – most of the time) but more over something that had been lost, or something that wasn’t done right. I wasn’t familiar with this new kind of disagreement, one that was taken in such stride. I felt defensive of my dad and his opinions.

As I worked through my own divorce, some of the best advice came from Judy, who had been there and knew what I was feeling. She not only gave me tips on what issues were important during mediation, but also seemed to be the one who best understood my own needs during and after the process was complete. Even now, she knows far better than my own mother would have, what it feels like to be a single mom.

I had the wonderful opportunity last month, to talk with Judy one morning, while watching the sunrise on the cruise. It was the first time in a very long time I can remember listening to her share such intimate feelings. She talked openly of some frustrations in her own life and of her feelings towards her grandchildren – all six of them. I have never once heard her refer to any of her grandkids as "step grandchildren". It was a moment I will always treasure.

I used to refer to Judy as “my dad’s wife” and then later as “my stepmom” but recently have found that word to get tangled in my throat. Today, when people ask about my parents, I explain that my folks live in Tennessee. While I know she will never replace my own mother (and she has never tried to), in the past ten years, she has come to mean more to me than any “step-no-blood” ever could.

I have been remarkably remiss in not demonstrating to her better how sorry I am for the skepticism I first conveyed, even if it was innocently displayed as a child’s sense of protection for her only remaining parent. I have also been remiss in telling her exactly how important she is to me now. I wish there was a word in the English language for her position in my life, the best I know to give it is that Judy is my second mom.

Happy Birthday, Judy. May this year be a remarkable year, and may it be filled with all of God’s blessings for your life.