Visiting Québec is more than a journey; it is a homecoming to the roots of our family’s North American story. Our earliest ancestors helped shape New France, tending the land, building homes, and gathering in the city’s first churches. As we wander the cobblestone lanes of Old Québec, step inside Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, and stand on the Plains of Abraham, named for our ancestor Abraham Martin, we walk in their footsteps and feel the weight of their hopes and hardships. Québec City breathes history, inviting us to experience not just a place but a living legacy of faith, family, and resilience that endures through the ages.
I hope people say that she loved hard, enjoyed life way too much, laughed loudly, and never ran out of sass. That she embraced every moment with an open heart, found joy in the little things, and wasn’t afraid to be herself, bold, spirited, and full of life.
When the moment came to take my daughter up the winding road to Fort Carson—the Mountain Post—so she could finally deliver her baby, my heart lodged firmly in my throat. It was dark and bitterly cold that December night. Though worry shadowed every mile because she had endured a difficult pregnancy, my excitement grew with each turn of the road. I was about to become a grandmother, and I knew the birth of my first grandchild would be unlike anything I had ever experienced.
The miles rushed by as we pulled into the hospital parking area, searching for the closest space near the emergency room. Her pains were intense and coming fast. “Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Through clenched teeth, she answered in a clipped, pain-filled tone, “No.”
But after only a few steps, she leaned her aching body against the wall and nodded. Her strength wavered, and so did mine. I hurried inside, asked for a wheelchair, and returned with the help of a nurse. Together, we eased her into the chair and rushed her through the doors.
Before long, she was settled in the maternity ward, enduring hours of exhausting labor. I sat beside her, helpless, fighting back tears as each contraction took its toll. My heart ached not only for her pain but for her fear—fear for her baby boy. With her husband deployed in Korea, I knew I had to be her anchor, even as I felt myself unraveling inside.
When it was time for the spinal block, I stepped out of the room, painfully aware of my role and my limits. I paced the hallway, listening to her voice as she spoke with the nurse, hearing the strain and discomfort she tried so hard to hide. Watching your child give birth is both a blessing and a curse. You are close enough to feel every moment, yet powerless to ease a single ounce of the pain.
After the block, she was finally able to rest and drifted into sleep. I watched the baby monitor, my eyes glued to the flickering lines, knowing something wasn’t right. Mathew was in distress. I have never prayed so hard or felt so utterly helpless in my life.
When it was time for Mathew’s birth, everything happened at once. The room filled with urgency—pushing, commands, hurried footsteps—and then crying. Not the cry I had hoped for. Fear followed swiftly behind. After cutting the cord and holding him for the briefest moment, the doctors rushed Leslie and Mathew from the room. Both were in distress. I stood there, desperate to be strong, yet feeling as fragile as glass. The waiting that followed was unbearable. Both of my babies were in danger, and love and fear intertwined in their rawest form.
I paced the waiting room until the moment finally came when I learned they were both safe. Relief crashed over me in waves, leaving me weak with gratitude. I will never forget when Mathew’s nurse approached me and asked if I would feed him. They wanted Leslie to rest—she had lost a significant amount of blood during delivery.
As I held my grandson for the second time and fed him, warmth spread through me. His tiny body was cocooned in a soft blanket, a red-and-white Santa hat perched on his head. His eyes remained closed as he latched onto the bottle and drank. My heart swelled with wonder. From that moment on, my little man had me completely wrapped around his tiny finger.
Later, while Mathew rested in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and Leslie slept soundly, I slipped outside to the car. I turned on the engine, letting the heat warm my frozen hands, and the radio came to life. In that quiet space, my emotions finally collapsed. The crisis had passed—mostly—but we were not yet out of the woods. Gratitude tangled with lingering fear, and the weight of the past year came crashing down. It had been a long, hard road.
When my tears were spent, I lifted my eyes to the darkened sky and whispered another prayer of thanks—for my babies, my world. As I exhaled, Bryan White’s song “God Gave Me You” played on the radio. I had never heard it before, yet the lyrics felt as though they were written just for that moment. Comfort washed over me, and for the first time all night, I felt peace.
In that moment, I truly understood the depth of love and the fragile beauty of life. Time seemed to stand still as fear and faith collided, and grace carried me through what my heart could barely hold. That day changed me forever. I became a grandmother not only through joy, but through fear, faith, and grace—forever marked by the miracle and the weight of that night.
Lately, I have been feeling a little out of sorts, so I have started looking for the little things that make me smile. Today, this post on facebook touched my heart, and I thought I should share.
Nine years ago, I started my blog Tales of a Family as a way to preserve and share my genealogy research and family stories. Over time, it slowly evolved—what began as a space for family history became a creative outlet where I could also share short stories, flash fiction, and poetry.
While I’ll continue to post family memories and adventures, this blog has truly grown into a reflection of my love for storytelling in all its forms. With that in mind, I felt it was time to update the site to better reflect that journey. I hope to continue to grow as a writer and discover new avenues to explore.
To my faithful readers—thank you. Your support and encouragement over the years mean more than I can express. I never imagined that a little family blog would grow into such a meaningful place of connection, creativity, and shared stories.
It’s hard for me to choose just one favorite genre of music because I enjoy rock, pop, country, and R&B. Lately, I’ve found myself strolling down memory lane, revisiting the classic hits of my youth. I grew up on country western music, often listening to my parents’ old vinyl records featuring artists like Conway Twitty, Glen Campbell, and Charley Pride.
I also loved the heartfelt lyrics and acoustic sounds of folk artist John Denver, as well as the storytelling style of country crooner Kenny Rogers. At the same time, I couldn’t resist the energetic beats of disco—especially the music of Earth, Wind & Fire and the Bee Gees. Soft rock was another favorite, with bands like the Eagles providing a mellow, easy-listening backdrop to many of my teenage memories.
If I could draw and paint, I would love to illustrate a children’s book. I think it would be so much fun to create something colorful and magical, something that would make a small child smile.
I am blessed to have a circle of friends who are more like family than friends. I know who to call when I need advice, a shoulder to lean on, or just someone to laugh with over lunch. In this ever-changing world, it is nice to know some things remain the same.
So I will end with two of my favorite friendship quotes:
Good friends are like the stars, you don’t always see them, but you know they are always there. -Christy Evans
“Never let your friends be lonely — disturb them all the time.” -Unknown
I have several different ways to unwind after a demanding day. When the weather is nice, I enjoy walking my dogs, Max and Mitzi. Some days, I will work out at the local Y; other days, I will curl up with a good book.
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.” Teaching children values and giving them the opportunity to excel is essential to good parenting. However, I feel I must also provide my children (and myself) insight into the ones who came before us: our ancestors whose lives and stories have shaped us into who we are. This is my journey; these are their stories…
Tales of a Family 