Sarah Nigbor

This has been a year of transition in our family, in more ways than one. It has been a year of such upheaval and stress that I feel like a wrung out, limp dishrag. My Thanksgiving gratitude is simple this year: I’m thankful for just making it through. I pray for better times to come.

2025 thus far has thrown just about everything at us that you can think of: My mother was hospitalized, recovered and has transitioned from her home to assisted living. I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that I’m still trying to figure out. Some days are good, others are not. My daughter transitioned from being a sweet, even-tempered child into a raging, hormonal, sassy, opinionated teenager who thinks I’m trying to ruin her life by breathing. Our oldest son transitioned from high school to a college five hours away. My husband’s grandmother, his last close relative, died at the age of 93, leaving him feeling orphaned and adrift in a world that somehow seemed safer when she was in it. Our youngest son underwent a major surgery on a two-year-old arm injury and has been recovering from that while going to physical therapy. The doctor said he had an elbow equivalent to that of a 50-year-old man. There’s so much more that has gone on, but that’s enough.

Last week, my husband and his cousins put his grandparents’ beloved home and our camping land on the market. There’s now an accepted offer on the house, which is about to bring about another transition. No more holidays gathered around the table in the big country kitchen in Pine River. No more eating brown sugar bacon (made by Nan) wrapped around jalapenos during deer hunting. No more watching the Green Bay news after a long day of playing wiffle ball or deer hunting. No more having coffee with Nan and Pa in the morning while watching the birds at the window feeder. No more sleeping on the old springy mattress with the creepy doll staring at us from the dresser. This has been especially hard on my husband, understandably, as both his parents and grandparents are now gone. I still have my mom, but I can sympathize. That’s how I feel now that my grandparents are gone and we’re readying their house too, to be put on the market. In fact, painting the rooms in their house is my Thanksgiving week project, while my cousins clean out the barn. Soon their place will also be gone. The place I always thought of as home will belong to someone else.

Through these hardships, I have learned more about myself than I ever thought possible. For one thing, for years I’ve had the feeling of wanting to “go home,” but not knowing where exactly that is. It’s hard to explain, but it’s more of a feeling than a place I was searching for. Now I believe I’ve figured it out. I can never go home, because going home would mean being with all the people I’ve loved who have passed on. But what I can do is cherish their memories, make new ones with those still here and treasure the little moments that string together to make a life. All the ugly beads on that string make the pretty ones even prettier.

I wish I could go back 20-30 years and give my younger self a hug and some reassurance that even though tough times are ahead, there are some pretty great ones too. Instead of looking ahead to when my bills are paid off, or when I’m thinner, or when I feel better, or when the kids are out of the house, or when this or that project is done, I’m transitioning into a new way of thinking. The little things in each day are what makes a person feel at home.