Taylored Memorial Creations

I have always loved Christmas trees. There is something about all the family gathered around spending time together that pulls at my heart strings.   Christmas Eve, growing up, would always find us at Grandma Finazzi’s house with all the aunts, uncles and cousins. Christmas morning with my siblings. It warmed my heart. In the beginning of my life with Ed, our first apartment we borrowed a fake tree from his parents for Christmas. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but once we added some lights, garland, and a few ornaments, it was ours. We didn’t have many presents underneath, but it always warmed my heart during Christmas to have it displayed in the corner of the room.   When we had kids, we still put that tree up every year. The first Christmas in our own house, we started buying a real tree every year. We did the classic Christmas “thing” and took the kids out to pick one, strapped it onto the top of the car, and brought it home (only once did it fall off and go rolling down the hi

  Once all the family and friends were gone, it was just me. Alone. It is difficult to express the incredible sense of depression and loneliness that overcame me at that moment. The apartment, once the busy “hub” of our two lives intertwined and serving jointly in a higher purpose, was now empty, cold, and still. Where once I had an apartment buzzing with the TV and Ed talking, I was now surrounded by the remnants of guests, leftover food, and several bouquets of wilting flowers. The oppressive silence weighed heavily on me. It was so incredibly overwhelming I had to take a nap. In the weeks that followed I spent much of my time crying and trying to sort things and make lists of things “to do”. As a “task oriented” person, this at least made me feel useful. I felt very thankful and blessed to those who had helped me with the funeral and the dinner, those who sent flowers, cards, and money. I really felt the desire to let people know how much I appreciated these things, with

  I need to confess. I carry post-it notes in my purse. I try to keep a pad handy for when the need arises, ever since I realized the power of post-its. It started years ago. A sister I often visit in another state, would get visibly sad when I prepared to leave. I knew she didn’t want me (and often my family) to leave. She would start asking me questions to sidetrack me with conversation, or she would start gathering things for me to take—like drinks, snacks, sometimes even a sandwich.             My sister told me once after I left, “I cried before you were even out of the driveway.”             It broke my heart to know how my departure had caused such sadness. One visit, knowing the dreaded goodbye was on the horizon, she left before us for a doctor’s appointment.             It made my “exit” so much easier, but I wanted to do something to make her smile and to thank her for letting us stay.             Now, me and my extended family have a history of doing little “fun

Frank and Janet The whole thing with the plaid shirts started naturally a few days before the funeral from someone's idea to wear a plaid shirt at the funeral. The reason evolved from Ed VERY often sporting some kind of plaid, button-down shirt. I have no idea who thought of it. I wish I did. Someone called me and asked if they could borrow one of Ed’s shirts. When I asked why, they explained they needed one because some of the “Questers”, or people who were part of Quest Church, were wearing plaid shirts to the funeral. I don’t remember who it was, but they didn’t own a plaid shirt. I said it was fine. I thought about it before the person arrived. I had no use for those shirts other than memories of Ed wearing them at certain times. Some of the shirts he wore more than others, some he grew out of and could no longer wear. Personally, I liked the red ones and the green ones. I thought they looked especially good on him. Reflecting on it, I realized he DID own a huge number of

                  Ed’s bad knees are what catapulted him into wanting knee replacement surgery. However, Ed, with his usual zealousness for what he believed in, wanted to do both knees at the same time. I felt like it was too much, but he felt like he wanted to reduce the time he would be laid up in recovery if the knees were done separately.                He needed permission from both his cardiologist—due to a heart issue he had the previous year—and his regular doctor before the surgeon would sign off on the procedure.                I was surprised when he let me know that his surgery was approved, and it was scheduled for October 11th.                I took the day off so I could be there for his surgery. It was most of the morning that day, spent sitting in a special waiting room just for me. I did have a friend stop by, but for the most part I sat there contemplating our life of 29 years together.                Funny how you never know when you are about to enter a tim

  When we moved to an apartment in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, we were only there eight months when systemic remodeling at the apartment complex caused us to move. However, it was within the same apartment complex, just down the sidewalk into a different building, in another first-floor apartment. We asked for help moving and we had several people from our church come and help us--but most of those who came were homeless. It was those homeless we knew from our contacts with homeless in the area--and we knew many of them. Ed had a way with connecting with the homeless, and we became involved with a couple of local ministries, and even began a laundry ministry coordinated with two other churches in the area. We spent many Saturdays sitting across the table from homeless as they did their laundry at the local laundromat. This was the result of a need we saw in the homeless community—the ability to wash their clothes. We worked with two other churches, one who provided the qu

We lived in Iowa for eighteen years and gained two kids, two dogs and one cat along the way. In 2005 we moved to Washington, Illinois. Packing up our entire life in that 3-bedroom, 2-story home was exhausting. Did I mention the two-car garage? It took months of working after I got home from work to sort through and box up all the clothes, toys, paper, and books. So many books! My husband had an affinity for books, and it was reflected in our huge collection of books for our kids. We mostly boxed things up and didn't throw things away or donate them. It was exhausting. The last room we packed was our "office/mudroom". This room was so FULL of boxes, it was difficult to walk through. It was a mudroom that also had two filing cabinets, some built in cabinets full of “stuff”, and a computer with those office “in” boxes that were stuffed full of, I’m sure, what was incredibly important documents that needed to be kept. The room itself held years of paid invoices, bank stat

                     I love getting mail. Who doesn’t want to be greeted by a card in your mailbox? I especially love cards that elicit a laugh or smile or cause a tear to form in the corner of my eye. And I love finding Christmas cards in my mailbox. And mailing Christmas cards!             There is something about the excitement of knowing that someone else picked out a card for you, and the mystery of waiting to open the envelope and see what card lies inside. And the fact that someone decided what greeting or note to write inside and then paid the high price of a stamp to have it delivered to your door.                I think it is a great way to let those you love, who might live far away, know that you are thinking of them. When I mail a card, I love imagining the point when they open the card and read my handwritten message inside. That the person would smile, or laugh, enjoying not only the card I picked out for them, but the written message inside.                But,