In Memory of Carmen Weekley

When I was a little girl, probably in third grade or so, I had pretty bad anxiety. I was a homebody. I was the kid who called her mom to come get her from sleepovers. I just wanted to go home. Our nanny, Carmen, would sometimes take my brothers and me to her home in La Puente. Going to Carmen’s house made me anxious. It wasn’t actually about her or her house; it was that I was anxious and wanted to be at home. 

One day, I got really brave and asked Carmen if I could talk to her. But as a child, I didn’t have the vocabulary or understanding to explain my anxious feelings to Carmen. So instead, it came out of my mouth to the effect of, “I don’t want to go to your house anymore.” I remember that day so vividly because I had hurt her feelings. I made her cry. I made sweet, sweet Carmen cry. 27 years later, and I still feel awful about it. I’m not sure I ever apologized to her for it. But I know she forgave me, and I know that’s the lesson I need to walk away with. 

What to say about a woman who was like an extra grandma and who was so much a part of your life? 

As a kid, I was very sensitive to fairness. And since she had started watching us when my brother Jake was just a baby, he was obviously the favorite. It’s just an accepted fact in our family. But as kids, the favoritism was clear, and I hated it. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that Jake absolutely needed that love and attention, and I’m grateful he got it from her. What a gift. 

Carmen insisted on me helping my mom around the house, so I regularly did dishes, folded laundry, and paired socks, and lamented it the whole time. These things had to be done though, and now my mom does dishes when she watches my baby at my house. 

She would park in her van on the far side of our elementary school, where she could be in the shade. As I recall, the air conditioning didn’t work in her van, so she always had the windows down. She kept three squirt bottles hanging on the front console of her van: one with plain water, one with vinegar, and one with mint flavored water. They were for us to cool off with or to squirt in our mouths. Her van was like a home on wheels—very comfortable if it wasn’t summertime. 

We were outside a lot—most of the time, actually. She often took us to Gladstone Park and let us run amok as she stayed in the shade. She hosted “tea” parties for my friend Shivani and I, who she let tag along with us more often than not. Carmen taught us to do rain dances and gave us American Indian names. She even made me a Pocahontas Halloween costume one year. And she went so far as to make Shivani and I “blood sisters” with ketchup. 

She drove us all through McDonald’s and Wienerschnitzel fairly often. My love of the W’s corndogs lives on today. 

When I was in fourth grade, Carmen listened enthusiastically to me practicing the recorder. To my credit, I was pretty good at it. But we all know that even a well-played recorder still sounds like the whistle of Satan himself. Bless her for being so encouraging. She also wanted to hear every poem I wrote. She brought me books of poetry to read and loved to listen to my (probably terrible) poems. 

Carmen’s house in La Puente and later in Hesperia was full of knickknacks. She loved to craft and make things—especially related to Christmas. Her paintings lined the walls of her house. I remember being very uncomfortable with her naked lady painting as a child. As an adult, I’m just envious. Truly, her work was incredible. 

When I would stop and see her as I was leaving California on my way back to Utah, she insisted on blessing me, complete with oil on my forehead. Her unabashed love for Jesus is what she’ll always be remembered for. I never got to attend one of her legendary Jesus birthday parties in December, but I’m sure she made them worthy of His attendance. 

Over the last decade or so, Carmen always sent me a Christmas card, often with a $10 gift card to Kohl’s. One letter she sent, she had sent me a 39 stripes prayer, the story of the oak tree, a list of home remedies, and some scriptural verses about holy oil. Many of our phone conversations she was sure to remind me of the oak tree. I think my favorite piece of mail was when I got a “Christmas in July” card from her. It made my whole month. 

In the last year and a half, it seems like her health took a big turn for the worse. The last time we were in California, I believe she was a patient in a facility, so we weren’t able to see her. I am so sad she never got to meet my son. And I’m wishing I had gotten pictures with her on our last visit. This will serve as a lesson to always take the picture. 

I tried to call her the day after her birthday a few months ago, but neither of the numbers I had at the time got through to her, so I couldn’t even leave a message. My heart aches thinking she might have thought I forgot. I should have tried calling again after I got the right number, but I didn’t. This will serve as a lesson to always make the phone call. 

As I take this time to reflect, I realize just how much of an influence Carmen had on me, on my confidence, and on my childhood. I had a magical childhood in large part because of her. I’m not sure a day ever went by that Carmen wasn’t thinking more about other people than herself—spending her days in silent prayer. To say that I was blessed to have known her would be an understatement. Carmen was the most openly loving woman I’ve ever known—a true example of Christlike charity. 

I will miss her so.