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Just the other night at the hometown football game . . . the last Reed’s Run

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lakeview football

The Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers” has always been a perennial favorite of mine.  It didn’t hit me until the night before the last Reed’s Run that I was living out a line of the song at a Lakeview football game.  Different from the lyrics, it wasn’t a long-lost love with whom I reconnected that evening.  I am sure if anyone paid attention to what happened on the sidelines, there would have been rumors flying in the small towns that night.

It really all unfolded much earlier.  About two years ago, I found my high school best friend on the internet.  We connected very briefly through an email and later on Facebook.  Then one day, I started noticing all the posts of remembrance.  I knew my friend Matt had only one son (and several stepchildren).  I literally shook as my hands did a quick Google search.  When my husband found me crumpled on the floor sobbing a little while later, he knew something was terribly wrong.  My worst fears regarding those messages were confirmed when I found the obituary of one sweet, Big A.

I cried.  I felt crushed in spirit.  “Oh, dear Lord, NO!” I cried out over and over. How could this be?  Why was this cup not passed from not only my son, but my friend’s son as well?  I just didn’t understand.

I wanted our bond to be shared memories of the past – the glory years so to say – but not THIS!  Not a shared bond of grief and loss and of despair and heartbreak.

I did the only thing I could. I reached out electronically and shared about Reed.  In the end, I told of Reed’s Run and asked if we could remember Alex at our final run.  I was expecting an affirmative response because I know that lingering fear (of no one remembering their child) all grieving parents share.  What I didn’t expect was the news that my high school best buddy and his wife were going to come and run the last run.

Back to that football game. When I received the text message that they had arrived, I bolted out of my seat to greet them.  I ran and literally jumped into Matthew’s arms. What I haven’t shared previously is we hadn’t seen each other in twenty-three years.  It was a wonderful (and long over-due) embrace.

My heart leapt with joy at finally being in arms reach of him, and my heart soared to finally meet his beautiful bride.  We watched the game and cheered on one number 74.  Since 74’s fan section was huge, we had three cars in convoy on the way home.  I rode with Matt & Kimberly, and we shared the stories of our boys.

Sadly, neither of us ever had the opportunity to meet the other’s child.  Back at home, we sat in the rental car, talked and cried, and cried and talked.  With each story they told of one amazing young man, I began to feel like I was being handed the equivalent of a newborn baby swaddled in love and care of sweet memories.

In high school our heartstrings were tied as two kids who loved to laugh and who loved a good adventure, especially in historic Pensacola.  But now on a crisp Minnesota fall night, we were inexplicably bound by the loss that no parents should ever have to feel.

However it wasn’t unanswered prayers like that old song, it was the unshakeable faith of two dear friends that our children’s deaths were not in vain.  It was the prayers that we prayed during their lives that sustained us in their deaths.  It was the same faith that compels both families to give back in the way that would be most honoring to each boy.

But the biggest bond each family shared was the sustaining power of prayer, amazing love, and extravagant grace that over the years and across the miles both of us were held right in the palm of God’s hand.  It is the confidence of knowing that neither family said good-bye, because someday I am going to get to meet that sweet boy and Matthew’s going to meet mine.

Sliding into home . . . the last Reed’s Run

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For those that personally know me, I hate good-byes. Given the story of my life, that isn’t all that surprising.  Reed’s Run has come to an end.  It was a wonderful four years, and the success of those four runs continues to inspire myself (and hopefully others).  There is much more to the story than the countdown blogs that occurred before the run, and I feel now is the appropriate time to share them.  But somehow, I just can’t just the word good-bye when describing a labor of love for the last five years.

It all started two days before the actual run.  My parents, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew had arrived, and we were all in final countdown mode.  I received a somewhat intriguing call from one of my “besties”.  Her call was that she was leaving work now, and she needed me to meet her at the street because she had something really important for me.  I knew that she was struggling with some health issues; so, I was nonplussed at the request for the espionage style hand-off.  In my mind, I thought she had a donation from her employer whom we had asked for a sponsorship for the run.

When we met for the transfer next to the mailbox, I knew immediately it wasn’t a donation.  She doesn’t have much of a poker face.  Her grin from ear to ear said it was something much more significant.  She told me that she had a story to tell before she gave me the surprise.

It started with a reminder that a gal with whom she works was having a garage sale today.  Okay, no big deal.  Then it transpired into details that another gal (also in on the sale) brought a big tub of toys for the sale.  Earlier they decided that the best approach for all those toys would be to dump them en masse on a big table and to offer a certain price for each item.  As the garage sale gals were sorting and arranging, one item jumped out at them.  The co-worker stood speechless.  She proceeded to grab the item, jump in her car, and head to work.

She pulled aside my bestie and asked, “Could it really be?”  To which my friend said, “It has to be because no one else in this town has this name and after all, that’s Kandy’s handwriting.”  Standing barefoot in the driveway, my hands received a gift straight from heaven.   With tears streaming down my face, I lovingly held Reed’s t-ball mitt, emblazoned with “R. Stevens” in my penmanship on the side.

At that point I knew that Reed’s Run was going to be a huge success because we were given a love token straight from Reed that day.  It was the boost we needed to finish out all of those last minute details.

It wasn’t Reed, but it was a piece of his story.  The memories we had with that glove, which was faithfully used for a few years until he outgrew it, came flooding back .  Eventually, we gave it to friends who must have given it to someone else until it landed in that garage sale.

The mitt’s history didn’t matter at that moment because the best part of the story was on a sunny September day, it slid right on home.

Reed's t-ball glove on his bed.

Reed’s t-ball glove on his bed.

How can it be five years? A letter to Reed

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Reed70To my sweet boy –

Reed, I woke up yesterday strangled by my emotions. Before I even lifted my head, I could feel that old familiar ache.  My heart literally hurt.  I longed to just hear your voice, to experience your laughter, to see the world through your beautiful blue eyes.  All the things I get to do with Sawyer, Erin, and Clo and I love each shared memory. Yet, I feel like the whole world can see the hole in my heart whenever I wish I had those moments with you.

Then come other times, when I really am truly happy. I almost surprise myself, because it’s at those times I feel guilty because I wonder if I am ever supposed to be happy again.  Conflicting emotions that don’t mix with what I know to be true.  You would never want us to be forever sad this side of heaven, but more importantly neither would God. Simply, He would want to remind us that this is not our forever home.  It is a lesson that we couldn’t forget if we wanted to, simply because even though we can’t deliver mail there we know your permanent address.

Five years ago, I never thought I would be sitting where I am now.  I want to be getting ready for your second prom, planning your graduation party and trip, and buying all the great things that you would need for college.  It just wasn’t meant to be a part of your story.

Just as grief is now a part of mine.  Heart crushing, sneak up on you when you least expect it, grief.  A pain so deep you never knew your heart had so many crevices and could hurt so badly.

But when things get so painful, I remember a sweet, red-headed boy whose whole life was defined by hope.  Not just a temporary hope. Oh no! A hope rooted in a love greater than any love that I have ever given. Inspirational was a boy who believed that love was greater than hate.  A boy who believed that turning the other cheek wasn’t just a saying. A boy who believed that those who hurt others were hurting themselves taught me a lot in just twelve short years. A deep faith, overflowing with love defined your life.

Sometimes, I think that you knew you were only going to be here for a brief stay.  You did nothing half-way.  You didn’t just read books, you devoured them.  You didn’t just learn something, you consumed it. And, you didn’t just love, you loved with abandon.

It is that hope, love, and faith that has helped us to remember, to cope (and sometimes heal), and to keep alive your legacy.  So that someday, we will all get to meet the ones whose lives your brief life touched.  Standing in the glorious, shining light of heaven, I can only imagine then that it will all make sense.

Waiting to hug you and hold you again, but always carrying you in my heart – Momma

Raised on PBS and Little Debbie . . . Part 3

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A 4 year old me & Mr. McFeely

A 4 year old me & Mr. McFeely

As much as I love Sesame Street, it wasn’t the only program that I enjoyed on public television.  Another favorite was Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.  Whenever I see a trolley or a pair of navy blue Keds, I am transported back to being 4 years old and soaking up every minute of his show.

There were several aspects of Fred Rogers show (and life) that were just plain magical to me.  I adored how he focused right on the kids at home when he shook off the burdens of the outside world while changing into his beloved cardigan and sneakers.   The feeling that he was excited to be home to see me is a lesson that I have never forgotten. Of course, that routine wouldn’t have been complete without feeding the fish in the aquarium. A simple act of love reinforced by repetition.

I think my love of documentaries was forged while watching MRN, because I am still riveted by the episodes where he took us to the factories that made toilet paper and crayons.  Seeing how something was made, really helped me to look at the world in a different way. In my grown-up hometown, we actually have a company named SpeeDee Delivery, and every time I see one of their trucks, I think of Mr. McFeely (more on him later) and smile.

Yet it was when he sat by the bench seat next to Trolley’s tracks that I loved the most.  Even today in my forties, I sincerely wish I could travel on Trolley to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.  As long as I can remember I have had a wonderful imagination, inspired by Mr. Rogers and nurtured by my parents.  My imagination has been one of my very best friends, keeping me busy on many adventures throughout my life, and Mr. Rogers had a whole world of make believe.

In the land of Make-Believe, I developed deep fondness for several characters, but I must admit, I wasn’t all that crazy about Lady Elaine.  As a true Southern girl, I always wondered who did her make-up, and I knew I didn’t want to grow up to be a schemer like her.  Daniel Tiger just made me smile, and I always wished he would learn to be bold.  Henrietta had a “paws-tively” charming effect of slipping “Meow” into just about every sentence.  But my true love was X the Owl.  His love of inventions and Ben Franklin, in particular, were right up this future science and math teacher’s alley.  Everything X did was exciting to this little budding scientist.

In my childhood hometown of Pensacola, a few years ago the PBS station was celebrating 40 years of broadcasting.  I was asked (because my mom had connections) to come and be a part of a panel of speakers regarding how much that station had shaped our lives.  (Life circumstances didn’t work out; so, I didn’t get to attend.)  If I had, I would have shared some of the stories I am sharing in this series, along with this little nugget of trivia.  Almost 40 years ago, I had a brush with my favorite mailman and another friend from MRN, Purple Panda.  They came to Pensacola, and I had the opportunity to meet them and interact with them.  I think I might have even been featured in the News-Journal as a photo all those years ago.

What I remember from that day was how incredibly kind the characters were.  How could they not be?  They were a part of show created by one of the most loving, creative, and generous men to ever live.  A few years back, I read an article written by a reporter who had a friendship with Fred Rogers.  In the article the man shared how Mr. Rogers probably saved his life.  It was through the genuine interest and care given by Mr. Rogers that the author realized that he was of value, thus saving him from a life-ending choice.  The author shared that Mr. Rogers often ended his correspondence with four letters: IPOY.  After many years of curiosity, he finally mustered the courage to ask what the four letters meant.  The message was simple: I’m Proud Of You.

If I had been able to speak on the influence of PBS in my life, I would have shared how educational programming fostered my lifelong love of learning.  I would have told how I was encouraged to dream, to create, and to use my imagination.  Now, all these years later, I was utilizing those skills as a teacher and a mom to do the same for another generation of children.

And in my heart, I believe that if I had ever gotten to meet him in person, Mr. Rogers would have penned an “IPOY” note to me, as well.

Raised on PBS and Little Debbie . . . Part 2

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Photo property of Sesame Workshop
Photo property of Sesame Workshop

Photo property of Sesame Workshop

For most of my children’s lives, we didn’t have cable.  Instead, we had the $8.99 special.  We could receive local stations, PBS, and a few superstations.  That was it – period.  No, Disney. No, Cartoon Network. No, Animal Planet.  No, Nickelodeon. We didn’t feel deprived or missing anything.  As stated yesterday, we were raising a second generation of American kiddos who learned their ABC’s and numbers with educational programming.

Our love of educational programming continued even when we visited completely “caffeinated” television hot-spots like hotels or Grandma’s house.  The viewing mantra became, “If it ain’t PBS, you ain’t watching it.”  The “ain’t was used for emphasis and humor, but our kids got it.  That mantra became our family’s viewing guide.

The decision not to pursue cable had more to do with our desire to shield our children from unsuitable viewing and less to do with the financial savings of avoiding “bundling”.  I will admit that viewing any television was pretty slim pickings during the Writer’s Strike of 2007-2008 with our limited channel options.  But at least, PBS was still going strong.

It was during this same period of limited viewing that my first encounter with questioning PBS content occurred.  (My heart did flitter-flutters as my mind was reciting, “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”)  That particular year we had a 7th grader and a 3 year old.  On one cold late start morning, we were watching our beloved Sesame Street.

To give the setting, a few weeks prior our 7th grader had a spelling packet with plurals of words like sisters-in-law and sergeants-at-arms.  Again, it was not to my liking as Elmo stole most of the show, when on came Mr. Noodle and the other Mr. Noodle, (Mr. Noodle’s brother).  As Elmo was trying to convince the brothers of some thing or another, he kept referring to them as Mr. Noodles.  Did my ears perceive that small, but ever so slight incorrect placement of plurals?  I immediately pointed out the inaccuracy (it should be the Misters Noodle) to my 7th grade scholar. I just dropped a knowledge bomb up in here that was received with nothing more than a shoulder shrug and an eye-roll.

Oh no!  My childhood favorite is giving incorrect grammar to millions of children.  Whatever shall we do?  In reality, we did nothing . . . except my pointing it out every two years when that same spelling packet came home with the next two children in line in our household.  Again, the morsel of knowledge was met with uncharacteristic nonchalance by my other scholars, followed by an emphatic, “No!! I am not going to tell my Language Arts teacher about this, and neither are you!”

Well, I have one more student that may take up the crusade, but I have a few more years to drum up some support among my brood.  But in reality, she will probably fall in ranks with the others – proclaiming, “Let it go, Mom, because it is still a sunny day on Sesame Street”.

And thank goodness, they are right!

Raised on PBS and Little Debbie . . . Part 1

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super groverI have never been a sky is falling sort-of gal.  So, it came as a big shock to me following the sad and recent scandal involving the Elmo muppeteer from Sesame Street, when I heard a reporter speculate that the longtime program’s future was in jeopardy.  My first thought was, “What in the mayonnaise?”

I agree that the turn of events was heartbreaking, but to think that a huge part of American childhood was going to come crashing down over a personnel change was ludicrous.  I consider myself somewhat of a Sesame Street expert since our literal birth-days are ten days apart.  I really have grown up with all the characters, and I have loved introducing them first, to my much younger sister and then to each of my children over the years.

Not all on the changes on my favorite street have brought bliss in my household.  I will never forget the debate that four-year-old Reed and I had about Snuffleupagus.  For the life of me, I could not understand how the grown-ups could suddenly see him, when he was “imaginary” when I grew up.  Reed, of course, thought I was the crazy one. Apparently a few things changed over my college years.

Don’t get me wrong the addition of new characters, such as Elmo, Baby Bear, and Abby Cadabby brought new life and angles to the show, but my heart was still wrapped around the originals: Big Bird, Bert & Ernie, Oscar, Count, and my personal favorite, Grover.  I still believe that Snuffey was better imaginary.  I can’t look at a rubber duck without breaking into song.  As a pigeon fancier, I convinced our kids to name our first female, Bernice, after Bert’s favorite. I have always wanted to take a tour of Oscar’s trash can, and frankly still do.   Even though, I can’t find it on the internet, the Count enumerating telephone rings complete with lightning and thunder will hands-down be one of my favorites.

With the arrivals of the new friends, my old friends seemed to get less “star” coverage.  The one I felt the most sorry for was Grover because he seemed to live in Elmo’s shadow.  As far as I am concerned, that loveable, laughable blue monster is the embodiment of Sesame Street.  Don’t get me wrong, Elmo is great.  I love him too, but who among us does not love a furry blue superhero who can exasperate a man with a fly in his soup.  Many of my childhood giggles came from his antics.  Thinking of them now, a smile breaks onto my face.

With all the other “junk” on television, I love that there is a safe place that my and my children’s imaginations to explore and grow.  I have never lived there or even visited, but one thing is certain, I don’t believe that Sesame Street is going away anytime soon.   I am hoping that someday in the far future, ( – just in case, my kids are reading today) that I will introduce  my grandchildren to my old friends, as well.  Along with all the other great lessons they will learn, I hope that they too hear, “I, Super Grover, am here to help.  And how can I help you?”  – just like millions before them, including me!

To infinity and beyond

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from nasa.gov

from nasa.gov

When I moved away from my college town, I took one afternoon to go around to visit my professors and to tell them how much their teaching meant to me.  I personally went to each one and thanked them for their dedication to shaping my future.  I wasn’t just a gesture for me.  The Doctors Lockwood, Johanssen, Lyng, and Landwehr are people that I truly admired, and still do, even though only one is still with us.  They taught me much about chemistry, mathematics, and literature/Latin, but more so about life.  Along with my family, they truly played a role in the person I am today.

I have reached that age where loss of that generation of individuals is becoming unavoidable.  I have been blessed to know all of my grandparents as an adult (along with many great-grandparents and even a great-great grandmother into my teen years).  Sadly, only one of my grandmothers is still journeying with me today.

When I hear of another loss of someone I admire (even though I’ve never met them), I really give pause to think about the influence that person had on my life.  One such loss occurred on August 25, 2012 with the death of Astronaut Neil Armstrong.  I was “present” at his and Astronauts Collins and Aldrins historic moon landing.  In actuality, I was in utero, but hearing all the stories passed through the years, I feel as if I had been sitting there riveted to Aldrin’s reading of the Bible while waiting breathless to see Armstrong take those historic steps.

What occurred on that 20th of July in 1969 allowed for a greater push in science and mathematics that allowed a little girl born at Bethesda Naval Hospital in November that year to grow up and believe that she too could be a part of that world.  Although my ultimate footsteps followed that of Christa McAuliffe in the world of teaching, the entire Apollo program was a catalyst for my future.  Because of that achievement, a whole new world was open to those of us who came after them.

Even though my faith differs from that of Mr. Armstrong, I do still admire his accomplishments and achievements. Similarly, I don’t really care about whether his famous quote was rehearsed or spontaneous. What impresses me is the way he lived his life.  By all accounts I have read, his humility and humble nature as a reluctant hero dotted his illustrious career.  He simply did his job without wanting the accolades while giving back to the community as often as he was able.  In a world full of instant celebrity, those character traits are rare to find these days.

I loved the classy statement given by his family following his death.  The words were humble and embodied what we as a nation will always remember about him. Armstrong’s family said, “For those who may ask what they can do to honor Neil, we have a simple request. Honor his example of service, accomplishment and modesty, and the next time you walk outside on a clear night and see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink.” —  (Central Press/Getty Images) .

So, Mr. Armstrong, thanks for going to the moon and helping me reach for the stars.

A new beginning

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christmas angel

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:

. . .  a time to plant Ecc 3: 1, 3a (NIV)

 These verses in Ecclesiastes have been some of my favorites for years.  Today they couldn’t be more fitting.  I am happy to announce that I am following a dream that God planted, watered, and tended in my life.  But just like any great garden, I am starting out small and building from there.  Starting today, Kandy Noles Stevens Ministries and “got grace? events” begins.

This dream began about this time a year ago, and more details on how it came to fruition can be found in my newsletter released today on Facebook.  This is an exciting time in our lives, and it also one that we want to be very careful that we cling close to the hem of Jesus’ garments to know that we truly are following where He leads us.

What does this change for my family?  Right now, not much other than I will be taking some weekends away to spend writing the books that have been slowly coming together.  It will also mean some travel as several churches have called asking for me to come and share my stories.  My blog will continue to be my thoughts and family’s experiences. The reality is none of this would be possible without friends speaking God’s truth in my life and praying that I would be smart enough and bold enough to take the first step.

I’m still me – the girl next door who loves her kids and husband, who laughs at herself, and who loves wearing floppy hats in the garden.  I love watching a good football game, snuggling puppies, and donning jeans and baseball hats, but I can pull off pearls while sipping iced tea on a porch with Southern charm.  But above all of that, I am just a girl who LOVES Jesus and who appreciates all He and His dad have done for me.

So even though this is not at all how I pictured my life, clearly they have a much better plan than I ever did.  With each day, my excitement builds as I learn slowly to let go and see what blessing is around the corner.

Since right now, this is a very small operation consisting of myself and a dear friend working as my assistant, ministry partner, and sister in Christ, we just ask for prayers.  Please pray that we are earnestly seeking God’s direction and that we are obedient to his plans.

It took us at least 5 months to settle on a name, and I want to share how much of a family operation this is.  When he was in the 4th grade, Sawyer was working on his God & Country supplemental badge for Cub Scouts.  There are a series of faith activities that the Scout and his family complete together.  One of those activities involved dissecting the verses from the second chapter of Luke.  We worked on this side-by-side, talking through each one.  When we got to Luke 2:52,

And Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men. (NIV)

I asked him how did Jesus grow?  You could almost see the wheels turning in his head.  (Remember he was smaller than me back then.)  His answers went something like this:

“Mom, he got smarter! And, he got bigger. And . . . and . . . (now with a perplexed look on his face) he got grace?”

That moment took place over six years ago, and I still haven’t forgotten it.  That same favor extended to His one and only Son is available to everyone.  Even in the deepest, darkest, moments, He is there simply waiting to be asked in.  The comforter, healer, and friend is a big part of my story.   Yet, that is the amazing thing about my story. It is only through the  abundant, lavish,  grace of Jesus Christ that I have been able to take my mess and make it a message. 

Thank you for being a part of the journey.

Kandy

If you have not already received the newsletter and would like to receive one, please e-mail us at mominmn75@gmail.com.

 

The thing about grief . . . Part 9

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random acts of kindness

This will be the final installment, at least for a while, in the grief series.  I have shared that, indeed, you will laugh again even as you encounter the “firsts” without your loved one as well as some of the ugly sides of grief.  But today’s thoughts come from a happier place known only by select handful.

Throughout this journey even though some days it feels contrary to reality, we have never been alone.  The obvious reason is that our precious boy, Reed, didn’t die alone.  He was one of four beautiful children killed that frigid February day.  But that isn’t the isolation about which I am referring.  While existing, exhausted with a big hole in your heart, you feel as if there is no one who cares or understands what you are going through.  Definitely, not true!

So many came alongside our family and reached out in big and small ways.  They gave gifts of  forgotten stories, meals, and hugs.  Family, friends, and strangers have come to our home and served us, offering help when the tasks were just too much for us.  There have been e-mails, texts, letters, cards, and posts of encouragement.  All of these have become precious pearls of memories for each of us.

Each token was worth more the item itself as it was the embodiment of hope. Too many to enumerate have become some of my most loved things.  Of all the gifts that given, there is one that sticks out as quite possible the most unique.  A stranger, whom we have never met, gave sacrificially every day for two years, in what has become one of the greatest gifts of my life.

Shortly after arriving home from the hospital there was a small notecard outlining her covenant with our family.  In the handwritten card, she explained, years before, she had lost several family members in a tragic accident.  She knew the isolation, despair, and challenges of grief intimately.  Our earthly angel also knew the power of prayer – as that had pulled her through the darkest days.  (I have to imagine that she too had a wonderfully supportive community.)  Her covenant with our family was to pray for us every day for two years.  She also must have experienced the same phenomena that the first year was hard, but that the second year was harder. I don’t really know her reasoning but she prayed us right on through that second year as well.

We didn’t hear from her daily, but every once in a while came a letter with a reminder that she was living up to her end of the arrangement.  Her notes would arrive, and once again, we were bolstered by the devotion and commitment of a complete stranger.  Because she gave this gift without the need for recognition, I am choosing to keep her identity private.

Her love and random daily act of kindness have been in my heart ever since the first note arrived.  Her thoughtfulness was the first thing that popped into my mind when I first learned of the #26acts movement started by newswoman, Ann Curry as a way to honor the victims of the Newtown tragedy.  It took me a long time to be able to even look at those sweet babies and brave adults, but when I did I knew Ann was right.  One great way to help a community heal from such evil was to be purposeful in being kind and thoughtful.

My family continues our philosophy of service by quietly completing our own 26 acts.  In a strange turn of events, we were, once again, the recipients of someone’s kindness when I received a glitter-filled handwritten Bible verse from an anonymous encourager. It made my day! While I have been thinking of others, someone was thinking of us.

It was at that moment that I knew how God wanted me to end this series of writings.  The truth is that there are many people who tell you in the early days of grief that if you need anything just call.  Well intentioned, yes. Practical, not really! Honestly, I didn’t even know my own name in those mind-numbing first moments.  Yet, I still had to be a mom and a wife, running a grieving household while taking care of injured children.  At that point, we could have eaten pocket lint, and it would have been fine by me.  I literally had no energy left to think of calling anyone, let alone to ask for help.

To truly help someone who is grieving, don’t wait for them to call you.  Call them and ask if you can watch the kids, get the groceries, walk the dog. Get creative! It is like the old Nike ads. Do Something! Anything that is a gift of time and service is usually helpful.  But if you can’t, for whatever reason, give chunks of your time, can you send a note of encouragement?  Can you pray? Even better, can you send those notes timed to first events the grieving family might be experiencing? Can you make a long term commitment to loving and encouraging someone who really needs your help? If experience is any teacher, the giver is the one far more blessed than the receiver -even when it comes to grieving folks.

What an incredible world it would be if every grieving family had an earthly angel just like us! I, for one, will be following her example, and that alone will be a blessing.

 

The thing about grief . . . Part 8

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from www.aquietsimplelife.com

from www.aquietsimplelife.com

Parental Warning:   I don’t really think that I have a strong following of teenagers or kids, but if someone does read these blogs to kids, please pre-read.  I am sharing something of a somewhat graphic nature today.  It is probably best not to have the kiddos read this one without any discussion.

I truly believe that there is no such thing as coincidence.  Looking back in my life, I see circumstances where there was a person to meet, a challenge to tackle, or a lesson to be learned.  All part of God’s plan for my life’s direction.  Since my actual vision is quite myopic, I can speak as an expert – one who has amazing 20/20 hindsight. It’s just too bad it sometimes takes years to for my vision to become so clear.

Sometimes God uses otherwise innocuous events – a telephone call, a card from a friend, the words in my morning devotional.  On the latter one, I have been known to call friends who have the same devotional just to confirm that they had the same words on their page because it seemed to be written just for me.  God’s wisdom has been revealed to me by really listening to the words spoken by others (even on television on occasion).  At times the airing of songs on the radio seems divinely appointed just for me.

Tonight I have tickets for the Third Day concert.  This was my Christmas present from my earthly love, who will be my date.  In my excitement for the evening, I started thinking about the radio station (Life 96.5) and the band that played a song for my heart in what was possibly one of the darkest hours of my life.

I was transported back to October 2003, when I was four months pregnant with what would have been our fifth pregnancy.  While watching the World Series, I started to feel little cramps, but I felt better after lying down. By Monday at school, I had to step out of my classroom because whatever was going on wasn’t better.  In fact, it was drastically worse. Having gone down this road before, I sadly suspected I was having a miscarriage.

An hour later, our fears were confirmed.  My doctor who understood my wishes for the least amount medical intervention necessary gave me two options: a D&C or go home and wait out the passing of my child from my body.  We chose the latter.  I could have returned to school, but I elected to stay home, not wanting to have this intensely private moment in the “public eye”.  There were no guarantees on time limits.  This waiting could have went on until full-term, and I wasn’t ready to be out in the world with my pain.

To keep my mind busy, I started doing projects around the house, all the while listening to uplifting music.  Every day, I would awaken thinking that today could be the day.  I was scared, terrified really, but I just kept going.  Thursday of that very week, the time came.  I was home alone.  Grief was the deepest crevasse that began to swallow me.

I literally laid on the cold, bathroom tile and sobbed. After some time, I got up off the floor to get a drink of water.  While standing at the kitchen sink, a song I had never heard before came on the radio.  For whatever reason, my spinning head paused long enough to allow the words to penetrate my soul.  I don’t even know how it was possible, but my anguish turned to praise.  From the artists’ words, I knew that the shell of person on the bathroom floor had been loved enough by God for Him to allow his baby to die for me. That same baby loved me enough to go through deeper anguish than my own to be there for me in that tiny little kitchen.

In the period of maybe ten minutes, I went from crumpled on the floor to standing in kitchen with hands held high in praise.  My grief was far from over. I would have to walk through that as well.  The change came, however, from a heart empty and hopeless transformed to hope-filled.

I have included a video of that song below.  The Third Day band members and my “friends” at Life 96.5 have never heard this story, but on one October day that what they do mattered . . . and it still does.

God can use something as small as a song on a radio station to change hearts, I know because I am living proof.