Why I blog. . . (a.k.a. the blog hop)

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I have been away from home for a week while traveling with the Boy Wonder, who had an amazing opportunity to attend an academy in my hometown for a week. While he was away on daring missions, I was blessed to visit with some family and friends. Anyone who knows me also knows that I enjoyed every morsel of good Southern eats because unless I make them, I’m not getting them in Minnesota. During my stay with my 90-year-old Mama (pronounced maw-maw), I received a message from a friend that I had been tagged in a blog hop. My quick response back to her was to let her know that I would definitely participate, but my internet was spotty – read: zero bars – so I would have to get back to it when I had better service.

Seriously, awesome food at The Varsity in Atlanta, GA. Enjoyed with my son, my uncle, my friend and his family.

When I did, I was off on adventures with my mom and daddy whom I have waited to have to myself for a while – 1973 to be exact. My children know I have a saying, “Unless Jesus or Reed are calling, I’m not missing hanging out with peeps right here in front of me.” So, dear sweet readers, this blog could wait until today.

I met my friend, Nancy, who nominated me for this blog hop on a plane. Wait a minute. That last sentence looks like she nominated me on a plane. No, no. This won’t do. She actually met me on a plane, but nominated me when I was hanging out in Alabama. Part of the story of that first encounter can be found here. She became more than comfort in my not finest hour, but rather a true friend. We don’t get to see each other as often as we would like, but when we do, it always seems we just pick right up where we left off. She is the kind of friend, who shares my sense of humor, but more importantly shares my awe and wonder at how Jesus loves completely flawed girls like us. Her writing often leaves me in stitches, and knowing her like I do, at times in tears, because her writing is real and refreshing!

Why do I write what I write?

Before I answer that directly (and since when do I ever do that?), I want to say that I am amazed that anyone would ever want to know that about me. As a science and math teacher by trade, English was my worst subject. Yes, I am old enough to call the class “English”, not “Language Arts”, where I am certain I would have been an abysmal failure. Seriously, I grew up in Florida during a period of time where if you used a contraction in an essay, you were automatically marked as an “F”. C’mon y’all ? Does anyone else see the problem with that? Although, I did earn excellent grades, more than once I had to de-Southernize my papers to bring my grade up. I still shudder thinking of those red F’s on my paper.

One of my all-time favorite quotes is this one by Anne Frank

“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”

My writing sprang up from a well of deep pain and sorrow. Following the bus crash that claimed Reed’s life and injured Sawyer and Erin, I wrote on their CaringBridge sites to tell people what our prayer needs were. From there, people began to come out of the woodwork telling me that they looked forward to my writings and to the honesty with which I shared our struggles. (They weren’t kicking us when we were down, but something in my writing stirred their hearts.) The more I wrote, the less the burden of our reality seemed to bog us down. As time wore on, I dabbled in blogging and realized that the things that God lays on my heart on a variety of subjects resonate with others. If what I write helps anyone in any way, then the bearing of my heart is worth every re-write.

How does my writing process work?

Now that my deep dark confession of being terribly afraid of writing is out there, I will also confess that my knowledge of the writing process is probably less than my knowledge of a hole in the ground. But I have also learned over time that I know way more than I often give myself credit for. Way back in high school, my daddy and his buddies were enrolled in an FFA judging contest. When they arrived at the competition, the advisor told them that they had been entered in the soil judging because he needed someone to do it. They were rock solid on their other competition, but soils – what do we know about soils? They were given clipboards, judging forms, and pencils, and then escorted to (I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP) holes in the ground. They scratched away their best thoughts on each hole, and lo and behold, they ended up taking first place.

While I have made public apologies in my blog to former English teachers, I write just like I think and speak. The story ideas; however, come from God. Most often it is something from my everyday life that moves me. Many times I sit on it, but it will just keep popping back up in my thoughts. That is when I know that God truly wants me to write about it – even if it isn’t something that I would have chosen to share. One hundred percent of the time I get a private message from someone after posting one of those gut-wrenching blogs that my words were EXACTLY the encouragement they needed to get through a hurdle.

If that is how God works, I am delighted to be his vessel – even if I use contractions. Carving out the time to write and faithfully listening to God seem to be my largest hurdles.

I also read and re-read my writing trying to catch all the little mistakes. That can sometimes be an exhausting experience.

What am I working on right now?

The honest answer is just trying to be the best me, wife, momma and writer I can be. I am so glad that God’s grace covers all of that! Amen! Since I know this is about writing projects, I won’t give a litany of all the things I see I need to do around here.

My number one writing focus has been this blog and my books. I have a contract to publish my first book. (Again, finding time to write is my largest obstacle.) There have been road blocks along the way, but I truly feel that the finished product is one that is better than if I had hurried through.

I have written for some writing contests, and I have enjoyed the challenge. I won one of the contests, earning a major award. Daniel didn’t like the fish net stocking lamp. Oh wait, that was in a movie. In actuality, I won a Google tablet and a signed copy of a new novel, by one of my favorite authors.

Recently, I was asked to begin working on articles for the Minnesota Bridging the Gap’s website. I am honored to have been chosen, and am looking forward to getting to know the other ladies and to write God’s story of my life for a broader audience.

My writing also opens doors for speaking opportunities – which I L.O.V.E. (I mean absolutely love). So I have been working with a web designer and a long-time friend to get our ministry out there. We are “this close” to launching our own website, which tickles me to no end.

What other writers would I like to introduce to you?

I read quite a few blogs. I enjoy them all. Some move me to tears with their writing gifts, like tony, who never wishes his name to be capitalized in the blog-o-sphere. His shares about his life, mostly centered on his career as a musician and song-writer. If heaven has sirens like in Greek mythology, I think tony’s words would be a part of their repertoire. I have never heard him perform, but I will consider myself blessed if I ever do.

Others amaze me with the way that they see God in the every day.

One such “friend”(as we have never met) is Daisy. She writes over at www.adaisygarden.com. I will tell you that she, too, writes from her everyday experiences, and she posts the most amazing pictures. There are days that I envy her eyeballs. Some of her pictures make me want to just follow her around for a day, taking in the beauty that she shares on her blog. Her recent post would be a good example of what I mean. What I enjoy most outside of her pictures is the heart she has for finding the blessings in the ordinary. A girl after my own heart! She follows my blog as well, and I am always amazed at her heart for prayer. And I, for one, need all the prayer warriors I can get!

This last blog is from someone whom I have gotten to know in “real life”. We didn’t always know each other personally, but our blogs connected us. We chose to meet one day for coffee (okay, I ordered a smoothie since I don’t drink coffee. AND sweet tea wasn’t offered there). When our food arrived, Missy wanted to take a picture of the beautiful muffin on her plate. I laughed, not because that was a silly notion, but because it is exactly what I would do. This blogging friend is a warrior. She truthfully, honestly, and sometimes very poignantly raw shares her life through her words. Our connection originally was one of deep and profound loss, but our mutual decision to trust in the Lord’s plan of hope is what keeps us connected. I am amazed at her persistence to find the good in life – even if it is a beautiful muffin on a café plate. Her words resonate with my soul, and I am proud to call her my friend.

While the presentation isn’t nearly as beautiful as Missy’s muffin, shrimp straight from the Gulf, bought at Joe Patti’s Seafood, is my kind of comfort food. Oh yeah, guest appearance by sweet tea, too!

Daisy, Missy, and tony – you are welcome to jump on the blog hop, and I hope you do. I would love to know more about your writing process, but I understand that life pulls us in many different directions. Sometimes all at once! If you are able to participate, then I want you to know that I admire your writings, along with Nancy’s who nominated me. You, my dears, are sweet balm to my soul.

For any aspiring writers out there, the best advice I can give is to write from your heart, especially if it is something God lays there. You can never go wrong with that.

Motorcycle Momma

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Not that long ago, I did something that I think many nice Christian girls dream of doing. I took up with a motorcycle gang. Okay, I am just kidding. Sort of.

I didn’t become a gang member, but I played one on TV while on vacation. Actually, my sweetie loves his ride, and I agreed albeit somewhat grudgingly to go along on a four day motorcycle trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota with some other friends (read: cycle enthusiasts).

This wasn’t my first ride, and it certainly won’t be my last. The begrudging part was while it was a dream destination for my husband, having a sore butt (from not riding often enough), chapped lips and face, and more tangles than Dirty Sally ever encountered are not my go-to ideas of a great time. My fantasy vacations involve sandy shores, lots of seafood (with sweet tea, of course), and just enough sea-spray to give my natural curls a permanent beach-wave.

Because I love my sweetie, I “signed on the dotted line” to go for an adventure of a lifetime. That it was in more ways than one. At one point on the trip, I leaned in close and whispered (this is a relative term on bike speeding down the road) about how I cannot imagine how one could ever drive through Spearfish Canyon and enjoy it without being on a cycle. I think that was the moment sweetie longed for – me to love what he loves doing.

There was much more to that trip than one moment, and perhaps someday, I will share more. But for anyone who follows this blog at all, the second you see the words “Kandy” and “trip”, you know it is time to grab something to drink, some Kleenex, and get ready for another crazy “How does she end up in these places?” story.

As I have already confessed, every day my bum was as sore as that one time I tried the “Buns of Steel” work-out video in college. If I knew all I needed to get a gluteal work-out was spend hours on the back of a motorcycle, well I would have taken this up biker babe thing long before my thirties.

Bun work-out is one thing. Intestinal fortitude is another.

On our first full day of riding, all was going well . . . until it wasn’t.

My stomach started churn. I felt like the horsepower under my rear was gaining strength in my intestines. We made a pit stop to fuel up – both the rides and ourselves. I politely declined as I made a beeline to the bathroom.

I was there a long time, actually praying asking God to not let me ruin this vacation for my husband. I wanted it to be all that he wanted it to be.

(I later learned that he was ready to send in a search party because I didn’t come back.)

Meanwhile back in the bathroom, another fellow traveler was having similar troubles.

I overheard a momma trying to console a weary (and sick) child with promises of not being far from home and apologies that the hot dog didn’t agree with the medicine. Eventually, we both came out to use the one sink at the same time. The sick baby was a three year old little boy who was a little taken aback when he saw me all dressed in leather.

I told the momma I didn’t mind waiting for them to use the sink first, knowing how hard it is to travel with sick kiddos. I helped her the best way I could. Then with tired eyes, she explained what I had overheard. She didn’t have to do that, but I was in the right place at the right time, and despite my tough biker chick façade, I know she could see my eyes held the key to a gentle soul.

My son has leukemia. The chemo he is taking is really taking a toll on him.

I teared up and gave her a hug. It was all I had to offer.

She quickly exited as her number one priority was to get to the safety of her home. HOME – the powerful siren’s call that we all long to hear.

After washing up in the bathroom, I ran as fast as I could outside hoping to catch her. She was just backing away from the gas station when I lightly rapped on her side door.

As she rolled the window down, I asked her what her son’s name was and told her I would be praying for him, for them. Tears were all she had to offer.

As I walked back to my gang, who now had faces of bewilderment, I staved off their obvious questions of what exactly just happened here with the only answer that made sense.

God made me sick so I could help that little boy and his momma.

He needed me to be in that bathroom at that moment to give encouragement to one momma who desperately needed to know that someone cared. The funny thing is my stomach was fine from that moment forward. God just needed to slow me down for a little while.

So, little Gavin, wherever you are: I will never forget how God put us together in that bathroom. Every time I suit up and ride, I am praying for you on the back of that bike.

The fitted sheet dilemma

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This summer, our lives have settled into a different routine than we had been dreaming about during our hygge moments of the long winter. One of the by-products of having an athlete injured is all your have-to’s and want-to’s were changed in an instant. Instead, our summer has turned into a pretty freeing one (although wrapped around doctor appointments and therapy) where each new day holds its own adventure. We wake up and decide what new and fun thing we are going to accomplish today. I just wish our carefree days were completely free of cares. But as I have alluded to before, we tackle Mt. St. Laundry each week.

Thankfully, though another by-product of being limited in choices of activities has been my children deciding there are certain chores that they prefer over others. As long as we aren’t looking like a pigsty, I don’t mind who does a job as long as the job gets done.

My knee brace-wearing girl has decided laundry is her thing. She has developed a Zen-like attitude about the whole process. She enjoys the washing and drying, but she has proven to be a true All-Star when it comes to folding. At times, she has even recruited her siblings in supporting roles, especially when needing to return folded items to their proper location. She has also learned about the thorn in my side when it comes to folding laundry. Our ninety-seven pound golden retriever thinks he is four-legged iron, laying on top of any item and pressing it flat with all his furry-ness.

At times, my basement family room appears to be a Gap store (more on that in a moment) with stacks of items arranged for a quick sale. I really should consider this a proud moment; however, more than once, I have encountered this scene in my travels up and down the basement steps.

Notice the beautifully folded and stacked clothes and towels. Did you also notice the wadded up pile of bed sheets. I decided to use this as a teachable moment. What follows next is the true conversation:

Me: Do you see anything wrong with this picture? (Imagine me doing my best Vanna White interpretation gesticulating my hands over the room.)

Oldest Daughter: Not really.

Me: How many times have I shown you all how to fold sheets?

OD: Not enough, I guess.

Me: It really isn’t that hard. Let me show you.

OD: (With as much enthusiasm as if I asked her to trim my toenails) Okay. But for the record, it only bothers you.

Me: I don’t think I am going to enjoy going to your houses in the future. All your sheets will be wadded up messes.

Oldest Daughter: Well, we don’t plan on washing our sheets like you.

Me: Whatever do you mean?

OD: We will wash the sheets. Dry the sheets. And then replace the sheet sets right back on the bed; thus eliminating the need to fold them.

Me: But you have flannel and cotton sets now. How do you plan on dealing with that?

OD: Maybe our spouses will know how to fold fitted sheets or maybe you can just bring your own set when you come to visit.

Argh! I have one leaving for college a year from now, and I am probably going to have to add lack of ability to fold fitted sheets to my letter of apology to the college roommates. I have tried. I have really tried. I use the fist method of folding fitted sheets, as in each fist in a corner . Then fist over fist until the whole works is folded into a quarter of the original size. A little smoothing out, a final couple folds, and Voila! You have a nice bundle that matches your flat sheet; both of which are placed inside the pillowcase for organized (read: not a crumpled mess) storage.

How can I reframe this utter disinterest for finely folded bed linens? My solution to this perplexing dilemma is to have a tutorial. If you think I am kidding, talk to my kids. The summer before their 7^th, 5^th, and 3^rd grade years, the big kids watched the how to “fold a t-shirt Gap style video” one afternoon, per their mother’s insistence. Then we practiced folding shirts like it was some necessary skill needed to return to school. That little tidbit came in handy in a folding contest against a football coach at a camp. Wasn’t such a big waste of time after all, was it?

So who could I turn to for assistance in my disheveled dilemma? The guru of all fine homemaking skills herself has a delightfully entertaining video on this very issue. But seriously, even I struggled with that tutorial.

This one is much more my speed. Not nearly as funny as the first one, I think we can follow Jill’s instructions in the second one. Although, I almost sprayed iced tea on the screen, the moment I saw the crumpled mess example. She gets me. . . she really gets me.

Guess we know what we will be working as we start collecting school supplies over the next few weeks. Because, I really do not want to wave the white ~~flag~~ sheet too soon. I still have hope that these young pupils are moldable and impressionable.

Of course, we will probably end up in as much giggles as the audience of the first video because you can never take yourself too seriously.

In all honesty, who do I think I’m kidding? I cried the day Reed finished 6th grade because I wasn’t ready for him to grow up. How small that worry seems today. So even if their sheets aren’t folded, I will still visit their future homes someday, just to be with them . . . wishing for the days when we previously used the sheets to build forts instead.

Hug your kids every day and let the laundry worry about itself!

The making of a Grammy

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My last few posts have been about grandparents and how the world is truly a better place because of them. Whether by blood, “adoption” or simply by taking an interest in the lives of children, grandparents fill a magical place in hearts.

A dear friend of mine, who I’ve always thought of as the quintessentially hip grandmother, had this picture posted on her Facebook wall the other day. If you knew my friend, the sentiment suits her. As far as being a grandmother, I think I fall somewhere between all things magical with a little bit of adventure thrown in for good measure.

Before any of my friends fall out of their chairs, I did not become a grandmother by blood. Not just yet! (My high school son just looked at me in horror.) Although I will confess, I do already have things stored away for when that day becomes a reality. I like to think of it as Grammy’s secret stash of goodies (remember the magical and adventuresome description). I now understand the trance that Cracker Barrel holds on all grandmothers.

There is a really long background story here, and if you ask me in person, I will be happy to tell you. We’ll grab some iced teas and chat! The shortened version of how I became a Grammy (more on that name later) is one of L.O.V.E. lived out through friendship.

When Jesus called us to love others as the second greatest commandment, there are those who embody his teaching. A blessing to me is how I am a recipient of that love. I have written and spoken about how once upon a time, a former student stepped up to “fill in for” but never to “replace” Reed as the big brother of our family. When he met the girl of his dreams and was married, our “son’s” mom gave me the honor of being listed as “honorary mother”. It was one of my life’s proudest moments.

Well this year, my son and his wife had their first baby. Before sweet little L’s birth, I had been knitting and sewing all matter of items. She had a rough beginning; so, my whole family (aka Team Stevens) had a very brief visit to give momma and baby the rest they needed. We gave L her knitted blanket, said we would be praying, and asked them to keep us posted.

When they were finally able to come home, I was out in my flower beds prepping soil. A series of text messages left me with a puddle of tears and one befuddled husband.

The first message told me that they made it home, and they received many compliments on L’s new blanket. My response was complete momma bear mode asking if baby’s health was okay now, and if they think of it sometime, please send a picture of her with the blanket. Within seconds, I had a picture of happy, healthy and sleeping baby wrapped in the blanket stitched with love and prayers. Tears began to well in the corners of my eyes. I told her parents that whenever I make any gift, I pray for the recipient; therefore she was wrapped in many prayers.

A quick whirlwind of text messages cleared my anxiety about baby L’s health, assured me my prayers had been answered, and amazed me with an honor I didn’t see coming.

The closing message was: We love you Grandma and the rest of the family.

Even though our county had been experiencing a drought for some time, that little patch of ground was watered with salty drops, leaving my husband perplexed. I simply handed him the phone, and he whispered, “Wow!”

Not only had one mom loved in selfless ways by allowing me to be “the other mom” at her only son’s wedding, but now two grandmas (moms) were sharing in a way I could have never imagined. Sweet L is the first grandchild of both flesh and blood grandmothers. I know these ladies personally, and both, along with their husbands, raised amazing children who daily live what it means to love others first. There are many other compliments I could give to both J and B, but honestly, that last sentence is the highest praise from my momma heart to theirs.

Here is where the Grammy part came in. L is one lucky little girl. She is blessed with amazing grandmas, who simply adore her! I would never want, nor could I ever achieve, replacing or being in competition with that love. Even though her tiny heart could not physically fill a measuring cup, she has enough room to fit some great-grandmothers, Grandma B, Grandma J, and me – one incredibly humbled and thankful, Grammy!

So yes ma’am! I am a Grammy through God’s love poured out through his Son and lived out in faith by my incredible adopted family!

My baby holding my grandbaby wrapped in a prayed up blankie! B-L-E-S-S-E-D!

A grandpa’s heart is this big!

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I make a small notation in my journal whenever I get an idea for a blog post. Today’s post is one that I have ruminated over for quite some time. Part of my hesitation has been that although my life is my story, I would never intentionally want to hurt someone else – especially not when they are on their own grief journey.

The blog posts that come to fruition are often ones that I have thought about for days, sometimes weeks. Along the way, the words just come together or I receive confirmation (like manna from heaven) that” indeed!” I was meant to write the sentences swirling in my head. Many times my own emotions are enough slow me down before I put pen to paper (or in this case, fingers to keyboard).

This morning after devotions and time spent with God, I checked in on my friends and saw this video. Needless to say, I was moved to tears. And almost as if, God whispered, I knew it was time to share this story.

My last post was a tender story of an adopted grandma and how special she was in my life. I never really had an adopted grandpa. My children; however, have a different story. If you take anything away from this post, I hope it is this message. Children need loving people in their lives. I am so thankful that some families share (even though to many it would seem unnatural to welcome another family into their own). My life and the lives of my children have been blessed in countless ways because others made the sacrifice of opening the hearts to love intentionally.

Over the years, this grandpa just sort of assimilated my girls into his life because two of his actual grandchildren are their classmates. His daughter (their mom) has gone from acquaintance to closest confidante. We have had the joy of getting to know them all through our mutual kids’ activities. Many laughs have been shared. But mostly, many hours have been spent watching our kids grow up together.

Due to geographical constraints and the fact that I never finished working on that time travel machine, both sets of my children’s grandparents are not able to attend every concert or ball game. I am so thankful that technology continues to make advancements, because for the first time ever, distance grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were able to “attend” those milestone events in their own homes via live-streaming.

But back here at home, my kiddos never felt completely neglected, because they soon discovered that a grandpa’s heart has more than enough room to encourage them all. Grandpa G always complimented them after games and concerts, making sure to point out a few things that he liked the best. To them, it has always felt that they had someone extra special in their corner.

Both Grandpa G and Grandma J have had their fair share of helping transport all the kiddos to various things. A natural by-product was for my girls to have special stories of time spent with them. These are their favorite ones.

When Cloie sang the National Anthem at a high school basketball game, there was Grandpa G with tears in his eyes in the stands. She was touched to know that her performance meant that much to him, even if she still thinks that all the applause is because people love America that much.

Over this past winter, there was an incident that touched my heart and solidified confirmation that love extends and overflows from a grandpa’s heart.

After earning her place on the varsity basketball team along with Grandpa G’s granddaughter, Erin, a freshman, made the front page of the sports section with a great shot. Even though the team had a devastating loss the night before, we thought the picture might perk her up. It did . . . until we read the caption, which listed not her name but one of the senior captains instead. It became a joke in our family, but it wasn’t so funny to Grandpa G.

Apparently he called his daughter at work because he was hopping mad. Her version of the story had me both in giggles and tears, because he didn’t really let her get a word in edgewise.

Did you see the paper?

Well, what in the mayo? (Okay, his version was more colorful than mayonnaise.)

I am so mad. Did you see what they did to Erin?

She has worked so hard, and they couldn’t get her blasted name right.

I’m thinking of calling them and letting them know what a horrible job they did.

Horrible, just horrible.

The giggles part came from the fact that my friend thought her dad needed to calm down, and the tears from the fact that someone other than us cared that much.

Usually I am the one who has no problems standing up and sharing at funerals and memorial services, but for some reason, I just couldn’t get the words out the day we remembered Grandpa G. His passing was so unexpected. You would think that I do unexpected well, given our family’s story. But I don’t. Even though, I wanted to share the story of how much that newspaper mix-up meant to me, I didn’t. Losing him was just too big a wound (and we were only bit players in his life).

It is never too late to make a difference in someone’s life. Take the time to be genuine in loving a child. Make time for them. Notice the areas where they excel and encourage them in the ones they don’t. Or take a page from G’s book, and just show up. It matters. It always matters!

To his family – thank you for sharing him with us. If heaven has access to this blog, thank you Grandpa G for always having room enough to love my kids!

Just of few of the girls loved by one special Grandpa!

It’s okay! My mom shares!

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When I was in the seventh grade, my family moved from about as deep in the South as you could get to a prairie valley in North Dakota. Through my dad’s career as a college basketball coach, we befriended many families of his players. One of my life’s mottos: “Family includes people you choose” had its rudimentary origins in that little town.

I will never forget when we were asked us to bring the matriarch of one family to an away game. Grandma Leone Nilsen was unlike anyone us kids had ever met. Norwegian (we didn’t even know where Norway was), proper, and one heck of a Scrabble player (never, and I mean never, challenge her words because she was a walking dictionary)! A real fairy grandmother like a character from a storybook. Upon hearing about our situation of being “proximally family-less” meaning no family within a thousand mile radius, she made a declaration that she stood by to her dying day. “I will be the grandma now!” She remembered all of our birthdays, special events, and even sat with my grandparents at my wedding.

Once, my parents had to travel out of town; so, she invited us to stay with her because she lived in town close to our schools. Boy! Was that an adventure! The first day’s breakfast was buttered jelly toast with eggs. The only problem was she didn’t clarify that there were two types of butter in the fridge, and we choked down grape jelly and garlic butter on wheat toast. Not a combination that I would recommend – ever. But we sure did have some giggles.

Later that night, we went to the local pizza restaurant. Grandma Leone, who was everything maternal including fair, decided we should order the three ingredient pizza, giving each of us a chance to make one selection. Our parents never did that; so, my brother and I thought this was the best idea ever. Back in those days, my food tastes were fairly conservative; so, I didn’t branch far in pizza topping selections. Canadian bacon was my choice. My brother, always having a flair for the dramatic, ordered pineapple. What kind of goofball orders pineapple? (Today I love that on pizzas. At 13, I was less than enthused by his selection.) If I thought that was bad, what came out Grandma’s mouth made me wish that my quirky brother could have had the third selection. Sauerkraut! What in the name of all that is holy would make her pick that? Miserably, we ate our pizza because we didn’t want to be disrespectful. I have hated sauerkraut ever since, even ordering Reubens sans that ingredient.

Even though her pizza topping choices were less than appealing, the love she lavished on us kids was genuine and real, even if the bloodlines that connected us were not.

Her church had a mother-daughter tea, and since I was the closest granddaughter, she invited me as her guest. She picked me up in her big boat of a car, complete with stuffed white kitty in the back window. (That was her signal as to which car was hers in a crowded parking lot.) On our drive to the church, she told me to pick up a small box in the backseat. Inside were the most beautiful teacup and saucer. She told me that she wanted me to know how absolutely beautiful and special I was to her and how honored she was I chose to spend my afternoon with her. It is a moment I have never forgotten.

The actual teacup given to me.

Just recently, our church held a “Daughters of the King” tea. Since it was held on the last night of our church’s youth group for the school year, that left just one little Sally Gal to be my date. While fellowshipping after church, C asked a family friend if she was coming to the tea. Her heartfelt response was her girls would be going to youth group; so, she wasn’t sure. Without batting an eyelash, Cloie said, “Oh please come. Don’t worry! My momma shares!” As if there wasn’t any other choice in her mind, my nine year old decided that was just the way it was going to be. She made sure our friend signed up, and we would attend as a trio.

As the tea approached, C sat me down for a heart to heart. “Now mom when we get there, I know this is a special night. But, I will have to sit between you and Miss Linda. That would be the only fair way to handle this.” Which is exactly what she did, and we all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Tea parties are pretty special events indeed, but even more special are those people who open their hearts to share moments with people they love – biological family, family of God, or simply the family you choose.

Looking back now, even if it was not due to genetics, I am so glad that Cloie has her Grandma Leone’s heart. I know that she would be so proud!

Pearls to the Pigs

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Dear Erin –

Today is your day! We celebrated in your favorite way, having lunch with family. Not much of a surprise, you received our family’s traditional gift, a cedar chest, passed down from my grandparents, lovingly restored by your dad and brother. Hours of work went into the restoration. Through their hands went love, tradition, and honor to give to you something that we hope brings you delight for years to come.

What you didn’t expect was the small black box resting inside, holding a pair of pearl earrings. Even though the pearl is your birthstone, there was another reason we chose that gift for you.

You are at a time in your life when there are many struggles girls your age must face. Society will tell you to be smart . . . but not too smart. You will hear that you have to be, dress, act, or look a certain way to be popular, because who you are isn’t good enough. The hidden message is you must do these things for boys to be interested in you. Enjoy activities you love, but don’t be surprised when people say you only got there because of something either you or your parents did or said. Critics will gloss over all the hours you spend working hard and playing harder. And the worst and most pervasive message of all: your God is not worth your time.

I wish that I could tell you none of this will happen. Sadly, you already know I would be lying. No matter how loud those messages are my heart will always be as steady as a lighthouse beacon responding to the deafening storms, “You are beautiful. You are talented. You are smart.” But most importantly, I will be shouting, “You are loved”! I will shout it loud enough to drown out the din of the other noises competing for your very soul.

And I am not the only one. Your fan club has countless members.

Today was a great day, filled with well wishes, visitors, and gifts. It is easy to hear the message of love in those circumstances. While I wish for all your days to be like this one, I know along life’s journey you will run into bumps and snags and sometimes, dreaded dark places. On those days, remember back to days like today. Listen to our siren song. “You make the world a better place.”

In the quiet places, you will hear us reminding you of my heart’s resounding message: “You are amazing!” Choose to listen to those words. Treasure them like gemstones like your gift today.

Long ago, I received my first pearl necklace much by surprise. It was the week of my senior prom. My Granddaddy took me to the store and asked me to pick out a necklace for the dance. This was not something he did routinely; so, I was rather taken a back. When I chose a dainty string of pearls, he beamed. After trying it on, he said, “Every beautiful girl needs pearls. You make these look stunning.”

It is a moment that I have never forgotten. His was one of the voices encouraging me to become all that God has designed me to be.

Do not give dogs what is holy, and do not throw your pearls before pigs,

lest they trample them underfoot and turn to attack you. Matthew 7:6

Today’s pearls were not meant as just a token, but rather, the passing of a tradition from one generation to another. It was a passage of love.

Oh, and for all those voices sending you a message that is in any way less than the one we are all proclaiming for you, they are hoping you will throw your pearls to the pigs. And I know you are smarter than that!

Happy 15th Birthday Sister!

Love, Momma

Birthday letter

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Dear Reed –

I am sure that Pastor didn’t know how his words last Sunday would impact me. I had heard the quote before, but for some reason, this time the sentiment washed over my soul as if God himself had given me the explanation.

“If there were no love, there would be no grief.” ~Zig Ziglar

Truer words were never spoken because I love you without end. From the moment we learned we were pregnant to the day we said good-bye here on earth and every single day in between, I have been your mom. I always will be. Even though our moments are memories now, you simply cannot tell the heart to stop loving. It is a heart well that will never go dry. Grief would be nothing if a heart didn’t love so deeply. Although, it hurts not having you here, I could never stop being your momma, even if I wanted to.

Sometimes, I think there are people who wish that we didn’t share our journey. This will come as no surprise to you. I really don’t care what they think. They didn’t get the chance to love you the way we did, with a love that defies the boundaries of heaven and earth.

Though our eyes may sometimes be clouded by grief, our hearts are always reminded that as much as we love you God loves you and us more! His beloved Son erased those boundaries so someday we will see you again. Definitely a love without end!

Today has been a delicate tightrope balance, because your birthday falls on Father’s Day. This has only happened twice since you passed away, but it is really a hard day for Dad. I was always jealous of how he had you to hold on his first Father’s Day, just a few days after you were born. Today, I just hurt for him. I think he often wonders what you would be like now, especially after seeing your friends return home from their first year of college.

Both of us are trying to prepare our hearts for Sawyer leaving home next year. Maybe it is because we didn’t get to share all those moments with you; both of us are savoring every moment. We want to hold on with a grip that would keep him young, yet we watch him navigate in a world as amazing person, knowing he is going to do great things. He follows in your footsteps, yet leaving a mark distinctly his own. If you were here, I know you would agree “The FORCE is strong with him.”

Sister is doing well, especially after hearing the news that she would play again after her injury. Just like that time you carried her after her bike crash, I know you would have gently carried her again telling her she was tough. You were there cheering her on. One of the most tender sibling moments ever is one she carries with her as she loves on all the little children that she babysits.

Huck, your four-legged best friend, is doing better than he has for a long while. He moves a little slower, but on a recent trip to “visit” you he moved without haste to lay next to his boy. Cloie is doing her best to help keep him young.

Speaking of our little Sally Gal, she is perhaps your greatest legacy. So much of her identity is you. Everyone calls her my mini-me, but her personality is a mini-Reed. Just yesterday, we finished reading one of your favorite summertime books, “Love, Ruby Lavender”. She laughed at exactly the same spots. In her giggle, I heard your laughter. In her repeating the good parts, I heard your voice. I loved it all. Though there were struggles to get her here, I am so glad that God gave us her, but more so, that she came packaged with your heart. It does mine good in so many ways.

Just like you always wanted to do, we once again celebrated your birthday with blizzards for supper tonight. So much better than “Happy Birthday”, the cardinal serenading us as we drove into the driveway was one of those amazing small glimpses of heaven.

The invisible boundary between heaven and earth doesn’t prevent grief, but neither does it stop love.

By God’s design, a momma’s love is a force much stronger than that.

Loving you always

Momma

Newfangled Laundry Woes!

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Growing up, my brother and I once played a colossal game of Clue. By colossal, I mean our characters spent about five hours trying to figure out where poor Mr. Boddy had been done in. With 6 suspects, 6 weapons, and 9 rooms, there are 324 possible outcomes. (Have I ever mentioned I love math?) I am certain we tried almost all of them. We were sure of the perpetrator and the weapon, but we spent hours trying to determine where in the cat hair this murder took place. Complete and utter aggravation! Eventually, frustration overtook us or perhaps it was our early bedtime. We looked into the mysterious envelope to discover the error in our logic.

It was Miss Scarlet with the knife in Colonel Mustard. He might have been a big man, but I think he would have taken umbrage with his comparison to being as big as a room. Honestly, I don’t blame him.

It was our original card choosing and not our logic at fault. Whew! We laughed for days. Looking back now, our parents should have been proud of raising persistent children.

I recently ran into another one of those moments of frustration. Since I love to cook from scratch, I create stacks of dishes. Since none of my ~~workers~~, children, are particularly persuaded by mine or Madge’s promise of extremely soft hands, I am (alas!) the cheese. You know the cheese stands alone washing all the dishes and cookware which appear to multiply when we leave the room. I envision Lumiere (of Beauty and the Beast) lighting up a rousing rendition of “Be Our Guest”, inviting all pots and pans to a luxurious hot tub soak.

Warning: Not a staged photo. These are the real dishes that accumulated between lunch and supper today.

When I am doing the dishes sans help, I have a system that works for me, but not necessarily for my small kitchen – the bane of my existence as a foodie. My method involves allowing the dishes to drip dry until . . . the saints come home. Since my sink-style drainer can only accommodate the silverware, three or four cups, and the plates, once upon a time I placed dish towels all over the counters with the remaining piles of sparkling dishes on top.

I am a nothing if not a woman committed to progress. My archaic system went by the wayside like the daily sweeping of my ~~golden retriever rugs~~ laminate floors did before God’s greatest invention since sweet tea, the Roomba. A chance encounter with an end cap special at the Mecca of the South and Voila! Instead of piles of dish towels, my counter had a lovely, little, rapid-dry dish mat.

Although not coordinating with my décor, the colors reminded me of the beach; so why not? Do what makes you happy! At least, my super soft hands can pretend they are in the Gulf of Mexico while my eyes are stimulated by the colors of my beloved Emerald Coast. If I poured sand around my feet, then I would have the complete package. That, however, might tax my precious Rosie (my beloved Roomba). “The Jetsons” fans would totally understand my attachment to her. Seriously, I adore her.

All was fine until my drying mat (who has no name – yet) encountered a wayward marshmallow. Really, who leaves a marshmallow, a green one nonetheless, to bake in the sun on my dish mat buddy? Oh wait! I get it now! One of my children just wanted their new little mallow friend to enjoy the illusion of Pensacola Beach like their mother does when Calgon doesn’t take her away after meals.

Wonder Twins (aka washer and dryer) to the rescue! Only that’s not what happened. Instead of a quick cleaning, I had to get an advanced degree in laundry terminology.

A cursory glance at the tag on the mat had me just about as frustrated as that Clue game of my childhood. My first thought was, “What in the mayonnaise am I supposed to do with this?” If Rosie had been more like her namesake, she mostly likely could have interpreted. She was no help – whatsoever! I was stuck trying to decipher what to me appeared to be the Rosetta stone of laundry.

One not prone to waving a white flag hastily, I managed to come up with the following instructions. Add one Alka Seltzer tablet to a glass of water, use not one but two drumsticks on a percussion triangle while listening to your favorite 45 play on your record player, and whatever you do – avoid bumper cars.

While I would love to sit around and bang drums all day, I failed to see how any of that was going to clean marshmallow (he seriously should have used sunscreen) off my drying mat. Acquiescing to husband’s sage advice of “this isn’t rocket surgery”, my quest for truth, justice and the laundry way led to a resource, with a saucy little name, which enlightened my laundry knowledge.

Frankly, I think my instructions had much more pizzazz, but at least the decoded ones actually work. I am attaching them here to save another mom or dad or better yet, teenager, the agony of a deer-in-headlights feeling of not knowing what to do. http://www.textileaffairs.com/c-common.htm See what I mean by saucy: textile affairs – which leads me to wonder if they know about any trysts involving wayward socks.

Oh well! Never take yourself too seriously, and next time, I think I will just have kids dry the dishes.

Messing with my memories

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Not that long ago, I had lunch with a new-to-the-journey, grieving momma. While this isn’t how I expected my life to go, I am thankful that God has given me a heart that can help others find peace. However, if it were up to me, this would be an exclusive sorority, and we wouldn’t be having any new pledges. Sadly, though there will be other children that pass away, and we will have new members in this club that none of us ever wanted membership.

I am not an expert on grief. I am just one momma with a prayer that God would give her a heart that breaks like his does. God does answer prayers. Hence my journey of sharing our story and the agonizing aftermath that grief leaves in its wake.

This year our family has chosen joy as our theme word. We are committed to finding joy in our daily lives. Personally, what I didn’t expect in the hunt were the auxiliary truths I would uncover: beauty, creativity, resilience, silliness, simple moments, but mostly, contentment.

“Be careful what you wish for” certainly has its merits as well. Because even though we were in search of joy in God’s plans for our lives, this does not mean that there haven’t been obstacles. Along the way thus far, we have had several moments of sucker punching despair. I mean, lie in the bed for four days and cry despair! The dark place which stays that way until we ask for God to illuminate our path.

Every single time he does.

The journey to joy is a long and twisted one.

Most days are really good days; as it was when I was savoring every bite of my salad with my new friend.

How do you do this?

The simple answer is you just do. This amazing woman of faith needed real answers while her heart was freshly broken, and I really felt led that day to bare my soul, even if it meant to pick a scab off one of the scars of my heart.

You will get through this.

God grieves with you. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but he does.

Experiencing this deep of a hurt has truthfully allowed me to learn to love with abandon.

Eventually we settled back into a comfortable Q & A session about first birthdays and holidays, and then she asked a question that I had forgotten that I had an answer.

How do you get anywhere in this town without driving by a memory?

I stopped mid-bite, my mind transported back to the alternate routes we would drive to avoid seeing places that Reed loved. At six years later, like words written in the sand, my mind completely washed away the sanity saving (albeit not time saving) measures we had taken to avoid the crash site and various other places that were just too hard to endure.

Time had erased that particular pain.

My honest answer was we simply figured out ways to avoid those locations until our hearts told us we were ready to go back again. One grieving momma’s solution was the only response I had to offer.

About a month later, I was driving by one of those memory locations. After a quick look to my right, I felt like the weight of the world tumbled down upon me.

To everyone else in the world, it appeared to be an old forgotten football field replaced a few years back by an event center (in a different location) with fancy turf, not plain ol’ Minnesota sod. The bleachers had been neglected from the glory days of football games, marching band events, and concerts.

Progress often stops for no man . . . nor a momma’s grief. What my eyes espied was no different. Bulldozers and earth movers were ripping apart the ground to create a new regional sports complex.

My heart hurt because the last Memorial Day he was alive, Reed, Sawyer, and Erin (along with their Scout troops) helped place flags there in honor and memory of every soldier that had been killed in Iraq or Afghanistan. It was a sea of flags.

He was so proud to place one in memory of our local fallen hero.

Later that night, we took our whole family out to reflect before the flags would be removed the next day. I remember him so tenderly kneeling down trying to explain to his two-year-old sister what the flags meant.

These weren’t just any American flags. These remembered heroes. These are special.

So was that moment.

The old stadium might have been forsaken, but in my heart, it was hallowed ground.

The progress that will surely make our town even more amazing was messing with my memories. How did I know that I would have a new answer for some distant question about dealing with changes to your memories?

As I sat in my parked car with tears in my eyes, I remembered that God had shone his love in every part of our story thus far. Today would be no different. Although his creation was being changed, my memory of that beloved moment had not.

From here on out, it will be lovingly held in my heart – a safe . . . and joyful . . . place forever.

Sweet Grace Blog

Just another WordPress site

Why I blog. . . (a.k.a. the blog hop)

Motorcycle Momma

The fitted sheet dilemma

The making of a Grammy

A grandpa’s heart is this big!

Pearls to the Pigs

Birthday letter

Newfangled Laundry Woes!

Messing with my memories