Every stitch in love

One of my favorite stories of my daddy’s childhood is the time he became very ill and had to stay at home for an extended period. The phrase “cut from the same cloth” has some merit in this story. His mom, my Mama (mawmaw,) helped him cut some butterflies out of fabric, and he stitched them onto quilt squares. But as will often happen with sick little boys, they get better, and so too did my dad. His quilt squares, the ones to take his mind off of not being in school, were soon forgotten  and stayed that way for many years. A few months before my wedding, those quilt squares resurfaced – lovingly stitched into a quilt.  Because the fabric is so fragile, we have to be extremely gentle with the quilt itself.

Unfortunately, as time marched on, my Mama grew older and eventually gave up quilting. (For the record, she still is a crocheting fanatic.)  Although, I disagree with her, she often says, “What the good Lord didn’t give me in looks, he made up for the talent of using my hands!”

Because I never thought I would be talented enough to make a quilt, they are something I treasure – literally. Some of my most prized earthly possessions are quilts that either my Mama or my Nanny made.

This quilt from Mama  is over 65 years old.

This quilt from Mama is over 65 years old.

This tablecloth quilt was hand stitched by my Nanny.

This tablecloth quilt was hand stitched by my Nanny.

One day I mustered enough courage and signed myself and one of my besties up for a “Quilting 101” class. My friend is quite an accomplished seamstress, who I must admit takes great joy in retelling the time that I called her in tears because I could not make heads nor tails out of a “Sewing for Dummies” costume pattern for the boys.

Much to my surprise, I had a real knack for quilting (albeit none of my quilts will probably ever win a purple ribbon at the fair). I think my analytical brain for math coupled with my love for matching colors pair nicely.  (Who knew my hours spent in coloring books would have a future?)

My most recently finished quilt is one that ties in with both my daddy’s beginnings and my Mama’s end of quilting. One day, she discovered some unfinished butterflies in one of her closets. She loaded them up and had them mailed to me.

The butterflies were cut out and pinned to muslin backs. The only part that had been started was their antennae had been hand-stitched by my sweet grandmother. While I loved my Daddy’s style of applique, I wanted to make the butterflies . . . well unique.

The ultimate recipient of the quilt would be my Mama’s namesake, the third Cloie in our family – making this a fourth generation quilt. That’s right – four generations had a hand in the making of this quilt.

Since my little girl loves all things pink and purple as well as anything with butterflies and pigs, the quilt took on a life of its own. Somehow the finished product all came together.

The most daunting task was the beginning – learning to applique. The butterfly squares were a precious commodity. They were never going to be replenished; so, with much trepidation (and after hours practicing on throwaway fabric, the butterflies were machine embroidered onto the muslin backs using a variegated blue, purple, and green thread.

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Next step was to determine what main fabric would be used in the simple pattern that I had chosen. Stumbling across a fabric that is a similar pattern to the one used in her big sister’s quilt was a God send. The pattern is the same with one in purple and one in blue (each girl’s favorite). One girl’s in flannel and the other in cotton.

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That decision was a slam dunk, as were the choices that she made for the coordinating fabrics. Pinks, greens, purples, and her personal favorite: green with little pink pigs.

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After what seemed like hours cutting squares, the piecing of the stacks of squares went blissfully quick.

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Next off the whole works went to my friend with a long arm business for the actual quilting. She had a design which included butterflies, ladybugs, flowers, dragonflies, and hummingbirds. Darling!

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Finally, we (I will give some credit to my sweetheart who helped) cut strips and strips and strips of remaining fabric to create binding for the queen-sized quilt. I spent one day bouncing between the garden and the craft room, sewing and ironing the binding.

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The finished product is one that gives me goose bumps of joy just looking at it.

At a quilt shop over the weekend, I saw some pre-made labels that you could purchase and sew onto your quilts.  One in particular caught my eye.

A blanket is made with fabric, but a quilt is made with love.” 

Based on the reaction of one little girl and her favorite pig, I think she knows that love was sewn in every stitch.

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No greater love . . .

This past Monday, Memorial Day, was spent the way it typically is for our family – albeit in a different location.

This day is one we hold dear.

Normally our remembrances occur at the place where two special people (my father-in-law and our son) are laid. There the deer really do roam free as the geese and ducks fly overhead. It is a beautiful place where the wind whispers comfort to our hearts that creation knows our greatest sadness rests in her rich, dark soil.

On this day, our feet usually trod in the cold, dewy grass, before we journey through breath-taking, sun-dappled lands to a program and fellowship at VFW Hall (long ago also serving as the indoor basketball court) in almost forgotten North Dakota town.

Every year, we remember and we give thanks.

My heart always stirs driving by the cemeteries on what was erstwhile Decoration Day to espy a treed lane, green, yet bedecked in red, white, and blue splendor.   Out here in small town America, we do it up right – almost reverently.

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Old Glory waves exuberantly over the verdant grasses of the prairie as families make the somber pilgrimage to honor the lives of the ones held now only in their hearts.

For this day, we remember.

Silently and contemplatively, we remember our loved ones that have gone on to their eternal rest.

More so, we remember the sacrifices, a cost so high we dare not utter it aloud, made by others on our behalf.

Our usual sojourn for son delayed, we knew exactly the place he would want us to go this year.

Nothing hits a small town harder than the loss of one of their own children, our greatest legacy. When that loss is the result of a war, we can never erase the pain.

It is a sadness that lingers because it is a constant reminder at how precious life truly is. Our thoughts are cloaked by a thin veil of mourning; evoking such a strong soul response . . . our worst nightmares can and do come true.

For this day, we remember.

We want to shout to the heavens that we will not forget your sons and your daughters, but protocol is silence.

We were not alone as we walked silently up the car-lined dirt road to the cemetery on the prairie.

We went to honor a soldier our son revered. We are not alone; more people are in the cemetery than live in the nearby town. A grieving parent’s  greatest horror is that their child’s name will not be recalled.  Today is not that day.

The soldier’s parents are there. We hug them tight, whispering, “Your son will never be forgotten.”

They echo the same whisper to us.

For this day, we remember.

We remember that freedom has never been free, and we know that liberty come at a cost.

A stone surrounded by patriotic flowers and ribbons is our evidence.  One of our own paid that ultimate price.  He was taken much too soon.

For this day, we remember.

We remember gold star flags are bought at a thieves ransom, a price higher than anyone should ever have pay.

Tears overwhelm our wearied lids as we know that sometimes daddies, brothers, husbands, sons, cousins, wives, daughters, mothers and friends do not return.

For this day, we remember.

We grieve and yet simultaneously, we stand next to our own soldiers, quietly whispering prayers of thanksgiving – they made it home.

Later, we gather at park aptly named Liberty to hear the order of the day and reflect upon its meaning.

We watch as a generation of men and women, the ones who helped make this country great, lay wreaths, humbly recollect the stories of the lost, and cry tears for friends and loved ones that didn’t make it home.

We realize that this generation, remembering all who have taken up the America’s call, is aging before our eyes.  Will this continue without them?

For this day, we remember.

We remember that those who are serving today work in conditions far worse than this drizzling rain, and we stand, wet, as if our small sacrifice honors what they do every day.

Watching them in their starched white and black American Legion attire, we know the salute is coming, and yet, collectively the entire crowd of souls jumps after the explosive first round fires away.

My children don’t know a world where this is a day of celebration.

For this, we are proud they don’t because for this day, we remember.

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. John 15:13 

 

 

 

 

The Rhythm of Little Boys

For much of my childhood, I only knew a world of boys. I had a brother and two male cousins, who were my playmates. Don’t get me wrong! I loved being a girl, but I also learned to play baseball with the best of ‘em. A fact that wowed my kiddos the first time they saw me in a batting cage.

When expecting our first child, secretly I hoped for a boy. Thankfully, God answered that silent prayer with a red-headed bundle of energy, followed twenty short months later by a whopping curly-headed ball of all things boy.

Our house was strewn with balls, fire trucks, Rescue Heroes, swords, and dinosaurs for years. There were wrestling matches, amazing bouts with imaginary dragons and other bad guys, and an occasional jump with a homemade parachute. Happy were those days, and I couldn’t have been more proud.

In defense of my daughters, I just never pictured myself being the mom of girls. I am so thankful that God’s thoughts are so much greater than my own, because I couldn’t have been more wrong. However, if you’ve ever met my daughters, they are about the toughest girls I know. Pretty with flowing long locks – but packing a gritty fortitude willing to go to great lengths to get to the best fishing hole.

Yet, sticking with today’s title, my thoughts are on all things quintessentially – boy. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

The heartbreaking truth about little boys is that they don’t stay little forever. The days of trying to get one to sit still long enough to eat more than three bites at a sitting are soon replaced by empty milk cartons lying on the kitchen counter.

A friend, who is like a sister to me, placed a picture similar to this one on her Facebook wall awhile back.

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I know she was making a statement about life with a preschooler, but all this momma could do was cry. Those days are mostly over for this mom. Even though the Boy Wonder is a pretty good sport about playing with his baby sister and younger cousins, no matter how much I beg ask him, he won’t make his signature sound effects for Master Splinter of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fame for me – EVER.

While I don’t miss the dirt, I do miss the sounds that only come from the imaginations of little boys.

A few days after my pity party, I attended our church’s ladies mini-retreat. Think: quilting mostly, with a smattering of other crafting going on. In came a friend with her sewing machine AND her young son. The only open table was the one behind me. She set to piecing a quilt while he got busy with his Thomas trains.

Barely perceptible over the hum of my sewing machine, I heard the melodic rhythm of putt-putt-puttering that my knee-high neighbor thought his trains should make. Just like I take every opportunity to breathe in the smells of newborn heads, I allowed my fingers to take a break so my ears could hear the symphony of noise at my feet. Eyes closed, I soaked in every moment, transported to the days when my boys did the same. His momma was never the wiser about the gift she had given me that day. Little boy noise wrapped up like the perfect gift.

I have never been one that savors change, and I am going into this my-boy-is-too-soon-a-man, kicking and screaming. I am watching friends at church speak truths to their graduates knowing that life is short (like Reed’s) and time is precious (like what I have left with Sawyer in our home).

As much as I fervently desire that my knack for growing zucchinis would result in a little boy or two sprouting in my cabbage patch. I’m afraid that train (like my little friend’s) has left the station.

I have learned, though, that God truly means he delights in giving us the desires of our hearts –even if I didn’t get the chance to birth enough kids to field a baseball team. Time and time again, he hears my faint cries, providing opportunities where other mommas bless me with coveted time with their precious little ones – noise and dirt included.

My awareness of God’s blessings began during a reunion with our former nanny whose littlest one was only four years old. In the first hour of our relationship, I learned that not only did he love superheroes (just like my boys did and do), but also that he was an expert in walking backwards (his words not mine). It was the next morning that stole my heart, causing me to long for days gone by. I received a call on my way to church from my new little buddy who wanted me to know that he was heartbroken because he forgot to tell me that I was his best friend. No words just tears as my heart melted!

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A little later, a mom who truly needed help came into our lives.  She brought a baby boy who needed someone to watch him while she worked nights when her husband was stationed far away with the military. It was a time that I will cherish forever. Looking in from the outside, it would appear we were blessing them. Hardly! Each night I put to bed and was awoken by the most amazing little boy!

My big guy and the baby of my heart.

My big guy and the baby of my heart.

A last minute need for a sitter, results in amazing snuggles for an evening or an afternoon, complete with giggles and the kind of slapstick humor that only little boys find funny. Moments that remind me so much of Reed’s love of the ridiculous. I relish every second!

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A trip showed me that anything and everything can and should be hauled in trucks, as I watched my cell phone go on an epic journey around the family room. Fits of giggles pursued when I discovered this tiny tot had more experience in selfies than this auntie. Ripples of laughter poured out like blessings.

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My most recent favorite of these God-appointed moments was while serving as an extra adult on a class field trip. A little buddy spotted me and yelled out, “Kandy, check this out!” I couldn’t wait to see his accomplishment. My heart swelled as I realized among all the adults present, he chose me to share in his perfect moment.   Big boys rarely ask their mommas to do this, and it was one more chance I had to relive the glory days of mothering little guys.

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For the mothers who wonder if they will ever pick up their toys (especially after embedding another Lego brick in her heel), if they will ever hit the toilet bowl and not the seat, if the dirt track by the front door will go away, or if they will ever have quiet moment again, the truth is sobering. The answers to those things are yes, most likely yes, probably not if you own dogs, and sadly – very sadly – yes.

To the mommas of these little guys, thank you for sharing them with me. You have no idea what joy each of them brings to my life. Little boys grow up taking their dirt and sound effects with them, leaving mommas to wonder where the time has gone.

Hug them tight! Encourage their imaginations! Overlook the mess!

Oh yeah . . . bring on the noise – that joyful melody of life!

 

Prisoner of the high seas

Every time I go on a trip I return home with some of the best traveling stories. In fact, one of my friends and I try to top each other with the crazy shenanigans that somehow have a way of finding us when we travel. After relaying this story to him yesterday, he paused momentarily before reflecting this would be a tough one to top.

I wish that I could tell people at least some of my adventures are fictional, a by-product of my overactive imagination. They, however, are one hundred percent true.

I have the world’s best friends, including ones who give gifts of amazing cruise vacations. Winter continued to hammer crushing blows on the Minnesota prairie; so, a trip to the Caribbean for a week was truly a blessing for this girl. I was the sole Minnesotan among a party consisting of ten fairly eclectic Kentucky personalities – all female. We were loosely held together by the game of soccer. Long story short – my friend is the coach, four of her players, three of their moms, one family friend, my friend’s mother, along with the team’s motivational speaker (that’s me) – set sail for a week of fun in the sun.

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All was great until our next to last night on the ship. After a hot and bustling day in port, we had a lovely evening meal and entertainment. I turned in early while others sang karaoke and enjoyed other ship amenities. Starting around midnight, things took a not-so-pretty turn. By things, I mean my gastrointestinal track.

I do have one shred of dignity remaining; so, I will spare us all the gruesome details. In three hours, I had made eight, explosive trips to the bathroom. This was not my first adventure on the seas, and I know ship staff desire to keep stomach ailments from spreading onboard. I made the ethical decision to go to the Medical Center (yes, they have those on cruises) both to inform and hopefully seek some relief.

This was my first mistake. Apparently I was one of many who were sick, but the only one who reported the illness on Cell Block C.

Upon arrival, I was handed a sheet documenting how expensive this little foray to the medical staff would cost, greeted by “Olga” the Viking warrior nurse. After listening to my symptoms unsympathetically and distributing some medications, she began her explanation of how things were going to go (for me not my bowels) henceforth.

She handed me a very legal looking document and proceeded to dispense her orders boisterously. If I hadn’t been doubled over with pain, I would not be surprised if I would have been required to raise my right hand and swear an oath to Odin, or at least the captain of the ship.

Next, her booming voice gave me instructions while I looked down at her steel-shanked nursing boots. By signing my name, AND I WOULD BE SIGNING MY NAME, I understood under Penalty of Maritime Law that I was now officially quarantined. That tidbit was repeated several times because apparently I appeared not only violently ill, but also deaf.

“Do I have to stay here?”, sincerely praying her reply would be “no”. Spending another moment with her alone, locked in isolation, did not sound like a good time – EVER.

The small sliver of hope in this story was her response requiring me to be locked in my cabin for the remainder of our trip, which thankfully was about another thirty hours.

Cruise ships are replete with marvelous buffets of twenty-four hour accessible delicacies of every imaginable kind, but not for this girl. Her parting gift to me was a lovely letter reminding me of my declaration (through signature) that under penalty of maritime law I could not leave my room. Yet, in their benevolent provision, the cruise company gave me a special number where food (in which the word bland was emphasized) would be provided by staff arriving in a haz-mat suit so as not to infect anyone else.

I didn’t want my friends to feel like prisoners as well; so, with genuine sincerity, I asked them to go forth and enjoy the last day at sea. My only request was an occasional of glass of water.

At some point during the day, I received a letter from the top brass again restating my prisoner status, but this time they upped the ante – my pass card (which is how you do just about everything onboard a cruise ship) was blocked. Should I feel I could flagrantly disregard my previous pledge, the gentle reminder of other accommodations could and WOULD be arranged for me.

One of my new gal pals on the trip retorted that she had watched a documentary on cruise ships before our “Bon Voyage”, where she learned that each ship also houses about four jail cells. The letter implied that would be my new housing, should I not keep my sworn oath. While that information should have been comforting, I was still having nightmares that maritime law might have “walking the plank” as one of those antiquated laws remaining on the books.

I wasn’t completely destitute as my friends did bring water, and I had a television. Of course, out of twenty channels, sixteen were live feeds of people having a grand time on our ship, two were in Spanish, one giving instructions of how to disembark the ship the next day, and finally one syndicated news channel.

At last, the anchors were dropped in port back in Tampa in the good ol’ U. S. of A. Hallelujah! But as we were getting ready to disembark, it occurred to us I had not been cleared to leave. My pass card was still blocked. The same pass card that was necessary for leaving the ship.

While my friend dialed the guest relations number, I had visions of the plights of other sick passengers that arrived at the steps of Ellis Island, only to be told America did not want them. This happened to the family of one of my former colleagues. They were turned away at Ellis Island, but were smuggled into Canada, eventually ending up in South Dakota. Briefly, only briefly, I was a citizen with no homeland. Perhaps Canada would take me.

I could hear the voice on the other end of the phone say all too enthusiastically, “Oh yeah. She’s free to go.” I had to ponder if my release papers were lost in the mail or if it was one of Olga’s final acts of whipping this gastrointestinal failure into shape by playing mind games with frail. But perhaps my ears detected a little too much enthusiasm for getting Dysentery Debbie off their ship.

As we proceeded through Customs and Border Patrol, I will say that my knees knocked a little at the thoughts of what questions were awaiting my new status as felon of the high seas. Thankfully I breezed through those checkpoints without the appearance of bringing the plague back to America.

After making the cut, I felt like a survivor of a crazy episode of The Twilight Zone. A few pounds lighter for obvious reasons, I walked away into the possibilities of a new day with a much more settled stomach, hungry for just about anything at all.  And downright giddy, I wasn’t one of the people starting a diet that day.

 

 

 

 

Love – BIG and small

A few blogs ago, I shared about what I dubbed, “Freedom Day”. During the many conversations I shared with my new friends, we kept coming back to a central thought. Sometimes, it is the little stuff that matters the most. T and I shared how we wonder if the ways we serve are enough. (Trust me, those thoughts are ours and definitely not God’s who has equipped each of us with unique gifts and talents.)

However, it is easy to get caught up in thinking that the ways we serve God and others is small beans. Comparison is the thief of joy.  T shared about an event where she loved on single young moms in her community. The evening was not fancy, but it was love-filled. She was blown away by how much it meant to those women, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she shared their words.

I have been doing a lot of searching and praying in my family’s yearlong quest to make “JOY” our theme word. I am discovering that God has a lot to teach me about that subject.

Recently I was asked some pretty heartfelt questions about grief. I really pondered one inquiry. “What did you personally do to begin to heal?” Since the answer was about me and not what I did to help my family, I first shared about my sense of helplessness of not being able to serve in any area outside of my family’s day-to-day needs for a long time. I professed that I also had a deep awareness of several things. First, I wanted our home to be a place of sanctuary, not a shrine to sadness. Second, I never wanted my surviving children to feel they didn’t matter when compared to their brother.   Lastly, as bad as our family’s darkness was, I never lost sight of the fact that I had NOT lost everything I could lose, and there are millions of people in situations much worse than mine.

Perspective has a way of focusing your priorities. Reed’s death brought that to my life.

Walking through my worst nightmare (and on days continuing to do so) has brought a new clarity to my heart’s vision. Looking back now, the reformation of my life created a gentler and kinder me.

My new calling may not be fancy. It may not be earth shattering. It may not be record worthy, but it is where God has stirred my soul. While I might have had visions of grandeur before that fateful day, now, I just want to do what God has laid on my heart.

That desire is how I finally answered the question about healing. I combined my passion for serving with my realization of how blessed I was (and still truly am), and I learned how love with abandon. Loving in the small ways.  Loving the hurt, the wounded, the forgotten, the grieving, the disappointed. Loving by doing, by writing, but mostly by listening. And in the way that most surprised me, loving without any strings attached. Simply showing up and loving without any need for recognition or any return.  It is how people loved us (and still love us).

And for the most part, it has been loving in the small ways.

A year ago, some anonymous family did exactly that for my family. They loved in a small way. With the tug-o-war pull between a bunny with baskets and the cross, it is easy to forget how far acts of love go. The picture below is of a note that we received coming home from Easter service last year. Hidden all over our front yard were eggs. All, but one, were filled. The empty one reminded us of God who loved us all in the BIGGEST way, by leaving an empty tomb and the friends whose small act of love reminded us that even small acts of love go a long way.

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May you be blessed in the small moments of joy this Easter season!

May God stir in your heart to love with abandon every day of your life!

May you always know that no matter how small it seems to you that loving like God would is always BIG!

 

Mary’s heart (Had I known?)

Many years ago, I attended a Christian mom’s conference. In attendance was a recording artist, who I wish that I could remember her name. At the conclusion of the two-day event, she sang a song that asked and answered what she would have done if she was Mary, the mother of Jesus. Her song moved me to tears. At the time, I had just recently used my experience as a miscarriage mom to help one of my friends through the loss of a baby. The song ripped the recently formed new scab on an old scar.  Losing a child at any point is a tender wound for life.

This week a new friend shared a question that brought her some comfort following the death of her daughter. “Would you have done anything differently if you had known?” I think this is a question grieving parents often ask themselves. I know that I do. Of course, there are trillions of things we would do differently. What the heart would choose, however, is so vastly different than life’s reality. What truly matters is God chose us to be the parents of Reed (and our three miscarried babies), and we loved them all the very best ways we could.

Today marks an anniversary in God’s love story that is both mourned and celebrated by Christians worldwide, now and throughout history. Symbolically representing the day Jesus had his last supper, The Last Supper, with his disciples, we remember the words he tried to convey about what was coming. For me, like the words sang at that conference, I have to wonder if Mary understood what he meant. Did she know? If she did, would she have done anything differently?

I have been thinking what her thoughts would have been like for about a month now.

Tomorrow, our church will host a Good Friday service with various members acting out what it might have been like for witnesses to Jesus’ life and death. I am one of the participants, playing Jesus’ mom. I will admit to being honored in the asking, but will readily confess that the writing of this script was more challenging than I could have ever imagined.

I have spent time thinking about Mary’s life through a lens that I never had before – that of a grieving mom. Do not get me wrong! As much as I love him, Reed was not the Savior of the world. That hasn’t been the challenge. The difficulty lies in knowing the pain of losing a child, the anguish that a mother feels. I know what I wanted to do (and did); so, I can only imagine that Mary wanted to do (and perhaps did) some of the same things.

All her questions waiting to be answered simply did not make sense while her beautiful baby boy hung on a cross. Waiting to see how God would use this hurt definitely resonates between her heart and mine. Baring her heart and soul and not knowing where it would lead, I understand that too. Knowing that today, this pain is the greatest, hardest, most challenging difficulty I have ever endured as well as not knowing if I could physically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually, and mentally weather a blow of this magnitude. Those are shoes I can comfortably wear.

Trying to get inside her head, feeling that I could understand her heart, was an emotional task. Throughout all my preparations, I just wanted to hug her. To tell her that she would survive this, she would be able to get through it, and with God’s help, she would someday feel joy again.

But then again, tomorrow is only Friday, and Sunday’s coming.

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The day came when she knew all of those things for herself.

Easter has always been my favorite holiday, but since the death of my son, the death (and more importantly RESURRECTION) of God’s (and Mary’s) son has the utmost significance to me. That comforting hug I want to share with Mary? Someday, because of the willing obedience of her Son, I will get to do just that.

But on that day, there will be no tears. My questions will lose their significance, as I can only imagine so did Mary’s.

No tears. No sadness. Only JOY!

Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal! Thomas Moore

 

 

Freedom Day

Today during my daily morning time with God, the opening lines in my devotional, Jesus Calling, summed up a recent experience of mine.

TRUST ME, and don’t be afraid. Many things feel out of control.”

These were simple words which revealed an area of my life that I have battled for years. In a recent blog, I shared about my struggle with fear. As usual, I wrote openly and honestly, but I didn’t reveal my biggest fear of all. Those closest to me know that fear intimately, because I do talk about it even though I would rather not. My actions, both those grace-filled and those not so much, have reverberated how much control the fear of flying has held me captive. In all actuality, the fear had become a strangle-hold that has prevented me from participating in many life events, sadly including seeing family and serving God.

When I wrote that previous blog, I knew full well what plans I had to conquer (okay, let’s get real) – to challenge fear’s death grip on my life. I am blessed with some of the world’s best friends, and a special one gave me the opportunity to go on a cruise with her. The only catch was I somehow needed to get to Tampa. Oh, that’s only 1650 miles from my home.

As I researched my options, I discovered the most economical and most convenient (read: not taking an extra week of travel) option was to fly. Since God had already lain on my heart that I needed to let go of this all-consuming fear, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t like it, but I needed to be obedient to his call on my struggle. I will confess that it took me three months to have the nerve to buy the ticket, but once I did, I knew there was no turning back.

Previously, all my thoughts would have fixated on the panic of being inside the airplane. By all my thoughts, I mean every waking thought. So great was my terror that I could not watch airplane movies and even would tremble when purchasing tickets for previous flights. I won’t even tell you how bad my behavior was on those actual flights. Although, I will say I met one of my dearest friends that way – mid-air, consoling a sobbing me who was convinced she was going to perish that day.

This time was different. My captured thoughts (2 Cor 10:5) were spent giving my fear back to Jesus. My hands did not tremble when I purchased the ticket, and every time doubt crept in, I whispered, “Fear of flying, meet my Jesus.” Initially, I told very few people about my trip because I wasn’t completely confident of my abilities to do this. (It would not be the first time I walked on a flight and got right back off.) I acknowledged that I couldn’t do this, but instead placed it at the feet of my Lord, who could. Somehow, my heart filled with peace. It was a slow transformation.

The day arrived, and much to my surprise, I wasn’t filled with trepidation. I announced the day as “Freedom Day” to my family as they drove me to the airport. Freedom from what was holding me hostage was a huge obstacle to overcome.

AllegiantSun

After boarding the plane, I immediately set my mind on my previous week’s and day’s humble beseeching prayer, and hoped for the best. (I rest assured in the hope I have placed in God and his Son, my confidence in me, however, was marginal, at best.) Never one short in hugs or stories, I did the one thing that came most natural to me – struck up a conversation with my seatmates.

In the way that only God could orchestrate, my new found friends were a pastor and his wife. I marveled at their peace and reassurance of my situation (even on occasion holding my hand), but also at how much we had to share with each other. I came away buoyed not only by their friendship, but also their wisdom in many of the topics we discussed during the flight. We shared that while we all have struggles; God is faithful through it all. With that, I was reminded that I had already lived through (and survived) my worst nightmare (of losing a child) with God’s steadfast hand ever present. While our lives were not mirror images, we did have one reflection in common – a burning desire to live life for Jesus while loving on his people.

The hours passed quickly as we swapped stories. Faster than I thought was imaginable, the flight was over! I successfully flew with help of God and my new friends (B & T)! Letting go of my personal kryptonite, I tasted how sweet freedom truly was.

I wish I could tell you that is where the story ended. But that is not exactly what God had in mind! A week later, as it was time to return home, God provided once again! Because there in seats A and B to my C, were my friends from a week ago!

As I have professed before, the only things I truly collect are God’s blessings of friends. I was blown away by some amazing new ones who will always be able to say not only did they witness “Freedom Day”, but they were a part of God’s plan for it.

When I read those words this morning, I heard God’s gentle reminder –

Trust me, Kandy. I’ve got it all under control.

Humbly, I am truly thankful He does.

 

Laundry woes

Two times of day, I have peaceful solitude. The first is early morning devotions, and the second is when the day is done. The house is quiet and I check in on what happened in the world. For the latter, sometimes I sneak in a conversation with one of my friends. Those small touch point chats encourage me for bonding moments where we swap stories and giggles. So it was a few days ago while talking online with a friend.  Truth be told, she and I have only met once, introduced by mutual friends. Initially, our friendship was sparked over a common life experience – losing a child – but we have since learned that we share many other interests.

During this chat, we shared more than a few laughs as we talked about our busy days. At some point, the tone of the repartee took a cathartic turn bonding over things that frustrate us– like chores that never end and lessons we are continually teaching our kids. Since we’ve only met the one time briefly, she quickly relayed that she loved her kids, lest I think otherwise.

Do not get me wrong! I realize that our “worries” are first world problems and that much of the world would love to have has many dishes to wash because that would mean there is food to eat. I also realize that the beast, also known as laundry, pales to those who don’t have adequate clothing or shoes. My world is a blessed one compared to a majority of the world.

Yet, I completely understand her thinking. My children are the world to me. PERIOD. However, they much like their mother are not perfect, and there are days that I feel like I am instilling the same lesson over and over. It is tiring, humbling, and on more than one occasion, frustrating. I have even warned my children with drafting a letter to their future college roommates sending my apologies and explaining that I did my best.

Instead of futuristic letter writing, I decided to put my years of training as a classroom teacher to good use. If nothing else, I got my frustrations out, and had a good chuckle while doing so. What is written below is the result of my overactive imagination.

Laundry Quiz

Carefully read through each question and answer to the best of your ability.

Section One: True or False

Please circle the appropriate answer.

  1. True or False.  The appropriate time to remember that you stashed dirty clothes in your closet and under your bed is when Mom has finished all the laundry for the day.
  2. True or False.  Mom’s van also serves as a closet for your stinky clothes following sleepovers, playdates, or sports practice.
  3. True or False.  The best place to store uneaten candy is in your pants pocket.
  4. True or False.  The best time of day to remember you need your jersey washed for tomorrow’s game is at 2:00 AM.
  5. True or False.  Clothes that have been worn for less than an hour and are not stained should immediately land in the dirty clothes pile.

Please go back and look over your answers in Section One. Your choices might determine whether your mother chooses to reveal herself as Emperor Palpatine later at dinner tonight.

Section Two: Multiple Choice.

6. Places where your dirty clothes should not be found

a. Mom’s van (HINT: you might want to go back and double check your answer to #2)

b. Your floor (especially if your room is next to the laundry room)

c.  The dirty clothes pile/basket

d.  The bathroom floor

e.  Both a & b

f.  Answers a, b, & d are correct.

 

7.  When walking downstairs while carrying nothing, a good use for your hands and arms might be

a.  Try to find the best location for future tattoos

b.  Flex your muscles to see how much time you need to put in at the gym

c.  Pick up dirty clothes pile and take to the laundry room

d.  Practice stiff arm placement for Irish dance lessons

 

8. When you do not put away clothes from your own assigned basket, the message you are sending your mother is

a.  Oops, I forgot! (Remember your mother wrote a song about this, and she would be happy to share it on YouTube.)

b.  Cha-ching! Extra money for college funds! Reasoning: We don’t each need a room. We would like to live hostel-style. All of our clothes can be kept in the laundry room, and we can rent out our current rooms.

c.  We don’t really like our clothes all that much, and we hate to break our mother’s heart. Feel free to donate those clothes to less fortunate children.

d.  Winter has been hard in Minnesota. We hear that they are in need of warm materials for bed linings at the Humane Society. Stay warm four legged friends!

 

9. The thing to be done with clothes hanging on the drying rod is:

a.  open a rather eclectic boutique in the basement.

b.  fold them and place in the owner’s basket.

c.  offer them as wardrobe for the next class play.

d.  hide behind them in an epic game of Hide-N-Seek.

 

10.  If you are able to read English and you are suffering from no mobility issues, you are also capable of

a.  Placing a load of dirty clothes in the washer and starting said washer.

b.  Placing a load of clean clothes in the dryer or hanging clean clothes on drying rod.

c.  Folding clean and dry clothes.

d.  Getting a job of any means to pay for having the family’s laundry sent out.

e.  All of the above are correct answers.

f.  Okay, a, b, & c are more realistic answers.

 

Any given day of the week . . . sadly

Any given day of the week . . . sadly

Meanwhile . . . back to reality.

Mothers (and fathers) of the world – JOIN ME!

Well, maybe you can . . . after you unbury yourselves from Mount St. Laundry.

Who knows, I might just start penning that letter . . . after I get the next load of laundry done.

 

 

A ticket to the dance

Today’s start was leisurely and peaceful – two words I would not use to describe most of my mornings.  Our children were out of the house early to volunteer, giving my sweetie and I time to read the paper while the quiche with kale and red peppers was baking.  What a delicious way to start the morning!  We talked about the headlines: the loss of another business in our small town and the recognition of a friend’s dad for forty years of service at the university.  We lamented the former and celebrated the latter.  Eventually, our talk turned to basketball.  Not very surprising in our house as it is March Madness after all.  My husband is a reluctant fan.  He isn’t glued to the results but always wants to see a good match-up.   I, however, watch the games with an eye discerning athleticism and a heart looking for a good story.

Last Thursday was no exception.

It was a busy afternoon for my taxi service, completing carpool duties and driving my own children to appointments.  The entire ride all ears were riveted to the radio for a girls’ basketball semifinal play-off game.  They weren’t from our school, but we wished and cheered, hoping they could pull ahead from a double digit deficit. As the game clock was slowly ticking away, my littlest and I continued on with errands.  The final minutes of the game unfolded. We sat in our van in the beautiful sun . . . outside of the mall.  While she loves playing basketball, her interest started to wane, as she plucked her latest book from her backpack.

At one point, she looked up from her pages and tenderly said, “Momma, are you crying?”.

I assured her worried heart that I was crying happy tears.  When you are nine years old, happy tears are more than just a bit confusing.  An oxymoron in its truest form.

So overjoyed with emotion, my response was one that only muddied the waters more.

For this child I prayed.

The scrunched up nose and tangled eyebrows told me everything. She still didn’t understand.

Remember when we had the cancer game at sister’s basketball. 

Quietly, a yes came forth.

Do you remember whom sister chose to play for?

basketball shoes

Another quiet acknowledgment.

Not that long ago, she was very sick and she was fighting to get better.  When she was so sick, mommy prayed.

I didn’t tell her how for years after the bus crash, I suffered from night terrors.  In those dark moments where silence clung in every crevice of the room, my nights were filled with every worst case scenario my terror-filled imagination could create.  The horror of the immediate and the fear of what more could happen to our family, to my children, were my only thoughts.  I was weary and tired.  Anguish replaced peace-filled slumber.  To drown out the silence, I created noise in my night time routine, until sleep would finally overtake my thoughts.  When we heard about this sweet girl’s diagnosis, my heart hurt for her family because I understood what it felt like to have a child hurt and suffering.  We pray we hear of those hurting universally, but in this case, the hurt came knocking at our door . . . because she was one of “our own”.   As a friend of my children, I am a tiny part of her village.

Rather than allowing my fears to consume me, I changed my night-time routine.  Instead of filling my head with noise, I chose to flood heaven’s gates with prayers.  Whenever I could not sleep, I prayed for her.  While she lay (hopefully) sleeping and fighting the cancer in her body, I prayed for just that – rest for her body, healing for her cells, and peace for her family.  My own nights began to get better, as God and I settled into a routine.  Fitful nights became less frequent for me, but when they did happen, I happily chose to pray for her.  It brought me peace.

In my edited version, I explained to my little girl that even though she wasn’t part of our family, I had spent many, many hours praying for God to heal her.  God doesn’t always answer those prayers in the way we want, but this time, he did.

The joy in her face was priceless . . . “Oh, I get it.  You are crying because you are so happy for her and her team.”

Today, a girl I know, the one for whom I prayed, has a ticket to the dance – the state championship.  Replacing glass slippers with basketball hi-tops, she along with the rest of her team will once again play, with heart and perseverance, hoping to come back as the victors.

What she doesn’t know is someone in the village has been praying for a Cinderella finish . . . for a very long time.

A letter to the Leprechauns

I know we’ve never actually met, but I want to thank you for showing my family joy in the little moments of life.  Your arrival each year seems to be at the point when we are all officially tired of winter and a bad case of the “blah’s” has set in.  Having something fun and mysterious to brighten our days definitely provides a much needed boost.

st pats 5

I don’t know if word got back to you about the words I wrote  last year, but some things never change.  The universal truth about children who believe in leprechauns is that they all want to catch one.  Whether because of folklore or family stories passed down through generations, there is something irresistibly enchanting about capturing one of you.  I can only imagine that idea sends shivers down your little spines.  Almost if by magic, the turning of the calendar page to the month of March creates in children an obsession with all things engineering and creative, if not wistfully enticing.

st pats 1

st pats 9

What you probably don’t know was how much I needed your visit to spread some fun and laughter.  Time stands still for no one . . . especially our children who each day grow and mature into amazing young people.  Perhaps it is because Reed was taken from us much too young or perhaps it is because my heart wants my children to stay little forever just like Peter Pan, I am simply not ready for one of them to launch into the world.

Strapped in with a warm blanket, I rode that roller coaster of emotions on the eve of your visit.  Watching a movie which poignantly depicted a young man going away to college, I broke down and sobbed.  While you were whispering in the wind before your stop at our home, my heart wrenched at the thought that someday soon that same scene will be one in which I play a part.  The movie was delightfully entertaining, but I went to bed with a heavy heart.

As I lay sleepless in bed, my thoughts went back to a tender moment at Reed’s services when a mom, who had walked in my shoes, whispered as she hugged me.  “I am thanking God that you have Cloie.”  Those same words had they come from anyone else probably would not have been etched in my heart. Even so, at the time, I didn’t know how wise she really was.  The last thoughts in my head, as my eyes succumbed to the weariness of the day, were her encouraging words.

I will admit to having a lingering thought of what would await me the next day because many a St. Patrick’s morn have been spent cleaning up the mess adventure you have left for my children.

Because of the late hour of my slumber, I did not stir until I heard the wee one (as you call her) cry out, “Oh dear! What have they done with bacon!”  Nothing will quite wake up a momma quicker than the thought of cured salt pork smeared all over her house.  Her astonished cries were followed by tender, gentle cooing for her favorite porcine stuffy, Bacon.  She cuddled and caressed him to make sure he wasn’t too traumatized. Bacon (with a capital B) – not bacon (the breakfast food) –  was snuck away from her safe little arms where he spends all of his nights and stuffed inside the trap that had been meant to catch one of you.  (Of course, you all know that.)

I know you might not believe this, since so far, my children’s track record has not been very welcoming or inviting to you three. The same compassion she lavished on her stuffed friend was utilized when she jumped out of her warm bed to get you a soft towel because she couldn’t bear the thought of one of you spending a night cold and wet on hard rocks.

st pats 3

Floating away on the morning air, the heaviness of my heart was lifted as I watched her comfort her beloved pig.  She spent the next few minutes examining the traps (Shoe Mart and Diving for Gold) to see what went wrong and what she could possibly do to improve her chances of capturing meeting you next year.  You probably should have untied the harness, because now she has a pretty good idea exactly how big you are.

st pats 6

Thank you for always bringing us laughter.  But mostly, thank you for reminding this momma to not worry about what tomorrow’s troubles will hold.

Today’s childhood is something to be savored.

st pats 8

Seamus, Finnegan, and O’Malley – wherever you are out in the world I thank you.   Your “presence” in our lives is the perfect reminder to enjoy the moments that are within your grasp because that is where the magic really lies. 

Until next year, my little Irish friends, be safe and enjoy that vacation in Barbados (0r wherever you end up). You deserve it!