Tag Archives: grief

Messing with my memories

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.

Love – BIG and small

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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.

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!

The moment

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A week ago, we had yet another blustery day cancelling activities; so, thankfully, it was a quiet night at home. I love those evenings when all the chickens are in the henhouse, and this momma hen’s soul is peaceful and content while everyone was doing their own “thang”. My activity of choice was crocheting while ~~watching~~ crying through the Olympic tribute to Sarah Burke, when I heard the familiar ding for a text message.

Photo found at http://www.today.com/sochi/olympic-skiers-pay-heart-shaped-tribute-sarah-burke-2D12150211

Wiping my tears before swiping the screen unlock, I wondered who might be reaching out on this cold Minnesota evening. The picture on the screen declared it was one in the inner circle.

U watching the Olympics?

Yes! That was quite the story!

Broke my heart! Totally thought of u and the great lessons
you keep teaching the world about loss and grieving.

Her words, of course, brought more tears to my eyes. The lesson she referenced was from Sarah’s mom, Jan Phelan. In my best paraphrase, Jan explained that at first she was sad about not having Sarah any longer, but then she realized there exists a sadness even greater than that, which was never to have known her sweet daughter.

Intimately, I understood her words and sentiments.

Today marks a moment about which people still inquire, and if you have ever heard me speak, I do talk about it. I don’t think the inquirers remember that today was the day, but grief has a way of etching some dates into our psyches. However, this topic is just not something that comes up from my end of conversation very often. Six years ago today was my sweet boy’s Celebration of Life. I refuse to call it a funeral because it was so much more than that.

Many times, I have shared that due to Sawyer’s extensive injuries, we did not have the luxury of grieving Reed immediately. Required decisions had to be made, but we were doctor/nurse/grief counselor/physical therapist/pharmacist around the clock. Little energy was left to grieve. We arrived home in the evening only two days prior to the service. Greeting us at the door were a meal, a new ramp and flooring for a wheelchair, and the funeral home director. We needed to make final decisions for quite a few things still, and the clock was ticking.

I think I must have hugged over a thousand people the next two days. So when it was time for the final service, I was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. But we needed to say goodbye on earth, and we had planned a beautiful way to remember him. I probably caught the FH director off guard with some of my choices – from Reed’s dog being a pallbearer to light sabers and the Star Wars theme, but at the end of the day, I wanted Reed and Jesus to look down and be proud.

Instead of typical funeral songs, we chose to have a worship band and family members sing. During the processional, that included family, friends, classmates, teammates, teachers, and Scouts, we chose “How Great is our God” to be sung. Our family alone took up half the gym floor; so the processional took a long time, which meant the song was repeated over and over.

The moment that people still comment on was one that was intensively private between me and God, even though all eyes in the school gymnasium were able to witness it. At some point, the words of the song really washed over me. As I stood there with a broken heart, my boy was standing before the throne of a King wrapped in splendid light. The same God from the beginning of time who chose to let his own son die so that I could see my son again was not lost on me. The God worthy of all praise who is infinitely wiser than I will ever be . . . chose me to be Reed’s momma.

Tears, cleansing tears washed over me at that instant, and I realized how incredibly blessed I was to have had him in my life. I wasn’t aware of anyone else in the room as I lifted my hands high in praise and sang the words to that song over and over. Interspersed were whisper prayers thanking God for choosing me to Reed’s mom. What an honor that was and always will be!

All time stood still as I was singing, praising, crying, and praying simultaneously, wrapped in the peace that can only come from God. It is hard to explain, but I was truly thankful and blessed God gave me that realization.

Even today when I hear that song, I am transported back to the gym floor, and my hands are raised in praise of a God who loves me like crazy and who chose for me to the be momma to some really great kids.

If you are unfamiliar with the song, here is a link for the song and lyrics.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZFN8TBfgNU

Strength Revisited

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A few years back, we wanted to impress upon our sports-loving kids that the game officials needed to be acknowledged. Even though we don’t always agree with their calls (okay you can stop snickering now), we wanted our kids to understand those folks in the stripes gave up time with their own families to benefit them. Our children’s job was to personally walk over and thank the officials at the conclusion of every game. It took a few times before that became a habit. I am proud to say that many of their teammates now follow suit. When my kids first started doing that, many of the officials were stunned. Creating a spirit of good sportsmanship, a hand shake or high five was just a small acknowledgement, but it went a long way. As time wore on, those methods of thanks were replaced with Howie Mandel’s ubiquitous fist bump, lovingly referred to as knuckles around our house.

Over the course of the last week, I wrote a reflective blog on my perceived strength and another that bared my soul regarding my personal grief journey. Grief ebbs and flows, and we have many good days. Every once in a while, at obvious times like last Wednesday, but just as often at seemingly random moments, the grief “monster” will rear his ugly head. Writing allows me to acknowledge the monster, and then as if almost by magic, with each word written, the monster loses his power. By releasing my emotions, God allows my storms to calm. For that, I will always be grateful.

Another thing that God has provided in my journey is amazing, loving, caring, forgiving, and understanding friends. Only a handful of them know what I am about to share, and I refer to them as my inner sanctum, the refuge where I can be me.

I have always bristled when someone has remarked about my strength or faith. In those previous two blogs, hopefully, you can somewhat understand why I don’t always see strength when the scars on my broken heart are still so raw. So I was astounded when one in the inner circle made the “strength” remark at a 4H potluck, our annual Christmas party, (always held in January).

As soon as the words were uttered, I said, “Can we just put this nonsense to rest?”. Eyes bewildered, everyone at the table stared in disbelief. Quickly, I shared a story that had all eyes looking at our table.

This is that story . . .

The first Christmas without Reed was just plain agonizing. My beloved Nanny had given us money as a gift with the stipulation that we should go and do something together as a family. We decided to spend New Year’s Day doing something most of us find therapeutic. Notice I said most of us, my sweetie would probably rather have listened to nails on a chalkboard, but he was a good sport and went with us to a paint your own pottery studio.

We painted and glazed and used every ounce of creativity we could muster. Our thoughts never lingered far away from the hole in our hearts. Putting on a brave front, we tried to go through the motions.

Once our pieces were finished, it was time to make the hour and half trip back home. A quick glance at my watch told me that we could still hit, “Happy Hour”! I know what you are thinking. She took her kids to get half-priced drinks. What kind of mother is she?

Well, she is one that loves a good deal and an even better limeade! I steered that mini-van to the closest Sonic where we loaded up on our favorite beverages for the road. At this point in our healing journey, we were still dealing with night terrors, heavy doses of medications, wheelchairs, and daily hospital visits for therapies. Exhaustion came easily.

Every single person in the van was sound asleep by the time we made it from the speaker to the drive-thru window. So I could have kept this story to myself and only one other person would have EVER KNOWN.

In my defense, I was as equally tired as my passengers, but as the driver I didn’t have the luxury of a nap.

As soon as I reached the window, I knew we were in trouble. Seriously, how hard is it to make 3 milkshakes and 2 limeades when those items are the bread-n-butter of your franchise? Apparently the answer to that question is a LONG time.

That will be $6.30.

In one swift motion, I handed him my debit card.

Then he walked away, not to be seen again for quite some time. Impatiently, I sat there long enough that I could have milked a cow and squeezed the limes myself. Then, through the window came the first milkshake. Chocolate, and lots of it, was literally dripping down the side of the cup.

Perturbed and exhausted, my response to a lap full of cacao and dairy was an eye roll and, “Um! Napkins???” said with a tone of exasperation.

Oh yeah. Here.

This was, of course, said with about as much enthusiasm as if I had asked him if he wanted to clean the clog in my bathroom sink.

Another really long wait before he handed me two limeades. I wish I could tell you that this was a better experience. It, however, was not – as these too had as much carbonated beverage on the outside as in. Thank goodness when he gave me napkins earlier he had given half of the dispenser.

On a positive note, it was Sonic and not Subway; so, I am not really complaining about the extra napkins.

Then there was the equally awkward moment of silence when I didn’t drive away immediately. At this point, my-I-hope-for-his-sake-trainee frankly looked irritated that I just sat there.

With my best one eye eyebrow raise, I proffered, “Perhaps I could have my debit card and receipt.”

His look of shock was almost worth this ridiculous adventure. I could see him shimmy to the till nearly knocking over one of the carhops.

He came back with my debit card and receipt. Now, I could have just driven off, but I am hopeless when it comes to misplacing things. I purposely took the few seconds to actually return those items to their proper spots in the black hole, I mean, my purse. Just as I was getting ready to roll up the window, I saw his outstretched fist out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head just in time to hear him say, “Hey. Hold up!”

Knowing full well, I had everything I ordered, my debit card, and don’t forget enough extra napkins to host a dinner party, I just shrugged my shoulders and did what anyone would do in this situation.

For a fleeting second, I thought, “Well this is different”, but I am all for making peace when I can.

Fingers curled . . . I gave my new found “friend” a fist bump.

A barely perceptible smirk crawled across his lips.

Well, that was nice and all, but here’s your mints.

Even the so-called strong have their moments.

With tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks, I laughed the entire way home, and it had been a long time since I had laughed like that.

Wonder Twins Power: Activate – Sonic Dude!

Photo found at www.returntomanliness.com

And to you my dear friends: Knuckles to you!

A letter to heaven

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Dear Reed –

Today is the day I dread all year long. It seems as if the whole month of February is always a blur as I insulate myself from the pain of this day. But I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t tell you that some things are a little different this year.

Sometimes, I daydream that you aren’t really in heaven, but gone away to college instead. That is a problem though when you are as vivid a daydreamer as I am, because more than once I went to call you on the phone to ask how classes are going. There are few things in life that I will never regret passing on to you kids and a healthy imagination is one of them.

Remember the days of getting pixie-led in the forest and just how far those little buggers got us off the path. Can you still hear their siren-like call in heaven too? How about all the dragons that you kept away from our house with your countless battles? Is there a place for them there too? Do you and Nanny still have the dinosaur that lived at our house but only came after he decided that it was too hot in Pensacola? We don’t hear much out of him anymore; so, he must live with you. It was a good thing because I wasn’t sure “roof cave-in by dinosaur” was covered by our homeowners insurance.

All those boyhood things sandwiched into a life much too short.

When you left us, you were so much older in spirit if not in chronological years. And I think that is one of the things I miss the most, all the grown up experiences we didn’t and don’t get to share together.

I cannot believe that you went home to Jesus six years ago today. In some moments it seems like the blink of an eye, and then at other times as we deal with Sawyer’s and Erin’s injuries, it feels like an eternity ago.

Daddy is doing better – only not today. Today, he trudged along at work in a place where if people remember the day not many verbalized it. How sad and awful that has to be when I am sure he feels as if his heart is on display for all to see. Somehow people need to know that it is okay to talk about you (and J, H, and E) even if it makes us cry, it tells us they remember.

The Boy Wonder – you would be so proud of him! He is really an incredible young man. Last night as we were saying our goodnights, I broke down and cried. I asked him to name the number one thing he missed about you. His heartfelt reply was that he couldn’t answer that because he missed everything about you. The late night conversations, the giggles from the basement, the wrestling hijinks, and saving the day are hard to do when one of the dynamic duo is missing. He shares your love of the underdog, and you would have loved to see him coach his Special Olympics players to gold medals. Somehow it would be easy to picture the two of you coaching that team together. Just know that even though you were very different boys, you are carried everywhere in his heart.

And Sister! She isn’t quite as tall as Sawyer yet, but she definitely towers over me. You would be so proud of her. She carries your tenacity to get a job done. She set a goal to improve her basketball skills, and she spent most of her summer to make 20,000 made shots. She’s come a long way from the “Laura, Mary, Carrie” wind-up days of when you boys first taught her how to shoot baskets in the front yard before kindergarten. With your love of sports, I can only imagine you would be cheering the loudest in the stands when she makes an amazing rebound or banks an unimaginable three-pointer. Her face of pure joy rivals the time that you forced and recovered the fumble in Ivanhoe. She has your smile, and every time we see it in a game, I think of you!

Sally is the one missing you the most these days. She has had some really rough days. I wish that we could grant her desire to visit you all in heaven just one time. She says that if she could do so; she would be able to live the rest of her days contented. If David is a man after God’s own heart, she is a girl after yours. Every fiber of her being is just like you, even the words she uses. Looking in her hazel eyes is like a mirror to times long ago. She is another nine year old bundle of energy, who has a large vocabulary and who can’t learn about the world fast enough. Since it is a miracle we even have her, I think God made her as close to you as possible to bring us comfort. And she does. Now if only we could keep her little forever.

Your boy, Huck, is really starting to slow down. His beautiful red coat is starting to show more and more gray. I’m always sad that I don’t have any redheads in the house anymore, and then sweet Huck comes loping into my room. I have the redheaded boy’s red-haired dog still, and that does count for something. He still has some mischief in that big ol’ body because he can still sneak a sandwich or stick of butter off the counter. Just as you loved him every day of your life together, I am carrying love’s torch for our boy even if the hourglass is working against me. I am going to hold on to him as long as I possibly can before he comes to be with you again.

A few more loved ones have come to join you in the last year. Hug them all for me! Maybe one of those sneaky around the back hugs would be the perfect gift. Just know that I love you more than you can possibly imagine, and I know that you don’t want us to be sad forever. Some days, I wish my heart understood what my brain knows.

In the meantime, I want you to know that our friends have wrapped their arms of love around us in both BIG and small ways. They always have, but for some reason I see it more this year. I thank God that he whispered into their hearts that we needed them, even if they didn’t know how much. Just sharing the moments of this journey has been an immeasurable treasure.

Even through my tears, there is one more thing that I will never regret. Teaching all of you about Jesus! It is because of his love that my love for you has meaning. It is because of his sacrifice that I KNOW – not I hope or I wish – but I KNOW that I will see you again.

Just like I believe God whispered to my friends, today I felt a strong reminder to remember that even though the hole in my heart feels like that fateful Friday, Sunday’s coming. With a message that powerful, I can only believe that God blew it straight into my heart.

You will always be my sunshine!

Loving you every single day forever . . . until Sunday comes!

Momma

Strength

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If I had a dollar for every time, someone has said to me since February 19, 2008, “I wish I had your strength”; I wouldn’t be driving a well-loved mini-van with 260,000 miles on it. Mind you at least one hundred thousand of those miles have been for doctor’s appointments related to our horrible day, but I digress.

In my mind, there exist two apparent problems with their logic.

Number One – I don’t believe or perceive myself to be all that strong; so, I can’t really impart any strength building wisdom on to them.

Number Two – The actual response to this is one I only recently had the courage to utter. “No, you would never wish for that.” The only way my perceived strength was on any radar was after our family walked through the nightmare of our darkest day. No one would voluntarily walk through the storms we have had to face. Trust me.

To be honest, I don’t know if I would call the perception of my behavior, strength. Frankly, I didn’t realize I had the option of not being strong. I had three other beautiful children to raise, and they needed me. PERIOD.

Quitting and giving up weren’t options. There were many days – let’s get real there still are days – that I would like to dig a hole next to Reed and just wait until God calls me home.

But that isn’t his plan for my life. So strong – whatever that means – is what I will keep on doing.

The other sentiment that I have consistently heard since that awful day was, “I wish I had your faith.”

When I look in the mirror, I see a girl who happens to love Jesus, her family, a good laugh, my kids’ sporting events, and sweet tea! Notice, I didn’t say a woman of great faith. It’s not that I don’t want to be known for having a great faith. It’s just I’m not sure that God is done with my development yet. I know all my failures, sins, and regrets, but here is where the difference lies between strength and faith, I know who is stronger than all of that – Jesus.

He loves me like crazy. He has plans for my life. He cries when I cry, and he laughs when I laugh. He – only he –can pick up my broken pieces and merge them back together. Whatever “strength” I have comes from holding out my hands and asking him to help me, and always in his time, he does.

I have learned in the last six years, I care less about what people think and more about what he thinks. I have reconciled my thinking to understand that sometimes fire and trials have the result of bringing you closer to Him. Never in a million years did I think I would say this . . . but I am thankful that his strength has the power to take your despair to use it for his glory. This does not mean that I won’t grieve losing Reed or our babies until my dying day, because I will.

However, God and his Son are great recyclers, and together, they are reframing my storms to show me incomparable joy.

One load over the line, sweet Jesus

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I remember the moment like it was yesterday. It was a youth basketball tournament in Redwood Falls. Several kids were playing a pick-up game on an open court. A loud scream echoed through the cavernous gymnasium. In a primal movement, I bolted at the sound a mother recognizes. On my way to the court, I plowed into a boy exclaiming with tears in his eyes, “It’s Sawyer! He’s hurt!”. It was agonizing to see our boy crumpled on the hardwood floor, writhing in pain after he had only recently began to walk again following more than two years of rehabilitation. After comforting him, I returned to the fan bleachers for the girls’ game.

Quietly, I said to my friend, “I’m going to hold it together for my daughter, but could you meet me behind the bleachers after the game is over? I’m going to lose it then.” The girls lost devastatingly, only scoring two points on non-shooting technical fouls because an opposing player refused to remove jewelry.

When the game was over, that friend along with at least a dozen other moms, held me as I sobbed behind the bleachers. They cradled, hugged, and cried with me. Those sweet women spoke words of truth into my heart as I had reached overload. My mettle meter was busted. Not one cell in my body could be strong at that moment. Audible and silent, their prayers soothed my soul. It was probably one of the worst and best crying sessions I have ever had.

I remember all the faces of those that walked by. You could read their thoughts as if they had cartoon bubbles escorting them along. It is just elementary basketball. It’s just a game. How can she be that upset?

The burden was just too big for me. Even though, I didn’t really care what other people thought, deep in my heart I wished for some universal sign to say, “Be gentle. I’m sinking.” I wanted normal – whatever that was – back in my life.

My devotion yesterday introduced me to a new idea regarding the carrying of burdens. http://odb.org/2014/01/23/load-line/ The Plimsoll line was a completely foreign concept to me, but the devotion was one that resonated with my soul.

While I won’t advocate for a load line to be painted on those who are suffering (no matter what the reason), I do wish, in a world where hasty judgments of misunderstandings are a norm, there existed a signal for “OVERLOAD” for our burdens.

For years, I have said that black armbands should have never gone out of fashion. I am just old enough to remember their use in my childhood. What are black armbands? I’m glad you asked. The black armband replaced the mourning dress of all black to signify that someone was grieving. I don’t think I could pull off the black gowns of Miss Scarlett in Gone with the Wind, but the armband could be my fashion trend.

I’ve pointed the bands out to people who completely missed them all together, and then find they are astonished to know they never noticed them. The Bailey family in It’s a Wonderful Life don black armbands in the scenes following the death of the patriarch Peter Bailey. The simple slip of black cloth worn on the upper left arm signifies to the world the wearer is mourning the loss of someone dear.

President Calvin Coolidge wearing an armband in mourning for President Harding. Photo found at americanhistory.unomaha.edu

There are days when I am brave and strong and could tackle ten lions with one arm behind my back, but then there are the other days. Those painful hours when a black armband could save me from some of the cruelty of life. The simple cue that says, “Today I am struggling”.

I never thought I would see leg warmers come back into fashion. Completely wrong was my thinking as my little girl’s bureau can attest. So, a girl can always hope that black mourning bands might see a fashionable comeback.

Even if they don’t, we can all use a reminder that the well-worn shoes of another never truly feel comfortable no matter how close the size.

We can remember that a kind word goes much farther than harsh one. A hug is better than words most of the time. And no one truly knows how it is to live someone else’s life.

For some of us – I daresay the blessed ones – we are also surrounded by friends who simply get those last three sentences. They are the friends who will sit on a gymnasium floor and whisper, “God loves you. We love you. You will make it through this.”

Those friends see the black armband that is invisible to the rest of the world.

Thank God they do!

The Sisterhood

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As I have shared on this blog before, I have a way of collecting friends. Recently, someone asked me about my love of moose, and before I answered the question, I blurted out, “Don’t buy me any, I don’t want to dust them”! The great thing about collecting friends is I never have to dust them. E.V.E.R. That’s a good thing because I am allergic to dust. Of course, like most people, I have the inner sanctum of friends, those girlfriends that know my heart and my struggles, and they love me anyway. This is partly their story.

I have those friends that I see only once in a while, but I cherish each moment I share with them. I also have friends whom I have never met. Some are the modern day version of pen pals, and others are people that I have done business with over the years.

Today’s ~~confession~~, I mean, story is about one of those friends. For her sake, she shall be called X. (For all you math lovers, X is getting some love today.) X is a wonderful woman who over the years I would have called acquaintance until a certain EVENT solidified her place in my Hall of Friends. Hey! If the Super Friends can have a Hall, so can I!

X is a seamstress – well more precisely – Teddy Bear Maker Supreme. I am awed and amazed by her work, but more so, humbly grateful. A friend of a friend told me about her work. She put her life’s grief into action by epitomizing the verse “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” 2 Corinthians 1:4 (NLT)

She makes teddy bears out of the clothes of loved ones who have passed away. Magically, she transformed our first Christmas without Reed into one where we were able to “hug him” again. Over the years, I have probably grown into one of her biggest customers and fans.

I loved her work, her gentle nature, and her excellent service, but this past year, I fell in love with her sense of humor.

Brace yourselves, dear readers, because it is confession time up in here.

Normally, I am the buyer of the bears, but last spring, I was simply the middle man. A dear friend of ours asked me to order a set a bears made from his wife’s wedding dress. You want me to do what? Does she know about this? Are you crazy?

He said his wife didn’t know as this was to be a surprise. He relayed how the dress had been in a storage unit they were clearing out and how she said just get rid of it. Okay girls, that might be what she said, but is that really what she meant?

He gave me his money and gift certificate (purchased at Reed’s Run), and went on his merry way. How do I get myself into these things??? No way, am I cutting up someone else’s wedding dress without her permission. What in the world am I going to do about this???

So I didn’t do anything for a long time. The dress sat in a storage tote in my garage forever. My friend finally ~~harassed~~, I mean, asked enough that I broke down and sent it. I explained to X that there were special circumstances as the family had recently gone through some horrific life events, but the order was for bride and groom bears.

Apparently, X, had the same thoughts as me, because immediately upon arrival I received an e-mail.

Are you sure that they want to cut into this wedding dress? Just checking to make sure, but I really hope they do because I have wanted to make bears out of a wedding gown for a long time.

I assured her they did.

Later that night, I received perhaps the most embarrassing e-mail of my life.

Just checking in. Also, within the wedding dress box was an animal print bra…was that to be used also as an accent or just got there by mistake?

As I sat at my computer that spring evening reading this e-mail, I am certain that I showed hues of assorted reds that would rival the hidden fabric stash of any of my quilting friends. Oh dear Lord, please just take me now. How do I explain what really happened here? Accompanied with: So that is where that bra ended up!

One of my best friends always says, “I had on my 18 hour bra, and those 18 hours are up”, and that is my only defense. I hate dirt – in my house – and as a girl who prides herself in digging in the dirt most every day in the summer; daily I am faced with the colossal decision of how to solve that problem.

My solution is one that I no longer think is ingenious. Leave a towel hanging in the garage, strip down to what God gave me, and run like crazy to the shower. That plan had worked real well . . . until now. Not to mention that the bra in question is a hand-me-down. There I said it! One in the inner sanctum lost a bunch of weight and passed on her secrets – literally as in Victoria’s – to me. Only of course, there is a much bigger story there as well. Maybe I will share that one someday, but right now, how does a sweet little Christian momma end up mailing a va-va-voom bra with a wedding dress to a pseudo stranger?

I finally summoned the courage to respond. If X didn’t offer a commodity that I adored, I might have just “dropped” off the face of the planet. I pulled from the last shred of dignity I had and went with humor.

Hey X! Right about now, I am a hundred shades of embarrassed. I have no idea on how the bra went travelling. We’ve been doing a major house cleaning and paring down of clutter. Is it cheetah print? If so, then it is mine, and the embarrassment meter went through the roof. Either it slipped into the box or decided it was time to go on a road trip.

Her response a little later in the evening, let me know that she didn’t think I was a total nut.

Yes, it is a black and gray cheetah, thanks for ending my evening with laughter. I will be sure and send it back with the bears.

This was a good thing because I can live with being thought of as a kook, but I did not want to have to find a new purveyor of custom made bears. Before I went to bed, I sent her back a little message.

X -I am so glad you have a good sense of humor. Someday I will have to tell you the story of that bra. When my friend hears this, she is going to crack up because she is a part of the story of my personal mortification on how I came to own the bra.

To tell the truth, I almost peed my pants at the thought of the bra being a part of the accessory packet.

Definitely smiling now

And so it went it. X made the bears and sent them back to my house as part of the surprise. I let our friend know they had arrived, but never opened the box. I felt they were his to open. The bears sat wrapped in the box waiting for their upcoming anniversary.

The day of the pick-up, I was not at home when our friend arrived. My husband called and asked me about them. I explained they were in the box in the living room. Daniel opened the box, pulled out two bears, and discovered a most mysterious package at the bottom.

Thank the good Lord that he gave my husband a good head on his shoulder. I could hear the perplexity in his voice when we called me back within minutes.

Hey Kan, we found the bears, but there is something here about a travelling bra? Am I supposed to give that to him too?

I am certain that they could have heard my response in South Dakota. Oh dear heavens, will this never end? Imagine if he hadn’t called me, and I sent anniversary gift of lingerie to this poor woman – not in her size!

When I returned home later that evening, I found the unusual package in the bottom of the mailing box.

X solidified her friendship with me by celebrating my ridiculous faux pas – complete with its own label and packaging.

With friends like these . . . life can definitely get interesting!

We’re back

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When my boys were little, one of their favorite movies was a dinosaur classic. We’re Back was where the dinosaurs return from the dawn of time, through the miracle of time travel and some brain grain, to live in modern times. When the dinosaurs romp down the streets in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade singing, “Roll Back the Rock”, it didn’t matter what I was doing because Reed would beckon me to come and dance with him. I could be covered in flour or soap suds, but to him, it didn’t matter.

Getting our boogey on down, we would rock with the best of them. Holding his sweet little hand in mine, we would stomp and swirl, shimmy and giggle while a chubby cheeked toddler would laugh watching us. That, my friends, is pure joy – when you lose your adult inhibitions and get lost in your preschooler’s loving gaze – knowing at that moment you embody motherhood at its finest. You want to savor those moments forever.

Until the day, you don’t . . . which is exactly what happened to me this past year.

You lose your joy.

When you lose your happiness, you find quiet comforting. There I said it. I was sad. Heartachingly, gut-wrenchingly sad. Distraught. Overwhelmed. Frenetic. Chaotic. Heartbroken and sad.

It didn’t happen overnight. No, I would say it took about five years for it to crescendo into deafening silence.

There were many things that happened that literally ripped my heart in two. What feels like a never ending saga with the tragedy in our family played a familiar role, but so did a myriad of smaller things. Seasons in friendships changed, a health scare that frightened me, doors closed, dreams diverted, and quite simply the chaos of good intentions and overconsumption had brought a sense of darkness to our doors.

The hardest part about all of this was this was the first time that I wasn’t alone in my sadness. The floor opened up and swallowed us all. It is hard to be a cheerleader for a broken spirit of team.

In the fall of the year, I no longer felt like a cheerleader, let alone a candidate for Mother of the Year.

In the aftermath of our family’s darkest day, I had a conversation with someone who asked me some of the most unbelievable questions. I think she was blown away by my answers, but one such response summed up a large part of my sadness. When asked, “Other than the obvious things, what thing makes you the most heartbroken about your life right now?” My heartfelt reply was, “Being a red-shirted freshman.” I wanted to play in the game of life, and due to our circumstances, I simply could not.

Now here I was all these years later, and I had those same misgivings with a twist. With all the distractions and disruptions, I had forgotten how to be me. The authentic Kandy was tired. Worn-out. Exhausted. I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be, and that was breaking my heart. I had lost my joy, and I thought that at this juncture all these years later, we should be feeling better not worse.

But this is where the story starts to change. I retreated and clung as tight to God as I knew how. About the same time as my forced sabbatical, back into our lives came a friend who knew those days of dancing with little boys in the basement. Gently, she reminded me what joy looked like.

Poked and prodded by her love and the love of several others who picked up the cheerleading banner, I became encouragingly dogged in my pursuit to let go of expectations that were boxing me in, of old hurts that kept me a prisoner in my own doubts, and of chaos that didn’t fulfill us. I looked for the little things. Guess what? God showed me they were there the whole time. Making time for the little things, clinging to His promises, and reclaiming the things I enjoy were all beginning steps to understanding what I had allowed to steal my joy in the first place.

Just like catching my breath when encountering that first blast of arctic air, joy was something that I needed to clasp my hands and heart around as well.

During the bench-warming sad place, I communed with God to revisit the concept of joy. It was time well spent.

For this New Year, our family sat down and decided to follow through with the concept of a one word theme based off a devotional by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes organization. We had a family meeting where I offered that I thought “joy” might be a good word. One of our children enthusiastically concurred. What she said next spoken years of wisdom, belied by her actual age. “I agree with Mom. You know, sometimes because of our family’s story, we simply forget what joy is.” After a few murmuring assents, the vote was unanimous as we proclaimed three simple letters to be God’s cleansing tide for our souls for the next year.

We are going to search out and find joy in our lives, making it our battle cry. I don’t think Reed would want us to be perpetually sad, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that God never wanted us to lose sight of joy in our lives. It simply happened.

You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace Isaiah 55:12 (NIV)

Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family. Photos by Inspired Portraits

Just like that movie title – We’re back! And who knows?

You just might find us dancing in the basement somewhere along
that path.

Being still

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Photo courtesy of Lil’ Sprout Memories

A while back, I posted a blog http://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/09/09/i-cry/. The blog wasn’t difficult to write, but it was agonizingly hard to post. The shed tears were real. More salinated drops fell for some points, especially the ones for my children, than others. In the end, it was cathartic to write, because in doing so, the “monsters” don’t seem so threatening anymore. It is as if with each keystroke God allowed me to replace my sadness. Well, actually it isn’t replacement so much as relinquishment to the foot of his throne.

Why is the writing of such posts a beautiful process while the sharing of them such a challenge? At times, I feel like a modern-day Jacob wrestling with God. There are plenty of things that I write that are not published, but this time I had an overwhelming sense God wanted me to share my tears publicly.

I know I cannot circumvent the reality that losing a child is horrifyingly painful. Add to that raising injured and grieving children, and my pain at times feels like pulling back layers of an onion. Every time, I shed one layer, there is just another eye-stinging layer below. I get tired of removing layers. So much so the sharing of them with others becomes less and less interesting to me. I just don’t feel that broadcasting my pain is valuable other than to show my pain and weakness, not mention my doubts and failures. What good comes from that? Where is my purpose? Is this really God’s plan?

It is a good thing my ways are most definitely NOT God’s ways, because He continues to remind me I couldn’t be more wrong. As I was writing, “I Cry” I received a call from my sweet friends down in Kentucky. They went out to dinner and felt something was missing in the gathering. That something was their “Angel Girl” whom God brought into their lives this summer. I could “join” them as they passed the phone around the table. When the phone made it to Miss E, she shared that she didn’t understand why but felt that God wanted me to know that He would be replacing my clothes of despair with a garment of praise. She had no idea what I was writing at the exact moment my phone rang. I could barely choke out an audible syllable as her words bathed my soul in God’s love. She (through God’s prompting) gave me the exact words to share in my post. A message of hope, when in truth, I needed a good reminder.

And if I needed more proof, which I didn’t, God provided it. Within ten minutes of the blog posting, I received three messages (e-mail, text, and phone call) from dear, dear friends who said through their tears how thankful they were for someone to put into writing what their hearts were holding back. In only God’s intervention, my words became an anthem for others to be rocked gently by the continued message of hope. My heart’s desire is to honor God with everything I do. Slowly He is teaching me that the road to achieving that goal may be filled with bumps and bruises AND the sharing of them with others.

I don’t have to be the poster child for grief. Yet, in my most vulnerable moments, He has used my writing to reach out to the souls of others; thereby reclaiming my mess and making it a message. I never intended for my faith to be on display during our darkest moments, but that very faith that has sustained us. A life blood filtering from the one who shed his blood.

There has been a long lull between posts. The silence was not wasted. In the quiet time since my last post, I have used this time to literally be still, finding peace and rest in the arms of my Savior knowing that He does have a plan for all of this. I pray each and every day that He helps me to see it.

As I have shared in many previous posts, sometimes that message of love and hope for my life comes to me in a song. This time it came in the melodies of one of my favorite groups: Sidewalk Prophets. Their lyrics, like the words from my long-distance friends, touch me like God himself had them written just for me. Awed and humbled, I know if God can use the darkest moment of my life, He can for you too. Simply trust – He already has a plan in place.

Sweet Grace Blog

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Tag Archives: grief

Messing with my memories

Love – BIG and small

The moment

Strength Revisited

A letter to heaven

Strength

One load over the line, sweet Jesus

The Sisterhood

We’re back

Being still