Tag Archives: inspiration

The making of a Grammy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A grandpa’s heart is this big!

Leave a reply

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you see the paper?

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

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

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

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

Horrible, just horrible.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s okay! My mom shares!

Leave a reply

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

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

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

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

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

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

The actual teacup given to me.

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

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

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

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

Pearls to the Pigs

Leave a reply

Dear Erin –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 15th Birthday Sister!

Love, Momma

Messing with my memories

Leave a reply

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.

The Rhythm of Little Boys

Leave a reply

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

Love – BIG and small

Leave a reply

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!

Mary’s heart (Had I known?)

Leave a reply

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.

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

Leave a reply

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.

A ticket to the dance

Leave a reply

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?

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.

Sweet Grace Blog

Just another WordPress site

Tag Archives: inspiration

The making of a Grammy

A grandpa’s heart is this big!

Pearls to the Pigs

Messing with my memories

The Rhythm of Little Boys

Love – BIG and small

Mary’s heart (Had I known?)

Freedom Day

A ticket to the dance