Tag Archives: grief

I cry

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In the past few weeks, I have been revisiting the sad place.  It is the place that I can only journey alone, in the earthly sense.  I never really travel alone. There is always a heavenly presence.  I don’t understand it, but often in the silent places of deep in the valley of the shadow, I feel closest to God.  In the sad place, I find that I can be totally honest with myself about how I am feeling.  No mask.  No filter.  Raw, but honest.

My littlest one asked the other day, “Momma, why are you crying so much.”  I had to explain that I had to go to a sad place.  She is eight; so, I likened the place to the “Slump” in Dr. Seuss’ “Oh the Places You Will Go”.  She gets that because in her world she doesn’t want a sad mommy.  But sometimes, you will come to a slump.  That she understands.

These were the words swirling in my most raw moments when I soaked my pillow with my tears.

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I cry . . .

in a single moment all was changed. Now all we have is memories and old photographs.

I cry . . .

silently not wanting  to share my pain in front of my children, for fear of scaring them. Their pillar of strength is really human, after all.  Secretly I know they know this, but I will give my dying breath to protect them.

I cry . . .

The hole in my heart leaves such a scar in my existence.  Its caverns echo the beat of the sad song when the wind blows out of the valley.

I cry . . .

a melody reminds me of happier days when we sang and danced and laughed about our singing and dancing.

I cry . . .

Feeling that I have let my children down because there are days when I feel hopeless is winning.

I cry . . .

Jumping at the ringing of the phone, desperately wanting the answers I want to hear.

I cry . . . tragedy brings chaos.  I detest swimming in chaos. No matter which way I paddle my strokes chaos’ rip current threatens to pull me under.

I cry . . .

My scars are invisible, but theirs are real.  Pain is a daily visitor, and yet they hold their heads high.

I cry . . . perseverance might be one lesson while waiting.  Wondering how long that lesson must take and why did we have to earn advanced degrees.  For once in our lives, couldn’t we just be average?

I cry . . .

because everything he loved was taken away, and yet there are still people who say ridiculously stupid things.

I cry . . . wishing sometimes I was the kind of person who smacked people who say stupid things.

I cry . . . choking down the lump in my throat because platitudes and trite sayings, do not help.  I want to scream, “Do you not see the hole?” But we’ll take your word scars, your thoughtless actions, AND we will continue turning our cheeks, knowing very few could walk in our shoes.

I cry . . . understanding the tortuous relationship with genetics. When your children hurt, a part of you is woven into them.  Like tiny saucers sending a message to the mother ship, every fiber of my being is writhing in pain for them.

I cry . . . sadness has creeping tentacles grasping for all of my family.  Mustering the strength to become a warrior to fight back its choking appendages, some days takes all my energy.

I cry . . . bearing burdens is grueling, heart-breaking work.

I cry . . . fervently hoping that my visit to the pit of sadness won’t be long enough for my card to be punched.

I cry . . . eternity seems so far away.  Wanting to hear your giggle and wondering how you will look without glasses. My ears longing to hear,  “Hey Mom.  This is Jesus.  You are going to love Him!” followed by one of those sneaky behind the back hugs.

I cry . . . knowing that in the light of eternity all of this seems small.

I cry . . . remembering that He is collecting every tear in his bottle.

I weep . . . embracing the promise that He will replace my cloak of despair with a garment of praise.

I sob . . . knowing His grace is sweet, yet powerful enough to cover it all.

The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears.  ~John Vance Cheney

Invasion of the Gnomes

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Since my Nanny’s passing, my mom and dad have spent much of the last several months working on sorting through the items she left behind.  It has been a grueling task, physically and emotionally.  As they were going through volumes of items, they decided to ask the grandchildren if there were things that we or our children would like to have.  Eventually one of the things making the round of the “Does Anybody Want These?” lists was garden tchotchkes.

My parents who are actually quite adept at technology and decorating sent us a picture with my dad’s legs standing among the items available balancing a yardstick to give perspective.  I immediately requested the tall gnome with the measuring stick even though I couldn’t see anything more than his bottom half.  I figured he might come in handy around here. My mother replied he was already taken. Since my first request was unavailable, I took a closer look at what new treasures lay waiting. I love a good garden gnome; so, I speedily replied as to which couple I would love to see in my garden.  My brother chimed in on a few he would like.  My sister’s response was a flat out, “NO THANKS!”

My first exposure to gnomes was when my family made a cross-country move to North Dakota.  I remember being smitten with them, because my brother and I were huge Smurfs fans.   Years later, I created tiny fantasy gardens with itsy-bitsy gnomes.  My children grew up watching very carefully, because sometimes it would seem the gnomes had moved or new items appeared with them.  We still talk about the bowling ball and pins that appeared one morning in one of those gardens. Such is the whimsy of my backyard!

Almost a month after the text messages, my parents arrived with a U-Haul full of treasures from my Nanny’s house.  Among them was our new garden kitsch.  At first, we placed them on our deck carefully, cautioning the kids that we would think about exactly the right place for them later.

Since they were my grandmother’s, I wanted to preserve them, put them on a shelf, and make sure they lasted forever.  I didn’t want anyone or thing to touch them.  Then one night, I got a nudge deep in my heart. I knew Nanny would ask, “What in heaven’s name are you thinking?”.  She would never want me to box them up for display only, much like many of us do with our best china.  They are meant to be in the garden bringing smiles and maybe just a touch of mischief to anyone lucky enough to spot one.

My nerves steeled. I resolved to place them in Reed’s garden, by asking my little girl to have the honors.  I think both Reed and Nanny would have been proud of that choice. A job of this importance required a child-like heart, not a heart, like mine, too timid to even use them.  I told her there was only one rule.  That rule: Mom can’t change where you put them.  Imagine the gift she received that day!

gnomes

That night in bed, I realized that I do that a lot.  I receive blessings from God, but I am, on occasion, too timid to use them.  I want to put them on the shelf and look at them.  I want to be reminded that, indeed, God has blessed me.  Sometimes, I don’t want to share them in fear that the blessings will tarnish or diminish in beauty. But much like my Nanny’s garden decorations, I am beginning to realize that perhaps the reason for the blessings is for us to pour them out to others.  Memories of the times that God was so good to us! Perhaps that was God’s plan all along for our new little buddies waving from the greenery in the back of the lot.

So today I choose to not hold on too tightly to my blessings, counting them one by one, but instead allowing God to use them through me.

Dear Yale University

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Dear Yale University

I was daydreaming about your prestigious school last night at dinner.  Had I answered a question with better timing, my mental absence otherwise would have been barely perceptible.  I was thinking about what it had been like dropping off my son to become a future Eli and Bulldog fan.  In the middle of supper, my thoughts drifted to thinking wouldn’t be great if we could all call him and say, “We made it home from New Haven.  We’re here, and it isn’t the same without you.”

That last part is actually true.  His absence from your campus, however, isn’t because he was denied admission.  The stark reality is much more cruel as Reed died five and half years ago.  My daydreaming was fantastical grief thinking.  Wishing that the school my sweet boy announced on a family trip in 6th grade was actually where he was, rather than the bitter reality.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  All those years ago, we didn’t know that a sweet red-headed boy from the Minnesota prairie even knew what Yale University was.  But he did!  On a snowy winter drive home from the place where he is now buried, he proclaimed he would be attending Yale, as if it was a menu option he was choosing.  When questioned, he knew all about it, even going so far as saying he would much rather attend Yale than Harvard.  His dad and I simply shrugged, but secretly I know we both smiled in our hearts the rest of the drive.

That year for Valentine’s Day, we gave him a YALE hooded sweatshirt.  Most of his clothes have been made into teddy bears or quilts, but none of us can seem to alter that sweatshirt in any way.  So it sits reverently in a drawer waiting to be worn by a boy who isn’t coming home.

yale

The truth is admission for him would not have been hard.  He was that kid! Intelligent, precocious, and a big time dreamer!  He might have lacked organizational skills for material things, but his thoughts were always well beyond his years.

As your new freshmen class arrives on campus, we are excited for the possibilities the future holds for them.  So too are we happy for all of Reed’s classmates and friends as we see all sorts of pictures from moving day from them and their parents. Truly, we are excited and happy for them!  We are just sad for us.  A heart divided really struggles.

Even though, I really wanted to purchase  “Yale Mom” fan gear. (Who wouldn’t want to?)  I won’t be doing that in the coming days or weeks.  Just know one mom really wishes she could.

Thank you for being the place where future dreams are made and for being the place that my boy dreamed would be his school!  May God bless all your new students abundantly!

Go Bulldogs!

Sincerely,

A “Yale Mom” in my heart forever

Oh the cardinal!

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The morning I arrived in Kentucky, I was whisked to a cool, dark soccer field.  Still groggy from my three in the morning pick-up at the train station, my sweet friend opened the locker room to allow me to freshen up.  I spent the next two hours huddled under a blanket (who knew it would be that cool in Kentucky?) watching one of the most motivational coaches I know work with her soccer team.  (And that is a pretty big compliment coming from this coach’s daughter.)

While shivering, oops I mean, sitting, my ears heard the song of an old familiar friend.  Somewhere hidden in the trees surrounding the field was one of our favorite songbirds – the messenger of hope to our family – the cardinal.  I had to smile because I was listening to the red bird’s melodious song while watching the preseason practice of the “Lady Cardinals”.

Joy – pure, unadulterated joy – filled my soul and spirit as I took the field to share with those darling girls what it means to create a legacy.  The reason for my happiness was simple. Among the foliage was a little piece of home.

Later at breakfast, I shared with Coach B of how God (and in our hearts, Reed) sent the songbird in one of our  darkest hours.  She, like many others who have heard the story, was moved by the cardinal coming at exactly the moment when we needed him the most.   I am sure that our server (another one of my sweet Kentucky sisters) was wondering what in the mayonnaise was going on at that table. We did create quite a ruckus praising God for his sense of humor of putting a cardinal lover together with a coach of the cardinals.

After breakfast, it was time to head over to the B&B to rest and relax.  Upon stepping out of the car, I was taken by the beauty of the inn, the sounds of the South, and the smells reminiscent of my childhood.  My eyes were drawn to the front porch lined with inviting rockers.  I knew I would be spending every chance I got right there.

The front porch at the Woodford Inn

The front porch at the Woodford Inn

A flash of red appeared in the corner of my eye.  Immediately, I knew what was happening.  For me, that is a God sighting – when he allows the red bird to remind me I am loved.  I couldn’t help myself, but I began to hit Coach B on the arm.  I am certain that she thought I had lost my marbles.  I had only “known” her for 7 hours, and here I was smacking her to grab her attention.

Photo found at wunderground.com Credit given to cshirsch

Photo found at wunderground.com Credit given to cshirsch

All I had to do was point to the corner of the porch, and she understood.  Honestly, hitting her was my only option because I couldn’t speak.  The lump in my throat was that big.  God called me to this place, and like that moment five years ago, he sent “Reedy” to tell me that all of this was a part of his bigger plan.

With tears in my eyes, I couldn’t help but smile that the young man I shared in my legacy story earlier that morning was “present” in the red wings of God’s love.

 

 

 

For those unfamiliar with our family’s story, below is the wording from the card we had made for Christmas in 2008.

The cardinal is a beautiful bird with gorgeous red plumage and an equally inviting song.  There is an old legend that says that the cardinal was once a white bird, in fact as white as snow.  The cardinal came to the cross on Calvary’s hill and sang to Jesus at the base of his cross.  The cardinal sang with all its might to his Maker and Master. During his song, Jesus’ blood dripped onto his feathers, and henceforth the male cardinal has been his brilliant red color.

As many of you know, our children have received a bird Christmas ornament every year. Each of the children receives a different bird that has some significance to their lives. Reed received the blue jay because he loved to watch the blue jays eat sunflowers outside his bedroom window.  Sawyer has the cardinal after he received a gift from his godparents that had a cardinal on it, and he loved it.  Erin has the chickadee, because Kandy was so excited to have a little “chick” in the house.  Cloie gets the American goldfinch for while pregnant with her a goldfinch came to the family’s feeders for the first time. Each of the children’s birds had visited our feeders except for the cardinal.  No matter how many different ways we tried, we just couldn’t lure a cardinal to our backyard.

Then the most unspeakable horror happened to our family.  We were deep in the midst of our grief when the most improbable and impossible thing occurred. Exactly one month following Reed’s death, a male cardinal landed in our backyard tree (with no feeders filled), and he started singing the most beautiful song our ears could hear.  But it took the faith of a young man to realize that a miracle was happening.  Sawyer realized the red bird was a message from Reed to tell us that he is doing just fine in Jesus’ arms. See Reed knew exactly which bird to have Jesus send to get our attention.  He also knew how deeply hurt Sawyer was at that point in our journey, and he knew which bird would be the one, above all other birds, Sawyer needed to see.  (It probably didn’t hurt that he sent a bird that was his favorite color.) Well, some may call it coincidence, but we choose to

Believe in Miracles!

The capacity to love

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I have been filled with the busyness of momma days in the last two weeks.  So magical were these days that I almost needed to pinch myself to prove that they could be real.  Two weeks ago I embarked on a trip to meet someone whom God had placed into my life in the most remarkable of ways.  The mission took me a little over 900 miles from home to share my family’s story, but also led me to a new band of sisters that only could have been orchestrated by our mutual Father above.   Among those sisters was a friend that I never knew that I needed.

The “pinch me” part of this story involves a person who has no idea that she had any role to play in the rest of the story.  Somehow I have to believe that Ann Curry’s desire and heart for a good story would want to know how she introduced me to a friend – well, sister of my heart.

For the most part, I live a sheltered life, yet I am finding since I began to share my story that God is calling me farther and farther from my comfortable home on the Minnesota prairie.  Included in that stretching is the use of social media sites to share the story of my family’s loss and God’s steadfast faithfulness throughout.  I am not blind to the ways that people use these sites in evil ways, but in my story, God can (and does) use them in ways beyond our imagination.

This story is the gospel truth.

Even my own imagination couldn’t have embellished this one.  Here is where Miss Curry comes in. She is a journalist whom I trust and find very engaging.   I decided to follow her on Twitter about the time of the Newtown school shootings. After watching parents awaiting the news of their children, I was transported back to my own moment in the school’s media center awaiting the news of my sons. The resurfacing of my deep hurts caused me to languish for days reliving the pain of losing a child. A few days later I learned of Ann Curry’s prompting to ask folks to complete 26 acts of kindness in memory of the lives lost. Blindsided by the deep tentacles grief can use to suffocate your heart, I needed something to refocus my energy, releasing grief’s stronghold. Using #26acts, an online army compelled by the force of love began, led by our “General” Curry.  I was one among the ranks.

So too was a new friend I didn’t know God needed me to meet.

One of those doing acts of kindness was a Coach, whom I later learned lives in Kentucky.  She posted something that she had done as one of her acts, and I decided to follow her on Twitter. In turn, she began to follow me.  Much later, I posted about comforting a woman in the Wal-mart bathroom as one of my #26acts.  Ann Curry re-tweeted my tweet, and the response I got from others melted my heart.  One of those responses “Thanks for reminding us that compassion doesn’t have to equal dollar signs” came from this coach. It simply blew me away.

From that moment on, our “friendship” morphed from one of liking each other’s tweets to a mutual sharing from our morning devotions. Months went on like this where we discovered we were a lot alike -both sports nuts, both teachers, and both women of faith.

Without sharing all the minute details, she was brave enough to follow God’s prompting and reached out to work with her church to bring me to Kentucky.  I had the opportunities to speak twice, which was wonderful.  However, it was by “doing life” with them, that I learned what God was truly calling me to do – love others, opening my heart to a whole additional set of sisters.

The mystical thing about this whole story is I went there to meet a friend and to bless others, but I realized that a part of my heart was transformed as I was equally blessed in return.

Not long ago, my heart was so broken, fractured and splintered, I wasn’t sure that I could ever feel joy and love again.

I am so thankful that it didn’t take long for God to show me through the kindness of my friends and neighbors that His love was and is always present. The reminders came in a flood of acts of kindness.  That continual filling of my spirit allowed my broken heart to be stitched back together with a profound awareness that love leads you in fantastical ways to do amazing things.

In some ways, I think their kindness allowed God to re-wire me with a greater capacity to love.  My newly stitched heart led me to a wonderful place far from home – where my newfound sisters in Christ live.  Among those is one whom God led to reach out and show me a new path for His love.

me & bug

So today I am thankful for  a place called Kentucky, Ann Curry, and all the friends God has given me.

Blessed in Blessing

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I have four email accounts (don’t ask) for different purposes.  To say I get a large volume of emails each day is an understatement.  Today I am thankful for one such message received a few weeks ago.  It was a “mass mailing” list to which I subscribe from one of my favorite authors.  It arrived at one of my busiest times (packing a truck and camper for a weeklong vacation/family reunion for 2 parents, 3 kids, and one supersized dog.)  I plopped on the couch in exhaustion that evening as I decided to “catch up” on my correspondence.

There it was – an e-mail from Lauraine Snelling.  As far as favorite authors go, she is right up there in my top four.  Her Red River of the North series transports me back in time to the homes of my favorite Norwegian immigrants.  My wearied eyeballs came alive when they saw, “Mail from Lauraine Snelling”. (Okay, I know it is probably from an assistant, but Hey! It seemed pretty personal to me.)

I was hoping for an announcement that would proclaim the stage play based on her books set in North Dakota would be upcoming, hoping,  I could get my hands on some tickets.  What I saw instead almost made me drop the computer because I wanted to jump and dance around the living room.  (Did I mention earlier that I was exhausted? That didn’t really happen.)  The jewels of the email were two-fold. Number 1 – a writer’s workshop where she would help writers to hone their art AND Number 2 – Coffee with Ingeborg (more on that in a later post) to which I squealed with glee.  (THAT really did happen.)

Immediately, I contacted the number listed, sent a message to my sisters-in-law (who are also huge fans), and crossed my fingers that I wasn’t too late on either opportunity.

I wasn’t.

I had the most wonderful day last Thursday once again back in North Dakota, transported to the fictional town of Blessing which has been adopted by the very real Drayton.  I spent a day with Lauraine and eight new friends (I seem to have a way of collecting them) learning more about what I didn’t know that I didn’t know about writing and gaining some valuable insight.

Upon arrival, my thoughts were centered around Lauraine Snelling – I mean, THE Lauraine Snelling – such that I was giddy with excitement.

Among my favorites, I have to admit that she is no Dr. Seuss (of course, I have to wait to heaven now to meet him), but after spending the day with her, her ranking in my favorites moved right on up. Look out Beverly Cleary!  In a one-day workshop, she answered many of my questions and self-doubts, but she also affirmed I am doing some things well.  I learned that she has many of the same struggles that I do (losing a child, life getting in the way, the need to take breaks, her love of God, and the most important one – she is a HUGGER!)

It was the latter two that stole my heart.  Very early in her instruction, she spoke about her “conversations with God” which often were when she told God what she wasn’t going to write about something such as historical fiction  (the very thing for which she is most famous).  As she spoke, I could feel the joy in my heart dance.  It was the first time I had been at writer’s event where God was so openly shared.  It felt like a homecoming because, she, all my new friends, and her book characters were God’s friends too.  What a game changer!

The second shared character trait was discovered at our first real break of the day  – LUNCH!  After a visit to the salad bar, Lauraine walked around the room and “had to lay her hands” on each of us.  Just a quick squeeze of encouragement and thanks!  She wanted to personally tell each one of us that she was so thankful and happy we attended.

Later when she spoke on grief and how it changes everything.  I sat with tears in my eyes across the table from her.  She was no longer – TEACHER, but became the friend who walks in the shoes I walk – GRIEVING MOTHER.

At that moment, I knew that God had brought me to the point of exhaustion the day I received that email; so that I would have this very encounter with her.  His message (through her words that day) was loud and clear.  Do not be discouraged when you feel you aren’t getting enough writing done.  Do not be despondent when you feel that you should accomplished more.   Press on knowing your story is touching the lives of others. 

Lauraine Snelling

So to my husband who said it was okay to drop everything and go off for four days, thank you for that gift.  To our cousins, aunt and uncle who embodied the gift of hospitality in the Blessing books, thank you for taking in this little traveler.  To the people of Drayton, thank you for adopting Blessing as your own.  To my new friends, you are treasured.  To Lauraine – well, actually to God – THANK YOU for bringing this blessing of a woman into my life.

I couldn’t be more BLESSED, and hoping that last hug we shared won’t be the last!

The flight of hope

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One of the things I like most about myself is my love of nature.  I can sit for hours in my garden watching bugs, flowers, the sky, and just about anything else that goes on out there.  Nature and creation fascinate me.  That healthy sense of curiosity is probably one of the driving forces to me becoming a science teacher.

The more time I spend in God’s word, the more I realize how much nature is tucked into the verses.  With each new discovery in verse and in nature, I feel like I am drawn closer to God.  On a recent trip out to a friend’s farm, my senses were on overload.

Heaven and earth are full of your glory . . .

The sky was filled with blue gray skies as a small rain had just dampened the parched ground.  The smell of rain permeated our vehicle.  That is an amazing smell. Is it one of the smells of heaven?  The prairie roses were thick in the roadside ditches.  But the best part was the witness of a tiny escort as we drove down the lane to their home.

A flicker of bright gold feathers boldly flew right in front of us until we reached the house.  I was captivated by the flash of colors and the bold courage of one so small.  Even my husband remarked at his beauty, later confessing that it was the second time in a week that he had witnessed one escorting us.  (Apparently, I had nodded off in the car the first time; so, he had a private audience with the little friend.)

Photo: thefixer/Flickr

Photo: thefixer/Flickr

I was on heaven’s cloud nine taking in all the sights and sounds of beauty on the prairie.  Gorgeous doesn’t even seem to begin to be a big enough word to convey the scene.

Later that evening as we were preparing for bed, I shared with my sweetie what joy I felt in my heart.  The goldfinch is our little Clo’s bird (the one she receives as an ornament each Christmas).  The first one appeared in our yard, shortly after the loss of Clo’s twin in utero.  I have always seen that first appearance as a sign of God’s promise of hope.  I didn’t understand it at the time, because we didn’t know that we were still pregnant with the other twin, Cloie.  Something about the bright cheery color of the male plumage just exudes hope.

It was during our bedtime conversation that my husband shared the earlier encounter with the other finch.  Revealing a piece of my heart, I told him that each time I see one darting about, I think of our other tiny little girl.  Teary-eyed, I explained how I wonder if she is as spunky as her sister and if she too holds a bundle of energy inside a head of curls and face full of freckles.

While I will always have notes of sadness in my life’s song, I cannot help but be filled with soaring bars of hope each and every time I see a goldfinch fly.

Sing to the Lord a new song;
sing to the Lord, all the earth. Psalm 96:1 (NIV)

If creation will let me, I am going to be singing along.

18 years of dreams

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baby reedDear Reed –

This has been perhaps the most difficult year since you returned to heaven.  That first year was marked with all the absent firsts of losing someone who was so vibrant and alive – all were heartbreaking and each one seemed to be filled with as much anguish as the one before it.  This year my heart has been consumed with the loss of hopes and dreams for someone who held so much promise.  We made it through high school graduation, but the hole in our hearts wasn’t filled because we know the dreams you had for this world.

I have recently been fighting a long bout with a lingering case of bronchitis, and as such, have had many hours to just sit and think.  At some point during these quiet moments, your upcoming birthday came to mind.  I was filled with reminders of how you came into the world (looking like a little old man) and of each birthday that we were fortunate enough to share with you.  All those wonderful parties and the fun we all had!

In the recesses of memories, I recalled the campaign by the American Cancer Society to celebrate one (and hopefully many) more birthdays.  You might think of all the commercials in the world that one popping into my mind would make me sad.   It didn’t.

Instead, I started thinking about the greatest gift we ever gave . . . you.  You were so young, but you displayed mighty courage and wisdom well beyond nine years old telling us that you heart’s desire was to be an organ donor someday.  Knowing your passion made it much easier to make that decision when we were sucked into a vortex of unimaginable pain.

Because of your gift, many people get to celebrate birthdays this year with a better quality of life.  Some have bones that can run races, heart valves that function better, joints that work with less pain, and others have skin that can feel gentle touches.

All of those tiny moments, sometimes taken for granted, are now experienced by someone who might not have had that chance otherwise.  When I think about it, I have to smile at the dreams you helped to make come true.

My sweet red-headed boy, who loved to dream, lives on by making it possible for others to reach for the stars.  I have to believe that even though they will never know you, that a small piece of them now roots for the underdog, loves to laugh, thinks ice cream for supper is the best, and finds grand adventures at every turn.  (It wouldn’t surprise me if they suddenly had a new found love of Star Wars or superheroes.)

It is amazing how hearts can still function, even when they have been broken.  Mine does.  Even in the darkest moments I know that my longing won’t last forever because my heart belongs in heaven with our Big Daddy.  Knowing that you get to see him (and all the others we love) every day does make mine hurt a little less.

Happy 18th Birthday Reed!

Dreaming today that heaven has an amazing celebration for my boy – and hoping that they serve Blizzards for supper.

Loving you forever! Momma

The perfect graduation party

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I love to plan parties.  Big or small, I adore them.  Sometimes I get excited over a giant squash grown in our garden, and that alone is a good enough reason to host a party.  I will say that if I had more hours in a day, one of the many businesses I would love to own is party planning one.  Recently, we had a graduation party – well, with one obvious hitch – the graduate would be celebrating in heaven.

We had planned ahead, found the perfect day and sent save the date cards to Reed’s best friends from his class, his cousins, and his favorite teachers.  Originally we had planned a Star Wars Day (May the 4th) gathering, with hopes that the force would be with us. Fingers crossed that Reed’s beloved Minnesota Twins would have a home game.  What’s not to love about merging two of his favorites with all his favorite people!

Apparently the Sith scheduler didn’t check with us as our desired date was for an away game in Ohio.  THAT party was a little out the budget.  Once the game schedule was out, we soon realized that we needed a Plan B. Sadly no light sabers could be used for bats in this one.

We decided to move the party ahead three weeks.  New invitations, lots of correspondence with the Twins organization, phone calls to the rental bus company, and other preparations were in high gear.

Finally, the week came.  This year Minnesota’s weather is getting on my last nerve.  Right before our trip, we had blizzard-like conditions in April. Knowing my tendency to fret, one of Reed’s favorite teachers stopped me and said, “You know it might be cold on Saturday, but we will be warm in our hearts thinking of Reed.”  Everyone needs friends like this, and I am blessed to have them!

Her words completely changed my perspective.  I was so worried a forecasted high in the 30’s meant we would freeze at an outdoor baseball game, and our guests wouldn’t have a good time.  She also reminded me that Reed would have never been daunted by this weather.  He would have just loved being able to go to the ball park.  Truer words were never spoken.  My little ray of sunshine would have told us to just bundle up.

The big day arrived.  I would love to tell you I didn’t fret, but I really wanted the day to be perfect for all of us. After picking up the rental mini-buses, we gathered our family and away we went to collect the rest of the party goers.  We christened each bus with a name: Faith and Love.

Always a teacher, I explained other than a collective love for Reed, it was our faith and love that held this group together.  Even if we had differences among us, TODAY we were going to show the world how faith and love conquer everything.  After the pep talk, we grasped hands, surrounding the flagpole like Reed organized years ago, and prayed for our safety and for us all to do the red-headed Boy Wonder proud.

The trip up was amazing, filled with swapped stories – a family reunion of sorts on wheels.  After a fun trip on the light rail, we arrived at the Twins stadium – all twenty-five of us.  We had great seats – which fortunately turned out to be right next to the built-in heaters.  Just in case, we were bundled from head to toe, looking like the little brother in The Christmas Story movie.

We laughed. We cheered. We ate ball park food, but mostly, we all remembered the boy who brought us all together.  We were an eclectic mix of excitement with a touch of sorrow when upon the megatron appeared: WELCOME REED STEVENS FRIENDS AND FAMILY.  Of all of us, he would have been the most proud of having his name shining brightly for the world to see.

But wasn’t that the point of the day? For those who loved him to carry his spark and light to the rest of the world.  On that day, I sincerely believe we let our little lights shine bright enough that we never felt the cold. Reed’s teacher was right; my heart was warmed – surrounded by such love.

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Despite the cold weather, the Twins losing the game, and all the frenetic planning, my perfect day wasn’t elusive after all.  It was right there . . . in the middle of all that love for one young man who brought us all together.

Faith and love: I’m pretty sure we did Jesus and Reed proud at the “perfect” graduation party.

Seeing clearly after the fog

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fog

Although he brings sorrow, he also has mercy and great love. Lamentations 3:32

This morning I started my day as usual with devotions.  Technology was not my friend as my Bible app would not open.  Not to be deterred, I grabbed my Devotional Bible – edited by Max Lucado – from my nightstand.  As I was heading to Ezekiel, my trusty book fell open to Lamentations.  Not just anywhere in Lamentations – nope – at a page that I had dog-eared and worn.  The highlighted words were a mirror reflection of where I was at last week – in a fog.

Thankfully, I had friends and family members praying for me and guiding me through what was quite possibly the hardest day of my life since the bus crash.  I did make it through, and miraculously with God’s help the fog lifted almost immediately.

I don’t believe in coincidences.  I needed that reminder this morning that God was not absent last week, nor was He when my son died.

I’m a prayer vigil person.  If I cannot sleep, it is usually because God has someone in mind that I should be praying for.  Last night was no different.  I have several friends, their kids, and communities facing a fog of their own.  So, I prayed . . .

While I personally cannot do much other than that to help ease the storm for each of them right now, I can remind them that there is one who can lift the fog.  My life story is a testament to that fact. Cling to him and He will guide you to new found peace.

The devotional below is from “No Wonder They Call Him the Savior” by Max Lucado.

The fog of the broken heart.

It’s a dark fog that slyly imprisons the soul and refuses easy escape.  It’s a silent mist that eclipses the sun and beckons the darkness.  It’s a heavy cloud that honors no hour and respects no person. Depression, discouragement, disappointment, doubt . . . all are companions of this dreaded presence.

The fog the broken heart disorients our life.  It makes it hard to see the road.  Dim your lights.  Wipe off the windshield.  Slow down.  Do what you wish, nothing helps.  When this fog encircles us, our vision is blocked and tomorrow is a forever away.  When this billowy blackness envelops, the most earnest words of help and hope are but vacant phrases.

If you have ever been betrayed by a friend, you know what I mean. If you have ever been dumped by a spouse or abandoned by a parent, you have seen this fog.  If you have ever placed a spade of dirt on a loved one’s casket or kept vigil at a dear one’s beside, you, too, recognize this cloud.

If you have been in this fog, or are in it now, you can be sure of one thing – you are not alone.  Even the saltiest of sea captains have their bearings because of the appearance of this unwanted cloud.  . .

Think back over the last two or three months.  How many broken hearts did you encounter? How many wounded spirits did you witness? How many stories of tragedy did you read about? . . .

The list goes on and on, doesn’t it?  Foggy tragedies. How they blind our vision and destroy our dreams.  Forget any great hopes of reaching the world.  Forget any plans of changing society. Forget any aspirations of moving mountains. Forget all that. Just help me make it through the night!

The suffering of the broken heart . . .

Seeing God . . .does wonders for our own suffering.  God was never more human than at this hour.  God was never nearer to us than when he hurt.  The Incarnation was never so fulfilled as in the garden. 

As a result, time spent in the fog of pain could be the God’s greatest gift.  It could be the hour that we finally see our Maker . . . Maybe in our suffering we can see God like never before.

The next time you are called to suffer, pay attention.  It may the closest you ever get to God.  Watch closely.  It could very well be that the hand that extends itself to lead you out of the fog is a pierced one. 

I know the story behind this song, but sometimes I believe that it was written just for me.  I think music is often a reflection of my soul and story.