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A letter to heaven

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.

My [imperfect] church

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After Sunday’s service, there was an endearing exchange that occurred at the back of the church. An elder was praising our girl for her great game on Friday night. Jokingly, I asked him if she was now speaking to him. The reason for the ribbing was her “insistence” that he jinxed her team when he came to root for her in his town wearing that town’s fan gear. She said she was going to blame him for their addition to the “L” column. Despite the bad apparel choice, he cheered for her team (and her specifically) the entire game. All of this playful teasing was followed with raucous laughter, lined with appreciation, love and support – and of course, basketball advice.

I have purposefully waited a few days to let the words in my previous blog ruminate in all our hearts. My intention was to share that no church anywhere is perfect, because they are full of sinners. If you are looking for the perfect church, you won’t find it because all are filled with imperfect people. My writing was also to proclaim that a veil had been lifted from my myopic vision. God showed me how I contributed to the problem, keeping me from my heart’s desire is to encourage others in their faith.

I don’t want to be a stumbling block or obstacle – which required me to take a long look in the mirror of my soul and get real with God. Rather than forgiving, I internalized hurts and perpetuated a problem. I do have a fervent wish to love without reservation – just like Jesus did, and in my inner recesses, I think he would be grieved by how we who love him have turned away both the lost and the found by our actions.

Many years ago, I had a friend who believed in Jesus but never attended church. She would always quote Matthew 18:20 (For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them. [NIV] ) as her reasoning. Whenever I asked if she would like to go, she would respond that churches were full of hypocrites. Well that is true, but I didn’t really feel like our shopping trips and fun excursions counted as church. I know Jesus was in our midst, but that didn’t fill my longing for church.

This is not a condemnation of anyone’s views or church attendance patterns. This is more a love story of how a collective group imperfect people work together to encourage each other in God’s love and what that means to me, personally.

When our darkest hour happened, the first people to rally around were church people – our own and those from sister churches. I could write a tome on all the kindnesses that have been extended to us over the last six (has it really been that long???) years. Those acts of being the hands and feet of God were forever etched in my heart. Church, however, is so much more than Sunday morning service and helping out when a hardship hits.

SO. MUCH. MORE.

We eat together, serve together, craft together, study together, pray together, love together, and mourn together. Basically, we just do life which includes the messy stuff too.

Do we fail each other? Yes, but we forgive and reconcile. Like the time, Reed learned the hard way that casting the first stone might break the nursery window. The grace extended to him in that incident embodied encouragement and understanding. For me, Hebrews 10:25 let us not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another [NIV] is more in line with why my church matters to me.

Encouragement. We all need it.

Do we forget that verse sometimes? Yes, I am afraid we do, but when the Holy Spirit convicts our hearts, we return with repentant attitudes.

One of my favorites is how much we laugh together which I know has to be music to Jesus’ ears. Young and old – we really know how to fellowship. From quilting bees to freezer meals and from campfires to game nights, there isn’t a moment where you would not find some chuckles to be shared. Some jokes just seem to never grow old either.

The Herdmans in the The Best ~~Worst~~ Christmas Pageant Ever have nothing on us, as one year an exuberant preschooler hit the lit advent wreath which flung up in the air in what appeared to be slow motion before it came to rest – thankfully extinguished – at the base of the organ.

This, of course, is second to the pageant where the wiggly preschooler fell off the stage and was wedged upside down with only his feet showing between the piano and the alter area while the soloist lived up to the slogan, “The show must go on!”

Our senior pastor is often at the helm of many of those jokes as he encourages us to laugh with (and frankly sometimes at) him. Not many can say their spiritual leader has attended parties dressed as an octogenarian to celebrate someone being “over the hill”. He was also one of the chief cheerleaders as our Boy Wonder healed from surgeries, and his prowess with Nerf Dart Gun attacks on stacks of Styrofoam cups would awe anyone.

We clip newspaper articles of each other’s children, exchange high fives, bake cakes for funerals, make jello molds (something I thought I would never do), exchange recipes, know who made what food for the potluck based solely on the crockpot, send letters and notes, (and laugh when we put the wrong card in the wrong envelope), create new traditions, cuddle babies, make quilts, sing Hallelujahs, hug and wipe away tears, help you pick up the pieces when life seems shattered . . . all out of love. A love for a God who made us all family even with all our flaws and imperfections!

So it was last Sunday, loved exuded as three generations of God’s people gathered around the back pew to laugh about the familiarity of friendship and the love of a game. No we aren’t perfect, but we are all trying to love God and love others. Somehow that just feels like home.

Churches be full of haters*

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I recently read this blog forwarded to me by my cousin, Amy. The incredible message was that Christians forget that their actions can lead people . . . far, far away from the church doors and even farther away from a God they profess to love.

From what I know, churches are full of liars, cheaters, misfits, and condemners.

Each and every seat or pew is filled with . . . sinners.

Hypocrites, Bertha-better-than-you’s, and judges – lots of them – can be found in every nook and cranny in every church, synagogue or house of worship.

In God’s eyes: haters!

And I am one of them.

That was a difficult thing to write.

For years, I have watched as God’s people have become known not for what they stand for, but more for what they stand against.

Christian brothers and sisters – Whatever happened to love and grace?

If as the author of Pearls and Grace states, we turn away the unsaved (and we do), then what are we doing to those Christians with whom we share the pew?

I really hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about this until the weapon of judging was launched at my own family.

Basically, we heard that some people were complaining that we sit at the back of the church in the section that is loosely reserved for Families of Small Children. The chatter kept coming back to us in such a way that the message seared into our hearts was – we weren’t welcome in our own church.

Picture found at thatreformedblog.com

Et tu, Brute?

Our baby is nine. She can sit perfectly still and quiet during Sunday morning services. We don’t sit there because of her. We sit there because of me.

Taking a line from the aforementioned blog:
“She will reach to the back row and encourage and minister to the hearts of the women who can’t get past the grief and sorrow of their own life.”

That describes me perfectly. My grief, not my child’s behavior, a few Sundays a year, prevents me from making it in the door let alone to any pew.

I know I am loved by God, but sorrow strikes every cell of my body on those days. I do not want to bolt past the whole congregation with mascara tracks streaming down my face from a front pew.

Don’t get me wrong. I know people love us there, but I don’t always want to share those moments with others.

I’m pretty tough, but attacking my baby girl for my comfort zone insecurities pushed us out the door for a while.

How many others have left for similar reasons?

Gossip and judgment allowed us to feel alienated.

When we did return, every time I saw the people who had hurt us, I bristled and walked away. My hurt heart hardened.

In the last few days, God reminded me that my reaction to their hurt was in every bit as much of a sin as their words against us.

Anyone who doesn’t love is as good as dead. Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, and you know very well that eternal life and murder don’t go together. 1 John 3:15 (MSG)

I had to ask God’s forgiveness for being one of the haters up in here – my actions were in direct opposition of his words and his commandments to love.

One of those sinners sitting in those pews . . . is me.

The one who is learning graciously with God’s gentle ways that love is what, and only what, he has called me to do.

Imagine how Christians would be perceived if we did just that – Love our brothers and sisters – period.

What a revolution that would be!

Special Note – * I apologize to every English, Language Arts, or grammar teacher I have ever had for using such bad grammar for my title. But if Mrs. Langemoe taught me one thing in Junior High; it was shock value goes a long way. Funny how her shocking revelation was to tell us every day in a public school that she loved us!

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!

Waiting

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Traditions. They are the things, no matter how small, that become rituals. The very strings woven together in the fabric of families are the traditions they hold dear.

One such tradition beloved at our household is saying good-bye to a previous year. No, we are not raucous revelers. Neither are we ball-drop watchers. In fact this year I had to do a little creative researching because the teenagers had a big bash at the school, leaving three adults with a party crowd of four kids ten and under. My quest was to find where in the world would it be midnight when it is 9:30 PM at my house. ( I really wanted to throw in “is Carmen Sandiego?” in that last sentence, but that would just be silly.)

J-A-C-K-P-O-T!

Newfoundland was my answer! So with kid’s wine (sparkling cider) we said good-bye to 2013 by celebrating some of its best memories and by sharing our hopes and dreams for the upcoming year. Hey! They might be little in the eyes of the world but the two families present that night have endured some big struggles, and out of the mouths of babes were some prophetic words. A little tinkling of glasses and good night kisses, all done in pjs and slippers, would not be considered a remarkable party by some, but it was to all of us.

“The Newfoundlanders!”

Partying like Newfoundlanders is not our end of the year tradition. Usually it is just the members of Team Stevens, but we are a more the merrier bunch. So anyone is welcome to join us as we watch the last sunset of the year. We usually have to bundle up and head out in the blustery cold to watch, but it is always worth it.

Checking the Almanac, we discovered that sunset for our hometown was 4:55 PM. Isn’t that dreadfully sad? Such little sunshine in the winter months can be draining on the spirits. We bundled up and headed out into unholy negative temperatures to try to follow the sun into tomorrow.

As the driver, I feared it was too late. We left the house right at the sunset time and headed west with our young men and women. As we drove closer to our viewing destination, Camden State Park, (one of Minnesota’s finest), the sky simply got darker, and our windows more frosted. My heart felt so sad. Why didn’t we leave sooner? I really wanted so much more for our kids.

We did see some deer feeding on our drive there and back, but that was small beans compared one of God’s sky paintings (as Reed used to call them).

With sad hearts and tired (already) children, we turned around and headed back for home. I don’t know what made me look back on the drive, but I am certainly glad that I did.

I let a “whoop” and swung that minivan into the next subdivision entrance. We whipped open the doors because by then the windows were completely frosted from the bitterly cold temperatures. We all sat in awe of God’s perfect use of pinks, purples, yellows, and oranges, such ordinary colors blended in one of his finest masterpieces. It was our own private art showing in the gallery of the sky. A reverent hush overcame the vehicle, replacing the jokes and silly songs. I was overjoyed by God’s provision.

This picture captured on my cell phone in no way compares to the beauty of that evening!

I was reminded of that experience this morning when my daughter and I shared oohs and aahs over one of his finest sunrises. How often do I give up on my request because God doesn’t give me the answer I wanted right away? I walk away thinking I guess it wasn’t God’s will after all. Beleaguered and trodden down, I walk away. But then some time down the road, God gives what I thought I needed immediately. Only to discover, that it was so much sweeter after the wait. The only difference is sometimes I don’t look back and see what God was orchestrating the whole time I walked away.

God knows the desires of our hearts, and he wants us to dream BIG. His LOVE is much grander than the tidy, little package we try to place it in. More importantly, his TIMING is perfect – whether we acknowledge that or not.

So today, wherever you are, dream big with God and know that a little way down the road you might see the most amazing masterpiece out of your ordinary colors. Just know some unofficial Newfoundlanders are dreaming with you.

Learning to be still

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Embracing a new tradition need not be fancy. Our hodge podge collection worked just fine.

Recently, there was a linguistics survey from the New York Times floating around that would generate a map of your personal dialect. The questions are based off the Harvard Dialect Survey, which is a linguistics project conducted by two researchers. The link for the survey is found at the end of this blog. Friends and family were producing great maps that were spot on for their patterns of speech.

Sweet tea in hand, I sat down to answer the online questions. At the conclusion, I waited for my own map to be generated.

For those among us who share with me the experience of never finding their name among personalized merchandise at the store, my experience with creating a personal language map was equally as disappointing. This bust was not for lacking of trying; as I attempted the quiz three more times. All with the same result – no map was generated.

I am guessing any person who grew up on military bases, had a college coach or travelling salesman for a parent, or was the child of Bedouins would have the same frustrating experience as I did with that map. Because I have lived in many different regions of the country, my linguistic patterns have become a literal melting pot of the vernacular.

Now this might really put a damper on some things – like not having my own map that I can post on Facebook, but in reality, there are some up sides of growing up as a nomad. The biggest benefit is having friends in just about every corner of the world, and never really feeling like a stranger anywhere you travel. The second biggest benefit is adopting the customs of the locals that best suit your heart.

Ethnically, I like to identify with my Irish roots the most, and we incorporate plenty of Irish traditions in our home. Yet through all my life experiences, we have assimilated traditions that belong to other groups as well. Lefse making from the Norwegians, aebleskivers from the Danes, and meatballs from the Swedes are all regular part of our culinary repertoire. Sauna like the Finns never hurts either.

In the last week, I read an article passed on from some friends regarding a Danish tradition that we are not only adopting, but are also embracing with full spirits. This new tradition is known as hygge. I highly recommend the article I read as well as the article it is based upon. http://www.minnpost.com/arts-culture/2013/12/our-hygge-moment-how-danish-cultural-concept-can-help-cut-through-dark-minnesot

Since there is no direct English translation, I love this description by author Helen Dyrbye in Xenophobe’s Guide to the Danes “<Hygge> is the art of creating intimacy: a sense of comradeship, conviviality and contentment rolled into one.”

That description sounds like bliss to me, which is exactly why we have been practicing hygge in our home for the last week. Sure that isn’t much of a test run, but the spirit of calm in our home since we conscientiously put hygge into practice has been amazing. We lit candles in the early afternoon which seemed to stave off the blues of the setting sun and dark Minnesota winters. All five of us sat in a room together on Sunday afternoon doing quiet things, together and separately. Not since we implemented the required Sunday nap when most everyone was little have we done anything collectively on Sabbath outside of church.

We embraced the coziness of being together as a family. Last night at supper without being asked, our son lit candles for the table. As I watched him light each one, I knew the Danes were on to something. A custom that all our spirits needed – not just mine. It truly is the little things that matter.

For those that know my personal quest to reduce chaos in my life, I believe that God wanted me to read that article for real reasons. I have been moved to tears – happy tears – a few times this week as we have worshipped, fellowshipped, and relaxed together.

For a girl who still cannot pronounce the words “pen” and “pin” and make them sound different, my pronunciation of hygge probably isn’t better. Somehow I don’t think God (or my family) cares about my diction. We have found the perfect new tradition of “learning to be still” to cultivate and cherish because frankly exhausted, chaotic, and frenetic weren’t working so well. I am just wondering what took us so long to get here.

Hoping God blesses you with hygge this week!

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2013/12/20/sunday-review/dialect-quiz-map.html?_r=0

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.

Shock & Awe

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A few days ago, I sat waiting once again for one of my children to undergo another surgery that was a direct result of injuries sustained in the bus crash that often feels like the albatross around my neck. We have been doctoring for four of those years while she has dealt with debilitating migraines, out of control sinus issues, and difficulty breathing during sports. Knowing she has allergies, we sincerely thought allergies and asthma were the cause of all of this. Our allergist thought differently, and started doing some pretty extensive detective work. Searching through her past medical records and knowing that no allergen treatment had been effective, he ordered more scans and sent us to an ENT. I never once suspected what we were told the day we met with him.

Looking at this old CT scan, I don’t see anything amiss.

The radiologist report says the most recent one is good too, but three days after it was taken she had a major sinus infection.

Well, I don’t know that I agree with that report. See this . . . she has a deviated septum and these turbinates are completely engulfed in swollen tissues. It is no wonder you cannot breathe out of your nose! Did some sort of trauma happen to you when you were younger?

It was at that precise moment when I felt as if someone punched me in the gut. Shock!

Trauma

Disappointment

Dismay

As the room was swirling with sinking thoughts, I tried to hold it together to hear the doctor’s suggestions and plans.

How could we have not known that she couldn’t breathe? Shock!

How did we not know that she was injured there too? Shock!

When is this ever going to end? Shock!

The prayers began.

Ultimately, the decision was hers to make. The doctors believed having the surgery would increase her chances of chasing her dream – to play college basketball. Her only stipulation was the surgery could not interfere with this year’s basketball season! She was exhausted with living this way.

Bracing ourselves for another post-surgical patient in our home, we cleared our calendars, finished up projects, and generally tied up loose ends. In a household as busy as ours, preparations, lots of them, must be made when you need a parent at home at all times for seven days of recuperation.

As S-day approached, slowly, like a leaking pipe, fear began to ooze from my thoughts. There are very few friends with whom I choose to share this vulnerability. Despite my recent costume attire, I do not, even for one second, believe that I am Wonder Woman, impervious to fear and doubt. Being afraid for my children is a pastime that I would love to retire. Fear started to creep in, choking me, and I reached out looking for a lifeline.

God answered my prayers by calming my fears, and throughout the day, his reminders just kept billowing in.

Early in the morning:

Text from me:

Fear is consuming me. I just wish you lived closer.

Text from my friend:

What time is surgery? We’ve been praying.

10:00 AM

I will be there.

What? This cannot be! I wish I could put into words the gift that my friend gave. Let’s just say, her willingness to come from miles away, leave her children at home, and spend a day worried about me, more than my girl, was a priceless treasure. Awe!

Lunch at school:

Out of the blue, a fellow teacher and wonderful Christian woman shared a story with me about how God holds those who are in the darkest moments tightly to him. Tears streamed down my face in the cafeteria as I heard words, literally breathed from God. Awe!

Early afternoon:

An e-mail from the church secretary (and dear friend) alerted me that our pastor (and also dear friend) needed the time of the surgery. He, too, would be coming to spend the time (which ended up being a day) with us at the surgical center. His steadfast friendship since the day of the bus crash has amazed us. Awe!

Later in the evening:

After I shared on Facebook my prayer request for the surgery, e-mails, messages, and posts came pouring in. These were not your average messages either. They were heartfelt promises of prayer, practical suggestions from those who had also similar procedures done, and offers to help in any way we needed it. Humbly awed!

Overnight:

Clothed in those prayers, I slept peacefully – which I don’t normally do. Awe!

Walking into the surgical center:

In a way only God could orchestrate, he placed two mommas (along with my pastor and friend) at the same surgical center, the same day, with the same doctor. A little girl who my big girl mentors was having surgery immediately before her. Honestly, what are the odds? During her dark moments of waiting, she buoyed me by giving me the biggest hug of encouragement. Just another reminder my teacher friend was right!

God does hold tightly those he loves – especially when they need it the most.

Like a small child on Christmas morning, I will never lose a sense of wonder of how he provides everything that I need, even when my light is dimmed by fear, doubt and worry.

So thankful that my God is bigger than all of life’s shocks and fills my soul with awe!

Many, LORD my God, are the wonders you have done, the things you planned for us. None can compare with you; were I to speak and tell of your deeds, they would be too many to declare. Psalm 40:5 (NIV)

Post-surgery: Okay, so this is not my actual child. She was pretty miserable so I would not take that picture - EVER!

Post-surgery: Okay, so this is not my actual child. But this bear, her parting gift, gives you a good idea of what she looked like. They had matching gauze guards and Band-Aids. I will admit, biasedly, that my daughter is much cuter!

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.

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Tag Archives: inspiration

A letter to heaven

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One load over the line, sweet Jesus

Waiting

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We’re back

Shock & Awe

Being still