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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.

DSC01297

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

Taking a deep breath

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Growing up, our family did two things almost without fail. Both followed other anchors in my life, as if that was that natural order in our home.  Following basketball games, we often went out with other coaches’ and team members’ families for dessert.  My standard order was hot fudge cake at Shoney’s.  That succulent tower of chocolate cake, ice cream, fudge and whipping cream is still my all-time favorite dessert. The second thing we did rather dependably followed Sunday morning services.  We went to eat at a local restaurant, known as The Varsity.  Growing up, I didn’t much appreciate this second one, because I wanted to go eat at some hip cool fast-food restaurant rather one that served good ol’ Southern cooking.  At that time in my life, I wanted to venture on the edge of dining, and not be stuck in deeply entrenched ruts. Right now (older and wiser), I wish The Varsity was still open, and I could force (I mean, take) my kids to eat there.

There are several things that I vividly remember about both of those old hang outs.  First and foremost, each time we went there I was surrounded by people who loved Jesus (and who loved us).  I don’t know that I can adequately describe that feeling.  Growing up the way I did, there is just something about Southern people who love Jesus.  They have an air to them – full of life, hearty talks, and bellies full from all the tables piled with food. It’s true what the Bible says about Christians having an aroma.  Then and now, my soul senses want to soak up every molecule.   Another thing that defines those memories is the ease of Southern hospitality.  I miss “Yes ma’am’s” and “No sir’s”, and I really miss being called, “Shug or Honey” by just about everyone, including the waitress.  Formal rituals dot every rhythm of society in those memories, but yet those rhythms come with ease.  Finally laughter punctuates every memory. Next to salvation and creation, I think laughter was one of God’s finest masterpieces.

The flavor of my childhood is not something I experience often these days.  It’s not that I live among heathens who also happen to be curmudgeons.  Quite the opposite, I live among wonderfully vibrant and caring people (who also love Jesus and who love to laugh), but that Southern hospitality (and sometimes craziness) is seldom found in my neck of the woods.

Following my talk to the sweetest bunch of Sunday school ladies ever, a group of us decided to high tail it over to the Cracker Barrel for lunch.  There were six of us at our table, but seated at the table directly behind us were fellow worshippers from that morning.  We created such ruckus at our table that one gentleman from the other asked if he could be re-seated  . . . with us . . . because we were having too much fun.  His proclamation reminded me so much of some of Granddaddy’s friends that I wanted to jump up and hug him.

I shared both laughter and tears with sweet Miss C. Love her!

I shared both laughter and tears with sweet Miss C. Love her!

I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Florida to South Dakota, but that day surrounded by new sisters is one I will remember.  A biscuit is a biscuit no matter where you eat it; so, it wasn’t the food that made the lunch memorable.  It was the essence. There were stories swapped, tears shed both in laughter and in awe of God’s amazing grace in trials of life. There were hands held and prayers shared.

Somewhere in that crowded restaurant, God reminded me that the things longed for  aren’t always  that far away because I took a deep breath and inhaled the precious air of my childhood.

Where the dance will lead . . .

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Photo found at www.selectregistry.com

Photo found at www.selectregistry.com

In addition to the tender moment shared yesterday, there were  a couple more moments that took my breath away at the hospital.  One in quiet reflection, and the other in laughter.

Over the course of the summer, my pastor has had a wonderful sermon series entitled, “What’s messing with your faith?”.  His transparency is palpably real as he confesses to struggle with each topic.  His genuineness in delivery has touched me very deeply, because I struggle with all the same things.  These things that mess with our faith take us so far away from contentment in God’s plans for our lives.

On my travels, I decided that I would use what God had been stirring in my heart based on what I had gleaned from each topic this summer.  With a renewed spirit, I wanted to travel with no agenda other than to love and to serve.

Just a few days ago, I saw a post a friend had on Facebook and it read something like this. “Are you waiting on God?  Tell me then, when did you ever get ahead of Him?” Those were very convicting words, indeed!

The times when my faith is the most vulnerable is when I allow – worry, fear, bitterness, doubt, or busyness – to lead my thoughts.  So upon embarking on this journey, I decided to just follow.  Follow where God took me, and not try to get ahead of Him.  It was already evident that traveling this far from home was His idea; so why not enjoy the travels.

One Saturday in July, following God’s heart took me to the hospital bed of a black grandfather and pastor.  As we sat there swapping stories, I felt compelled to ask a question.  When I say compelled, it was like an explosion of my soul as I was being pulled farther and farther away from the shore of my control.  My question was simple.  Can we pray?

Just the four of us, including the patient, clasped hands and prayed.  I prayed for peace, for healing, for wisdom, and for all the things God laid on my heart.  It was beautiful and tender and very much God-breathed.

As family members and hospital staff came in and out of the room, Ninny would introduce me.  “This is Kandy.  She is Bug’s friend, and she KNOWS the Lord.”  Not one single person that entered that room was spared of that introduction.  Those words made me smile, at first, but later became a badge of honor.  I was His beloved, and I KNOW His love.   I had never stopped to think of myself using those words, but they tasted so sweet. THIS is Miss Kandy, AND she KNOWS the Lord!

As the day unfolded, I was unceremoniously adopted as “Daddy” proclaimed me, somewhat teasingly, as his to the nurse.  She came in to take some vital sign measurements and asked him how he was doing. Despite feeling pretty awful, it was joy to see that he still had a bit of mischief up his hospital gowned sleeve.  He said that he was doing great because he got a new grand-daughter today.

“Really!”, she excitedly asked.  “Where was she born?”

In a barely perceptible grin covered by the oxygen mask, he replied, “I have no idea, but you can ask her. She’s sitting right there.”  At this point, he motioned to me sitting at the foot of the bed.

If I were a poker playing kind of gal, I would want to play cards with this nurse.  The look of confusion was painstakingly present.  How can this grown white woman suddenly be your granddaughter?  The rest of us in the room could hardly contain our giggles.

I have to think at this point even Jesus snickered in heaven.  His Dad’s love opens wide the door of family.  When He does, you get a small glimpse of how He sees you and all his children.  In those moments of tenderness and a fit of giggles, I began to see what transformative power slowing down and ceding control can do for your soul.

Allow God to lead the dance of your life’s journey, and see – just see – where He and the dance take you.

All in a touch

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The home my Nanny and Granddaddy lived in since 1961 was one in which several additions were made to it.  I’m old enough to remember the carport renovation and the subsequent addition behind that.  With those two extra rooms, the traffic flow of the house became like a race track.  Anyone could make laps around and around inside the house, and as kids we often did just that.

My favorite part of romping through the house was when my Granddaddy would come in from work and plop down in his chair, a burgundy swivel rocker/recliner, to relax and watch a little television. Inevitably during one of my laps, Granddaddy would stick out his gigantic hand, riddled with arthritis and aged with years of hard work, with his palm up.

This was my cue.  The ritual was enduring, and it continued right up until his passing.

His outstretched hand blocked the path of my meandering.  I would always stop, waiting for the next line in this well-rehearsed script.  I would squeak out with glee, “Hey Granddaddy!” and then slap his calloused hand with mine, thus giving him “five”.  Then in a booming voice, dripping with a Floridian Southern drawl, he would announce, “Hey Granddaughter!”

As a child, if I had been asked to define love, I would have drawn his hands.  Even today, I would give anything to once again touch his gigantic, but gentle, man-paws of hands.  Every once in a while, I am fortunate enough to see that kind of love in tender moments of others. I think God knows my soul needs to espy those gentle touches.

I was blessed to witness such a moment on my trip to Kentucky.  One of the days, our plans were changed because my friend’s grandfather was sent to the hospital.  Rather than taking in the sites of the area, I offered to ride along with her and her grandmother to sit with “Daddy”.  He was in considerable pain due to diminished breathing capacity with masks, tubes, and machines everywhere.

Quickly, quietly, lovingly, it happened – that comforting ritual.  Her grandmother, affectionately known as Ninny, reached over and gently rubbed his legs.  My breath caught in my throat because the lump lodged there seeing such tender love.  I hoped no one in the room saw my tears.  God’s beauty often does that to me.  Those beautiful hands that had worked for years, raised babies and grandbabies, and had many times folded in prayer were the embodiment of how God loves. I don’t know what possessed me, but I asked Ninny and Daddy if I could capture the moment.  They agreed it would be alright. One click and the moment was preserved forever in image and in my heart.

Ninny's hands

Even though spending the day in the hospital wasn’t what was originally planned, it was where God needed me to be.  After glimpsing love that day, I knew precisely why He had called me to that place at that moment.  For gentle reminders of how tenderly He holds each of us, I am so thankful.

If you enjoyed today’s blog, I would love to hear what you would draw for love.

Not at my table

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Twice on my trip to Kentucky, I was invited to dine at the home of one of the most adorable Sunday school teachers.  Cloaked inside her petite exterior is one of the biggest hearts I have ever met. A heart that has been equipped with the gift of hospitality which made my own heart do flipper-de-loos each time I crossed the steps into her adorable cottage style home.

Lovingly known as “Miss E” to some, she has a personality that draws near.  (On a side note, she is a teacher (not just on Sundays), and I have long been drawn to other lovers of learning.) Her humble home just exudes “Come on in. Sit a spell. And the proverbial Southern favorite, “Y’all eaten yet?”.

On that last one, she didn’t have to ask because we were invited there for that very reason.  Well, that and of course, good old-fashioned girl time.  One night we even had dinner and a movie – a chick flick with pizza and tissues.  All girls will get that combination.

Clearly a proud momma, her decor consisted of artwork done by her very talented children.  Rooms filled with a delightful mix of family heirlooms and inviting, cushioning chairs beckoned my soul to slow down and relax.  All of it beautiful without being showy.

But there was something present that the eye could not see, but the spirit could certainly feel.  This home – this communion of souls – was filled with the grace that only can be found when God’s love is present.

One moment will be forever etched in my memory.  For our first dinner it was requested that we bring our own beverages to accompany the meal.  Grabbing our favorite drinks – a Coke in a bottle and McD’s sweet tea in the Styrofoam cup – we happily arrived feeling we were allowed to add something to the evening’s experience.

As we gathered at the table, Miss E informed us that we could place our beverages in the goblets already on the table.  One among us protested that wasn’t necessary.  In a gentle but firm reply, we were informed that at her home we WOULD NOT be using those containers.

As my Mama would say, “We are not common people”.  That old saying was fitting here. We were not just guests. No! We were beloved sisters in Christ – blessed with the gift of friendship.

Looking back, I realized that someday that’s how it will be at Jesus’ table.  Imagine it! He will want only the best setting  for his girls.  All the junk (rage, bitterness, fear, worry, doubt) we allow into our lives really doesn’t belong at His table anyway.  I don’t think Jesus cares about the quality of the china, but he does cars about the way we approach the table. It is the effort that we give to each other through his grace that matters. If that (like Miss E’s glasses) is how we come together, then the dining will be divinely appointed!

Not so long ago at the table of one sweet lady, I was served with Southern hospitality and dined, grace-filled, like royalty.

Comforted to know I really am, and thankful to have been reminded.

 

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

 

 

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.

One lump or two

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Well, um . . . none, if you are referring to coffee.  Southern-style sweet tea is another thing altogether.  I am almost embarrassed to admit how much sugar goes into a gallon of that, but today, I am talking about java – the caffeinated lifeblood for many.  In my entire life, I have probably drank about 11 sips of coffee.  The last time I tried coffee in my middle 20’s, I became violently ill with the stomach flu and have never touched the stuff again.  (There was no direct correlation between my illness and the 3 swallows of coffee I drank that day, but let’s just say the experience left a lasting impression. )

My loathe opinion of coffee has put me in some awkward situations as an adult as it seems many friends  want to hold impromptu meetings at one local coffee shop or another.  Not my idea of a good time, as the smell sometimes is too much for me.  However, I do regularly meet for “coffee and show-n-tell” with some of my favorite octo- and nonagenarians at our favorite gathering spot.  I just order a Coke while we visit and share the latest project of our heart and hands work.

Fortunately, I didn’t allow my dislikes to sway my decision to attend “Coffee with Ingeborg” in which the writer Lauraine Snelling would attend clad as her famous book character Ingeborg Bjorklund.  During “coffee”, we would have a chance to visit with the determined Ingeborg (and other characters) as well as enjoy wonderful Scandinavian goodies, music, and entertainment.

coffee with ingeborg

So what does a non-coffee drinker do when she has the opportunity to “meet” one of her favorite characters?  She invites along her sisters-in-law who also have the same addiction to the book series AND who happen to be non-coffee drinkers.   We all decided to put on our big girl pants and dive in – even if it meant proving the old adage “Misery loves company” true.

I won’t give away too much about the day, because I believe “Coffee with Ingeborg” might be a regular event for the author.  I really detest spoilers; so, I won’t ruin the mystique for the next attendees. We enjoyed the atmosphere, hearing the guests’ questions and the stories shared in response.  It was somewhat like a homecoming for me as well, because all of my new writer friends (sans one) were in attendance. Warm smiles across the aisles and later, genuine embraces reminded me that we had been brought together once again as part of God’s miraculous plan.

With my vivid imagination and child-like faith, I could almost picture the novels’ characters aging in time and their children constructing the very building (a memorial hall) where we were visiting.  While purely fictional, those characters are based off the faith-filled, hard-working, salt of the earth immigrants that settled the lands of the plains.  Even the adorable bathroom curtains were a reminder of the yearned for landmarks that legitimized towns.  The dainty lace depicted rolling plains with a schoolhouse and church replete with steeple – both believed by the settlers were necessary to create a better life for their children.  Such was the way of the prairie!

We had a delightful afternoon.  I cherished the time spent with the sisters (as we seldom do anything together without our kids).  We thoroughly enjoyed all seven Norwegian delicacies lovingly prepared by members of the local historical society. And we washed them down with water.  Thankfully, imbibing coffee was optional.  It’s a good thing too, because if it was a requirement, I would have been looking for a nice houseplant in one of the corners.

Thanking God for North Dakota

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Hey Dad –

I spent some time away this past weekend.  Much of the time it was just you and me, and we had a lot of time to talk.  I will confess that more of the time I talked, and you listened.  Together we spent some time in worship.  That is the amazing thing about travel time.  I can make a joyful noise to my heart’s content.  There were much appreciated quiet times.  It was during those silent moments that I was moved to tears.  Your creation just does that to me.

Home is something that has been loosely defined by this girl with a nomadic past. My version of home can be the moment in a conversation where I realize how blessed I am by the company you have given me.  Home will always be the emerald coast of Florida’s panhandle with snowy white beaches and all the memories and people of my childhood.  The sanctuary of home is eternally wherever Daniel and our children waltz the delicate  dance steps of life. Uncovering the treasures therein, my garden is one of the places where I feel closest to you; so home has to be found there as well.

I didn’t realize until my trip this weekend how much I realized that North Dakota feels like one step away from you and thus home.  Sometimes, I think that heaven’s gate is just around the next field.  I think my affirmation came when the tears began to well up in my eyes just marveling at the expansive sky and verdant fields.  No place on earth does that to me like a highway in what some aptly call “God’s Country”.

north dakota

I want to thank you for all the places I call home, and most specifically today, for the place called North Dakota.  Thank you for a sky so large your breath is literally taken away by its beauty.  Thank you for rich and fertile soil that grows such beautiful crops.  That same rich soil is where we chose to return the shell of our son.  His earthly resting place is in one with such beauty where ducks fly over, deer frolic, and prairie grasses whisper in the wind.  Thank you for fields of sunflowers that could make any heart leap for joy.  I praise you for the people of the Dakotas who are truly some of your finest masterpieces.

Thank you for creating the people that brought me to and who keep me tied to that prairie land.  First it was my parents who transplanted a Southern girl to the plains and who created family all those miles away.  Then my heart was lovingly anchored there by the Dakota boy I married as well as our extended family who keep me dreaming of the next visit.

Humbled, rejuvenated, connected, but most of all, loved, I am so thankful for the time I spent in the Red River Valley this weekend.

Thank you for creating North Dakota as a place where my soul finds rest.

Love always,

Your Daughter

Manny and Nora

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Dear Manny & Nora:

I  never had the opportunity to meet you in person, because you had already gone home before I came into your family.  My family and I just spent the weekend wrapped in love in North Dakota surrounded by ninety of your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even one great-great granddaughter.  That was only the number of those who could attend this year, and a few of your cousins and second cousins came along too!  I had such an amazing experience (as did my whole family) that I wanted to write to you about the family reunion.  To the Dakota prairie we all travel as if spellbound for the lure of the sacred water gently calling our names like the siren song, only in our journey we wash up in the arms of a loved one saying, “I’m so glad to see you.”

Eighty-two years ago, the two of you were young and starting out a new life together, not knowing what legacy you would leave in this world.  The first description of that legacy would be a whole lot of family.  Whether by blood or marriage, we number well past one hundred and twenty-five.  After shaking the sheer overwhelming nature of headcounts, the only thing you feel is love – that holds us all together with heaven’s gossamer when we are away from this place.

Remaining Sisters (aka Queen's Court)

Remaining Sisters (aka Queen’s Court)

You raised a great group of kids, and your grandkids are amazingly talented people in all facets of life – hard workers and excellent parents.  (Of course, I am pretty partial to one of your grandsons.) Your sons married wonderful wives, and your daughters are the thread that holds this family together.   Like the reunion t-shirts proclaimed, family is cherished here.  Based on my personal observations as granddaughter-in-law, you raised people to love God, love each other, have fun, be lighthearted, eat and cook well, laugh heartily, enjoy life’s little moments, and make music with your voice and your heart.

I would have to write a book on the beauty of it all, but in a nutshell this is what I experienced over the weekend.

  • Piles and piles of rich foods (lovingly prepared, savored, and devoured) – including recipes passed down directly from you.
  • More hugs than I think have ever been recorded.  Some in greetings, some in farewells, but most, just because we were so glad to be together.
  • Tears of joy and tears of sadness for all of life’s miracles and heartaches.
  • Laughter that had to bring joy to the heavens.
  • Prairie winds, sun, and storms – which brought us together in more ways than one.
  • Swapping of old stories and family lines (who is related to whom and how)
  • Teenagers coming out their shells and emerging as beautiful people – ready to carry the torch of family for future generations
  • Godchildren and godparents
  • Healthy competitions and gentle ribbing
  • Quality time spent fishing, visiting, eating, playing cards, or gathering around the campfire
  • Babies and septuagenarians
  • Relationships strengthened and built
  • Handmade love lavished on the little ones.
  • Gifts that made thousand mile journeys.
  • Superheroes – those who made cabbage rolls, Ironman protecting us at supper, and who could ever forget Spiderma’am

ironmanspiderma'am

  • Legends – best cinnamon rolls in the world, first fish caught, and jokes that never get old
  • Singing around a campfire (or in a makeshift group out of the storm), but singing just to be together.
  • Songs in memory, in tradition, and in tribute.
  • So many pictures that we should all have eye troubles for a while
  • Reunion traditions – old and new – fashion shows that rival Paris runways
  • Sadness for those unable to travel and for those who have gone to join you, followed by happiness because we are cloaked in so many happy memories.
A small gathering

A small gathering

We have weathered life’s journey well.  We have sojourned through the celebrations of  births, baptisms, graduations, and weddings, mourning tragedies, deaths, and defeats.  Together we have hated cancer, loved each other, and rejoiced in gathering. As we prepared to leave that sacred and blessed time, it took at least an hour to say good-bye.  There were that many necks to hug, and I can only imagine that it will take us that long to enter heaven because of the hugs awaiting our arrival.

In case they don’t know already, we will just have to show all of heaven how we do things – Nowatzki-style!

Photos by Amy Schuler, Jason Schuler, Sawyer Stevens, and Emily Currier Nowatzki