Tag Archives: inspiration

It’s just a number

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kurtisI had the pleasure of having breakfast with my almost ten-year-old nephew this morning.  In a houseful of people gearing up for a family vacation/reunion, a quiet conversation is rare.  I’m so glad it happened.  After exchanging pleasantries of “How did you sleep?” and “How did you NOT hear that storm”, my sweet boy revealed where his heart is at today.

If you ever experience quiet moments, you will “hear” much about a person’s heart, and at the very least, those things troubling their mind.  So it was at Grandma’s table today.  In between bites of banana bread, K explained that he was sad that he was in a level of swimming lessons below where he and his momma thought he should be.

What a precious moment for an auntie!  I don’t believe in coincidences, but I do believe that God orchestrates the timing of where I need to be when I need to be there.  Today was proof positive.  I shared that I never finished swimming lessons at his age because I hated getting my face in the water.  My husband shared that I still hate it which is why I use a snorkel all the time.  I can swim for miles with my adaptation.  I also told K that no matter what level becoming a strong swimmer is important (because it could one day save his life).

But this is where the conversation changed . . . as a teacher I have seen so much emphasis placed on numbers that I think it has filtered over into everything that our children do.  Scratch that, numbers have become a filter in how we all see life.

Warning – this is a soapbox issue for me!  Hear me roar!

To the student who didn’t score as well on the test: That number written on that paper or letter from the standardized test company doesn’t define who you are.  It doesn’t define your future – no matter what anybody says.  It may prevent you from attending certain universities, but given today’s economic climate, it might not. Even if it does, bloom where you land anyways.  Remember it is you, and not the university, that is the product of which to be proud.  I don’t know a single adult my age that goes around spouting their test scores, because frankly, nobody cares because that number isn’t what makes you successful.  It’s just a number.

To the kid who works hard every day to practice, but doesn’t score the winning shot/goal/touchdown:  The information recorded in the books is just a number.  What you do matters.  The old saying is true.  There is no “I” in TEAM.  Every member of a team is important. To me, numbers of assists always tell me more about your willingness to be a part of a team. I know it might not feel that way, but the skills (persistence, dedication, loyalty, perseverance) you learn from being a part of group are far more critical to your future development that what is written in the scorebook.  It’s just a number.

To women everywhere who worry about the scale:  With tears in my eyes, I am telling you unless you need that thing for medical purposes, go right now and THROW it out.  I have so many friends that talk about losing those extra 10, 20, or 50 pounds.  If you want to do that for you or your health, go for it!  But if your motivation is because someone else’s definition of beauty doesn’t include those extra pounds, it is all rubbish! I am going to be honest with you.  Your size matters much less than the character of your heart.  Sometimes, I wish I could remove my eyes just so you could see what I see when I see you.  I think you would be shocked if you did. All you would see is beauty!  It’s just a number.

To those who focus on the calendar age:  If you had nothing left to contribute, God would have taken you home already.  There is a reason for your being here.  I know you may not be as spry as you once were, but I am not looking for spry.  I like many other women are looking for mentors to love us, to remind us of God’s truth and promises,  and to share with us your life (including mistakes and wrinkles).  That matters!  Even if the world standard is newer, faster, or stronger, I have found more quiet strength in sitting hand-in-hand with eighty and ninety year olds than anyone could ever imagine.  Age – It’s just a number.

I didn’t give my little nephew the full brunt of this rant, but I did ask him three questions.

  • Does which swimming level you are in define who you are?
  • Does which swimming level you are in make us love you anymore or any less?
  • Does which swimming level you are in change that you are loved child of God?

Sitting there with bedhead hair and Angry Birds jammies, his twinkling eyes told me he knew the answer to all three.  I pray every day that all the world will know that while numbers are fun (for some of us), for much of life, they are just numbers.

Thanking God today for banana bread and little boys.

PS – By the way in God’s eyes, you are absolutely, positively one of the best “numbers” He’s ever created!

What my soul needed

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Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego

Baby why don’t we go?

Jamaica

Up north to the town, Leeds

Um? Kandy?

That is not how the song lyrics go.

Yes, I would agree with your assessment. And No! This isn’t one of those times when I actually couldn’t understand the words and used my imagination to make up my own.  I will assert that my own lyrics are sometimes much more entertaining than the originals.

Actually, this time  I made this version as I was walking down a partially gravel road (3rd St S to be exact) in Leeds, ND last night.  I was walking from Great Aunt Mary’s house to Lorraine’s (Daniel’s mom) house following an amazing supper on the front lawn – labor of love of three generations of Nowatzki’s.

The meal was caught, cleaned, battered, fried, prepared, eaten, and washed up with “all hands on deck”.  While sitting on the lawn, I could feel deeply, an overwhelming sense of joy overcome my heart.

I have to confess that I was incredibly excited for our family reunion and seeing all of our family, but I have been carrying around an aching sadness.  I have been yearning for the vacation we had planned to take this year for Reed’s graduation (much like the ones in the beginning of the song).  Sadly, a myriad of reasons put the kibosh on that plan.

So going to one of our “homes” (again I was excited to do) is the only vacation we are taking this year as a family.

After that multi-generational dinner – which was less about filling my stomach and more about replenishing my soul – I took that short walk to have a quiet conversation with God.

Rested and relaxed, I realized this is truly what a vacation is meant to be.

No stress. . . no worries. . . and filled with things loved.  (Of course, I love the sea too, but this time God granted me insight into the vacation I needed and not the one I wanted.)

As I walked, I thought back to the last couple of days and all the things I didn’t see on travel sites and travel brochures.

  • Little kids running between houses with imaginations longer than the hours of the day
  • Sun-soaked hair that shows hours spent playing outside or at the city pool
  • Cousins that have never met having sleepovers and making instant connections
  • One sweetie catching her first fish (and it was a whopper) and teaching her the fine art of telling a fisherman’s tale
  • Taking a late night trip to the train station to pick up a cousin I had never met
  • Hugging everyone many times a day
  • Having a special “graduation” moment for Reed wrapped in the loving arms of my cousin, Amy
  • Walking everywhere, seldom with a destination in mind
  • Quilting and sharing lots of love and memories
  • Three o’clock chocolate breaks
  • The goofiness of teenagers
  • Late night sessions of packed tables with stories being swapped in every direction
K's first fish - photo bomb courtesy of my girl, E.

K’s first fish – photo bomb courtesy of my girl, E.

No agendas . . . other than to love each and every moment.

In the few block walk, I confessed to God that I needed an attitude of the heart adjustment. Instead of worrying about what I thought I wanted (dare I say I thought I “deserved”), I began to appreciate what I have (a message resonating with me in many aspects of my life).  I’m glad that in just a few short days, He showed me that what I needed to have a revival of my spirit He had already provided. Perhaps it would be best to get out of my own way.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel encumbered by all my worries.  Today, I am thanking God for family reunions, soul refreshment (by letting go), and of course, dusty dirt roads.

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.

Blessed is

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This last week has been one of wonders for me.  So instead of a traditional blog with a story, I am going to just tell it in snippets with a few pictures thrown in for good measure.

Bliss is working together as a family for four days straight side-by-side to reach a common goal.

Celebration is seeing the chaos of your life begin to dissipate.

Awe is discovering that wayward tree growing in your lilac bushes is actually a mulberry tree your boys planted years ago on Arbor Day.

blog pic 17

Happiness is realizing you didn’t cut it down when you first discovered its appearance above the hedge.

Wonder is spending forty-five minutes watching monarch caterpillars munch on milkweed leaves in your garden.

blog pic 16

Satisfaction is realizing that when others thought you were weird for planting milkweed you were confident God would bring the butterflies.

Excitement is letting out a squeal of delight when you see the life-sized mechanical dinosaur move.

blog pic 15

(Of course, this kind of delight may cause one of your best friends to almost run off the road.)

Thankfulness is knowing she loves you anyways – even if you are a science geek with a child-like love for dinosaurs.

Awe-inspiring is watching your little girl see a friend she met only once before walk hand-in-hand with that friend immediately while introducing her to her other friends.

Proud is watching the fruits of your friends’ labors create one of the most amazing small town open air markets I have ever enjoyed.

Tasty is bringing home those labors and enjoying every single bite.

Joy is watching your children smile – even in life’s smallest moments.

Amazement is being surrounded by your family and friends watching fireworks.

Rapture is swapping stories at our favorite viewing site.

Crazy is finding prairie roses in the ditch and wishing to bring them home to your garden.

blog pic 18

Crazy love is a dear friend getting you the shovel.

Captivating is finding a killdeer nest in the community garden.

Nurturing is making little flags that warn others not to disturb the eggs.

Exuberance is espying the first lightning bug of the year!

Blessed is my life!

First world problems

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A dear friend of mine has a wonderful blog, and she recently shared about her realization of how some of her quirks might need minor adjustments. http://www.nancyholte.com/blog/2013/07/762/

Before I go any farther, if you think that you don’t have any quirks and that I am judging my friend, rest assured I am not.  We all have quirks –especially me (like my need to have all of my beverages completely filled with ice so that they are cold enough).  Nine times out of ten, those personality characteristics are what I love the most about my friends.  Trust me, I am not living over here in my glass house because I know many people the world over would love clean drinking water while I am complaining that my drink isn’t cold enough.  I get it.

I am acutely aware that even despite the tragedies that have befallen our family I am still more blessed than 95% of the world’s population.  That awareness is something that I am trying to instill in my children as they are becoming older and much more world savvy.  No name brand or one singular item will define the character of your heart.  Hard work and serving others is much more important than momentary thrill of a purchase.  These aren’t just platitudes for me, and I am trying on a regular basis to let my life’s choices be an example to my children.   Sometimes I don’t think they are listening.

I couldn’t be more wrong.

One day, our daughters were bickering in the van about something so trivial I cannot even remember what it was.  They both had valid points, but in the end of the day, they were clothed, nourished physically and spiritually, and housed.  The thing they were arguing about was not life threatening nor earth shaking; so I pointed out to them that their conflict was a “first world problem” suggesting that they should agree to disagree and move on.

They acquiesced, and our whole family started quoting lines from a family favorite video: Top 100 First World Problems by Scooter Magruder, as we continued on down to our destination. Upon arrival at the local big box hardware store, we made  a quick double-check of our list to create a game plan for this excursion in the midst of our home remodeling.

As we opened the doors to the van, our littlest was searching for her shoes.  Under the seat, next to the seat, in the back of the van, in my purse (as if they would be there), and on the ground – they were nowhere to be found.  I know I grumbled a bit asking if she wore shoes to the store.  She assured me she thought she did.  My annoyance wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t just gone through the same thing a week before when we drove THREE HOURS to pick up her brother from med school camp –  only to discover she was sans shoes.  We had to go to the Mecca of the South and buy shoes before the closing ceremonies, forcing us to enter late (something I detest doing).

There was no rescuing her this time; so, I scooped her up (which was a challenge as she is getting tall) and carried her into the store with bare piggies.  On our way in, I was chiding her for not bringing shoes.  I reminded her this was crazy,  and she was old enough to be responsible for her own shoes.

Then it came:  wisdom wrapped up in a long-legged, curly-headed, freckled-face eight year old little girl.

“You know, Momma.  This is a first world problem.  Lots of kids around the world don’t even have shoes.”

Touché, my little Sally Gal. Touché.

They are listening.  They are always listening.  Be mindful of what you say, and even more mindful of what your actions speak.  I know I am definitely trying to be much more particular!

Clo's keens

By the way if you need a chuckle, check out Scooter’s video on youtube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXCsRlpbqPM

I saw God at the prom

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The jokes of blue tuxes, boot casts for shoes, and forgetting the corsage were staples around our house leading up to the first prom for our son.  A little good natured ribbing is a part of the fabric that makes up our family; so the jokes were just the norm.  As the mother of the young man in the couple, my traditional role was to help pay for the tux (which after seeing the final bill made me think that creating one out of duct tape might not have been a bad idea after all).  As shared in a previous blog, my gift of love for the young couple was to make them a coursed meal from scratch.  http://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/04/30/one-tired-momma-and-lots-of-fun/ While definitely a labor of love, it was worth every scrumptious bite.

This was the first prom for both Sawyer and Rachel, but given their big hearts, it definitely was one to remember.  It all began much earlier as our sweet kids decided that they wanted to invite a friend of Reed’s to the prom.  (This would have been Reed’s senior prom, and thus, it would have been for B as well.  I think the video the kids made tells that story better than I ever could.

What they don’t tell you in the video is that Sawyer was just released from the hospital having his 7th surgery since the bus crash; hence, the jokes about the boot cast.  From that moment on, those two kids made sure that every decision they made was to honor Brayden.  In their minds, it was his last prom, and they still a chance to attend more.  They kept his family in the loop for tuxes and colors, bought two boutonnieres, and found the perfect vehicle to attend the drive-up (which was totally foreign to this momma).  A lot about prom in Minnesota was different than the proms I attended in Florida. While other kids arrived in muscle cars, decked out trucks, or vintage roadsters, the awesome trio arrived in a fully equipped motorhome so that Brayden would be able to arrive in comfort.

They put a lot of thought into their entrance, recruiting a couple little girls (one sister and one friend) to carry a banner that said “Live a Life of Love” as the RV pulled up to the red carpet.  They entered as a trio after Brayden and his wheelchair were sashayed down the ramp from the camper.  The three marched through Grand March, and, at least from the three families involved, there wasn’t a dry eye among us when Brayden had the biggest smile on his face at the photo stops.  He knew that he was the Prince of the Ball, and no one could deny it. It is a good thing that B loves lights because his paparazzi rivaled that of a celebrity on that night!

prom night 2

At one point, Reed’s best girl friend came running over and wanted to make sure that the four of them were in a picture together.  It was hard to keep the tears in, because in my heart I knew that if Reed were here, it would have been all five of them in the picture as I am certain that young lady would have been his date.

prom night 1

Although not the typical start of the prom, we all waited to watch Brayden’s first dance because he wouldn’t be staying much longer.  After cooling off for a while outside, B and his entourage (parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, workers) went inside to find Sawyer waiting for his arrival with a quick thumbs up.  He wheeled Brayden out to the floor, only to discover that Rachel had stepped away to visit her friends.

What could have been an odd moment was completely changed as Reed and Brayden’s classmates: girls first, followed by the boys, surrounded both young men on the dance floor. That magical moment  is one I will never forget as the whole group all danced together with the Beau of the Ball.

Huge tears streaked down my cheeks as I witnessed quite possibly the most, tender moment – EVER.  Originally, I had been a little uncomfortable peeking in at that time-honored moment of teenage revelry because I felt they deserved their privacy, but I am so glad I pushed past my comfort zone of Southern tradition.

Because if I hadn’t stayed, I would have missed seeing God’s love at the prom. A love that shone brightly through the gift of one amazing friend who blessed us all!

Tears of Joy

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photo found at buzzle.com

photo found at buzzle.com

Two months ago, I had the opportunity to speak at a church not far from my hometown.  I spoke on the topic of forgiveness – which is a draining conversation we all need to hear. So moved by the experience, it has taken me this long to be able to put into words the transformation that took place in my life that day.

I did write about my experience with God in the Wal-mart bathroom that afternoon (http://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/04/17/just-when-i-thought-i-was-safe/) but something much larger occurred that I have kept hidden in my heart until now.  Something I didn’t know would ever be possible again.

I will confess that I did not ask one important question prior to the talk.  I had spoken at several MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) groups previously, and each had the same format.  I spoke for about forty-five minutes, after which the mommas broke into small groups for discussion and prayer.  (The old adage about assuming applied here because this group expected me to talk for about an hour and half.)

I shared my talk on forgiveness, and it is an exhausting story.  Being an innate hugger, I often want to stop and hug the women in the audience when they are crying at my retelling of events.  They are crying with me and for me because my life story has touched something deep in their soul.

I know my story is powerful  . . . even I am moved to tears at times when I speak because it is a challenge to look out and see no dry eyes.  It is at those moments I realize that, “Wow God!  I really did live this, and with your help we survived.”

When I realized that they desired for me to keep talking, I politely asked if I could share where my family was today and about how God was using our story.  I shared about my children’s progress emotionally and physically. Then, I revealed snippets of my upcoming book, Notes from a Grieving Momma.

At the end, I opened the floor to questions.  After hearing my story of forgiveness, I knew there would be many (why at the other MOPS events, I linger to answer, to hug, and to offer encouragement).  It is difficult to describe that you could feel like you were catching-up with old friends whom you haven’t seen in a while when I was talking to strangers, but in God’s family the bonds grow strongly and quickly.  We have a common Father, and we can sometimes skip over the small talk.

Then came the question that caused my knees to buckle.  “You will let us know when we can pick up a copy of that book, right?” Followed by, “Please make sure that we can get a copy easily – this is a small town after all.” When I looked around the room every face was now smiling and nodding.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

As if on cue, immediately following my talk, my cell phone rang.  The caller was the other person who could give these talks if he at all cared to speak in front of others – he does not – but his perspective would be equally life changing.  My sweet husband waited patiently, timing when to call and ask, “So how did it go?”

I told him about the wonderful food, the engaged audience of mommas, meeting their adorable babes, the gift of love they gave me . . .

and then,  I burst into tears.

I could hear in his voice concern.  He knows the story having walked alongside me each step of the way.  Was I crying because it was such a hard topic? Was I crying because I once again went back and relived it? What brought on the torrential downpour of salinated drops?

It took me a few moments before I could put it into one word.

Joy!

Joy? I could tell from his voice that he had bigger concerns like had I lost my mind.

You know when God tells us that he wants – NO!  he YEARNS – to give us the desires of our hearts, He MEANS IT.  That day I knew what that felt like.  Every synapse in my brain, every cell in my body, and every stirring of my soul was alive with God’s message for my life.

He allowed my faux pas to be used in a way that spoke loudly and clearly to my heart.  I knew from early on that God does not give void to those whom he loves, and I knew that some way somehow God was going to use the pain of our lives’ stories to help others.   How else would any of this make sense?

I knew never that it would come in the form of my desire to be a blessing to others.  I never knew how deeply I needed the affirmations of strangers (now sisters) to tell me that God wants my (well, our) book and ministry to touch the lives of others.

I sat in my van, sobbing, confessing to my husband that flood gates to my heart had been opened – because even I didn’t know if I would ever truly be able to cry tears of joy again.

It was an amazing feeling!

 

 

Adding purple to my color wheel

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Yesterday I alluded to a time where I had a really bad start to a project.  One summer while travelling back to my childhood home, I asked one of my two grandmothers to teach me to crochet.  I had just started knitting, and everyone remarked that crocheting was so much easier, implying that I should have started there.   Both of my grandmothers are talented when it comes to cooking, sewing, crocheting, and quilting.  Nanny dabbled in just about every craft imaginable and was an amazing florist, and Mama was a professional seamstress who now crochets to keep her hands busy.  The amazing thing is that both share the same birthday (albeit 5 years apart) – today.

One is celebrating her first birthday surrounded by loved ones in heaven, and the other celebrates 89 young years.  This baby afghan started six years ago almost never came to fruition.  Following the passing of Nanny in December, I just couldn’t let it lie unfinished.

When I started the project, I was visiting at Mama’s house, and asked her to teach me to crochet.  A quick trip to the Mecca of the South provided tutor and pupil with the needed supplies.  I don’t know what in the world possessed me to buy purple yarn – because it was and still is my least favorite color.  (Sorry to my Minnesota neighbors, Vikings colors and all.)

While my grandmothers are equally special in my heart, they couldn’t be any more different.  One is just a plain old purple girl, and the other is definitely a mauve maven. As different as they are, they share a love of the color purple.  Maybe their shared love is what guided that yarn purchase, but other than to make a Vikings scarf, I have never had much interest in purple yarn since.

When we sat down to start our lesson, I tried as hard as I could but didn’t find it easy or enjoyable.  This isn’t a condemnation of the teacher, because she was as patient as Job.  No matter what I did, my motor muscle memory was still in training for two needles – not one hook.  I completed maybe 2 or 3 inches of the afghan before it was time to load up the minivan with suitcases, coolers, and oh yes, kiddos to head on down to Florida.

At Nanny’s house, she critiqued the work and gushed about the color.  She wanted to see how many stitches Mama suggested to create the ripple pattern.  She, too, offered encouragement, but even her tutelage really wasn’t getting me anywhere.  At this point, five inches total were done.

One not to give in too quickly, I took the whole works on a 4-H trip, working while we traversed by Amtrak from Minnesota to New York.  After that trip, the whole kit and caboodle (all seven inches) went in the recesses of the craft buckets, not to be seen again until this last December.

Like a beacon from a lighthouse providing hope and guidance to wayward sailors, the afghan became a vestige of hope for a brokenhearted granddaughter, one who would never this side of heaven be able to work collectively with both of them again.  After tackling the Granny squares mentioned yesterday, I was equipped with more confidence and ready to complete the long forgotten baby blanket.

The resurgence of new found interest was not without problems.  Thankfully, I could phone a friend (Mama) and get a few more tidbits of instruction.  Also, when you start a project six  years earlier, most likely dye lots have changed on the yarn.  So rather than one seamless project it became a tribute to all things purple in memory of Nanny and in honor of Mama.

nanny blanket 3

One evening as I was close to finishing the afghan, my sweet little Clo climbed up in my lap and asked the most beautiful question.

“Momma, who is going to get this blanket?”

My response was one of uncertainty.  Her cherubic face and inquiry brought me to tears.

“Since I love purple, I have been thinking.  Someday, I am going to have a little girl of my own.  Could we save this afghan for her?”

The snuggled up view.

The snuggled up view.

With tears streaming down my face, I agreed to that request, knowing in my heart when I meet this future granddaughter I am going to tell her all about her great-great- grandmothers and how amazingly colorful they both were, in the life of girl who needed just a little more purple.

Happy 84th Birthday in Heaven, Nanny! Happy 89th Birthday in Alabama, Mama!

One tough girl

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erin and nannyDear Erin –

Today is your big day!  (Not that we could forget since you provide us with exuberant reminders a few hundred times in June.)  But it wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t, because that is you – our vibrant and energetic girl.  I so clearly remember the day we met as your birth story is one that we will never forget.

Grandma, Granpa Junior, and Nanny all drove up to be here; so, we had a house full of love when we left for the hospital that day. Not one to sit around, Granpa organized the boys to help him with setting the footings for the deck; so, if you didn’t know this, the sliding door and deck are the same age as you are.

Most of the day at the hospital was pretty much the same as the boys’ stories – a lot of waiting.  Nanny arrived at the hospital fairly early because she did not want to miss out on being the first to meet you – which was, of course, like her.  At the same time we were at labor and delivery, our family nurse was having surgery.  I overheard her talking in the hallway, and that was my first sign that something was not going quite right.

“This is her third baby. . . this shouldn’t be taking so long. What is going on?”

Neither she nor anyone else knew that I could hear her words, but since everything seemed normal I didn’t worry.  A friend from Daddy’s work asked to be in on the delivery because despite being a three time momma herself, she had never witnessed the miracle of birth.  Her request turned out to be a divine intervention.  When it appeared that it was close to “game time”, we called her to come to the hospital.

This is when things start to change.  Suddenly a nurse comes rushing in and says, “We need to get her on her side NOW!!!”  Looking back, we remembered another nurse quietly slipped into the room and stood silent sentry between our eyesight and the monitors.  The reason:  you no longer had a heartbeat, and they all knew something was terribly wrong.

An oxygen mask, severe pain, and being held by nurses, Daddy, and our friend in a contortionist position, my mind was reeling with what was happening.  Then the words that made the room go quiet were uttered by our normally cool and calm doctor.  (Keep in mind: he and Daddy watched golf during Sawyer’s big entrance into the world)

“Oh dear God, I see the face! The pushing is crushing the baby’s heart.”

While no one said It aloud, the race to save your life was now on.

You entered the world. In one swift motion, the cord was cut and the doctor scooped you up and ran with you.  Someone announced, “It’s a girl.” The wall of nurses surrounding the doctor, keeping what was going on out of our line of sight.

No cry. No gasp of air. No first genteel introductions to our new daughter.

First APGAR: 0

Questions come falling out of my wearied mind and body.  I could see the equipment they are using without being told what they are doing.  Is she breathing? Did she aspirate meconium? What is going on?

Second APGAR: 1

In what felt like eternity, we finally hear you cry.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The tiny girl who we have later learned has the will to push through anything proved in the first ten minutes of life that she was a fighter.  We only held you for a few moments, during which time Nanny was so proud to meet you. That bond between great-grandmother and great-granddaughter was one that never waivered from that moment on.  You were always her special girl.

Our introductions were short lived because you were promptly escorted to respiratory intensive care where you stayed for the next four days.  Grandma, Granpa, and the boys had to first “meet” you through the glass.

It was the scariest moment of our lives.  We didn’t get to hold you, only your hand, because you couldn’t breathe on your own.  We didn’t get to feed you – tubes and machines took the place of our snuggles.  And we played a waiting game to see if your lungs would be able to do it alone,  despite your rough start.

But you showed everyone at Day 4 that you were and forever will be –  one tough cookie.  They decided that you could go home (as long as we didn’t leave town because they were certain that you would have to come back).  You didn’t!

The counseling provided to us said that you might struggle with lots of things – especially reaching developmental milestones and academic learning later on.  Neither of which proved to be true! They just didn’t know what us Stevens are made of – a faith that doesn’t give up and a vocabulary that doesn’t include quit.

You showed that despite all the studies and statistics for going that long without oxygen – you were (and are) extraordinarily awesome!  Having two big brothers, you just never knew you were once a fragile baby, fighting to breathe.  You were their constant shadow, and you would prove time and again that you wanted to be big like them.  Nothing ever stopped you – and we are so glad that God gave us you.

Happy 14th Birthday Erin!  We love you like crazy! Momma

PS – You know how you have on more than one occasion told us that you have Daddy wrapped right around your finger.  It’s true, and I have proof!  On Day 4, when we were able to leave the hospital, a nurse was cutting off all your hospital identifications, and she accidentally sliced your pinky finger with a scissors.  It was the first time that I ever saw your Daddy want to smack someone.  With everything you had been through, it was too much for him. He fumed for days that his precious baby girl’s finger had been cut – every fiber of his being was offended.  That tiny, wounded pinky finger has held him captive ever since.  Good luck to any boy who ever wishes to hold that finger!

18 years of dreams

4 Replies

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