The Empty Chair

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Photo by Stefan Bucher

After a somewhat harrowing drive, I arrived a few evenings ago in the college town I hold dear in my heart.  The next day started a new journey for me as I had an official (pinch me) book signing and talks.  I walked the hallowed halls and shared with the current scholars and community members about my journey to become an author.  Although achieving a new found passion is as idyllic as it sounds. Trust me, the road of my dreams of becoming an author was paved with the sadness and tears of the greatest heartbreaks in my life.

This was illuminated for me as I stood in line at the post office last Saturday waiting to ship a large order of books to my uncle who behind Mom and Daddy is probably my biggest fan.  Like Rick Bragg says, “Your first critics should definitely be ones you have in your pocket.”  But while I stood in the long line (yes that happens in small towns) proud of my accomplishment, I suddenly realized the gentle soul who entered in behind me belongs to a friend who had recently endured the loss of a son.

My friend, who is one of the most amazing teachers I have ever met, was the same one for whom I sent many little prayers on Thanksgiving Day asking God to wrap him and his family, another set of dear friends, and the families of the Chattanooga bus crash tightly as they dealt with the first of the holidays without their precious children.

And there he was.  The man I had prayed for.

Those that know me personally know exactly the first thing that came out of my mouth.

Can I give you a hug?

We shared the small talk of the grieving that only the bereaved truly understand.  I was blessed to be in his presence because we acknowledged the unique journey of grief and how it comes with its own blessings and curses and blessings that feel like burdens.  I agreed that I don’t subscribe to the sentiment that had been shared with their family that “it” gets better with time. I shared that for me the all the firsts (birthday, Christmas) were hard, but the seconds and the understanding there would always be an empty chair were intensely more difficult. In the conversation, I shared how much I had prayed for his family for the first Thanksgiving without their son and brother.  And he imparted his own wisdom regarding loss.  His words touched me deeply and helped me to process this bittersweet feeling with which I have been struggling for the last week.

Pride and sadness had co-existed, intermingling with every beat of my heart all week.

From the moment my book was released, I was elated that the stories God placed on my heart would be able to help others who are grieving or to assist those who want to comfort those who have experienced great loss.  And lest we forget, the writing of this book was a part of my personal mending of the holes which will be my lifelong scars.

But please don’t misunderstand that I have never forgotten that the reason this book exists is that my son had to die for me to speak grief fluently.  It is the one literacy skill that I wish I had never developed. Every time I share (even though I know I am helping others), I have to relive the thing that I thought would kill me.  It is a delicate tightrope balance to revisit the pain of yesterday’s memories while remembering the hope that carried us through those darkest days.

With the holiday season upon us, existing (and I mean that in every nuisance of the word) are those among us who will attempt to celebrate for the first time with an empty chair. There also those like me who cannot, simply cannot, remove the extra chair from the table because it seems disloyal, and then there are those who want to take that same chair and smash it into a million pieces.  The pain is real and universal and yet unique to the bearer.  It is debilitating and exhausting.

Be kind and gentle to grieving people always . . . but especially during the holiday season.

As for me, with God’s strength, I am going to keep on acknowledging my empty chair and my broken heart that has been supported and, at times, filled with the incredibly amazing, wonderful, grace-filled, completely undeserved, and restorative hope that has come from family, friends, and strangers alike.  Although it hurts, I will keep telling my story about our boy and his empty chair and God’s enduring faithfulness as long as our story continues to touch the hearts of others.

 

 

What the redbird means to me

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Perhaps it was the perfect storm of emotions that left me feeling elated one minute and deeply grieved the next on Sunday, which happened to be my birthday.  I was happy to celebrate with friends and family and was ecstatic that my book is published as I had a book signing in church earlier that day.  But perhaps the sharing of the story of my life and how grief has created its scars left my heart aching for the boy who can no longer be here to give those sneaky come from behind bear hugs.

My book is hopeful and uplifting, but the education of love through loss centers on our son dying at only twelve years old.

I miss him. 

For life’s celebrations, there will always be the empty chair.  On that day, I was riding the high of friends loving my book, but my heart trembled with sadness still because no phone call from college would come from the boy gone too soon.

I’ve been asked a few times about the title of the book – the redbird sings the song of hope: and other stories of love through loss and why I chose that title.  Simply put, the redbird is our love note from God. I am not trying to be cheeky, but the rest of the story is in the book.

But I do know the redbird and a friend helped wipe away the tears of longing of what will never be on Sunday night.

To start the story right, here are two things you must know:

1). I love birds.

2). I have never met a stranger.

Many years ago, a dear friend asked if a friend of hers could come to my house to photograph cardinals.  In one text message her friend (whom I had never met) became my friend.  Bill had fallen on some hard times and he like me discovered solace in the winged friends of God’s creation.  From the moment I met Bill I adored him.  He was genuine, sincere, and oh so real.  I love people who have endured life’s scars and are willing to share them with the world. These are the people who embody hope and I admire them. They give me strength to take the next step and on some days to get out of bed. Our littlest thought he was the greatest guy ever because he has many tattoos and a kind heart and she was enamored with his ink and his realness.

Bill was welcome at our home, or more importantly for his career as a photographer, our backyard any time.  There would be times, he would quietly come and park on the street then set up to photograph the birds in our backyard.  His presence became a staple, and when the timing was right we would quietly ask if he would like to stay for supper. Those were blessed days of hearts intertwining – especially over the redbird  he was so hoping to photograph.

We have remained friends and despite his moving a couple hours away, we stay in contact.  A message here or there and an occasional in person meeting always leaves me wishing for more time.

And yet it was time or rather timing that filled my heart with a birthday greeting that seemed divinely appointed.

Sunday evening, I received a message from Bill not realizing it was my birthday. He sent me a sweet message, remembering the times spent in our backyard, with two of his pictures attached.  My tear filled response thanked him for sending what appeared to be birthday greetings straight from heaven.

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Both photos used with permission from Bill Van der Hagen

His response filled my heart with such hope and such love. Through tear filled eyes, I told him that he was the messenger of Reed’s birthday greetings for me.

Wow! Happy birthday! Crazy! I walked around for 4 hours with a friend at sunrise and we didn’t get any photos then he left and within 5 minutes the male cardinal was literally sitting 15 feet from me and never left. Closest and most patient they have ever been, the female perched as seen in this photo at about 20 feet.  I knew there had to be a reason for their friendly demeanor this morning.

My friend, Bill, reached out because he was remembering a lovely time in our lives we shared, but I believe that God divinely orchestrated that birding moment.  He put the right person in the right place at the right time and then he stirred my friend’s heart at exactly the right moment to send me a message I so desperately needed as I rode the roller-coaster of joy and sadness.  It was the greatest birthday present ever.

As I write this, my heart is again reeling after learning of the news of the Chattanooga school bus crash.  While I don’t know the depth of their personal pain, I know what it is like to lose your child and to have your children severely injured on a school bus. In an instant, the world changed forever.

Some might wonder how you can survive a pain so deep that the scars will always be a part of your existence. For me, my answer is a whole lot of faith, a bunch of amazing friends, all kinds of prayers, and one redbird singing the song of hope.

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Note: If you live locally, I have copies of my book I would love to sell and personally sign one for you.  Otherwise, my book about my journey through grief and healing (and the redbird’s part in all that) is available thru Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standing on the shoulders of giants

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Last week, my sweetie and I traveled back in time to the college town where we met.  It was just the two of us travelling the almost three hundred miles (one-way) to the North Dakota prairie and home again that day.  We visited the old Mayville State campus, went to the place of our first date, and visited with some dear, dear friends, including the matron of honor from our wedding.

The first thing that struck me was how we were transformed just pulling into town.  It was if we were lighter, remembering who we were before the hardships of life had crossed our paths.  The next thing I noticed was that while much progress has been made, there are some things that hadn’t changed a bit such as the sandwich we ordered on our first date twenty-five years ago is still on the menu.

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But the thing that made the biggest impact on our visit was just how long love and influence last.

I wish, oh how I dearly wish, the reason for the two of us to take off in the middle of the week was because we need to go back and the tickle the roots of our relationship. Yet, sadly that would not be the truth.  Even though reconnecting with one of my college best friends, picking up where we had last left off, was a beautiful moment, the gathering was due to the passing of her dad, who happened to be our physics professor.  Mr. W was also my science education professor.  Considering how I currently hold the same position at a university across the border, to say he was influential in my life would be an understatement.

The gathering was bittersweet.  The reminiscing was incredible as we laughed about so many stories from our days as science majors and all the studying we did to accomplish top marks.  (Or at least the best marks we could.) More on that in a bit.  Yet the ironic sadness of the last two times we have been together were because we lost someone dear (my son and her dad) was not lost on me.

Yet rather than lay low in the valley, I want to remember and in the remembering honor the man who really shaped my future as a science teacher.  Attending a tiny university was one of the best decisions I ever made, and one that I have never regretted.  One of the benefits (of which there were many) was the small class sizes and the opportunity to develop relationships with the professors.

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Mr W was a dandy!  He had a great sense of humor and a penchant for the dramatic at times.  He held incredibly high standards and he never expected we were capable of anything but meeting them.  He also had an understanding of the forward march of education and the jobs we future science teachers would be facing.

Let’s face it. Physics is tough stuff. Mr W always knew that we would encounter a few challenges, and he would answer our questions with a humorous, “Well, what in the cat hair?” Then, he would roll up his sleeves and model his thinking so that we could all understand how to dissect a problem like a physicist. But more importantly, his methods never diminished the struggle and he always made us feel like he was a co-partner in learning.

As for his standards, his was the first class in which I earned a B in college.  But standing firm in his high standards meant that he believed I was capable of so much more than I dreamed and he held me and my classmates accountable to what he saw in each of us.  Of course, I have jokingly shared the story of the physics final where I needed a 42 out of a 40 to earn an A in the course.  His exam was my first real act of rebellion in all my schooling (unless you count the time a handful of classmates and I sang “Let my people go” in the lunchroom when our high school didn’t close with an impending hurricane).  The physics tests were always full of choices (pick a certain number of 2 point multiple choice problems and a certain number of 10 point constructed response problems from a wide sample).  I needed only a 2 out of a 40 for a B.  I walked in answered two multiple choice questions, got up, handed in my test paper, and walked out.  The look on Mr. W’s face was priceless.  It wasn’t that I was defeated, but rather an acknowledgement of the other two tests I had that week – Calculus IV and Organic Chemistry.  If Mr W was a betting man, he would have chuckled at my gamble.

But probably the biggest impact was all the ways he influenced my future teaching practice. From the way he made every learner feel as they were the most important person in the room to his always infectious smile and “Hi-ya” greeting, his relationship building methods were lasting.  His ability to look at a classroom full of eager learners and polish us until we shined by always providing challenging and rigorous material while simultaneously providing support was legendary.  He had a character that appeared in his problems, Johnny Kilowatt and ask any of my former junior or senior high science students, Johnny Cheapskate taught us all a lot about chemistry and physics.  I may even squeeze a “What in the cat hair?” every now and again too.

See – that it is the impact of a genuinely amazing teacher.  It would be hard for me to separate my practice from the incredible teachers who invested their very best time and energy in me.  As the wife of another one of my favorite professors offered at Mr. W’s service, we who loved him as our teacher “stand on the shoulders of giants”.

I am so deeply saddened by his passing, but I am thankful for a small gesture that I began practicing shortly after graduating.  I went back to the college and personally thanked each one of the giants upon whose shoulders I stand.  My gratitude was met with hugs, tears, and yes, one ubiquitous “Hi-ya”, but seeing the heartfelt response to my admiration is something I will never forget.

Even in his passing, I took one last time to say thanks.  I could think of no better goodbye than to say that he personally made a huge difference in my life.

We all have the opportunity to offer a small act of great love.   This week is National Education Week.  Think back to the teachers who helped shape you or who truly made a difference in your life.  Take the time to send a short message of thankfulness.  If you have children in school, ask them to do the same.

Even though I earned a B in his course, his lasting legacy earned an A in my heart and I believe teachers are doing the same thing every day in the lives of millions of students.

Take time to thank a teacher.

I’m pretty sure Mr W would be proud if we did.

 

 

Greater than . . . less than

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Today is Election Day 2016.  This day has many people worried about its outcome and I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge I am one of them.  But a simple act of kindness reminded me that no matter who is elected into office tonight, there is one thing that will remain the same.

God is still God. He is still the author of authority and the leader of leadership.

No matter who your chosen candidate is, there are two things that God has called us to do.

Love and well, yes, love.

You might be thinking that is the same thing twice and you would be most definitely correct.  Much of the discord of this election has illuminated there are many people in the greatest country in the world who feel that their voice isn’t being heard (and this goes for both sides of the political divide).

After seeing these videos posted on a friends wall, for the last few days I have been watching “The Messy Truth” episodes by Van Jones (http://www.vanjones.net/the_messy_truth) where he sits down with real folks in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania from all political inclinations to see why we can’t do just that: sit down and have a civil discussion. The final episode is powerful when one of the young men talks about the things that move him and the way he wants to change the world.  While watching this episode I was reminded of God’s call to love the least of these.

I think Jesus understood, long before Lady Liberty proclaimed:

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

that the world would always need someone to champion the least among us. Less than in the world’s eyes, but no so, in Jesus’.  I think He also knew that it would be unlikely for the political leaders of this world to be the ones to do that.  While your vote might have power, your actions and your prayers have much more.  Choose to love, especially those without a voice.  Your vote can be that voice, but more importantly, show up and be the light in their world. And don’t stop showing up.

Last Wednesday night, I was wrapped up in my own world of grading papers for my students and putting finishing touches on one for my classes.  Other than the TV on for background noise, I was oblivious to the world around me.  My teenager, on her way out to our church, noticed a little clear bag containing a battery and note hanging from our front door (which to tell you how engrossed I was in my tasks that door is 20 feet from where I was studying and I never heard a thing).  The care package arrived from the church around the block (which is not our church home).

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After reading the card, our Sister was blown away.  She talked about this random act of kindness for days.  She and I were touched by the church’s simple token embodying love thy neighbor.  It was a powerful reminder that indeed we are called to love. While we know many church members there, our political leanings had nothing to do with which house they chose.  Nope.  They chose us all, offering love without question and without conditions.

All of these thoughts were swirling around in my head last evening when – you guessed it – more grading and more paper writing was going on.  And it reminded me of just how important today is.  Oh, it isn’t the election that deems its value nor is it who is elected into office.

Rather the most significant part of today is our ability to love. 

Don’t get me wrong, I will vote and I will take my children with me to vote, because that right is one we should never take for granted.  But at the end of the day, no matter the outcome of any voting, we are still called to love and to shine our lights brightly in this world.

Choose love. Vote for love – not in the voting booth but in our hearts and our actions.  Let love be your guiding force in disagreements. Love the least of these. Love your neighbor. Use the emotions this election has stirred up to be love to someone else. Listen with love to those who differ in opinion from ours.  Let the first thing others see by our love. As my young Jedi’s would say, “Let LOVE be your FORCE”. The greatest of these is love.

Back to that call to love and to love. When asked to define the greatest commandment, Jesus answered to love God and to love our neighbors.  There it is the double whammy, one-two punch: love and love.

Behind the little curtain, we have the ability to alter elections, but behind the cloak of love, we have the power to change the world.

 

Teenagers & last minute DIY’s

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Lately, I have noticed a Facebook post being shared over and over.  The basic gist of the post cautions about teenagers coming to your home Trick-or-Treating.

Before I go any farther, let’s get one thing straight.  If Halloween isn’t your thing, that is okay.  We all have our things and I won’t judge you for yours, and please don’t judge me for mine. And if you must know, I don’t do ketchup on hot dogs. Miracle Whip is like my Kryptonite. And when I ask for extra, extra ice in my drink in the drive-thru, I am expecting the straw to hit a cube on the way in. Like, I said, we’ve all got our thing.

Okay, back to the point. On Halloween, some teens are greeted with a “Aren’t you a little old to be doing this?” The author of that post, whomever you are, I applaud you, because I agree what else would you rather they be doing?  I love when teens dress up and stop by for three reasons:

  • They still have a sense of imagination and wonder. If they aren’t “too cool” to Trick-or-Treat, then they are just about perfect in my book, especially if they are bringing younger children out and about.
  • Like the author purports, there are about a million other things that they could be doing in the dark and they aren’t. We should celebrate this. They are choosing to dress up and still participate in childhood (which I seriously think is becoming an endangered species in this country).  And for this choice – Good. For. Them.
  • And maybe I am a bit selfish on this last reason, but it is always some quiet teenager that pulls me aside and whispers, “I really like what you did with the shoes”.

That last one melts my heart every time.  I am much older than the costumed guest, but a secret little corner of my heart screams, “You get me!  You are my kind of people.  Thank you for noticing.”  Only the last line of that ever gets uttered aloud.

The shoes.  Oh, the shoes! They are so much fun and a very quick and easy DIY.

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Here is what you need to wow the teenagers in your neighborhood and transport your heart back to Kansas teenage-dom.

Supplies needed:

1 pair of ladies pumps (I purchased these for $3 at the thrift store.  They were originally tan and I didn’t think to take a before picture. Haven’t quite released my inner Martha Stewart yet.)

1 bottle of Modge Podge

1 paint brush

1 jar of red glitter (I am warning you I have a love-hate relationship with glitter.  I love all things bling, but that stuff is the bane of my existence.  I once did a glitter project with my 2nd graders and I swear that Pompeii’s eruption was less painful.  Every day for a month after that, I looked like I had a nose piercing.  Bane. Of. My. Existence, unless of course, you need a little shimmer. Not nose ring shimmer, but you get the point.)

1 pair of striped socks (Tights would work well here too. I used long socks.)

Some newspaper.

Creation Station:  (Okay, I took a little liberty there.  I used the center island in my kitchen but dubbed it a fancy name for the moment. Hey some days it is a science center because the people around here do not know how to rinse oatmeal out of a bowl.  Yeah. Oatmeal sticks to your ribs and I have proof because it becomes like cement in your unrinsed bowl.)

The steps to this DIY are considerably simpler than removing that oatmeal.

Use the paint brush to brush on liberal amounts of Modge Podge in small sections of the shoes.  I placed the shoes in a rimmed cookie sheet to contain some of that glitter eruption.  Sprinkle glitter over the areas coated with Modge Podge and continue until all the areas are covered.  The shoes I mean.  Yes, I know this will also mean the counter and you, but try, for the love of all zucchini, try to keep it contained.

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Allow the blinged shoes dry.  While they are drying, stuff newspaper into the striped socks.  Oh who am I kidding?  Take this time to check your e-mails or social media and enjoy a nice beverage.  Mine was sweet tea until I discovered . . . oh yes, you got it, GLITTER.

Now the last step is fairly easy but does require a little finesse.  Stuff your newspaper filled socks into your shoes and situate the socks and shoes so that your garage door (when shut) appears to have fallen on the Wicked Witch.

DIY – done.  Simply.

Now if teenagers show up to your house, be kind and remember they are still kids.  And just give them the candy, unless of course, you are stocking up for a Netflix binge.  No judgment here – we’ve all got our thing.

 

 

 

 

 

She was her own boss

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Leave it to grief.

Well that and an aptly timed phone call to change things around.

I have been experiencing a bit of a writer’s block.  Wait, that isn’t exactly right either.  I have been doing plenty of writing, just not the kind that appears here.  I began taking courses this summer in pursuit of my dream to earn a doctorate in education.  So I’ve been writing oodles of papers, video critiques, and discussion posts as a graduate student.  Back to campus happened and between lesson plans, emails to my students, and grading assignments, I have been doing plenty of writing as a teacher too.  Then there is that wonderfully amazing thing known as my book (to be released in November) for which I have been doing all kinds of behind the scenes writing with marketing and publicist teams. As excited as I am about my first book, this kind of writing is not fun.

So instead of writer’s block, I guess I have been experiencing blogger’s block.

But leave it to grief and a phone call last night from the dearest of friends to bring me back to the place where I have laid bare my heart.  Journaling on Caringbridge is where this crazy journey to become a writer started, and it was grief (that wretched beast) that taught me my hurts and my ability to share them bring comforts to others.

So am I back and I thank you for your patience.

My corner of the world grew a bit dimmer this weekend as my grandmother, Mama, passed away peacefully in her sleep in her own home.  She was one of the lights of my world and she was the last of my grandparents still alive.  Trust me, I don’t for one minute forget how blessed I am to be into my forties and still have my grandmothers.  My Nannie passed away four years ago and there isn’t a day that I don’t miss her either.

 

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The last day we spent together in June.

 

My friend, Karla, called last night just to check on me.  God bless her because she listened to me cry and laugh and cry while laughing for more than an hour.  She is a true second mile friend, the kind that just keeps on walking when everyone else dropped off at the first mile marker.  I am blessed to have several.

At some point in the conversation, she asked me to remind her how old my Mama (which is pronounced maw-maw) lived to be.  When I said, “ninety-two”, her immediate response was “Wow! And she lived at home essentially on her own all that time.”  That was just the way it was so this didn’t seem all that odd to me.  But what my sweet friend said next is where I started to see the light breaking through my heavy grief fog.

Kan, how many 92 year olds do you know who lived that successfully on their own?  You know, your Mama really got to live as her own boss.

I am sure she knew she had “released the Kraken” because after that statement I burst into laughter.  Having lived through many grief trials of her own, she had to know it was either a weirdly placed grief reaction or a true Southern story coming on.

Thankfully for me it was the latter.

I asked her if I had ever told her the “boss” story.  Even if I had, she let me retell it to her again.

My Mama Cloie loved gospel music.  By loved, I mean LOVED gospel music.  She and her friends and family would travel to gospel singings every chance they got.  Her all-time favorite was the “Dixie Echoes”, but with her Alabama twang it always sounded like the “Dixie Eckels” to my ears.  My mom always says my dad had a few of those language nuances when they met too.  The apple doesn’t fall far in Alabama.

Well a few years back, Mama, some of her cousins, and my Aunt Charlotte (my Daddy’s sister and Mama’s daughter) started attending the Gatlinburg Gathering for a weekend of gospel music and good ol’ fashioned preaching.  One of the cousins, who are closer in age to my Daddy, had a time share up in the mountains and this flock of Cunningham girls would travel to Tennessee for their annual get-away.

In between singings, they would sometimes hit the shops in the mountain town. On one trip, Mama had enough of shopping and told the younger ones to go on ahead; she would just rest on the benches outside the stores on the main street.  Every time, the shoppers would come out the stores, there she would be . . . sitting with another little old man.  As they moved down the strip, the scene replayed itself over and over.  Mama would be on a bench with a different little old man who had grown tired of shopping with his wife.

As the day went on, the cousins and Aunt Charlotte took to teasing her about how “they brought her all the way all to Tennessee for gospel singing and she was more interested in finding a boyfriend.”  True to our family’s style of teasing, the picking continued well up into the evening.  At some point, my Mama became like Popeye and she took all she could stands until she could stands it no more.

She let them all know what she thought of their boyfriend accusations.

Let me tell y’all something.  My Momma and Daddy bossed me for eighteen years.  Then Reed bossed for more than 60 years.  If it is all just the same to you, I’m going to be the boss of Cloie for now. 

Stealing a line from a Reba (who Mama adored too), and I guess she did!

I sincerely wish it wasn’t grief that brought me back here to the place of my roots. (Okay my writing roots because only my hairdresser knows exactly what color my other roots truly are.)  But I promise you that if this story about my grandmother touches you there are plenty more in my heart and definitely some about her and all my crazy people in my book.  And yes, grief gets a mention there too.

So for now I will be writing love notes to her in my prayers while my heart works to live without my “bossy” Mama.

 

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My two Cloie’s – Mama and our youngest child

 

 

 

He’d like to be a Pepper too!

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Every week, I call my college aged son.  I think it goes without saying, but I will say it anyways. I miss him. To play down how much I miss him, I always end the phone call with some snarky bit of wisdom akin to “Sawyer, just in case you didn’t know I have not changed my number.”  Otherwise, I might end the call in tears begging him to come home.  This of course, would be purely for my own benefit and definitely not his, because he is making a life for himself and establishing how he wants to be a powerful force for change in the world.  And while he is much like his paternal grandmother who isn’t much of telephone conversationalist, our chats are brief. Outside of that, when talking with him, I would say he errs on the side of understatement of how much good he has brought to the world so far.

Well, not his momma! I will gladly wear the hyperbole banner . . . because I can. I’m the mom!

There are things on social media that blow me away – like the Olympic moms’ commercials and other inspirational videos, but then there are the ones that make me shake my head. Usually they are in the “Are you sure you realized that you hit post?” category because I wonder what their mothers are thinking when and if they see it.

I know I was in that category last week, when I saw my sister-in-law liked a post on said college boy’s page.  What I read simply took my breath away.

In a really GOOD way.

My son, my version of the Boy Wonder, is vying for a full tuition prize through a contest with the Dr. Pepper/Seven Up Corporation. In the competition, he has to describe how he would change the world.

FIND A CURE TO AD USING PLURIPOTENT STEM CELLS

First and foremost I don’t know what kind of future I can have other than one devoted to helping others. When I was a young kid I was severely injured and spent many months in the hospital. This experience has given me the drive to devote my life to using medicine to help improve the lives of others. Specifically by researching ways to combat AD. ~Sawyer S

MELT. MY. MOMMA. HEART.

I am sure my son was limited on space, but one can never discount his proclivity to understating the story.  So let me fill in the details.

In 2008, three of our four children were riding home on the school bus when the bus was hit.  In the aftermath of the crash, four children died (including our oldest son) and fourteen others were injured.  One of the seriously wounded was our Sawyer.  The crash left him with a head injury, bruised lungs, a lacerated spleen, a shattered left femur, a broken and dislocated right hip, and severe nerve damage.  That year alone he spent twelve weeks in and out of the hospital before he was well enough to attend the last five days of the school year . . . using a wheelchair because he was unable to walk for several years afterwards. He never complained and when they wouldn’t let him play football for the next 3 years, he took up guitar to keep himself busy.  He has endured more than most adults and is still a beacon of positivity.

Prior to the bus crash, we had been adopted, so to speak, by a sweet gentleman and grandpa in our church.  This gentleman designed and made elaborate woodworking creations.  When the Boy Scout Pinewood Derby rolled around, Sawyer asked Grandpa if he would help him and his dad with his car.  Let’s just say, I am not sure who was more proud of that winning car, Sawyer or Grandpa! When the bus crash happened, Grandpa was distraught over how he could help our family and asked his son and daughter-in-law to arrange to pay for the hotel room that we stayed in for the nine days we were there.  In the next year, Grandpa started to slowly fade away from us as Alzheimer’s disease – that cruel and wretched disease stole most, but definitely not all, of the amazingness of the man who loved us as his own. And in the final days, Sawyer never missed a chance to visit him.

So there is the AD piece, but let me tell you about my son.

When he says that he cannot imagine a life not devoted to serving others. This isn’t just lip service.  He means every word.  He hasn’t forgotten a single kindness extended to us or to him specifically since that awful day 8 years ago.  He has used every opportunity to give back and to serve as much as possible (even after having had over 30 surgical procedures since that awful day).  I know I’m his mom, but I would be following in his footsteps, if I didn’t use the word inspirational in the same breath as I use to speak his name. Some of my favorites of his kindnesses are inviting a special needs student to attend the prom with him and his date, writing letters and personally inviting every single responding unit to the bus crash (there were over 30) to attend his graduation, and taking time in the hall ways at school to high-five, hug, or “wrestle” around with elementary students. Once he enamored a whole passel of children at the community gardens so the parents could finish up harvesting.  There sat a big group of children mesmerized by the wonders of my Boy Wonder.

I’m his mom.  I can boast.  But remember I started with he’s not perfect, he doesn’t always call his mother, and I am not sure that elementary teachers enjoyed seeing him in the halls due to the melee that often ensued.

But now you see a piece of his heart and his love for serving others.

Then there is the aptness of the corporation sponsoring this contest.  About a week after the funeral services for our other son, we were trapped in a fog of grief, medical treatments, and generally being overwhelmed.  Add to this the nerve damage that Sawyer endured, we had a young man who writhed in excruciating pain 24 hours a day. Exhausted was the understatement of the century.  Thankfully, we live among amazing friends and neighbors who kept a vigilant watch over how to best help us.  One such evening, a neighbor popped over to check in on us.  She asked numerous times if there was anything she could do – right then – to help us.  What I lack in the trivialization department, I more than make up for in “I can do it myself” pride.  Several times, I assured her that we were fine.  As she got to the door, stepping into her winter boots and parka, she implored one last time, and just as I was about to stop her, my – at the time – little guy spoke up.

I could sure use a Dr. Pepper. 

As Paul Harvey would say, now you know the rest of the story.

And Dr. Pepper he had! I should probably apologize to the truck driver because I think she perhaps hijacked a delivery truck. It was a moment that I have never forgotten.  Of all the things, he could have asked for to bring comfort, it was a Dr. Pepper.

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I am including this picture – just in case he has forgotten what I look like. I am the one in sunglasses.

But in all seriousness, even on his moving back to college day, he proudly wore the shirt from the night he danced all night to support two little boys who require extensive medical care and he hates dancing.

This sweet boy of mine needs your help.  Please go to the link below and vote for him and ask your friends and neighbors and Boy Wonders to vote too. Help him to shine his light and use his potential to truly find a cure for the disease that took away one adopted grandpa so that no one else has to endure that pain.  And like the commercial from my youth used to say, I am pretty sure my son would love to “be a Pepper too!”

http://www.drpeppertuition.com/profile/Sawyer-S-8

 

 

 

 

 

Just don’t.

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Like millions of other Minnesotans and Midwesterners, I spent much of my weekend in tears and when I wasn’t crying, I spent the rest of my time on my knees praying for the family of Jacob Wetterling.  Much like other moments in history, I remember exactly where I was when I learned of his disappearance.  I was a college junior in North Dakota, eating supper with my family.  We prayed then and we pray now for his family. At the time, my sister was just a month shy of her seventh birthday. Around that time a little girl went missing from our neighborhood.  Unlike Jacob’s story, hers had a happy ending.  She, at three years old, decided to ride her tricycle to the Dairy Queen about 8 blocks away.  I stayed behind with the neighborhood kids while the adults formed a search party.  Long before the advent of the cellular era, word finally came back that she was found.  After all the kids had gone to their respective homes, I held my baby sister really tight and made her promise she would never, never, NOT EVER, do something like that.  In her naivete, she responded with I don’t even know how to get to the Dairy Queen. Through my tears, I laughed, but the reality was the carefree days of letting your children play and run about the neighborhood were gone.

Because of the actions of one, the innocence of a child, a family, and an entire region were stolen.  We sang along to the Jacob’s Hope song, we looked at every child’s face hoping he would be Jacob, but mostly we cried and we prayed.  Jacob’s story and his beautiful full-of-life face were burned into our collective psyche.

It would be many years before I would be married and have a son of my own, and through all this time, I have admired the quiet, displayed strength of Jacob’s mom, Patty.  I would shake my head and wonder how she goes on each and every day with such a gigantic hole in her heart.  To me, and I am certain to countless other moms she was the pillar of strength, of which I am equally certain she never wanted to have that label.

Every time a new “break in the case” would occur, I would pray for peace and for answers, knowing both had to be in short supply for the Wetterling family.  At some point in time, Patty’s face to me became as personally iconic as Jacob’s.  She was the face of every mom’s worst nightmare and selfishly, I thanked God that I wasn’t her because I never wanted to walk in her shoes.

This isn’t a message about being careful what you wish for, but I now know what that prayer of thanks looks like on the countenances of other people.  While my story and Patty’s are not at all similar, I know the deep grief of losing a son in tragic circumstances, and I know grief is never comparable.  I know what it is like to be today’s news story, and I know what it is like to have news media camped out on my lawn and at the hospital where my other son was fighting to live. I know what it is like to lose friends because they just can’t stand to think that their children might die too and I know the pain of someone asking “Aren’t you over that yet?”. And I know all the wrong things people say when they are trying to comfort grieving people.

I know the days where if someone told me I was so strong one more time, I was going to punch them because what they don’t see (and probably what we don’t see of Patty’s life) are the days where tears are all I have to offer the world. There are plenty of days where getting out of bed seems like an insurmountable task. But like what I hope for Patty, there are the days I can physically feel the prayers and well wishes sent our way, and I go on.

With a huge hole in my heart and with scars of pain that sear deeply, I go on. We go on.

I am sure Patty saw our news story of four children dying in a school bus crash and thought about us too.  She just strikes me as that kind of mom and dynamo in this world.  And even though, she and I have never met and quite possibly never will, when I was crying or praying this weekend, I had a burning desire to want to protect her from all the things I know are coming her way.  While I cannot do that, nor would I want to disrupt their private grieving, I can do one thing.

That one thing is to be the antithesis to Nike’s “Just Do It” campaign.  My message today is all about don’t.  As the news broke about the possible discovery of sweet Jacob, social media and news media went bonkers. And with each posting and reposting, my heart broke for Jacob, for Patty, for his brother and his friend, for his dad Jerry, for his sisters, and for all the rest of his family.  In my own quiet momma corner of the world, I wanted everyone to just stop saying one word. Closure. Don’t.  Just don’t.

The word was used often after the trial and the conviction of the woman in our story, but let me tell you there was absolutely not one ounce, not even a scintilla of closure.  My son has been gone for 8 ½ years now and I am NEVER going to have closure. Neither are my husband or our kids or families.  Patty and Jerry won’t either.

We will all go on, but this side of heaven, we won’t find this elusive closure.

Just don’t say it. Don’t post it. Just don’t.  The Wetterlings have endured more than what most people could and they have done so with grace, going on to fight to save and protect all of our children.  Let’s not diminish their courage and fortitude with the word closure.

We can close on a house.  We can close the door, literally and figuratively. We close on business deals. But we don’t ever CLOSE on our children.  The love a mother has for children is a love so deep that it doesn’t have an ending.  Ever. Period. Amen.

Closure – Stop saying it. Refrain from posting it. Don’t think it. Don’t utter it. Do not even breathe it around grieving people. Remove it from the vernacular. Don’t. Just don’t.

I know I am not the only one who has cried and prayed for the Wetterlings this weekend.  I also know I am not the only one who has bristled at the flagrant use of that awful word.  I believe a small educational lesson can go a long way to help all grieving people, and I am simply sorry it has to be for Jacob.

Yet, his mother has taught us so much about grace and dignity and hope.  So, even though I will most likely never meet her, I had to smile when I saw her message for us all as her words echoed the message I gave shortly after the bus crash.  I shared a statement that was read on my behalf about the amazingness known as my son, Reed, and asked everyone to go home and hug their children.

As much as I desire for people to “don’t say the word closure”, we can all DO something.  Patty’s message to all of us is something we can and should do for the Wetterlings, but mostly to honor the boy we have all grown to love.

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Photo from KSMSP Fox 9 News

And as for me and my house, we are going to hug the mess out of our kids and believe in the good in the world.

 

 

 

 

Is Sunday School going extinct?

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Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have. ~ Margaret Mead

There’s one in every crowd or in this case, committee.  Leave it to a science teacher who never graduated out of the preschool days of asking why to be the one in this case. I fervently believe and espouse in the college courses where I inspire future science teachers, one of the reasons we have to market science courses to high school learners is because we urged our youngest learners to stop asking so many questions when they were in preschool.  Preschoolers make the best scientists because they still have the it factor, and it meaning a healthy dose of curiosity.

I am not one for sophomoric humor (despite living with boys where  I get a HEALTHY exposure), but I have never graduated out of that preschool sense of awe and wonder regarding God’s creation and definitely not now, nor anytime – ever –  quit asking questions of how the world works. This questioning (while not the Spanish inquisition) can, at times, exasperate those around me.

I am a thinker and a dreamer, spending much time reflecting (and as I like to call it ruminating) over thoughts.  If I were to describe myself, I would tell you that God made me a BIG IDEAS kind of girl.  When in his word He tells us to take delight in Him and He will give us the desires of our hearts, I take that to heart (and I am not trying to be pun-ny). I DREAM big and have ceaseless fascinations.

Currently I am serving an advisory role in my church’s Christian Education committee and we, too, are experiencing what countless other churches are – a decline in Sunday school enrollment.  Our church conducted a survey asking all kinds of questions about people’s thoughts about Sunday school and small groups as those serve a similar function in our church.  The results provided some useful data for this science education teacher’s mind, but there was one nagging question that my ruminations could not let go and was the one question we didn’t ask.

And like that, I became a one woman crusader on a quest to uncover answers.  How can I make an informed decision to go forward if I don’t know why people are making the decision not to attend?  So what would any wannabe social scientist and anthropologist do in the modern world? Yep, you guessed it! She uses social media to poll her friends.  About now, Margaret Mead might be rolling over in her grave.

I didn’t mean this as a quantitative analysis, but rather as a snapshot of today.  I was blown away by the responses I received, but more so by the raw honesty from not only my community but from others in communities far away as well.  Some of the answers moved me to tears and reminded me that we can never as a church community forget that just because the doors of the church are open that not everyone feels welcome.

Here is a snippet of the responses thus far: (SS = Sunday School and SG = small group)

We are slow starters. Don’t always make it to church.

My child says he learns more at AWANA and it is much more fun than SS.

My kids learn more at AWANA and dread SS.

Live too far out to come back into town for SG.

2 hours is a long time to sit for little ones on Sunday morning.

School/sports activities.

Too much on the plate/agenda.

Live too far out.  SS offering would have to be something really good for me to come.

Cannot hear well and miss out on the conversations in the SS class.

Doesn’t read well and is terrified to be called on to read in the SS class.

Don’t know the Bible well enough to attend with others who know more.

Not making SS a priority.

Hates that sports occur on Sundays but feel that child would not be able to play if they didn’t participate.

SS is boring. (Adults & kids responed)

Very difficult choice for sports families.

Sunday morning is the only time my family can sit down together and interact.

If parents don’t make it a priority, it will never be for the kids.

Do not see the value in SS because it is rare to find devoted teachers rather ones going through the motions.

Just plain worn out after a tough work week.

Feel guilty just dropping off kids for SS (and not staying). Easier for all to stay home.

Kids went up until jr high and then dreaded SS so much I quit fighting them on it.

Changes in SS approaches didn’t work for us.

Treats are always good! But that only works for so long.

Wed night education is great, but for high schoolers it is tough to sit another hour after sitting in school all day.

Don’t know anyone there. SS is clique-y.

Disappointment in the offerings for studies in SS.

Feel awful when we miss a few weeks and are behind on the study.

I am all for transparency and try to model it in every leadership role I have including home, work, volunteering, and church family.  The last answer in the ones above is mine. We are a sports family and sometimes we have to miss because of a sporting event where my children are playing.  I get overwhelmed when I get behind in anything and even though I don’t believe Jesus would care, I don’t like feeling overwhelmed when I walk in.  Growing up, Sunday School was one of my most favorite places in the world to be.  We were at the church about every time the door was opened.  In fact on a recent trip to tour the South of my childhood, I went to visit all my old churches. Those old buildings were like beacons calling me home.  What I wonder now is if the Sunday School of my childhood is not relevant to my world today,  then what do we do? How does the church of today stay relevant while trying to reach people where they are and still offer education?

While my methods were not, at all, scientific, my heart is in a place that truly wants to make a difference.  Now that I have scratched the surface of why we aren’t gathering together, my next step will be to find out what people want out of a church (which to me means family) without “diluting the gospel”.  No matter what that looks like, I will continue to go out to love and serve others.

I think that is what Jesus would have wanted all along.

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One of the churches of my childhood.  Britt David Baptist in Columbus, GA. 

Please join the conversation by answering the question: If your church has Sunday School (or small group) AND you don’t attend, what is your reason for not participating? Feel free to reply here or to message me at mominmn@hotmail.com if you don’t want others to see your thoughts. Your thoughts will really help me to help others.

Olympic sized memories

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It may take a while before I settle back into the normal rhythms of life on the heels of the two weeks spent watching the Rio Olympics.  Every day found me tuned to the television to cheer on the American delegation and if they weren’t participating, to root for the underdog. I have been glued to Olympic viewing size Nadia Comaneci wowed the world in gymnastics by scoring a perfect 10 and in the same year but during the winter games when Dorothy Hammill spun magic on a sheet of ice.  I have watched every Olympic competition since those days of my childhood.

I have seen them all.  Mary Lou Retton, Shaun White, Flo Jo, the Miracle on Ice team, Greg Louganis, Mia Hamm, Serena Williams, Kerry Walsh Jennings, and Michael Phelps to name a few.  I have cried tears of joy watching the triumphs and tears of sadness over devastating losses.  Mouth agape at the records being shattered and at Olympians defending their titles from previous games, I have soaked in everything that a television viewer can while watching the coverage from afar.

But of all the Olympic moments I have seen, the one that will forever hold its special place in my heart is the Summer Games of 2004.  This was the summer that a rite of passage was passed from mother to son and it is one etched deep in the memories of my soul.

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Reed was nine years old and ready to start staying up a little bit later. Watching the games return to their roots in Athens created the perfect atmosphere to introduce to my son my secret passion for Olympic viewing.  After the other kiddos were fast asleep, tucked into bed much earlier, he would come and nestle in next to me while we cheered on the American team. It was during these games that we discovered more than just I could feel the little girl God was knitting together in my womb. Simultaneously glued to the T.V., Reed would lay with one hand on my belly to feel his baby sister kick away, swimming in her own in utero version of the games and the other hand would be busily cheering on his team.

Reed was a bigger fan than I could have ever imagined.  The son of a soldier, he defined what it was to be a patriotic fan of your home country.  The thing about Reed’s viewing was that he forgot he was in a tiny bedroom in southwestern Minnesota and he would cheer and yell and wipe away a tear or two as if he was in the Greek coliseums and arenas and natatoriums. Our pillows would shield his eyes if he felt the excitement was too overwhelming and at times a full out face plant into the mattress was the only way to calm his nerves or effervescent enthusiasm.

Wrapped up in a favorite quilt we would stay up way past his bedtime.  While his siblings had been out for hours, for one summer the delectable taste of growing up and having new freedoms was tantalizing.

Reed’s fanom knew know bounds, and after watching Michael Phelps commanding performance he convinced me to help him create a costume honoring his favorite Olympian.  That Halloween, we did and Reed was so proud to emulate the athlete that wowed his imagination and stirred his heart. The crazy thing is that Reed was a super fan long before the repeat performances in Beijing, London and most recently Rio.

 

Perhaps like many things in life, Reed knew that Phelps was destined for greatness long before anyone else.  Sure Michael has had his ups and downs in life (Who hasn’t?), but I have to believe that Reed would have loved him anyway.  Unlike the way many Christians view the world, Reed’s way of seeing people was through a lens of viewing them as perfectly human in need of Jesus.  Stumble and fall, no judgment would have come from him, rather a love would have emanated saying “pick yourself up and learn from this”.  Knowing that is exactly what Michael Phelps did following the London games would have caused my redheaded wonder to beam with pride. To him, that would be the definition of greatness – someone who overcame a challenge and tackled it head on.  Of course, a little help from the man above didn’t hurt at all.

So while the rest of the world joined me in watching the Olympics, I don’t think anyone viewed the same way I did.  Wrapped up in a quilt, I carried the memories of a boy who died in 2008 months before the Beijing games  began.  Watching Michael Phelps wrap up an amazing career in perhaps his final Olympic performance, I envisioned that same little guy jumping up and down on the bed hooting and hollering for his favorite athlete one last time. The games became more than the greatest athletic competition in the world, they were a beloved trip down memory lane.

While my efforts didn’t earn any gold medals, I still believe they would have made Reed proud.