Monthly Archives: June 2013

I saw God at the prom

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 7^th 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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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

The Year of Crochet

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At some Chinese restaurants, you can spend your time while waiting analyzing which animal and corresponding attributes from the Chinese zodiac (Shēngxiào) align according to your birth year. Recently, I giggled at myself for creating my own “Year of Crafts” calendar. No purported benefits have been found, other than self-satisfaction and a methodology to be a gift bearer (0ne of my very favorite things to do). I have a lifelong goal of learning a new skill each year. My list of goals includes other non-creative endeavors, but thus far, my attention has been focused on crafts. My concerted efforts to this end began at our family goals and dreams meeting on New Year’s 2007.

Each year after watching the final sunset of the year, we put to pen and paper (or sometimes other mediums), a list of our dreams for that year. In my recollections, this is the first time that I audibly announced that I was going to try to learn a new skill annually.

2007 – The Year of Knitting

2008 – The Year of Quilting

2009 – The Year of the Digital Canvas (wall art)

2010 – The Year of Digital Storybook

2011 – The Year of Machine Embroidery

2012 – The Year of Crochet

My bemusement arose when I realized that each year most of my gifts had something to do with the new skill at hand, (pun intended this time). I love creating things with my hands, especially when it is meant to be a gift. With each stitch or mouse stroke, I think about the person who will be the final recipient from my heart and my hands.

So it was with the Year of Crochet (which may be special enough to warrant a repeat performance on the “Year of Crafts” cycle). I began a project back in October during some free time with full intention of blessing the newest upcoming arrival to our family tree. Of course, when I began the project she was still being knit together in her momma’s womb (Psalm 139:13).

Since I had never crocheted before (other than one really bad attempt to learn during the Year of Knitting), I went to the mecca of teachers (youtube) to learn how to make Granny Squares – those quaint Americana favorites that I have loved my whole life. I found a teacher that I enjoyed, and she didn’t mind if I had to rewind and play her over and over until I got the technique just right. I will admit that I never warmed up to her way of wrapping yarn for tension, but I think my improvised method worked for me. (The link to the first in a series of videos: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79zZJjXRfSM)

I chose my colors (an aqua reminiscent of the beaches of my childhood and a variegated aptly named ocean) and got to work, in the beginning saying my steps aloud so that my fingers would cooperate with my brain. Once they were in agreement, I “went to town” making squares, at first not having a plan of how many I would ultimately need. I just made stacks of squares. Stacks of squares. Stacks of squares.

Yarn colors and one of my many stacks of squares

Eventually, I needed a plan and not just stacks of Granny squares everywhere. I sat down with colored pencils and sketched out what my vision of the final product would be. That in mind, I now kept track of the number of squares in the two colors I had chosen. The bag of yarn, hooks, and scissors went with me everywhere – appointments, bleachers for basketball games, and travelling. As I made each one, I said prayers for the tiny baby that we were all waiting to meet – my first great-niece. Finally my magic number of squares (99) was reached, and it was time to piece the squares together. I researched various methods, settling on the one I liked the most.

Piecing together – which was much like quilting

Then it was time to finish the project. Possessing a thimble-full of knowledge on that topic, I did some research knowing enough to know what I didn’t want for a finished look. Another blogger came to my rescue, and I found a technique I could do that would allow the blanket to lay nice and flat. (http://bunnymummy-jacquie.blogspot.com/2011/06/how-to-make-flat-border-for-granny.html) One more trip to the store for a coordinating yarn – a nice lilac – followed by many practice tries – and away I went.

Completion of first round of edging.

Since the recipient of this blankie was to be a newborn baby, I wanted a super plush edging similar to the ones my own babies had nuzzled into in their early days. About the time I made this decision, it was D-Day. (Delivery Day arrived, and this auntie stayed up very late to pray for safe arrivals. Praying love into each and every stitch.)

After a night of prayer, the final touches were done.

Our sweet little girl arrived, and I waited patiently until I could personally deliver my labor of love. Little L lives just under 450 miles from my house; so, my visit had to be a planned one. My wait was worth it when I got to see God’s beautiful baby wrapped up in one of my favorite projects from the Year of Crochet!

Little L and her blanket made with love!

One tough girl

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Dear 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 14^th 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

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Dear 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 18^th 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

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Monthly Archives: June 2013

I saw God at the prom

Tears of Joy

Adding purple to my color wheel

The Year of Crochet

One tough girl

18 years of dreams