Monthly Archives: August 2013

Invasion of the Gnomes

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Since my Nanny’s passing, my mom and dad have spent much of the last several months working on sorting through the items she left behind.  It has been a grueling task, physically and emotionally.  As they were going through volumes of items, they decided to ask the grandchildren if there were things that we or our children would like to have.  Eventually one of the things making the round of the “Does Anybody Want These?” lists was garden tchotchkes.

My parents who are actually quite adept at technology and decorating sent us a picture with my dad’s legs standing among the items available balancing a yardstick to give perspective.  I immediately requested the tall gnome with the measuring stick even though I couldn’t see anything more than his bottom half.  I figured he might come in handy around here. My mother replied he was already taken. Since my first request was unavailable, I took a closer look at what new treasures lay waiting. I love a good garden gnome; so, I speedily replied as to which couple I would love to see in my garden.  My brother chimed in on a few he would like.  My sister’s response was a flat out, “NO THANKS!”

My first exposure to gnomes was when my family made a cross-country move to North Dakota.  I remember being smitten with them, because my brother and I were huge Smurfs fans.   Years later, I created tiny fantasy gardens with itsy-bitsy gnomes.  My children grew up watching very carefully, because sometimes it would seem the gnomes had moved or new items appeared with them.  We still talk about the bowling ball and pins that appeared one morning in one of those gardens. Such is the whimsy of my backyard!

Almost a month after the text messages, my parents arrived with a U-Haul full of treasures from my Nanny’s house.  Among them was our new garden kitsch.  At first, we placed them on our deck carefully, cautioning the kids that we would think about exactly the right place for them later.

Since they were my grandmother’s, I wanted to preserve them, put them on a shelf, and make sure they lasted forever.  I didn’t want anyone or thing to touch them.  Then one night, I got a nudge deep in my heart. I knew Nanny would ask, “What in heaven’s name are you thinking?”.  She would never want me to box them up for display only, much like many of us do with our best china.  They are meant to be in the garden bringing smiles and maybe just a touch of mischief to anyone lucky enough to spot one.

My nerves steeled. I resolved to place them in Reed’s garden, by asking my little girl to have the honors.  I think both Reed and Nanny would have been proud of that choice. A job of this importance required a child-like heart, not a heart, like mine, too timid to even use them.  I told her there was only one rule.  That rule: Mom can’t change where you put them.  Imagine the gift she received that day!

gnomes

That night in bed, I realized that I do that a lot.  I receive blessings from God, but I am, on occasion, too timid to use them.  I want to put them on the shelf and look at them.  I want to be reminded that, indeed, God has blessed me.  Sometimes, I don’t want to share them in fear that the blessings will tarnish or diminish in beauty. But much like my Nanny’s garden decorations, I am beginning to realize that perhaps the reason for the blessings is for us to pour them out to others.  Memories of the times that God was so good to us! Perhaps that was God’s plan all along for our new little buddies waving from the greenery in the back of the lot.

So today I choose to not hold on too tightly to my blessings, counting them one by one, but instead allowing God to use them through me.

Dear Yale University

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Dear Yale University

I was daydreaming about your prestigious school last night at dinner.  Had I answered a question with better timing, my mental absence otherwise would have been barely perceptible.  I was thinking about what it had been like dropping off my son to become a future Eli and Bulldog fan.  In the middle of supper, my thoughts drifted to thinking wouldn’t be great if we could all call him and say, “We made it home from New Haven.  We’re here, and it isn’t the same without you.”

That last part is actually true.  His absence from your campus, however, isn’t because he was denied admission.  The stark reality is much more cruel as Reed died five and half years ago.  My daydreaming was fantastical grief thinking.  Wishing that the school my sweet boy announced on a family trip in 6th grade was actually where he was, rather than the bitter reality.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  All those years ago, we didn’t know that a sweet red-headed boy from the Minnesota prairie even knew what Yale University was.  But he did!  On a snowy winter drive home from the place where he is now buried, he proclaimed he would be attending Yale, as if it was a menu option he was choosing.  When questioned, he knew all about it, even going so far as saying he would much rather attend Yale than Harvard.  His dad and I simply shrugged, but secretly I know we both smiled in our hearts the rest of the drive.

That year for Valentine’s Day, we gave him a YALE hooded sweatshirt.  Most of his clothes have been made into teddy bears or quilts, but none of us can seem to alter that sweatshirt in any way.  So it sits reverently in a drawer waiting to be worn by a boy who isn’t coming home.

yale

The truth is admission for him would not have been hard.  He was that kid! Intelligent, precocious, and a big time dreamer!  He might have lacked organizational skills for material things, but his thoughts were always well beyond his years.

As your new freshmen class arrives on campus, we are excited for the possibilities the future holds for them.  So too are we happy for all of Reed’s classmates and friends as we see all sorts of pictures from moving day from them and their parents. Truly, we are excited and happy for them!  We are just sad for us.  A heart divided really struggles.

Even though, I really wanted to purchase  “Yale Mom” fan gear. (Who wouldn’t want to?)  I won’t be doing that in the coming days or weeks.  Just know one mom really wishes she could.

Thank you for being the place where future dreams are made and for being the place that my boy dreamed would be his school!  May God bless all your new students abundantly!

Go Bulldogs!

Sincerely,

A “Yale Mom” in my heart forever

Riding the rails

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After returning from Kentucky, one of my friends asked, “How was your trip?”.  I told her about the amazing trip God had planned for me.  I spoke about being awed and exhausted and about how the trip home was definitely an adventure.  She looked me square in the eye and said, “Traveling with you is ALWAYS an adventure.”

To say the station was packed was an understatement.  I have traveled the railways as far back as I can remember, and I knew from the looks of things we were going to have a full train.  I had really hoped to get a last minute sleeper car, because we were boarding at one in the morning.  However, I had no luck on that one.

railroad

After loading all the families and couples, only us single passengers remained.  There were four of us in a line – a college kid, an older woman, and elderly gentleman, and me.  Onboard, the lady was struggling to get her bags on the overhead storage rack, and the student helped her.  The older gentleman made a few loud, cantankerous remarks about wanting to sit down, and that was when it hit me.  He was holding the ticket to the seat next to mine!  Oh dear!

The other three were all seated while I stored my items above.  Like the roaring of a lion, his voice startled me.  “Well, at least, I get to ride next the prettiest girl in this car.”  A sheepish, flattered grin crossed my lips as my thoughts raced to, “Here we go” and “Who I am to argue with a septuagenarian?”!

Within the first five minutes, I knew this was going to be one interesting journey.  His response to my offer to place his portable oxygen tank above was met with, “I shot myself in the foot”. I am certain I had a look of horror in the dim light of the coach car.  A quick smile, followed a few seconds later with an honest assessment of “years of smoking”. Then he shared his whole life story – Korean War Veteran, married and divorced (twice), father of three, railroad worker for 43 years, and drummer in big bands his adult life.

Humbled, I shook hands with Mr. Jimmy S and thanked him for his service.   

Slowly the Cardinal (how fitting) rattled and rumbled as we headed on down the tracks to our ultimate destination  – Union Station: Chicago.  Any hopes of sleep were dashed as this old railroad man told me all about the intricacies of rail signals, troubles on the tracks, and engineers signaling off.  Mr. Jimmy  had me in giggles telling about his gigs over the years in the bands.  Quickly, I learned he lived a colorful life.  I discovered that we were both to be passengers on the Empire Builder later that day.  Eventually, exhaustion overtook me, and I fell asleep.

I rose to discover he was still awake and enjoying the ride.  He asked if I would accompany him to breakfast at the station because I had been a willing listener to all his old tales.  I accepted the offer on one condition: He must allow me to help him maneuver around the station.  It was a deal!

In Chicago, it became clear that Jimmy’s COPD was worse than I knew, and that walking was a challenge for him.  I learned these things because the redcap was not waiting for us on the platform as had been previously arranged.

Slowly, and I mean very slowly, we walked the entire way, pausing many times along the way, from the rail car to the VIP lounge.  I dropped him off with the promise I would come back as soon as I secured a sleeping car for the next train.

No sleepers were available, and I didn’t have the golden ticket of entrance to the VIP lounge.  I entered once and was turned back similar to the scene in “Titantic” where the passengers want to get out of steerage.  About twenty minutes later, I tried again.  I explained the situation which was exactly what I knew to be true and holy.  This man was from a different generation – where you didn’t leave a man (or female traveler) behind. 

I asked if they could page him so I could explain that I wouldn’t be able to travel or wait with him.  The desk clerk begrudgingly obliged.

Paging Mr. Jimmy S

Nothing

Mr. Jimmy S, please meet your party at the VIP lounge door.

Nothing

At this point, the agent began to question my integrity just as a gentle hand was placed on my shoulder.

Exasperated: Where have you been?

Looking for you.  I was worried.

Relief flooded every fiber of my being.  Somehow God put me with this older man to look out for him, and I knew it.

Then began the conversation I dreaded.

Did you get your ticket?

No, there weren’t any sleeper cars available; so I cannot stay here with you.

Well, why not?

Because this lounge is for first class passengers in sleeping cars.  I don’t have a sleeper; so I cannot wait in here with you.  I will be fine.  You stay here.  There are food, drinks, nicer chairs, television, and the newspaper.

I will not!  I want to stay where you are.  How far is it?

It’s not far, but that is beside the point.  This is where you should be.  You will be more comfortable here.  I will be fine.

No! I am going where you are!

Jimmy, I really feel like you should stay here.  Please just stay in this lounge.  It’s so much nicer, and you will be well taken care of.

I’m coming with you.

At this point the VIP lounge agent chimes in. Ma’am give me your ticket.  Do you have any problems riding in a sleeper car with this gentleman?

Um . . . no. (Knowing full well, I would be getting off the train before bedtime.)

Sir, do you have any concerns of this young lady riding with you in your sleeper car? 

Not at all.

Ma’am, I am giving you a free ticket upgrade. Enjoy dinner on us. 

You sir are a scholar and a gentleman.

What just happened here? This does NOT happen to my friends!

We went out for breakfast, and then waited the five hours until our train arrived for parts westward.  Of course, our waiting time was not restful, as more stories were shared.  During our wait my phone died; so, I wasn’t able to call or text home to explain what was going at the train station.

Finally, the time came for boarding.  This time, however, I insisted that the train company provided Mr. Jimmy a redcap.  We were driven basically from our lounge seats right up to our sleeper car.  Whew!

After a quick recharge, I sent a text to my husband to tell him, “ALL WELL.  SHARING A SLEEPER CAR WITH A GENTLEMAN.”

His response said it all, “What?  I am nervous.”

I explained that he was a 70+ year old Korean War Veteran with COPD.  I could outrun him. Trust me. God & I got this.

I don’t think he was convinced.

We rode for five hours, and again with no rest.  This time, I learned much more about his time in the war.  I almost lost it, when he teared up telling of an ill-fated night flying mission.  He was a flight gunner, and one simple mistake (not his) caused the loss of two whole planes and their entire crews.  He was on the only plane that safely made it back that night.

Finally, we were called for our dinner reservations. The jaunt to the dining car was a  journey in and of itself because our sleeper was eight cars away.  We had to pause twice in each car, just so he could catch his breath.  My heart was breaking because I would be getting off in an hour, but Mr. Jimmy would be traveling all the way to Idaho, arriving sometime late the next evening.  Who would take care of him?

At dinner, despite my protestations of being full, I was ordered dessert whether I wanted it or not.  This was a proper meal, and dessert must be ordered.  Stuffed to the gills, we made it back to sleeper as the engineer announced that the next stop was Red Wing.

I reminded Mr. Jimmy this was my stop and that we would be parting ways.  I needed to gather my things and get to the door platform.  I shook his hand and said, “Thank you for traveling with me today.”

I thought that was the end of our time.  I should have known better.  The ride into Red Wing is a little slower due to construction on the bridge there.  As I stood on the platform with the porter, I sensed a third presence.  Yep, there was Mr. Jimmy unsteadily waiting to make sure I safely got off the train.  In his words, no gentleman would allow a beautiful young lady to travel alone.  It was his duty to make sure I arrived safely.

When the train stopped, I showed him where my car was parked, and with a quick hug and a peck on a stubbly cheek, I disembarked with strict instructions to the porter to take care of my friend.

Walking exhaustedly down the brick platform, I begged God to not give me any more little old men for a while.

God obliged . . . for about a hundred feet.

There at the station, disembarking from another car, was a little old man who couldn’t get his walker over the tracks without it getting stuck.

I sighed, then threw down my bags and got him safely across.  On my final drive home, I thanked God for the time spent with one heck of a gentleman from a great generation.

So Mr. Jimmy S – Thank you for your service and for spending time with a girl on a train.

Taking a deep breath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the dance will lead . . .

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Photo found at www.selectregistry.com

Photo found at www.selectregistry.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All in a touch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ninny's hands

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

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

Not at my table

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

 

 

Oh the cardinal!

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The morning I arrived in Kentucky, I was whisked to a cool, dark soccer field.  Still groggy from my three in the morning pick-up at the train station, my sweet friend opened the locker room to allow me to freshen up.  I spent the next two hours huddled under a blanket (who knew it would be that cool in Kentucky?) watching one of the most motivational coaches I know work with her soccer team.  (And that is a pretty big compliment coming from this coach’s daughter.)

While shivering, oops I mean, sitting, my ears heard the song of an old familiar friend.  Somewhere hidden in the trees surrounding the field was one of our favorite songbirds – the messenger of hope to our family – the cardinal.  I had to smile because I was listening to the red bird’s melodious song while watching the preseason practice of the “Lady Cardinals”.

Joy – pure, unadulterated joy – filled my soul and spirit as I took the field to share with those darling girls what it means to create a legacy.  The reason for my happiness was simple. Among the foliage was a little piece of home.

Later at breakfast, I shared with Coach B of how God (and in our hearts, Reed) sent the songbird in one of our  darkest hours.  She, like many others who have heard the story, was moved by the cardinal coming at exactly the moment when we needed him the most.   I am sure that our server (another one of my sweet Kentucky sisters) was wondering what in the mayonnaise was going on at that table. We did create quite a ruckus praising God for his sense of humor of putting a cardinal lover together with a coach of the cardinals.

After breakfast, it was time to head over to the B&B to rest and relax.  Upon stepping out of the car, I was taken by the beauty of the inn, the sounds of the South, and the smells reminiscent of my childhood.  My eyes were drawn to the front porch lined with inviting rockers.  I knew I would be spending every chance I got right there.

The front porch at the Woodford Inn

The front porch at the Woodford Inn

A flash of red appeared in the corner of my eye.  Immediately, I knew what was happening.  For me, that is a God sighting – when he allows the red bird to remind me I am loved.  I couldn’t help myself, but I began to hit Coach B on the arm.  I am certain that she thought I had lost my marbles.  I had only “known” her for 7 hours, and here I was smacking her to grab her attention.

Photo found at wunderground.com Credit given to cshirsch

Photo found at wunderground.com Credit given to cshirsch

All I had to do was point to the corner of the porch, and she understood.  Honestly, hitting her was my only option because I couldn’t speak.  The lump in my throat was that big.  God called me to this place, and like that moment five years ago, he sent “Reedy” to tell me that all of this was a part of his bigger plan.

With tears in my eyes, I couldn’t help but smile that the young man I shared in my legacy story earlier that morning was “present” in the red wings of God’s love.

 

 

 

For those unfamiliar with our family’s story, below is the wording from the card we had made for Christmas in 2008.

The cardinal is a beautiful bird with gorgeous red plumage and an equally inviting song.  There is an old legend that says that the cardinal was once a white bird, in fact as white as snow.  The cardinal came to the cross on Calvary’s hill and sang to Jesus at the base of his cross.  The cardinal sang with all its might to his Maker and Master. During his song, Jesus’ blood dripped onto his feathers, and henceforth the male cardinal has been his brilliant red color.

As many of you know, our children have received a bird Christmas ornament every year. Each of the children receives a different bird that has some significance to their lives. Reed received the blue jay because he loved to watch the blue jays eat sunflowers outside his bedroom window.  Sawyer has the cardinal after he received a gift from his godparents that had a cardinal on it, and he loved it.  Erin has the chickadee, because Kandy was so excited to have a little “chick” in the house.  Cloie gets the American goldfinch for while pregnant with her a goldfinch came to the family’s feeders for the first time. Each of the children’s birds had visited our feeders except for the cardinal.  No matter how many different ways we tried, we just couldn’t lure a cardinal to our backyard.

Then the most unspeakable horror happened to our family.  We were deep in the midst of our grief when the most improbable and impossible thing occurred. Exactly one month following Reed’s death, a male cardinal landed in our backyard tree (with no feeders filled), and he started singing the most beautiful song our ears could hear.  But it took the faith of a young man to realize that a miracle was happening.  Sawyer realized the red bird was a message from Reed to tell us that he is doing just fine in Jesus’ arms. See Reed knew exactly which bird to have Jesus send to get our attention.  He also knew how deeply hurt Sawyer was at that point in our journey, and he knew which bird would be the one, above all other birds, Sawyer needed to see.  (It probably didn’t hurt that he sent a bird that was his favorite color.) Well, some may call it coincidence, but we choose to

Believe in Miracles!

The capacity to love

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I have been filled with the busyness of momma days in the last two weeks.  So magical were these days that I almost needed to pinch myself to prove that they could be real.  Two weeks ago I embarked on a trip to meet someone whom God had placed into my life in the most remarkable of ways.  The mission took me a little over 900 miles from home to share my family’s story, but also led me to a new band of sisters that only could have been orchestrated by our mutual Father above.   Among those sisters was a friend that I never knew that I needed.

The “pinch me” part of this story involves a person who has no idea that she had any role to play in the rest of the story.  Somehow I have to believe that Ann Curry’s desire and heart for a good story would want to know how she introduced me to a friend – well, sister of my heart.

For the most part, I live a sheltered life, yet I am finding since I began to share my story that God is calling me farther and farther from my comfortable home on the Minnesota prairie.  Included in that stretching is the use of social media sites to share the story of my family’s loss and God’s steadfast faithfulness throughout.  I am not blind to the ways that people use these sites in evil ways, but in my story, God can (and does) use them in ways beyond our imagination.

This story is the gospel truth.

Even my own imagination couldn’t have embellished this one.  Here is where Miss Curry comes in. She is a journalist whom I trust and find very engaging.   I decided to follow her on Twitter about the time of the Newtown school shootings. After watching parents awaiting the news of their children, I was transported back to my own moment in the school’s media center awaiting the news of my sons. The resurfacing of my deep hurts caused me to languish for days reliving the pain of losing a child. A few days later I learned of Ann Curry’s prompting to ask folks to complete 26 acts of kindness in memory of the lives lost. Blindsided by the deep tentacles grief can use to suffocate your heart, I needed something to refocus my energy, releasing grief’s stronghold. Using #26acts, an online army compelled by the force of love began, led by our “General” Curry.  I was one among the ranks.

So too was a new friend I didn’t know God needed me to meet.

One of those doing acts of kindness was a Coach, whom I later learned lives in Kentucky.  She posted something that she had done as one of her acts, and I decided to follow her on Twitter. In turn, she began to follow me.  Much later, I posted about comforting a woman in the Wal-mart bathroom as one of my #26acts.  Ann Curry re-tweeted my tweet, and the response I got from others melted my heart.  One of those responses “Thanks for reminding us that compassion doesn’t have to equal dollar signs” came from this coach. It simply blew me away.

From that moment on, our “friendship” morphed from one of liking each other’s tweets to a mutual sharing from our morning devotions. Months went on like this where we discovered we were a lot alike -both sports nuts, both teachers, and both women of faith.

Without sharing all the minute details, she was brave enough to follow God’s prompting and reached out to work with her church to bring me to Kentucky.  I had the opportunities to speak twice, which was wonderful.  However, it was by “doing life” with them, that I learned what God was truly calling me to do – love others, opening my heart to a whole additional set of sisters.

The mystical thing about this whole story is I went there to meet a friend and to bless others, but I realized that a part of my heart was transformed as I was equally blessed in return.

Not long ago, my heart was so broken, fractured and splintered, I wasn’t sure that I could ever feel joy and love again.

I am so thankful that it didn’t take long for God to show me through the kindness of my friends and neighbors that His love was and is always present. The reminders came in a flood of acts of kindness.  That continual filling of my spirit allowed my broken heart to be stitched back together with a profound awareness that love leads you in fantastical ways to do amazing things.

In some ways, I think their kindness allowed God to re-wire me with a greater capacity to love.  My newly stitched heart led me to a wonderful place far from home – where my newfound sisters in Christ live.  Among those is one whom God led to reach out and show me a new path for His love.

me & bug

So today I am thankful for  a place called Kentucky, Ann Curry, and all the friends God has given me.