Monthly Archives: September 2013

Being still

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Photo courtesy of Lil' Sprout Memories

Photo courtesy of Lil’ Sprout Memories

A while back, I posted a blog http://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/09/09/i-cry/.  The blog wasn’t difficult to write, but it was agonizingly hard to post.  The shed tears were real.  More salinated drops fell for some points, especially the ones for my children, than others.  In the end, it was cathartic to write, because in doing so, the “monsters” don’t seem so threatening anymore.  It is as if with each keystroke God allowed me to replace my sadness.  Well, actually it isn’t replacement so much as relinquishment to the foot of his throne.

Why is the writing of such posts a beautiful process while the sharing of them such a challenge?  At times, I feel like a modern-day Jacob wrestling with God.  There are plenty of things that I write that are not published, but this time I had an overwhelming sense God wanted me to share my tears publicly.

I know I cannot circumvent the reality that losing a child is horrifyingly painful.  Add to that raising injured and grieving children, and my pain at times feels like pulling back layers of an onion.  Every time, I shed one layer, there is just another eye-stinging layer below.  I get tired of removing layers. So much so the sharing of them with others becomes less and less interesting to me.   I just don’t feel that broadcasting my pain is valuable other than to show my pain and weakness, not mention my doubts and failures.  What good comes from that?  Where is my purpose?  Is this really God’s plan?

It is a good thing my ways are most definitely NOT God’s ways, because He continues to remind me I couldn’t be more wrong.  As I was writing, “I Cry” I received a call from my sweet friends down in Kentucky.  They went out to dinner and felt something was missing in the gathering.  That something was their “Angel Girl” whom God brought into their lives this summer.  I could “join” them as they passed the phone around the table.  When the phone made it to Miss E, she shared that she didn’t understand why but felt that God wanted me to know that He would be replacing my clothes of despair with a garment of praise.  She had no idea what I was writing at the exact moment my phone rang.  I could barely choke out an audible syllable as her words bathed my soul in God’s love. She (through God’s prompting) gave me the exact words to share in my post.  A message of hope, when in truth, I needed a good reminder.

And if I needed more proof, which I didn’t, God provided it.  Within ten minutes of the blog posting, I received three messages (e-mail, text, and phone call) from dear, dear friends who said through their tears how thankful they were for someone to put into writing what their hearts were holding back.  In only God’s intervention, my words became an anthem for others to be rocked gently by the continued message of hope.  My heart’s desire is to honor God with everything I do.  Slowly He is teaching me that the road to achieving that goal may be filled with bumps and bruises AND the sharing of them with others.

I don’t have to be the poster child for grief.  Yet,  in my most vulnerable moments, He has used my writing to reach out to the souls of others; thereby reclaiming my mess and making it a message.  I never intended for my faith to be on display during our darkest moments, but that very faith that has sustained us.  A life blood filtering from the one who shed his blood.

There has been a long lull between posts.  The silence was not wasted.  In the quiet time since my last post, I have used this time to literally be still, finding peace and rest in the arms of my Savior knowing that He does have a plan for all of this. I pray each and every day that He helps me to see it.

As I have shared in many previous posts, sometimes that message of love and hope for my life comes to me in a song.  This time it came in the melodies of one of my favorite groups:  Sidewalk Prophets.  Their lyrics, like the words from my long-distance friends, touch me like God himself had them written just for me. Awed and humbled, I know if God can use the darkest moment of my life,  He can for you too.  Simply trust – He already has a plan in place.

I cry

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In the past few weeks, I have been revisiting the sad place.  It is the place that I can only journey alone, in the earthly sense.  I never really travel alone. There is always a heavenly presence.  I don’t understand it, but often in the silent places of deep in the valley of the shadow, I feel closest to God.  In the sad place, I find that I can be totally honest with myself about how I am feeling.  No mask.  No filter.  Raw, but honest.

My littlest one asked the other day, “Momma, why are you crying so much.”  I had to explain that I had to go to a sad place.  She is eight; so, I likened the place to the “Slump” in Dr. Seuss’ “Oh the Places You Will Go”.  She gets that because in her world she doesn’t want a sad mommy.  But sometimes, you will come to a slump.  That she understands.

These were the words swirling in my most raw moments when I soaked my pillow with my tears.

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I cry . . .

in a single moment all was changed. Now all we have is memories and old photographs.

I cry . . .

silently not wanting  to share my pain in front of my children, for fear of scaring them. Their pillar of strength is really human, after all.  Secretly I know they know this, but I will give my dying breath to protect them.

I cry . . .

The hole in my heart leaves such a scar in my existence.  Its caverns echo the beat of the sad song when the wind blows out of the valley.

I cry . . .

a melody reminds me of happier days when we sang and danced and laughed about our singing and dancing.

I cry . . .

Feeling that I have let my children down because there are days when I feel hopeless is winning.

I cry . . .

Jumping at the ringing of the phone, desperately wanting the answers I want to hear.

I cry . . . tragedy brings chaos.  I detest swimming in chaos. No matter which way I paddle my strokes chaos’ rip current threatens to pull me under.

I cry . . .

My scars are invisible, but theirs are real.  Pain is a daily visitor, and yet they hold their heads high.

I cry . . . perseverance might be one lesson while waiting.  Wondering how long that lesson must take and why did we have to earn advanced degrees.  For once in our lives, couldn’t we just be average?

I cry . . .

because everything he loved was taken away, and yet there are still people who say ridiculously stupid things.

I cry . . . wishing sometimes I was the kind of person who smacked people who say stupid things.

I cry . . . choking down the lump in my throat because platitudes and trite sayings, do not help.  I want to scream, “Do you not see the hole?” But we’ll take your word scars, your thoughtless actions, AND we will continue turning our cheeks, knowing very few could walk in our shoes.

I cry . . . understanding the tortuous relationship with genetics. When your children hurt, a part of you is woven into them.  Like tiny saucers sending a message to the mother ship, every fiber of my being is writhing in pain for them.

I cry . . . sadness has creeping tentacles grasping for all of my family.  Mustering the strength to become a warrior to fight back its choking appendages, some days takes all my energy.

I cry . . . bearing burdens is grueling, heart-breaking work.

I cry . . . fervently hoping that my visit to the pit of sadness won’t be long enough for my card to be punched.

I cry . . . eternity seems so far away.  Wanting to hear your giggle and wondering how you will look without glasses. My ears longing to hear,  “Hey Mom.  This is Jesus.  You are going to love Him!” followed by one of those sneaky behind the back hugs.

I cry . . . knowing that in the light of eternity all of this seems small.

I cry . . . remembering that He is collecting every tear in his bottle.

I weep . . . embracing the promise that He will replace my cloak of despair with a garment of praise.

I sob . . . knowing His grace is sweet, yet powerful enough to cover it all.

The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears.  ~John Vance Cheney

Everyone needs a corner station

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Today marks the end of an era in my neighborhood, and I am not happy about it.  We have lived in this town for a little under seventeen years, and this has been my gas station all through that time.  Len’s Southside has been the place where I began to go out of necessity.  Who wants to pump gas in the middle of one of the worst winters on record with a precocious toddler on her hip while being 8 months pregnant?  I know of no woman who would say yes to that scenario.

Convenience. I admit it.  My “relationship” with the father and son dynamic duo began as a mutually beneficial one.  I needed gas, and they needed customers.  Over the years however that relationship changed.  It really had very little to do on my part (or the other beloved customers’ parts either).  It was the way these gentle men put service into service station.

When you came to the corner of Greeley and West College Drive, you came home.  Everyone was treated that way.  The last full service station in our town was the place to come to fill more than just your tank. Over the years, we have swapped fishing and hunting tales.  It is Minnesota after all; so, of course, we talked about the weather.  We have chatted about school, sports, and pigeons.  The elder was so excited to learn that we raise them; because back in the day, he did too.

On more than one occasion, my husband has accused me of frequenting the station because I like to “flirt” with older men.   But as he watched our “relationship” evolve, he began to refer to Len and Jeff as my dad and brother.  No one chuckled more than my sweetie when I came home after buying a scooter and told of how my “family” at the station had chided me at least seven times “to just be careful on that thing”.

Of course, the brotherly and fatherly “interference” didn’t stop there because I do have a tendency to push ‘er to the limit on remembering to fill up.  More than once I coasted in on fumes, guided along by angels’ wings and several prayers – mine.  Len would always just smile the knowing smile, and Jeff would slip in a “Well you sure went a little far this time”.

When tragedy struck both families in different ways, our bond was forever solidified.  We prayed for each other through the loss of a son and mother battling (and winning) with cancer.  Hearing updates on her progress often brought me to tears, as I can only imagine watching my heart break did to theirs.

Gardening was another love we shared.  When “Mom” wasn’t able to tend a garden during treatments, I would send my kiddos on a cycling mission to pedal the bounty from our garden down to the station.  Today the last day of the shop being open, I couldn’t help myself;  I just had to bring them a basket of love.

Two of the finest gentlemen you will ever meet!

Two of the finest gentlemen you will ever meet!

I filled up my old van yesterday because, honestly, I am not the only one who will miss them, and I was afraid that they might run out of gas before today.  There was a beautiful sign up in front thanking the family for 44 years of service.  My littlest and I enjoyed cookies and lemonade on a sweltering day.  She enjoyed the treats, while I reminisced about all the memories we have shared.

When they showed me the proclamation, from the mayor, which was ceremoniously bestowed  earlier that morning, I started to cry.  Tears of sadness – for the loss of tradition of serving others that truly made a mom and pop gas station a place of refuge.  Tears of joy – for living in a town that took the time to recognize two of the sweetest men you could ever meet.  Tears of pride – for two men who just feel like family, knowing in my heart that gentlemen like that are treasures indeed!

Good luck on your next adventure! You will be missed!

By any other name

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I almost choked on my sweet tea the other day when I saw an email in my inbox.  In the message were the instructions on how to be hip and cool with my crocheting.  Didn’t I want to be hip and cool?  Of course!  I couldn’t keep my eyeballs from looking into this!  I discovered all the cool kids were making chevron afghans.  (Yes, the chevron – the current fave in geometric design.)  When I looked at the attached picture, it showed a plain old ripple afghan like my grandmothers have made for years.  Apparently, I didn’t know my grannies were pioneers of hip fashion long before their time.  When I showed the e-mail l to my sweetie, completely nonplussed he announced, “That looks like Nanny’s afghan to me.”  My thoughts exactly!

Ripple or chevron? I guess it's all in how you look at it.

Ripple or chevron? I guess it’s all in how you look at it.

The more I thought about it, the more bothered I became by that email.  How many times does that type of marketing work?  More often than I would like to admit I am guessing.

My thoughts wondered back to teaching junior high science.  Each year at some point, I welcomed my students to the world of adulthood by letting them know a little secret: advertising is not for educated!  I would share with them that sometimes even brand names were meant to evoke a certain image: Downy and Nike were two that always came to mind.  I told them that they were too smart to be duped by ads.  Always one for the flair of the dramatic, I would quietly tip-toe around the room acting as if other grown-ups would pull out pitchforks and burning stakes if they knew I was letting children in on this little secret.  Then I would share about the moment that I caught on to the truth.  It was “The Great Cholesterol Scare of ‘85”.  I didn’t have a sage guide.  I was on my own perusing the snacks at Food World in high school. I needed to pick up peanut butter. But which one to choose? Why not the one with large label – emblazoned with NO CHOLESTEROL.  Suddenly angels appeared in Aisle 6 with rays of heavenly light shining forth.  This moment was somewhat akin to the beauty school drop-out scene in Grease. At this point in my story, most of my 7th graders were hanging on to every word.  Gently, because this was new knowledge in the information age, I explained my epiphany.  The uneducated consumer would think that this singular brand among all others on the shelf was there to protect my health, my arteries, (and not mention Truth, Justice, and the American Way).  I should buy THIS peanut butter because they cared enough to remove the horrible, evil, bad-guy Cholesterol from its product.  The reality: there was never any cholesterol in it.  Advertising is not for the educated.

Anyone who has been a teacher for more than twelve years knows that in the education world there are fads -lots of them.  I remember a former administrator was practically giddy with excitement at the speaker we were going to for a back-to-school workshop. His words were, “This is going to revolutionize what we do here”.  Because I believe that there are many ways to reach a child, I sincerely doubted this revolution was going to last long.  Once there, I knew for a fact that my hunch was right.  This workshop was twenty years ago, and the buzz-word for teaching was “cooperative grouping”.  The idea being that if we did everything in the classroom in groups, children would succeed, our lessons would reach every child, and everyone would learn at equal gains and paces.  That isn’t exactly what happened.  It is a great tool, but no one can build a house with just a hammer.  Why would we think that just one method would build a child?

So what do ripple afghans, peanut butter, and cooperative grouping have to do with anything?  Together, not much, unless you are lucky enough to teach in classroom that allows naps and snacks while simultaneously having your students arranged in groups!  (Some days, that would be my dream classroom!)

In all honesty, this concept of being easily fooled is one of the things that strikes fear in my heart.  How many messages do our kids receive in a day?   I want to raise kiddos who love God and who are great thinkers with big hearts.  That’s a tall order!  Are we (meaning: parents, schools,  communities) giving our children as much of an opportunity to learn and to think as we are preparing them for standardized tests?   Have we been hindered by the vast availability of knowledge at our fingertips without pushing our brains to go as far as they can?  Have we settled for the quick fix rather than creatively engineering the box (not just thinking outside of one)?  Have we equipped them with the tools to see through the garbage to get to what message is really being sent to them?  Is there an app for that?

Whenever I ruminate too long on this subject, I think about all the ways I have possibly failed as a mom and trust me, the list is LONG.  Then God gives me a glimpse that perhaps we haven’t done such a bad job after all.  I had an opportunity to watch my children testing a product for a company years ago.  I could see what they were doing while simultaneously having access to the questions they were being asked.  I watched as one of my sons was asked to describe how the product looked.  Every other child in the room looked at the product and wrote down their description.  Then I saw movement unlike the others over by my boy’s spot.  Behold!  He picked up the item and inspected the underside.

That was PROUD moment for this momma!  All those things I worried about maybe were for naught because not only did he think outside of the box – he reinvented it.   If I wouldn’t have looked like a nut, I wanted to jump up and down, cheering him on!

All over the country today many are sending their kids back to school.  In a really grown-up, fast-paced world, there are a lot of distractions.  Some are good, but plenty have no reason other than to dupe our kids. With a lot of prayer and nurturing, hopefully,  all kids will learn to think on their own two feet and not be fooled by the flash and dazzle (like the chevron afghans) of the world.  Because the way I see it, a horse by any other name is a . . . well, you know what I mean.