Monthly Archives: January 2014

Saying Goodbye

Leave a reply

I first met W – who for the rest of our time together I’ve lovingly called him Grandpa – at a craft show at the hockey arena.

Grandpa Adams

He and his wife were here visiting, and I was introduced to him by his daughter-in-law, K. She enthusiastically told him, “This is my very best friend”. I was amazed by his woodworking talents. Little did I know how that sweet little old man would come to hold a place in my heart!

After Grandpa moved to Marshall, he took in an interest in his church family and in K & S’s friends. That was extra special for us, because that meant that my children had a grandfather figure when their grandpas lived so far away. Didn’t matter if it was concerts, Boy Scout derbies, sporting events, or 4-H poultry shows even if it was 100 degrees; if he wasn’t busy, he attended.

I am so glad that I got to know him before his memories started to be cloudy and slowly a silent stealer took them away. My place in Grandpa’s life changed at the beginning of this journey. If I told the truth, it was really Grandpa’s place in my life that evolved. See my own grandfather, Papa, went on this same journey of lost memories and passed away just before all these changes happened for Grandpa. They were just a few years apart in age. This was something that wasn’t missed on this girl who no longer had her grandfathers.

Grandpa had a young man that lived with him and one day they had a disagreement. The young man called S (who couldn’t leave work) and K, who also couldn’t leave work, but who in turn called me. Oh my! My instructions were to see if I could calm everyone down. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Then I remembered; I had cookie salad in my fridge. My Tupperware in hand, off I went to diffuse a situation.

Never knowing the real reason for my stopping by and bearing sweets, Grandpa and I became pretty good friends. We visited at church and at “family” functions. As the journey wore on, so did the amount of care that Grandpa needed. One day, S and K asked if I would consider coming a few mornings a week to help provide caregiving.

Enthusiastically, I said yes! It was during this time, that I learned so many things about Grandpa’s life, and I didn’t mind if I heard the story over and over again. Every time, he told the stories his eyes twinkled, and I felt I got to see his heart. A heart that loved God above all, and through that love lavished love on his wife and his children and grandchildren!

After Grandpa moved to the M Manor, I wasn’t done taking care of him. I finagled my way into a volunteer position with our family dog, Huck, visiting residents. This way, I could regularly go see Grandpa and share just a few small moments with him.
There are so many personal memories that I could share, but I will limit it two of my favorites.

Grandpa and I share November birthdays – just three days apart. One year we had our birthday celebration at a local pizza place. We were a little late to arrive as usual. It is dark early in November; so, we could clearly see inside the windows. Grandpa was not “glowing” like a birthday boy should be. When we walked in, Grandpa’s whole demeanor changed. My husband whispered in my ear, “Remember this moment. Right now you are the Belle of the Ball. Look at how his face changed.” I don’t know if you have ever had that experience.  I have only had that moment once before – on my wedding day.

My second favorite memory is from my days of caregiving before Grandpa moved to the Manor. After a few weeks, he asked me if I would have devotions with him. Would I? Absolutely! The next time I arrived, he had his Bible, his devotional, and his prayer book for our church’s active missionaries. Those were some of the most precious times I have ever spent. We took turns reading, praying, and discussing the devotion.

One day, we read a devotional based on Psalm 105: 1-2, which I now think of as Grandpa’s verse.

Oh give thanks to the LORD, call upon His name;
Make known His deeds among the peoples.
2 Sing to Him, sing praises to Him;
[a]Speak of all His [b]wonders. (NASB)

During our discussion, I shared with him that I had a decision to make because I had been recently asked to begin speaking about our family’s story, including our great sadness. As I sat there at the kitchen table with tears streaming down my face, I said that this verse seemed to be confirmation as to what I was supposed to do – even though I was going to have to go way out of my comfort zone at times, leaving my family.

Without missing a beat, after a sip of his tea, he quietly said, “Jesus and I were wondering how long it was going to take you to figure that out.”

For all those who have heard me speak, those marching orders I have never forgotten.

I am so thankful to the family of W for giving me the chance to call him Grandpa. He will be missed until we can have devotions at his table again someday.

One load over the line, sweet Jesus

Leave a reply

I remember the moment like it was yesterday. It was a youth basketball tournament in Redwood Falls. Several kids were playing a pick-up game on an open court. A loud scream echoed through the cavernous gymnasium. In a primal movement, I bolted at the sound a mother recognizes. On my way to the court, I plowed into a boy exclaiming with tears in his eyes, “It’s Sawyer! He’s hurt!”. It was agonizing to see our boy crumpled on the hardwood floor, writhing in pain after he had only recently began to walk again following more than two years of rehabilitation. After comforting him, I returned to the fan bleachers for the girls’ game.

Quietly, I said to my friend, “I’m going to hold it together for my daughter, but could you meet me behind the bleachers after the game is over? I’m going to lose it then.” The girls lost devastatingly, only scoring two points on non-shooting technical fouls because an opposing player refused to remove jewelry.

When the game was over, that friend along with at least a dozen other moms, held me as I sobbed behind the bleachers. They cradled, hugged, and cried with me. Those sweet women spoke words of truth into my heart as I had reached overload. My mettle meter was busted. Not one cell in my body could be strong at that moment. Audible and silent, their prayers soothed my soul. It was probably one of the worst and best crying sessions I have ever had.

I remember all the faces of those that walked by. You could read their thoughts as if they had cartoon bubbles escorting them along. It is just elementary basketball. It’s just a game. How can she be that upset?

The burden was just too big for me. Even though, I didn’t really care what other people thought, deep in my heart I wished for some universal sign to say, “Be gentle. I’m sinking.” I wanted normal – whatever that was – back in my life.

My devotion yesterday introduced me to a new idea regarding the carrying of burdens. http://odb.org/2014/01/23/load-line/  The Plimsoll line was a completely foreign concept to me, but the devotion was one that resonated with my soul.

While I won’t advocate for a load line to be painted on those who are suffering (no matter what the reason), I do wish, in a world where hasty judgments of misunderstandings are a norm, there existed a signal for “OVERLOAD” for our burdens.

For years, I have said that black armbands should have never gone out of fashion. I am just old enough to remember their use in my childhood. What are black armbands? I’m glad you asked. The black armband replaced the mourning dress of all black to signify that someone was grieving. I don’t think I could pull off the black gowns of Miss Scarlett in Gone with the Wind, but the armband could be my fashion trend.

I’ve pointed the bands out to people who completely missed them all together, and then find they are astonished to know they never noticed them.  The Bailey family in It’s a Wonderful Life don black armbands in the scenes following the death of the patriarch Peter Bailey. The simple slip of black cloth worn on the upper left arm signifies to the world the wearer is mourning the loss of someone dear.

President Calvin Coolidge wearing an armband in mourning for President Harding. Photo found at americanhistory.unomaha.edu

President Calvin Coolidge wearing an armband in mourning for President Harding. Photo found at americanhistory.unomaha.edu

There are days when I am brave and strong and could tackle ten lions with one arm behind my back, but then there are the other days. Those painful hours when a black armband could save me from some of the cruelty of life. The simple cue that says, “Today I am struggling”.

I never thought I would see leg warmers come back into fashion. Completely wrong was my thinking as my little girl’s bureau can attest. So, a girl can always hope that black mourning bands might see a fashionable comeback.

Even if they don’t, we can all use a reminder that the well-worn shoes of another never truly feel comfortable no matter how close the size.

We can remember that a kind word goes much farther than harsh one. A hug is better than words most of the time. And no one truly knows how it is to live someone else’s life.

For some of us – I daresay the blessed ones – we are also surrounded by friends who simply get those last three sentences. They are the friends who will sit on a gymnasium floor and whisper, “God loves you. We love you. You will make it through this.”

Those friends see the black armband that is invisible to the rest of the world.

Thank God they do!

Waiting

Leave a reply

Traditions. They are the things, no matter how small, that become rituals. The very strings woven together in the fabric of families are the traditions they hold dear.

One such tradition beloved at our household is saying good-bye to a previous year. No, we are not raucous revelers. Neither are we ball-drop watchers. In fact this year I had to do a little creative researching because the teenagers had a big bash at the school, leaving three adults with a party crowd of four kids ten and under. My quest was to find where in the world would it be midnight when it is 9:30 PM at my house. ( I really wanted to throw in “is Carmen Sandiego?” in that last sentence, but that would just be silly.)

J-A-C-K-P-O-T!

Newfoundland was my answer! So with kid’s wine (sparkling cider) we said good-bye to 2013 by celebrating some of its best memories and by sharing our hopes and dreams for the upcoming year. Hey! They might be little in the eyes of the world but the two families present that night have endured some big struggles, and out of the mouths of babes were some prophetic words. A little tinkling of glasses and good night kisses, all done in pjs and slippers,  would not be considered a remarkable party by some, but it was to all of us.

"The Newfoundlanders!"

“The Newfoundlanders!”

Partying like Newfoundlanders is not our end of the year tradition. Usually it is just the members of Team Stevens, but we are a more the merrier bunch. So anyone is welcome to join us as we watch the last sunset of the year. We usually have to bundle up and head out in the blustery cold to watch, but it is always worth it.

Checking the Almanac, we discovered that sunset for our hometown was 4:55 PM. Isn’t that dreadfully sad? Such little sunshine in the winter months can be draining on the spirits. We bundled up and headed out into unholy negative temperatures to try to follow the sun into tomorrow.

As the driver, I feared it was too late. We left the house right at the sunset time and headed west with our young men and women. As we drove closer to our viewing destination, Camden State Park, (one of Minnesota’s finest), the sky simply got darker, and our windows more frosted. My heart felt so sad. Why didn’t we leave sooner? I really wanted so much more for our kids.

We did see some deer feeding on our drive there and back, but that was small beans compared one of God’s sky paintings (as Reed used to call them).

With sad hearts and tired (already) children, we turned around and headed back for home. I don’t know what made me look back on the drive, but I am certainly glad that I did.

I let a “whoop” and swung that minivan into the next subdivision entrance. We whipped open the doors because by then the windows were completely frosted from the bitterly cold temperatures. We all sat in awe of God’s perfect use of pinks, purples, yellows, and oranges, such ordinary colors blended in one of his finest masterpieces. It was our own private art showing in the gallery of the sky. A reverent hush overcame the vehicle, replacing the jokes and silly songs. I was overjoyed by God’s provision.

This picture captured on my cell phone in no way compares to the beauty of that evening!

This picture captured on my cell phone in no way compares to the beauty of that evening!

I was reminded of that experience this morning when my daughter and  I shared oohs and aahs over one of his finest sunrises. How often do I give up on my request because God doesn’t give me the answer I wanted right away? I walk away thinking I guess it wasn’t God’s will after all. Beleaguered and trodden down, I walk away. But then some time down the road, God gives what I thought I needed immediately. Only to discover, that it was so much sweeter after the wait. The only difference is sometimes I don’t look back and see what God was orchestrating the whole time I walked away.

God knows the desires of our hearts, and he wants us to dream BIG. His LOVE is much grander than the tidy, little package we try to place it in. More importantly, his TIMING is perfect – whether we acknowledge that or not.

So today, wherever you are, dream big with God and know that a little way down the road you might see the most amazing masterpiece out of your ordinary colors. Just know some unofficial Newfoundlanders are dreaming with you.

The Sisterhood

Leave a reply

As I have shared on this blog before, I have a way of collecting friends.  Recently, someone asked me about my love of moose, and before I answered the question, I blurted out, “Don’t buy me any, I don’t want to dust them”!  The great thing about collecting friends is I never have to dust them.  E.V.E.R. That’s a good thing because I am allergic to dust.  Of course, like most people, I have the inner sanctum of friends,  those girlfriends that know my heart and my struggles, and they love me anyway.  This is partly their story.

I have those friends that I see only once in a while, but I cherish each moment I share with them.  I also have friends whom I have never met.  Some are the modern day version of pen pals, and others are people that I have done business with over the years.

Today’s confession, I mean, story is about one of those friends.  For her sake, she shall be called X.  (For all you math lovers, X is getting some love today.) X is a wonderful woman who over the years I would have called acquaintance until a certain EVENT solidified her place in my Hall of Friends.  Hey! If the Super Friends can have a Hall, so can I!

X is a seamstress – well more precisely – Teddy Bear Maker Supreme.  I am awed and amazed by her work, but more so, humbly grateful.  A friend of a friend told me about her work.  She put her life’s grief into action by epitomizing the verse “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” 2 Corinthians 1:4 (NLT)

She makes teddy bears out of the clothes of loved ones who have passed away.  Magically, she transformed our first Christmas without Reed into one where we were able to “hug him” again.  Over the years, I have probably grown into one of her biggest customers and fans.

I loved her work, her gentle nature, and her excellent service, but this past year, I fell in love with her sense of humor.

Brace yourselves, dear readers, because it is confession time up in here.

Normally, I am the buyer of the bears, but last spring, I was simply the middle man.  A dear friend of ours asked me to order a set a bears made from his wife’s wedding dress.  You want me to do what? Does she know about this? Are you crazy?

He said his wife didn’t know as this was to be a surprise.  He relayed how the dress had been in a storage unit they were clearing out and how she said just get rid of it. Okay girls, that might be what she said, but is that really what she meant? 

He gave me his money and gift certificate (purchased at Reed’s Run), and went on his merry way.  How do I get myself into these things??? No way, am I cutting up someone else’s wedding dress without her permission.  What in the world am I going to do about this???

So I didn’t do anything for a long time.  The dress sat in a storage tote in my garage forever.  My friend finally harassed, I mean, asked enough that I broke down and sent it.  I explained to X that there were special circumstances as the family had recently gone through some horrific life events, but the order was for bride and groom bears.

Apparently, X, had the same thoughts as me, because immediately upon arrival I received an e-mail.

Are you sure that they want to cut into this wedding dress? Just checking to make sure, but I really hope they do because I have wanted to make bears out of a wedding gown for a long time. 

I assured her they did.

Later that night, I received perhaps the most embarrassing e-mail of my life.

Just checking in.  Also, within the wedding dress box was an animal print bra…was that to be used also as an accent or just got there by mistake?

As I sat at my computer that spring evening reading this e-mail, I am certain that I showed hues of assorted reds that would rival the hidden fabric stash of any of my quilting friends.  Oh dear Lord, please just take me now.  How do I explain what really happened here?  Accompanied with: So that is where that bra ended up!

One of my best friends always says, “I had on my 18 hour bra, and those 18 hours are up”, and that is my only defense.  I hate dirt – in my house – and as a girl who prides herself in digging in the dirt most every day in the summer; daily I am faced with the colossal decision of how to solve that problem.

My solution is one that I no longer think is ingenious.  Leave a towel hanging in the garage, strip down to what God gave me, and run like crazy to the shower.  That plan had worked real well  . . . until now.  Not to mention that the bra in question is a hand-me-down. There I said it! One in the inner sanctum lost a bunch of weight and passed on her secrets – literally as in Victoria’s – to me.  Only of course, there is a much bigger story there as well.  Maybe I will share that one someday, but right now, how does a sweet little Christian momma end up mailing a va-va-voom bra with a wedding dress to a pseudo stranger?

I finally summoned the courage to respond.  If X didn’t offer a commodity that I adored, I might have just “dropped” off the face of the planet.  I pulled from the last shred of dignity I had and went with humor.

Hey X!  Right about now, I am a hundred shades of embarrassed.  I have no idea on how the bra went travelling.  We’ve been doing a major house cleaning and paring down of clutter.  Is it cheetah print? If so, then it is mine, and the embarrassment meter went through the roof.  Either it slipped into the box or decided it was time to go on a road trip.

Her response a little later in the evening, let me know that she didn’t think I was a total nut.

Yes, it is a black and gray cheetah, thanks for ending my evening with laughter.  I will be sure and send it back with the bears.

This was a good thing because I can live with being thought of as a kook, but I did not want to have to find a new purveyor of custom made bears. Before I went to bed, I sent her back a little message.

X -I am so glad you have a good sense of humor.  Someday I will have to tell you the story of that bra.  When my friend hears this, she is going to crack up because she is a part of the story of my personal mortification on how I came to own the bra.

To tell the truth, I almost peed my pants at the thought of the bra being a part of the accessory packet.

Definitely smiling now

And so it went it.  X made the bears and sent them back to my house as part of the surprise.  I let our friend know they had arrived, but never opened the box.  I felt they were his to open.  The bears sat wrapped in the box waiting for their upcoming anniversary.

The day of the pick-up, I was not at home when our friend arrived.  My husband called and asked me about them.  I explained they were in the box in the living room.  Daniel opened the box, pulled out two bears, and discovered a most mysterious package at the bottom.

Thank the good Lord that he gave my husband a good head on his shoulder.  I could hear the perplexity in his voice when we called me back within minutes.

Hey Kan, we found the bears, but there is something here about a travelling bra? Am I supposed to give that to him too?

I am certain that they could have heard my response in South Dakota.  Oh dear heavens, will this never end? Imagine if he hadn’t called me, and I sent anniversary gift of lingerie to this poor woman – not in her size!

When I returned home later that evening, I found the unusual package in the bottom of the mailing box.

IMG_20130520_130506

X solidified her friendship with me by celebrating my ridiculous faux pas – complete with its own label and packaging.

With friends like these . . . life can definitely get interesting!

 

Learning to be still

Leave a reply
Embracing a new tradition need not be fancy. Our hodge podge collection worked just fine.

Embracing a new tradition need not be fancy. Our hodge podge collection worked just fine.

Recently, there was a linguistics survey from the New York Times floating around that would generate a map of your personal dialect.  The questions are based off the Harvard Dialect Survey, which is a linguistics project conducted by two researchers.  The link for the survey is found at the end of this blog. Friends and family were producing great maps that were spot on for their patterns of speech.

Sweet tea in hand, I sat down to answer the online questions.  At the conclusion, I waited for my own map to be generated.

For those among us who share with me the experience of never finding their name among personalized merchandise at the store, my experience with creating a personal language map was equally as disappointing. This bust was not for lacking of trying; as I attempted the quiz three more times.  All with the same result – no map was generated.

I am guessing any person who grew up on military bases, had a college coach or travelling salesman for a parent, or was the child of Bedouins would have the same frustrating experience as I did with that map.  Because I have lived in many different regions of the country, my linguistic patterns have become a literal melting pot of the vernacular.

Now this might really put a damper on some things – like not having my own map that I can post on Facebook, but in reality, there are some up sides of growing up as a nomad. The biggest benefit is having friends in just about every corner of the world, and never really feeling like a stranger anywhere you travel.  The second biggest benefit is adopting the customs of the locals that best suit your heart.

Ethnically, I like to identify with my Irish roots the most, and we incorporate plenty of Irish traditions in our home.  Yet through all my life experiences, we have assimilated traditions that belong to other groups as well.  Lefse making from the Norwegians, aebleskivers from the Danes, and meatballs from the Swedes are all regular part of our culinary repertoire.  Sauna like the Finns never hurts either.

In the last week, I read an article passed on from some friends regarding a Danish tradition that we are not only adopting, but are also embracing with full spirits.  This new tradition is known as hygge. I highly recommend the article I read as well as the article it is based upon. http://www.minnpost.com/arts-culture/2013/12/our-hygge-moment-how-danish-cultural-concept-can-help-cut-through-dark-minnesot

Since there is no direct English translation, I love this description by author Helen Dyrbye in Xenophobe’s Guide to the Danes  “<Hygge> is the art of creating intimacy: a sense of comradeship, conviviality and contentment rolled into one.”

That description sounds like bliss to me, which is exactly why we have been practicing hygge in our home for the last week.  Sure that isn’t much of a test run, but the spirit of calm in our home since we conscientiously put hygge into practice has been amazing.  We lit candles in the early afternoon which seemed to stave off the blues of the setting sun and dark Minnesota winters.  All five of us sat in a room together on Sunday afternoon doing quiet things, together and separately. Not since we implemented the required Sunday nap when most everyone was little have we done anything collectively on Sabbath outside of church.

We embraced the coziness of being together as a family.  Last night at supper without being asked, our son lit candles for the table.  As I watched him light each one, I knew the Danes were on to something. A custom that all our spirits needed – not just mine.  It truly is the little things that matter.

For those that know my personal quest to reduce chaos in my life, I believe that God wanted me to read that article for real reasons. I have been moved to tears – happy tears – a few times this week as we have worshipped, fellowshipped, and relaxed together.

For a girl who still cannot pronounce the words “pen” and “pin” and make them sound different, my pronunciation of hygge probably isn’t better.  Somehow I don’t think God (or my family) cares about my diction. We have found the perfect new tradition of “learning to be still” to cultivate and cherish because frankly exhausted, chaotic, and frenetic weren’t working so well.  I am just wondering what took us so long to get here.

Hoping God blesses you with hygge this week!

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2013/12/20/sunday-review/dialect-quiz-map.html?_r=0

Why it matters

Leave a reply

The radio ad where the small child talks about how it feels to be a fish out of the water struggling to breathe resonates with me. A few times a year, I struggle to breathe. Every muscle in my body aches as I try so hard to cough and wheeze, fighting for every air molecule I can suck in.

Of all the monikers I use to identify myself – wife, mom, teacher, friend, cheerleader, super-hero (okay a girl can dream) – asthmatic isn’t the one I love to share with people. Frankly in a world that has grown infinitesimally smaller with the touch of finger, why has talking about our health (especially that of the women in our lives) become something of a taboo?

Don’t get me wrong, I have a couple people in my life that my husband refers to as Internet M.D.’s. These are the people who look at themselves or their children, search the Weirdest Symptoms in the World web superhighway, and diagnose the frail and ill with Black Death or some other far-fetched malady. Some of these people go into graphic detail on all the symptoms that plague them.

Typically, however, we don’t share all that ails us with others.

As moms, we are supposed to have everything together. Our children, our spouses, and I daresay, society is counting on us to be well. So when we aren’t, we put on our big girl pants, tough it out, and move forward behind the veneer mask of “Everything’s fine”.

Photo by Lil' Sprout Memories

Photo by Lil’ Sprout Memories

I really did NOT want to write this blog because does this really matter to anyone other than me and my immediate family. (Remember: I like to think of myself as superhuman, and by writing this blog I expose the world to one of my forms of kryptonite.) I have put off sharing since August/September, when this all took place. Then a tragic ending happened to a family with whom I have had loose connections over the years, and I decided that God really wanted me to share my experience.

No one is to blame in this story, and that is not the purpose for writing this.

After recovering from another month long battle of bronchitis, I developed a severe sinus infection a week after my visit with the allergist. Following my asthma check-up, I was given some medications to hopefully calm my struggling airways. So when this sinus infection came in with the stealthy flank attack of a ninja, I shared my revised medication list with my physician’s new nurse. A round of antibiotics was prescribed, and I went on my way . . . to hopefully heal.

Only that’s not what happened. I began sleeping twenty hours a day, I gained 15 pounds in fewer than that many days, and I was an emotional wreck from missing out on life with my family.

I have suffered a few bouts of the blues in my life; so, I begrudgingly went to see my doctor again thinking this must be the cause of my troubles. She did not agree with me and ordered a series of blood tests. I didn’t receive the results until a few days later while watching my son’s football game. My liver panel was through the roof. My son had mono over the summer, and I relayed that information over the phone. I thought it was highly unlikely since I had mono my senior year of high school.

It wasn’t that, nor was it a myriad of other things.

The next two weeks were a blur as my waking hours were spent taking more blood tests each one for more and more dire situations. If I were a cartoon, any liquid going in would have come out through all the holes in my arms. I was terrified. Your liver is one of those organs that you never think about until someone tells you have something wrong with yours. I became more tired, gained more weight, and generally felt lethargic at best.

In one lucid moment, I felt God telling me to think. In my heart, I didn’t think I could have any of the conditions/disorders for which I was being tested. So in that brief state of alertness, I thought about what had happened over the course of the summer. I did travel to a region of the country I had not been before, but that puzzle piece didn’t seem to fit in the bigger picture. Eventually, I hit the mother lode. New medications! I did some searching and Voila! Two of the drugs I was taking should not mix and had fatal interactions in some people. I just happened to be a part of the group for which those meds had bad reactions.

The first thing I did was thank God for pushing me to think outside of the box and for not allowing me to give up. Secondly, I called the doctors. One agreed with me, and the other’s nurse thought it was crazy. I went with the one who agreed with me and stopped all medications. Lo and behold, a few days later, I felt human again. The weight came off, the energy levels returned, and most importantly my liver regained its healthy levels.

I was fortunate. The family mentioned earlier was not, and my heart hurts for them.

Moms – our health MATTERS.

I don’t care if you work in your home or out, have home births or hospital ones, breast-feed or bottle feed, vaccinate or opt-out, homeschool or send your kids to school, have television or don’t, vegan or not, or any other divisions that can separate us as moms. I. DON’T. CARE. ABOUT. ANY. OF. THAT.

But, I do care about you. If something feels wrong in the care and keeping of you, don’t hide what you are going through. It just might save your life. Tell your doctor, tell a friend who will look for answers with you, or at the very least contact an Ask A Nurse program in your community.

You are important.

Your health is important.

Take good care of you!

 Your kids need you and so does the world.

We’re back

Leave a reply

When my boys were little, one of their favorite movies was a dinosaur classic.  We’re Back was where the dinosaurs return from the dawn of time, through the miracle of time travel and some brain grain, to live in modern times.  When the dinosaurs romp down the streets in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade singing, “Roll Back the Rock”, it didn’t matter what I was doing because Reed would beckon me to come and dance with him.  I could be covered in flour or soap suds, but to him, it didn’t matter.

Getting our boogey on down, we would rock with the best of them.  Holding his sweet little hand in mine, we would stomp and swirl, shimmy and giggle while a chubby cheeked toddler would laugh watching us.  That, my friends, is pure joy – when you lose your adult inhibitions and get lost in your preschooler’s loving gaze – knowing at that moment you embody motherhood at its finest.  You want to savor those moments forever.

Until the day, you don’t . . . which is exactly what happened to me this past year.

You lose your joy.

When you lose your happiness, you find quiet comforting.  There I said it.  I was sad. Heartachingly, gut-wrenchingly sad. Distraught. Overwhelmed. Frenetic. Chaotic. Heartbroken and sad.

It didn’t happen overnight.  No, I would say it took about five years for it to crescendo into deafening silence.

There were many things that happened that literally ripped my heart in two. What feels like a never ending saga with the tragedy in our family played a familiar role, but so did a myriad of smaller things.  Seasons in friendships changed, a health scare that frightened me, doors closed, dreams diverted, and quite simply the chaos of good intentions and overconsumption had brought a sense of darkness to our doors.

The hardest part about all of this was this was the first time that I wasn’t alone in my sadness.  The floor opened up and swallowed us all.   It is hard to be a cheerleader for a broken spirit of team.

In the fall of the year, I no longer felt like a cheerleader, let alone a candidate for Mother of the Year.

In the aftermath of our family’s darkest day, I had a conversation with someone who asked me some of the most unbelievable questions.  I think she was blown away by my answers, but one such response summed up a large part of my sadness.  When asked, “Other than the obvious things, what thing makes you the most heartbroken about your life right now?”  My heartfelt reply was, “Being a red-shirted freshman.”  I wanted to play in the game of life, and due to our circumstances, I simply could not.

Now here I was all these years later, and I had those same misgivings with a twist.  With all the distractions and disruptions, I had forgotten how to be me.  The authentic Kandy was tired. Worn-out. Exhausted. I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be, and that was breaking my heart.  I had lost my joy, and I thought that at this juncture all these years later, we should be feeling better not worse.

But this is where the story starts to change.  I retreated and clung as tight to God as I knew how.  About the same time as my forced sabbatical, back into our lives came a friend who knew those days of dancing with little boys in the basement. Gently, she reminded me what joy looked like.

Poked and prodded by her love and the love of several others who picked up the cheerleading banner, I became encouragingly dogged in my pursuit to let go of expectations that were boxing me in, of old hurts that kept me a prisoner in my own doubts, and of chaos that didn’t fulfill us.  I looked for the little things.  Guess what?  God showed me they were there the whole time.  Making time for the little things, clinging to His promises, and reclaiming the things I enjoy were all beginning steps to understanding what I had allowed to steal my joy in the first place.

Just like catching my breath when encountering that first blast of arctic air, joy was something that I needed to clasp my hands and heart around as well.

During the bench-warming sad place, I communed with God to revisit the concept of joy.  It was time well spent.

For this New Year, our family sat down and decided to follow through with the concept of a one word theme based off a devotional by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes organization.  We had a family meeting where I offered that I thought “joy” might be a good word.  One of our children enthusiastically concurred.  What she said next spoken years of wisdom, belied by her actual age.  “I agree with Mom.  You know, sometimes because of our family’s story, we simply forget what joy is.”  After a few murmuring assents, the vote was unanimous as we proclaimed three simple letters to be God’s cleansing tide for our souls for the next year.

We are going to search out and find joy in our lives, making it our battle cry. I don’t think Reed would want us to be perpetually sad, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that God never wanted us to lose sight of joy in our lives.  It simply happened.

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace Isaiah 55:12 (NIV)

Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family. Photos by Inspired Portraits

Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family. Photos by Inspired Portraits

Just like that movie title – We’re back! And who knows? 

You just might find us dancing in the basement somewhere along
that path.