Monthly Archives: July 2015

Blessed are the curious

first friday

One day this summer, we travelled to Sioux Falls for a monthly event known as First Friday, a downtown business and community revitalization experience. It was a day filled with everything our little town is not: al fresco upscale dining, a thriving music scene on every corner, a pop-up temporary green space, a hipster splash park, and an amazing downtown block party. When perusing one of the boutiques, I stumbled across a pack of greeting cards tucked away in a galvanized tray that captured my heart.

first friday 2

Maybe it has been the nostalgia of learning to let go (things, habits, and basically anything unnecessary and cumbersome in our lives). Maybe it was the journey to find true contentment this year. Maybe the barely perceptible siren song of childhood is being replaced by the deep bass notes of manhood for the Boy Wonder.

Whatever the reason, adventuring and soul-seeking have been our purpose-filled missions this summer. I couldn’t be more pleased with the results.

For a very long time, every moment of our daily lives was filled with sadness, tethered to a day that we all deeply wish we could change. But wishes and regrets keep us locked away – far away – from living. This summer, although encountering its fair share of struggles, has been the polar opposite of what has marked our days for MUCH. TOO. LONG.

Adventuring and soul-seeking,

It all began when we arrived in Florida after a long morning of hurry-up-and-wait, followed by a three hour flight to our first major adventure to kick-off summer. The culminating result was arrival in my home state with three exhausted teenagers and one preteen who can eat more than those other three combined. Feed and water the kids became our battle cry! After retrieving our luggage and rental car, we dashed off to a restaurant which held more than Southern sweet tea and barbeque. God’s blessings of hope and encouragement awaited us as another family paid our bill, asking the waitress to tell us they overheard our heartfelt prayers and were touched by our story. The trip we weren’t sure was going to happen due to Sister’s surgery was ordained with a beautiful beginning.

The message: God wanted us to enjoy our adventure. And in the process, we learned to really search our souls for his presence.

The next day, quite unexpectedly, my sister and brother-in-law’s friend offered us (all 12 of us) some tickets to Sea World. While theme park is not exactly what I would call an adventure, what happened inside that park left me speechless.

Sea world 2

We were an eclectic bunch,  including a three-month old, a three year old, two grandparents, and one teenager (God bless her heart) who due to a non-ambulatory decree from the orthopedic surgeon was forced to utilize an electric scooter in the park. Pit stops, interruptions, and exceptions to the rule were bound to happen.

The Real MVP of the day.  She didn't complain once.

The Real MVP of the day. She didn’t complain once.

ANYWAYS, while we were waiting, a gentleman with his family in tow walked up and asked me if we were just entering the park. When I explained we were, he gave us a family pass for jumping to the front of the line for all rides and attractions.

Really God? First, dinner and now a free-pass to avoid all lines. You’ve definitely got my attention.

A little later, another pit stop. Some of our group were huddled under the shade trees by stroller parking while we waited for our own littlest member to be fed. We were entertained by the very adept cookie-stealing squirrel who snuck into a diaper bag and stole an entire Ziploc bag of fresh baked, ooey-gooey chocolate chipped cookies. We were left amazed by his Herculean strength as the bag was about as big as the opportunistic thief. My moral compass really wanted to pen them a letter, lest later in the day they were disappointed in humanity thinking someone stole their cookies and some of their children’s innocence.

Just as I was internally debating my dilemma of “Dear stroller owner . . . “ or let it be, a familiar song began to swirl above my head. Tears filled my eyes. The melodic warbling was one I intimately knew and the desire to have present on this special trip could have only been sent straight from heaven.

I looked up just in time to see the red plumage dash to the entrance of the particular show we had hoped to catch. The cardinal even sensed the need for Sister to use an alternate entrance due to her “ride”. He darted branch to branch as we ascended the winding path to the arena’s seating. Flashes of red were mixed with melodic chirping. He lingered long enough for us to find seats and for him to find a perch.

sea world 1

This song of hope leaked out of my eyes as I quietly thanked God for sending the Reed-y bird while knowing he has the real Reed, tucked safely under his wings in heaven. Had I been more worried about things like blistering heat, crowded walkways, even the note to random strangers, my ears might have missed the sound of beautiful music, which is like a love song – God’s love song – to my momma’s heart.

Blessed are the curious, for they shall find adventure.

The notes of the cardinal blessed my soul with one of God’s unexpected adventures.

Her first words

We have a joke in our family that one of our children bucked the normal speech patterns of development. Instead of the typical da-da-da-da (which of course brought great delight to my sweetie), this little tyke’s first word was “ball”. He didn’t talk for quite some time, but when he did, the first word he uttered was “baw” which he followed with whipping a Nerf one the whole length of the family room. His message was clear! Even today, the messages sent by my children often stir my soul.

Back in May, our Sister had to have major surgery for her knee which was injured further in the basketball season. Although we should be well equipped in how to handle surgeries (this being number 34 for our children since 2008) and in some ways we are, our whole demeanor that day was one of somber. Our hearts sang melancholy. Joined by our pastor (who travelled three hours to be with us), Daniel, Sister and I gathered pre-surgery to pray as we prepared for the time that for me is like a living hell because once upon a time in a surgical post-operative meeting room I was officially told my son was dead. I hate those stupid, clinical, sterile, devoid-of-life rooms. I often beg the doctors to just tell us the news in the waiting room because at least that is a little more welcoming and comforting.

My heart ached when we received the call from the operating room telling us that our sweet girl would need the greater of the two options (complete ACL reconstruction with donated tissue) to repair the damage. Instead of forty minutes, we were told to strap in for a four hour surgery. How would we tell her that most of what she loved was going to have to be put on hold for a year? How much more would she have to endure? Our entourage of three grabbed a bite to eat, visited, and prayed. Because we had left our home at three in the morning, we were offered a private waiting room so that I could nap while we waited. I sat watching old episodes of Reed’s favorite, The Andy Griffith Show, thinking I would never be able to rest, but the mental anguish and physical exhaustion won because the next thing I knew we were meeting with the surgeon.

When we were finally able to all gather together in her recuperating room, I tried my hardest to put on my bravest face. After a little bit of time, I asked if the doctor or nurses had told her any news. In her grogginess, she had enough wherewithal to be able to read the clock. The tables turned when my not-so-little girl tried to comfort me, “Momma, it’s okay. I saw the clock. I know. I know.” No tears fell from her eyes as I fought to hold mine in. There was no steely strength that could have stopped my floodgates from opening after her next utterance. “Mom, I would like to write to my donor’s family to tell them ‘Thank You’.” Here she lay still under the effects of anesthesia, nauseous and unable to walk, and the first thing she wanted to do was to thank someone. Instead of shedding tears on what wouldn’t be (for her specifically: no basketball), she wanted to give back to a family of a person who gave the ultimate gift: an improved quality of life for her. As the sister of a donor, she was firm in her commitment to acknowledge and honor the gift she received.

It took us a little bit (logistically) to secure the information needed for her to do this, but we are now in the process of getting that letter to the tissue organization that will ultimately deliver the letter to her donor’s family. As a donor family ourselves, we hope her small gesture will bring them comfort. In addition to her sincere thanks, she will share that her ultimate goal is to return to playing sports, something not possible without their generosity, and along the way on her healing journey, she will take a stop as member of the Team MN-DAK delegation to the National Transplant Games in Cleveland, Ohio next summer.

I don’t know that she will ever interact with the donor’s family, but I do know that for the rest of her life, she will carry a little piece of their loved one in her knee, but more importantly in her heart.

Photo done by Inspired Portrait Photography

Photo done by Inspired Portrait Photography

Special Note: Organ and tissue donation is something near and dear to my heart. Our son, Reed, at 9 years old, told us that he wanted to be a donor. Never did I image three short years later I would be honoring his wishes. Giving the gift of life is the one of the most selfless acts of service a person can choose. If you are interested in becoming a donor, please visit www.donatelife.org and make sure to share your wishes with your family. Over the course of the next year, we will be sharing our Sister’s journey to Cleveland, including ways to support the team.

Respect *Integrity*Courage*Honor

In a few weeks, our little town will have its annual Crazy Days (which is something akin to a city-wide sidewalk sale). I had never heard of this tradition until my family moved to the Midwest. While the sales are fun to participate in, my personal favorite has always been the kiddie parade. My kiddos have been participating in them since Reed was three years old. Our streak has been a fun one. One year, we had the boys, two neighborhood friends, another friend, and Sister who all wanted to join in the fun. Oh my goodness! Thoughts of “Oh my!” and “How am I ever going to put a theme together for five boys and one tiny girl?” swirled in my head for days.

Cleaning up the toy room one evening, I had an “AHA!” moment. Sitting in the dress up bin were my Papa’s police shirts. My Mama had let me have them because for ethical reasons they could not be donated to a thrift store, should someone have nefarious reasons for purchasing one. Our parade unit would be a tribute to 9/11. Some of the boys were police officers, some were soldiers (uniforms courtesy of my sweetie), and Sister was Lady Liberty!

kiddie parade

I can tell you that even though my Papa enjoyed the festivities from heaven, he was extremely proud. Law enforcement runs deeps in my family. My Papa and both my uncles Gene and Donnie were LEO’s. Growing up with a scanner running in the house was just something that happened on the Noles side of my family.

As the granddaughter and niece of police officers and sheriff’s deputies, Sawyer’s invitation to the graduation of the 56th Training Academy by the Chief of the Minnesota State Highway Patrol was a pinch-me moment. I know to him it was an incredible honor as well. We were escorted to and from the event by the lead investigator from our darkest day, and we have considered him our friend for a very long time. Our journey to the Mariucci Arena coming one day after our Sister’s major knee surgery; so, only Sawyer and I were able to travel to the ceremony.

Our lives first crossed paths in a meaningful way when Trooper L came to our home to interview our children about their accounts of the bus crash. I remember his quiet and understanding nature allowing them to tell their memories of the day. I could not imagine the pain he had to feel collecting the stories of the children whom he had worked to help. He offered his phone number and told us we could contact him anytime. His was the number we called when the friend of Reed had a vision of where Reed’s glasses could be found on the bus. And he was the one who reverently returned the small lens back to us.

Our travel time was filled with lots of stories, the kind of catching up old friends do when they haven’t seen each other in a while. It was a beautiful time, another healing moment ordained by God. There were many poignant moments at the ceremony, each causing tears to pool in my eyes. The first being when we were escorted to our seats. The seats were marked with papers saying “Reserved for Dignitaries”. The Boy Wonder and I exchanged glances. Are we really supposed to sit here? Oh, my goodness! Papa, are you seeing this? There were real dignitaries in attendance, but to the troopers we were more than a young man and his mom. Our neighbors in the next seats were a delegation from the Wisconsin State Troopers who were present on a mission of remembrance and appreciation to this class of graduates for honoring their fallen comrade. Their sorrow was palpable, beating in their hearts under their badges. Watching the families, often multi-generations be a part of the badge ceremony moved me to tears, especially the ones who were repurposing a badge that was once worn by a father, grandfather, or great-grandfather. Just like in my own family, the pride of the profession runs deep. The messages given by the speakers were touching, but each of them gave profound advice – use your training to come home safely. When the Chief gave his address, he ended with the words written by my son. He asked Sawyer to stand and shared who “these dignitaries were”, and said he had struggled with how to end this year’s speech . . . until a letter arrived from a young man from Marshall.

The Chief read these words as the closing of his commencement remarks. He began by saying the cadets had chosen a noble profession: one that truly makes a difference. If they ever doubt that, remember the words of Sawyer.

As the bus lay upside down on the highway, it wasn’t strangers that helped get every child off the bus; it was the heroes of my community. The paramedics, firemen, policemen, and state troopers that I had known as my neighbors and members of my community who came to help me and my class mates in our darkest hour. People, who, to this day, I encounter almost on a daily basis, are real heroes. The frigid Minnesota winter afternoon of the crash, these men and women left the warmth of their families and jobs to come and save many lives, including my own.   They came expecting nothing in return from those who were on the bus. They simply saw the children they had always known who needed their assistance. Even to this day the humility possessed by these local heroes is astounding. Instead of taking pride in the many lives they saved that night, they take pride in how well I and the other children have been able to recover since the crash. I do not believe that you can become a hero by chance or by simply showing up. Heroes are the people who have a desire to help and make a difference and the compassion to truly be there for those in need. A hero is a person who does what it takes to help those in need regardless of the personal risk or cost.

I couldn’t hold the tears back. The pride bursting forth that we were blessed to have this young man in our lives. The joy barely contained because he had come so far and his life was impacting the lives of others. The honor of being invited to an amazing event left me humbled.

In the final oath of office, the newest troopers standing right before us, I bowed my head and asked God to please keep them safe as they work to serve and protect others. We took the time to congratulate each one, and even more tears accompanied by big smiles when several thanked Sawyer for the words of encouragement. I saved my commencement bulletin; so that it would be a visual reminder to pray for them throughout their careers.

As we were leaving swirling in my thoughts were the core values central to the mission of the Minnesota Highway Patrol: respect, integrity, courage, honor, all the things that we have tried to instill in our young man. The same values his Papa and Grandpa Earl lived by are what his Granpa Junior and Dad model every day. I was overcome with emotion. What a day! One I will never forget. Frankly, this was one of the coolest things I have ever done. If I thought that long ago parade would have made my Papa proud, this day would be the pinnacle of all he embodied. In the wind I could almost hear him whisper, “You done good, Gal. You done good.”

MHP graduation

View from the top as we were entering the stadium.