When dreams grow bigger

IMG_20131225_150145 An unexpected rap at the door on a cold wintry night removed me from a cozy blanket cocoon. A sleepless night the previous evening prompted my unusual self-indulgence. Standing at the door was a dear friend, passing through town. Maybe it was the fogginess of a tired brain, but his appearance served as a beacon to remember – write that blog, write that blog.

Many times the teacher becomes the student. Watching this friend has been all lesson in my life as this man, and his family, have been the models of generosity.

Snow melted off of sturdy boots while we talked in my living room and old dog inched closer for extra rubbings behind elderly ears. The impromptu visit became a necessity because of a societal ill – never enough time. The last time our lives crossed paths was when my friend had been honored for being a Hometown Hero – a title more than aptly fitting.

What a blessing it was to surprise him with the bestowed honor and to be there among those who like us had been recipients of his family’s boundless gifts of love, time and resources. All in attendance were there to surprise him. But here is the thing about heroes, they never cease to amaze. After learning of the award and the monetary award to a charity of his choice, he stunned everyone in the room. He quietly explained how he had hoped to surprise all of us by awarding Special Olympics with a donation. The givers became doubly blessed as not one but two checks were awarded to some of his biggest fans. Not a dry eye could have been found in the room.

I have witnessed his family who models what it means to give generously – especially to those small, overlooked, and often without a voice. Special Olympics, Big Buddies, and the Ronald McDonald house were some of the bigger names. The others are too numerous to list, but among them are the grieving, the souls beat up by loss that while the rest of the world goes on they are trying desperately to make it to the next minute. It is a marathon for life’s breath. My family would be among the recipients of their beautiful commitment to loving others even when, at times, the world was falling apart around them.

Without their help, our dream of remembering Reed at the hospital where he died would have been nothing more than idealistic, swirling firings of neurons in my head. Their perseverance while waiting for just the right thing led to a beautiful friendship. Through their business the Reed-A-Cheetah program was born, allowing us to build a dream of bringing comfort to those who need it most, in their darkest hour. Through their love our dream became real. Reed would have been proud.

We were stunned last spring by their sad news. What happened that day still leaves me in awe! Salinated drops came pouring forth as my ears and heart did not want to hear their business was closing. They have given so much. Why is this happening? In a moment that was both surreally raw and beautifully poignant, even when their darkness was coming closer, they shone a light of incredible hope. The cheetah “business” could not – would not – die. Our friends had met as a family and decided the way to ensure the proliferation of cheetahs would be to give our family the stuff your own animal business. Do what? You are giving us the entire kit and caboodle? My knees were weak as I tried to protest. This was too large. Too generous. Too lavish a gift. My bitter tears gave way to the blessed tears of being loved, overwhelmed with thankfulness. Who loves like this? My feeble attempts to protest were met with a matter of fact it-is-done-this-conversation-is-over determination. Honestly, I think I cried for days.

Friends like this are rare to find.

This is not a gift to be squandered. We have had family meetings, talked, and dreamed, talked and dreamed some more. In the end, we have decided we want this adventure to reflect the generosity with which it was bestowed. Our intention is to have a Give It Forward model of entrepreneurship. With the purchase of one stuffed animal, we will give one away. Purchasers can stuff their own animals and the ones that will be gifted to charity. If someone has a charity or fundraiser they want to support, we will work with them to hopefully make that dream happen just as our friends did for us.

It doesn’t happen often in life, but through all our dreaming and planning, words fail us on one important aspect – a name for all of this goodness. How do you name a gift so incredible? We struggle decide on a name for this new venture. Adam was given the charge to name creation. We would have woefully failed in his duty.

What I do know is that no matter the name we will strive to live up the gift givers expectations, because our last see-you-soon, prior to our quick respite from the snowy day, held the parting words “The Ronald McDonald house could sure use some little animals.” Yes. Yes, I would guess they could. Because while we move forward in healing, hurt, needing comfort is always around the corner. We never lose sight of the comfort lavishly poured out in many different ways. His words were both a blessing and a reminder to live generously with a hope that no matter what darkness surrounds someone’s story – love will conquer all.

reed-a-cheetah

Name our Adventure contest: As the new proprietors and caretakers of a dream making adventure, we need your help! Reed-A-Cheetah and all his stuffie friends are waiting for a new name for their big adventure: bringing comfort and joy to those who need it most. Please submit your ideas for a name for this business adventure. The person who submits the winning name will be awarded a free stuffed friend and the opportunity to “bring him or her to life” as well as the donated friend. All submissions should be sent to mominmn@hotmail.com by January 31st. Children of all ages (3 -103) are encouraged to participate.

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You never know what adventure your stuffie will find!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Un-sale

The what?

Well, let me tell you, the best thing I did all holiday season (aside from hanging with my peeps) started from one of my BIG ideas. Only . . . I can’t really claim any originality in this one. A while back I had read a post by a Facebook friend who shared she was doing a blessings “sale”. The reason for the quotation marks – which my now eleven year old has mastered the use of the air version of these – is that there would be absolutely nothing for sale. All the items would be given away. I watched her pictures and her posts. Her garage was neatly organized; equipped with beverages and treats at the ready to bless her friends and neighbors. Longingly I admired her commitment to less – which is an ever elusive siren song for me – and unabashedly I’ve wanted to be her.

There, I said it.

I wanted to steal her idea and love with abandon – not my stuff but – people in my own village a little more than an hour away.

On some random Tuesday, God opened that door. A small group message among teacher friends started innocuously with a question about having some items of clothing to give away and mushroomed into an amazing-drop-me-to-my-knees-hands-lifted-in-praise-moment.

Anyone who has spent ten minutes with me immediately knows three things: I am a hugger. I have a story for everything. AND finally, I am a dreamer always swirling with ideas – BIG ideas.

I seized my opportunity and blurted out (okay through my fingertips) what my friend accomplished down the road and how I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO DO THAT. After an impassioned explanation of my big idea, my sweet cohorts announced in their own Jerry Maguire moment I had them at “blessing others.”

The crazy thing though about less is you often come away with more.

We got to plan hatching (small confession: this is my favorite part of dreaming). We chose a date, a location, created posters (both online and on paper), asked other friends, neighbors, and students to help us give back. We delivered flyers to organizations that would be able to distribute them and left the rest to God.

Well, mostly.

We three teachers live among good people, who shine brightly in the dark of winter. Donations came pouring in – once loved items, treats to share, and amazing volunteers. The entire church basement was full. The original four tables were matched with another four and another four after that. No one wanted to utter the thought, but we were all thinking it. Mother Nature had begun to stir her wintry stew. What if we did all this and no one came?

Unsale

A couple students from my department joined us in the blessing of others.

 

 

Even in the blessing, we faltered. We allowed God to be less. I should have known better. I sent the original idea friend a message telling her what we were doing and asking for any last minute pointers earlier that morning. Her simple reply baffled me.

Be prepared to have your socks blessed off.

Do what? We wanted to bless others. Not the other way around. How could this be? Is it in the giving – the getting rid of the more to have less that would somehow result in more of something else?

Blessed we were. The formerly shod were humbly drawn closer to the soul of God.

Worry we should have not.

In came one. Then two. Then four or five more were followed by countless beautiful, amazing people in need of a blessing. God’s mighty hand was opening the bags we handed at the door but more importantly opening our souls to the power of possibility, the grace of the divine, the holy of giving and loving.

Those who had doubted if any would show up fought hard to hold back tears as new friends wrapped our necks with hugs. Glimpses of glory were savored as we overheard parents saying they were rushing home to wrap new treasures for their babes. Tiny grandmothers bowed in reverence, whispering in broken English – “Thank you, Teacher.” Sweeter words were never spoken – until later that evening – when through tear stained faces, we thanked God for the more we received.

More blessings

More faces that resembled God’s own

More love

More joy

As I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was swirling with visions of how much more I could give away, of how I never wanted to forget this moment because I wanted more of them, and of how much more of God I wanted to see in the everyday ordinary moments of life. Swollen eyelids heavy from the tears shed and from the busyness of the day took their toll.

For that one cold and blustery night, my heart was warmed while my feet were cold; my socks being blown away much earlier in the evening.

 

Revolutionary love

A few weeks ago, I was invited to be the speaker at a neighboring school for their Pay It Forward day. The students completed acts of service throughout the day, and I spoke twice in the afternoon, once to senior high and later to junior high students. Many hours of preparation went into the big day, because the message would be life-changing – not because I spoke it, but because kindness is transformational. Intertwining stories of my family and our darkest hour with humor and heartfelt truths of compassion, not only from friends and family but also from complete strangers, was a beautiful tale to tell.

The oldest students would have been nine or ten years old when our tragedy occurred; so other than the few in the audience who know us personally the story would be new. Delicately balancing the human side of a major news story is hard work, exhausting at best and gut-wrenchingly aching at worst as my mind, body, and soul are transported back, reliving each moment. ALL. THE. MOMENTS. The beautiful ones AND the ones so painful that some days I look in the mirror and want to high five the girl on the other side because I don’t know if she truly knows how awesome and amazing it is she survived.

In the end, I wanted my young friends to leave not feeling sorry for us, but rather to be inspired by the acts of kindnesses lavished upon our family.

Early in my presentation, I wanted a gauge of how honest and sincere my audience would be. The measure of sincerity was simple. Raise your hand if someone somewhere at some time in the world has been kind to you. Every hand in the room was raised.

Then, I upped the ante. Raise your hand if you have ever felt lonely, isolated, different, afraid, left out, unsure or insignificant. Only one brave hand was raised. The rest were liars.

Little did they know, I completely expected those results, because I wanted them to squirm a little bit before I shared my mission – creating revolutionaries. Genuine change requires some struggle, including confronting your own battles.

Sharing some basic facts about my family, I eventually expounded on our loss and pain but mostly explained why I could be considered an expert in receiving kindnesses. I wanted the precious scholars to know no matter how limited they or their budgets may appear to be, there is no kindness too small which does not leave a person transformed. If something appears to be an obstacle, plan big and DREAM BIGGER to reach out to those who are hurting.

What I didn’t share was the firestorm known as the political hot button issue at the center of our sadness. Truth be told, I lied (in omission) to them all. I never spared the truth about the hardships we have had (and still endure) as a part of that day. I openly told how the girl, who went from doing everything, relied on everyone else to do most anything. My heart was bare when sharing how much these acts of compassion truly taught me about community and love – transforming, selfless revolutionary love. What I didn’t share was the black part of my heart early on in our story.

Very few know this story, but given the news of recent days and weeks, it is time to finally come clean.

I hold many different titles, but even fewer know that for a brief period in my life I was our town’s chief crane inspector. Okay, not really. My then three year old was. I was just the chauffeur. The rebuilding of our lives came agonizingly slow, while our little town’s infrastructure was booming. The baby of our family has been and most likely always will be infatuated with construction cranes. After dropping off the big kids at school, we would drive from construction site to construction site “inspecting” the crane’s work. The final one in our tour was completing a new expansion at our county jail which at the time housed the woman who killed my son and ripped our lives apart.

Every day, while sipping on sweet tea, I wished for the crane operator to be unsuccessful in his endeavor to securely place the large preformed concrete walls. Just drop the wall and she will hurt as much as I do. Dark was that corner of my heart. The news of the amazingness known as my son and the other three children who were gone tapered off and all that was left were court cases, commentaries on illegal immigration, and sound bites from her attorneys, who in an attempt to humanize their client crossed the line when suggesting a conviction would mean her elderly parents might not ever get to see her again. Really? I am fairly certain I am not ever going to see my child again on this earth. EVER. It was all too much for me and my brokenness.

But it was through that brokenness, God showed me how much my darkness was only hurting me and how it was not now or ever going to be a part of the solution. I wanted to be better. Different. Transformed by my heart and through my darkness. Realizing my son would never want hate and bitterness to be a part of his legacy, I chose forgiveness and began carefully and tenderly (with God’s divine grace) choosing love over everything else.

With every tragedy (and by every – I mean EVERY SINGLE ACT – especially the ones on the news, where someone is left hurting), I am reminded that choosing love is a revolutionary act of defiance. The world perpetuates evil. Choosing to love in the face of darkness is an uncommon act. Everything about my sweet boy was not common, and in honoring him, choosing love was the granddaddy of all antidotes to hurt and a slap in the face of darkness.

Hate mongering, fear inducing rhetoric, social media memes shared virally, and us vs. them mentalities will never solve any problem. Evil will never go away, but none of these go-to platforms offer any sincere opportunities for hope. So here’s a thought: STOP doing them. STOP saying hurtful things. STOP posting divisive things. Stop teaching this rhetoric to your children.

And while we are at it STOP focusing on our differences. STOP pointing them out.

STOP taking tragedies like mine, Sandy Hook, Ferguson, or San Bernardino and reducing it a sound bite, a meme, a rally cry, an ideological platform, a banner flag because behind all of that chaos are real people who are truly hurting and who never asked to be a poster child.

The real issue is HURT. Even if my young friends lied it about it, pain is real and isolating.  At the root of every hurt is a genuine, amazing and awesome person – who deserves better in this world and of this world.

While real conversations can and SHOULD take place, the issues have never been illegal immigration, gun control, skin color, terrorism, or mental health issues.

The real issues are the lack of understanding, the lack of respect, and the LACK of love.

How do we uplift and honor instead of tear down and divide?

After we stop doing all those other things, let’s lead with kindness. Let’s call it our gift to the world. They will never see that one coming. Look for ways to help others. Make that our new habit. Have real conversations with eyes and ears that can see the hurt others bring to the table. Be the voice of change for those who have no voice. Stand up, beside, and behind those who are hurting, especially those different from ourselves. Give generously with your time, your resources, your mind and your soul, and not to mention your heart. Smile at everyone. Read to your children about all kinds of people and whisper in their ears they are what make the world a better place. Buy a stranger a meal or a cup of coffee. Celebrate you and celebrate others! Hold hands and pray, and when it doesn’t look like that is working, hold on a little longer. Envelop those you love (and those who are hurting) in hugs that leave everyone better.

Be genuine.

Be sincere.

Choose hope.

Be hope.

Be brave and inspirational and kind.

Never forget kind.

The world is watching.

High five that guy or girl in the mirror, for at least trying to change the world.

And, be revolutionary in your love!

christmas angel

It is well . . . just trust

When I went back to teaching full-time this fall, I really spent a lot of time with God asking if this was truly what he wanted for my life. While I like to pretend I am superhuman, in reality I know I am anything but. If my life was a balancing act before returning to my career as an educator, deep in my heart, I knew I would be giving up some things in order to keep my sanity. Just what things was the question.

Writing? Speaking? Time with family and friends? Volunteering?

None of those items did I really want to put on the back burner. They were all too precious in my sight.

My prayer time with God probably sounded a little whiny. God, every time I think I am done with my book, you tell me I am not. How am I going to finish it while working full-time? And what about my blog? Lord, throughout the last few years there have been dry patches because of dark times when my writing was put on the back-burner, what if this job takes that away too? Are you asking for this season to be over? I am not sure I am ready. And speaking? Lord, how can I do that while teaching classes at the university?

Like the proverbial frying pan of cartoon fame, God stopped my crazy train of swirling what-ifs with a song. Reed’s song. When our kiddos were little, our bedtime routine consisted of getting ready for bed, reading a book, saying our prayers, and then a bedtime song. Each of my kids had their favorite requests which would be sung every night. One day during my internal thought wrestling, Reed’s song which was a childhood vespers song, sung in the midst of the north Georgia mountains in my years spent at summer camp.

Seek ye first, the kingdom of God

And his righteousness.

And all these things shall be added unto you.

Hal-le-lu, Hal-le-lu-jah.

 The very hard truth was God knew the balance I needed in my life and provided it in a way I never saw imaginable. Instead of taking away the things I loved and in reality draw me closer to him, God showed me the many (and trust me the list is lengthy) distractions I have in my daily routine. Those needed to go, and I need to daily trust that God has a plan.

I am very protective of family time; so, while that might have to become more creative at times, I knew those precious moments would remain a safe harbor. Writing has become both my release and my platform. But speaking was the one which I adore and in my small “let’s put God in a box” plan, I believed would be the one which would go by the wayside.

Ironically, not knowing God’s plans is my specialty because not only have I not given up any speaking engagements but my number of requests to be a speaker has grown leaps and bounds. In the two months since I walked through the door God held open, I have had more speaking engagements and requests than I had the previous year AND to add a cherry to the top, my employer is supportive of me doing so!

How little was my faith! If God asks for a mustard seed, I was offering less than a grain of sand. Where was my trust?

Why does my mind always sneak back to all we have lost or given up or did without or waited for or wished was different, but forgets about God’s amazing steadfast presence? While in the seasons of being a red-shirted freshman sitting on the sidelines of life, I yearned to someday go back to my career. But like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football, I believed that I would end up disappointed. Through our journeys through seemingly endless dark valleys and never-ending turbulent seas and storms, God has always been there through each tear-stained, worrisome step, why would I doubt that he would not have a plan to bring me the desires of my heart?

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Like those years long ago, when a tiny (and tad bit homesick) girl missed the comforts of her own house, the vespers song brought the peace of God’s love, a new (to me) worship song brought in waves of grace of divine dimensions which calmed my heart a couple days ago. Soothed by the lyrics, I transformed them into my own personal prayer.

Maybe, just maybe, my heart needed the reminder that all is well, through dark moments AND through absolutely amazing experiences of new opportunities waiting to be savored. GOD.HAS.A.PLAN. All he asks of me is to trust Him, just as the song proclaimed

Let go my soul and trust in him

the waves and wind still know his name.

 His love is everlasting, and I truly needed a refresher course in the promise of his guidance in burdens AND blessings. Of all the songs that could have been chosen for worship on the first Sunday of Advent, what a blessing this one was chosen for his girl.

Wherever you are today and whatever you are facing – may God’s steadfast presence whisper to your soul.

May Emmanuel (God with us) be the best Christmas blessing you have ever fully embraced.

Photo courtesy: Licensed under Public Domain via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:North_georgia_mountains.JPG#/media/File:North_georgia_mountains.JPG

 

 

Thinking about Sunday

When I was a little girl the church we attended had recently built a new and bigger sanctuary and chapel and created a “campus” by building a large gymnasium and classroom building. Unlike the modern trend of bulldozing the old church and Sunday school classrooms, the wise souls in leadership at Hilton Terrace Baptist kept those buildings intact, creating a place for Children’s Church on Sunday mornings and a large area for the women’s quilting group to keep frames up year-round. Going to the BIG church was a BIG deal. Usually the only times children were present was for special performances, the less attended evening church, or Vacation Bible School, otherwise we were in our own church just up the hill a small piece. I really lived an insulated life because that church was not only our house of worship, but also served as our version of the YMCA because the leaders were forward thinking, putting in a skating rink in the gym and placing an emphasis on children and families. Of all the days of the week we were there, Wednesday evenings were my favorite. This was the time when it felt like I had the biggest family in the world as we all gathered on that same gym floor to eat together –like clockwork every week.

photo captured by Microsoft maps

photo captured by Microsoft maps

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when this happened, but I remember how grown up I felt when a tiny little box arrived for me. The box contained an assortment of envelopes, mostly white but a few of assorted colors thrown in too. Sometimes I refer to my childhood church as “old church”, and these offering envelopes were an old church experience for me. I was so proud to be a “regular” that had my own way of contributing to the place that I loved. In my youthful way of thinking, it never crossed my mind that I was a “donor”. I doubt I even knew what that word meant as I stuck a few coins here or there in my various envelopes and marched them right on into Children’s Church each week.

Yesterday sitting in a grown-up church over a thousand miles away from that childhood one, I was thinking about the significance of the day on the calendar when my mind did a play on words. For most, the day was a typical day of worship, just two Sundays before Thanksgiving, but for others it is a day to have real conversations about another kind of donor: those who chose to donate their organs and tissues. It is not an easy conversation, and one that my tiny little Georgia peach self would have never imagined she would be thinking about years later. But think I did!

Many know the story of choosing in our darkest hour to ask if Reed could be a donor, honoring a promise made to a nine-year old child was also something my childhood dreams of motherhood never imagined. But we made the decision to give the biggest gift we would ever give – our son. We chose donation because the then twelve-year old Reed would have wanted us to do so. Of all the decisions we made the night of the school bus crash that changed our lives forever, that was one that made the most sense and one which has always brought us peace.

My childhood coin-filled envelopes probably made a small impact on our church and God’s kingdom, but choosing for our child to become a donor was one that would be life-changing for many. Making that decision did not negate or lessen our grief by one second, but through our pain we provided others joy. And if there was anything, other than his incredible faith, our boy would ever want to be known for, his love for giving to others was it.

The next days and weeks were filled with hospital stays and countless hours at doctor’s and therapist’s offices. Three months later, while our family was literally split in two, Super S and I living four hours away at a rehabilitative hospital, and the girls and Daniel back home, we were all together at the hospital for Mother’s Day. Second only to the year we lost our first baby; this was going to go down as the worst Mother’s Day in history. Reeling from the pain of not having our firstborn, but wanting to spend time with the three beautiful blessings we were still parenting, I experienced one of the most agonizing roller coaster rides of my life. Back then, the days were bad, but the nights – oh the nights – were horrible, filled with pain and night-terrors. Hospitals are not spas and I was exhausted. Everyone was having a great time in the hospital and I asked if it would be okay to just take a break, knowing full well I wanted to find a place to release from my eyes what my heart was feeling. Instead of going on a walk, I retreated to the back seat of our mini-van parked in the basement parking garage of the St. Mary’s hospital with plans to cry my little heart out and perhaps take a nap. My focus was singular. Nothing else mattered but a good crying session and rest from what was the most difficult season I had ever faced in my life. As I approached the cold, cemented structure, I noticed the lack of cars in the garage. It was Sunday – Mother’s Day – after all. The rest of the world was out eating, going to church, planting flowers, and enjoying the sunshine. As I approached our vehicle, I realized the only other one in the entire place was parked right next to ours. So much for a retreat! I was beyond caring – as in DID. NOT. GIVE. A. HOOT – if the owner of that full-sized van came back and found me sleeping in mine. Maybe it was the proximity of the two automobiles or maybe it was something much more divine (because I never saw that van again), my eyes were drawn to its bumper sticker.

Donate your organs . . . because heaven doesn’t need them.

The theology may not be sound, but at that moment, I didn’t care. The flood of grief came pouring out. The anguish of not having my son on Mother’s Day felt as if some cosmic force was ripping my own heart out of my body. Yet mixed in with my electrifyingly burning heart was the joy of all the bumper stickers in the world, God chose to place that one in my line of sight. I cried tears of joy for a God-sighting and for the families who were the recipients of our donor.

And yes, I took that nap . . .

resting peacefully knowing the God of my childhood was still faithful to the little girl who grew up to raise a superhero.

SD700 IS 050-1

To learn more about organ and tissue donation (and becoming a superhero): please visit this website.

When adventures melt your heart

Ponce de Leon

Lewis & Clark

Indiana Jones (Okay, I know he isn’t real, but he is one of my favorite fictional explorers.)

Jacques Cousteau

Reed Stevens

That last one is definitely real, but relatively unknown in the world of great adventurers and explorers. Reed and his trusty sidekick, Huckleberry were the rarest of adventurers. Every day, they were outside battling all kinds of foes. The neighbors never really knew the troubles which befell our street. Thankfully, the boy and his dog saved us from the worst calamities – dragons, pirates, aliens, and of course, the rare evil villains normally conquered by superheroes. The rest of us innocently went about the busyness of our days, oblivious to the perils surrounding us.

Thankfully, our boy was ever vigilant, because his imagination was packed on every trip and vacation. A quick look out of the camper would find him engaged in an epic duel with a heretofore unknown baddie. His enthusiasm for the stories his mind created carried over into the some of the most interesting places, including his grandmother’s treasured (no pun intended) vegetable garden.

One year, my sweetie and I decided to take a much-needed parents-only vacation. We trekked to North Dakota in a minivan filled with kids, suitcases, a few fries on the floorboards and visions of sleeping in and eating grown up food swirling in our heads. Dropping the kids at Grandma’s house, we hopped a train on tracks which literally followed in the long forgotten prairie footsteps of Lewis and Clark heading westward.

Refreshed and renewed we returned to learn of the fun created by our boy, his siblings, and cousins. Every good grandma has a junk drawer. Grandma Lorraine has one to rival all others. In a moment of sheer genius (or boredom – one can never tell in these moments) Reed convinced Grandma to allow the gang to bury some of the items from her stash of once loved, but now neglected, items to create a treasure map.

Adventure rarely leaves the explorer, but sometimes the great ones leave us much too early. Although I am certain he would have continued to create glorious and epic scenes here on earth, God called him home to heaven, what I can only imagine is the greatest place of exploration, at twelve years old.

When you love someone with that much creative and imaginative force in the world, his absence leaves a craterous hole in your existence. A few years after his passing, we quite accidentally stumbled upon a way to fill in some of the excitement for which we silently longed.

Our find – geocaching – was one that we know without a doubt, Reed would have loved. After gaining some experience (the rest of us were, of course, novice adventurers), we decided to create a geocache in memory of our great explorer. But where? Where would we place such a worthy remembrance? We considered North Dakota, where our adventurer now rests, just a mile or so away from his buried treasure spot.

Believe me, the gut-wrenching irony of one of my greatest treasures buried in the same fertile prairie soil is not lost on me.

Eventually we decided it would be more fun to show the rest of the world a spot he loved closer to our home, settling on our favorite place to snowshoe. Nestled in a relatively unknown location right on the campus of our local university, we spent many days were spent hiking and snowshoeing throughout the trails there. If he were here, Reed would tell you his favorite part was when we would go on the trails deep in the woods and he would wait for just the right place to tap a tree, causing a mini-avalanche of snow to land on the person behind him. Often that person, I would not recall that as my favorite part. Adventure and a wicked sense of humor make for a very interesting combination.

It was the perfect place to share our boy and brother with the rest of the adventuring world. Securing the proper permission, we logged our cache on the world’s greatest treasure hunt www.geocaching.com and hoped that some would find the treasure. They did; many extolling they would have never known Reed’s favorite spot existed.

Notifications from treasure hunters usually arrive at those moments when we could really use a pick me up. For this we can only thank God and smile remembering a boy we all love (never in the past tense, because he will always be a part of our lives).

That very thing happened last week at work. It was one of those days when the passion I pour into being an educator exhausted me until . . . one of my colleagues stopped by my office to share about her class. Holding up a tiny baseball card featuring a familiar face, she melted my heart, reminding me I work at one of the best places in the world. I believe all the great explorers have one major thing in common: an insatiable curiosity, a drive to know more and more about the world – its beauty and its people. Reed lived life large. Some of his greatest influences were teachers who dared him to dream BIG. Holding back a few tears, I hope my colleague knows one little redheaded boy would be thrilled to know a classroom full of future teachers were inspired to dream and to someday plant those dream seeds in the imaginations of their students.

I know for sure his momma was!

Here’s to the red-headed wonders, explorers, adventurers, teachers and students: DREAM ON!

reed geocache

A childlike faith

Isolation, busyness, and exhaustion seem to punctuate the days for many. We yearn for time to connect with others, yet there never seems to be enough time or energy. How do we start making connections within the church, the workplace, anywhere? This is a question we have been asking over and over in our Bible study group. Our homework, due tonight, is to bring ideas on how we can bring people together within our church family and how to spread that fellowship out into the community.

In a world that idolizes activity, our task was challenging. I had spent days thinking about my ideas. The answer came rushing in about the same time I watched my littlest dart across the street to hug one of her best buddies. Sitting back and watching that scene unfold, reminded me of Jesus’ admonition to have a childlike faith. I think he also meant a youthful spirit as well.

For an answer Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me. Matthew 18:2-5

Her jubilant dash reminded me of a time years ago, when my sweetie and that same curly-haired child shared a best friend.  When Sal’s lifelong bestie moved in, M would often wander two doors down to play with our baby girl.  Upon discovering that Sal wasn’t home, M would stay and shadow my husband, assisting in all sorts of tinkering projects.  When her parents would come a short while later, they would be shocked that Sal was nowhere in sight and M was happily hanging out with my man.

Daniel quickly brushed away any nonsense about his little buddy being in the way or slowing him down. He cherished the company of a sweet little girl.  The message was clear: happiness and fulfillment can be found in the unassuming places of the ordinary.

During my ruminating over our homework question, I have thought of all the buzz-word ideas, even thinking of how to use social media to help us find time to fellowship with others. Then, God gently reminded me that lasting bonds are formed in the simplest ways, and he used a childlike spirit to reinforce his message to capture my heart.

The story made simple is this.  The parents and grandparents of some dear friends of ours and our children moved into the house across the street a few years back.  The new neighbors have spent hours updating both the interior and exterior of their home and yard.  Daily, the grandpa, D, can be seen outside doing one task or another.  Many conversations between our family and these sweet neighbors have taken place on the curb, in the street, or by the mailbox.  To the outside world, the scene would be about as interesting as dry toast, but to Sal, a true friendship was blossoming.

Grandpa D is a jokester, and Sal is often caught in his tangled web of shenanigans. After watching her jump rope one day, he asked for her assistance with a most perplexing problem – his driveway slab was upheaved at a corner.  She listened very carefully to his instruction to stand on the corner of the slab and to continue jumping.  It took just a little bit before they both erupted into fits of giggles because her slight frame was never going to push in the driveway no matter how many times she jumped up and down.  The ordinary moments, God blesses those.

One day we received a call that Grandpa D had taken ill and was being transported to a larger hospital than our local one.  Sal was heartbroken, crying for her buddy and lamenting how he just had to get better because he was now the best part of this neighborhood. (Her best friend moved across town a while back.)  She made sure we sent him “love messages” while he was away. We kept in close contact with his family, but didn’t realize Grandpa D came home from the hospital earlier than expected, while awaiting a surgery date.

Here we were enjoying a quiet family supper, when my sweetie remarked, quite shockingly, that D was in his yard doing some fall clean-up.  We were all surprised. One quick glance at Sal told me she could barely contain her excitement.  My heart melted as I allowed her to leave the table.  She tore out of her chair, bypassed putting on her shoes (even though it was in the low 50’s), and ripped across the street straight into the arms of her neighborhood buddy.

The storm in her heart was calmed as a peace settled on the two of them: one grandpa and one tiny neighbor catching up.  I don’t know all the details of their conversation, although I doubt she decided to take him up on his offer to buy a new snow shovel just for her.

The answer to our homework was illuminated watching a ten-year old and her buddy. Instead of looking for grandiose gestures to reach out to others, we learned the little stuff matters.  Maybe we are working too hard to manufacture fellowship, when God simply wants us to be present here and now in all our relationships, including the one with him.  Real connections are made in the ordinary. A childlike spirit reminded me to stop and savor those moments, even while your supper’s getting cold.  And for this, we couldn’t be more blessed.

My two lesson teachers started this race hand-in-hand and finished it the same way. Real connections support each other.

My two lesson teachers started this race hand-in-hand and finished it the same way. Real connections support each other.

Her heart spoke volumes

She has been a confidante, a friend, and most importantly an “adopted” grandparent. Grandma Ruth Lee is the matriarch of our church.  At 95 years young, she has been a guiding force in our lives for many years.  She is an encourager and prayer warrior, cementing her place in my heart one day over “coffee”.

As an organizer’s for our church’s National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day service, I had no idea the first year would help Grandma Ruth. “We didn’t have those things back in the day.”  As a momma who has miscarried three babies, my heart momentarily leapt to my throat. Grandma Ruth lost a baby too? I never knew. Little did I know how much she really does understand the longing to want to hold your baby, one more time!

Grandma Ruth grew up on the South Dakota prairie in a home where “God was always with her”.  Recently she shared how relieved she was to learn Ruth Graham didn’t have a special faith acceptance day either.  God was just always with her, and so too, was her mom.  She was mother, friend, and sister to Ruth as an only child.  Even in her 90’s, she still speaks reverently of her parents and her childhood. She went to college to become a teacher, fell in love with her high school sweetheart, and lived a very quiet life. . . until America joined World War II.

Leaving her classroom in Iowa for a few short days, she traveled to Mississippi to marry her love.  Ruth and Bob Lee were wed on Christmas Day in 1941 in the manse of the Presbyterian church.  Without today’s fanfare, they celebrated by going to the movies with the couple who stood up for them. She felt an urgency to return to her school and didn’t tarry long enough to have the honor of pinning her newlywed’s wings.  Today, she laments that decision, following her brain and sense of duty, rather than following her heart and staying for the formal aviators’ graduation.

Her trip “home” was not without complications, however.  The taxi which was supposed to pick her up never arrived, prompting she and Bob to walk to the station.  They arrived in time to see the train pull away.  She had to wait until the next day for the next northbound railcar, which broke down halfway back to Iowa, causing her to resort to telegraphing the school along the route.  Exhausted, she returned four days later than expected.

B17 Super Fortress World War 2 Bomber

B17 Super Fortress World War 2 Bomber

She finished the school year, and along the way discovered she was expecting their first child.  Grandma Ruth returned home to live with her parents while her beloved was halfway around the world flying fifty-one missions at the helm of a B-17 flying fortress.  Waiting for the arrival of a new baby was a delicate time when your husband was serving his country thousands of miles away.

When I first met Grandma Ruth, she was already the matriarch of a family and a church family.  The momma of four and grandmother of many, she loved our family like her own offering comfort to us when our oldest son died. The story I learned a decade after first meeting Grandma was their precious David Paul was born, but lived a little more than an hour. She wrote every day to Bob, but the only letter he ever received was the one informing him of his baby son’s death.  Upon learning the news, all he wanted to know was if his girl was doing okay.

Over coffee one morning, she quietly shared she knew exactly the first thing she was going to do when she got to heaven.  I’m going to rock my baby. I have never forgotten the moment. Many years had passed between her baby passing and our coffee time, but a momma’s heart never forgets. I believe God knows her heart’s desire too, and I am hoping when she gets there, he will have the rocking chair ready.

He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us.  2 Corinthians 1:4 (MSG)

Is there someone in your life today to whom you can offer comfort? Can your story offer hope and healing to another? Grandma Ruth may never know how much her story, shared over a coffee (and a Coke) and some Hardee’s biscuits changed my life forever.  While she was most definitely Bob’s girl, more importantly she is God’s! When to the rest of the world ours is a quiet – often not spoken – hurt, God’s girl, Ruth, boldly shared her heart which gave life-changing, life-breathing hope to mine. Instead of a rocking chair, I think I am going to ask God to have the front porch swing ready when I arrive . . . with toes dangling my babies and Reed and I will swing away.

Sitting with her dear friend, V, Grandma Ruth on the right at her surprise party at our church!

Sitting with her dear friend, V, Grandma Ruth on the right at her surprise party at our church!

Note: October is National Infant and Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Month.  If you have experienced the same pain my “Grandma” and I have, please know our hearts are with yours!

Fourteen years . . . and nothing changed

I don’t know how it happened. Time literally slipped through my fingers. As much as I am feeling the pain of lost days, my baby girl is experiencing the sadness even more. When I was her age, Christmas took forever to arrive. I am certain for her that date on the calendar is insignificant compared to another date she pines for every day. There is not a day that goes by in which she doesn’t lament how much she misses her big brother. This side of mothering is a terrible tight-rope walk. On one cliff’s edge is the fragile, beating heart of a little girl who misses her other half of the dynamic duo, who loves superheroes and Dr. Who as much as she does. On the other mountaintop is the man who was once our precious boy, scaling to higher and higher heights. Yes, I miss him every day, and I wish he were closer. But I also wish for him to soak up every experience offered to him, hoping his university years are as memorable and cherished as my own.

In between the rock and the hard place, I tenderly cradle my girl while secretly cheering him on.

We do hear from him, albeit not as regularly as his little sidekick would like. I can’t quite be certain, but I would not be surprised to see her create a public shaming encouraging video, like the mom who posted on Facebook explaining to her son how to use the phone to call home. I can see it now: E.T. wants to phone home, and sassy sisters want to hear from their big brothers.

If I were honest with her, I could have known this is how his college days would be. I knew it fourteen years ago . . . on the first day of kindergarten. My theory is that children don’t really change all that much over the years. I knew on day one of kindergarten what move-in day as a college freshman would look like. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

After taking our annual First Day of School pictures in our front yard by the tree near our driveway, we drove away anxiously anticipating a new adventure. The school district where I taught had just built a new K-12 building. We made the difficult and prayer filled decision to open enroll our children so we would all be in the same building with the same schedule. For Reed, it meant leaving his beloved Christian school, but for Sawyer it meant starting fresh as the first kindergarten class in the new school.

I took a picture that day which is still my dad’s all-time favorite photo of my kids. Then we walked from my classroom to each of the boy’s. Reed’s entrance was fraught with a little more questionable outcome because these kids were not his classmates from the previous two years. A quick hug and more than a few prayers went up, as two of us walked on to the kindergarten room. I was hoping for a smooth entrance, but maybe not as a smooth as it actually was.

first day of kindergarten sawyer

I wanted to take in every corner of the excitement known as Kindergarten Room 1, but alas, my boy wanted nothing of it. We no more than stepped into the room when my chubby-cheeked, curly-haired boy spun around and told me, “You can go now.” WHAT? No hug? No photo of your name on the desk. No helping you put your supplies in your cubby. No putting away of your napping mat. No last minute pep talk by the locker. NOPE. Nothing!

All I got was a “You can go now”, and he was off and running. He had people to meet, things to do, and a world to change!

The whole drive to South Dakota to the college of his dreams, he and Sal and I giggled and enjoyed the three hour drive, while Dad and Sister were bringing up the rear with a mini-van full of what every college kid in America was hauling to campus. In my heart, I was trying to tell myself to savor the moment, because I knew it would be over quick, no matter how much I didn’t want to believe it.

Going through the check-in process, we continued to rock out because somewhere he read to have your favorite jams because Move-In day can be long and tedious. They lied. It was neither. His university had the whole process down to assembly-line precision. From start to finish, I think it took less than one hour (which included getting his paperwork and keys in order, hauling all his belongings up three flights of stairs, and unpacking almost all of his items).

As soon as the last box was unpacked, he had the same look he had back in Room 1. The look of a caged animal who knows he is about to be set free. Thankfully, we raised him to be a gentleman and he didn’t actually utter the words, but my heart knew what his heart was saying. . . Mommasita (yes that’s what he calls me) and Dad, I’ve got this! You can go now.

He did at least allow us to get some pictures this time, even though I had to wait fourteen years to get one! And it is a good thing that we parents had on shades to hide the tears behind the dark glass.

first day of college sawyer

The best I can do is to savor each moment, because it won’t be that long before I will be sending my girls off to college. We will have to trust that we did some things right along the way, and that God has the rest covered. But hey! If my theory proves right, we might want to warn the university that we will have to peel one of the girls off of me, and I will be sending some of my students to check in on her to make sure the crying has stopped.

But for now, I will cradle my sweet girl and together we will miss her big brothers – the ones in heaven and the one away at college.

Starting a New Tradition

Over the years, I have been blessed with amazing kiddos (those I birthed and those on loan temporarily from their families).  We are planning our annual family photo, and I got to thinking the other day how there are two photos that I really want.  One would be similar to the one buzzing on social media where shadows would be in place of our children who reside with Jesus.  I am proud to be a mom of seven, even though only three share the earth with us today.  As long as I live the most difficult question to answer will always be, “How many children do you have?”

Every fiber of my being wants to yell “SEVEN”, but sometimes I don’t because I don’t always know how invested in the inquisitor I will eventually be.

Yet to pull off a picture of that significance means having to coordinate schedules with the three children who have busy lives. It will be a cherished treasure when we finally coordinate it all.  The other photo I hope to organize is one with all of our children, including our “adopted” ones – who call me Mom, but only in the “God put us all together” sense of the word.  These sons have never lived in my home and all have families who love them. For a period of time, we have had the joy of calling them one of our own.  Now if I thought the first picture was going to be a challenge to coordinate, imagine adding one son (and family) in Africa, one son (and family) just up the road, two additional college student sons, and two other sons from our school days. If you didn’t notice a pattern here, our daughters are really outnumbered. Yep, I love each of extra sons as if they were my own, and once upon a time one of them surprised me one of the greatest honors I have ever received.  I wrote more about it on the Minnesota Bridging the Gap ministry blog page, and I am sharing it here.  But let’s just say the little girl in the tutu stole my heart from the moment she was born.

Future Mustangs

Adding a grandbaby into the mix helped start a new tradition – which is a really BIG thing around Team Stevens Headquarters. From cookies and cocoa on the first snow to tracing our handprints on Thanksgiving, we excel at celebrating the every day. To the world our celebrations may look to revere the ordinary, but to us, it is the reminder of who we are and what we cherish. The little stuff truly matters.

Families are incredibly unique. Birth families, adopted families, blended families, or family of your own creation. God loves them all. However you define family, and whatever traditions (old and new) you celebrate, be blessed in knowing that God loves the things that bring families closer together!

Now here’s hoping those schedules will work out for those photos!