Tag Archives: basketball

Her first words

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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.

Sackcloth and ashes

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Yesterday, our family was dealt another blow in what seems to be a never ending litany of challenges. A little over a week ago, Sister had a one year check in (on a partial tear of her left ACL) with the orthopedic surgeon. I was unable to go, but I was not expecting the phone call I got afterward from my husband. Our doctor did not like the pain she described, ordered a second MRI, and asked us to return in a week.

For the entire week, I prayed desperately not to let fear rule my days. We only told a handful of people, until the night before our visit when I rallied the prayer warriors to flood heaven’s gates. Their response was immediate, bringing tears to my eyes. If you get nothing else from today’s blog, know that we are loved and know that we know it.

At first, our doctor was very happy to see her ACL was unchanged. It had not gotten worse which could have happened. All was looking really good until he spotted a small tear in her medial meniscus. His suggestion was to repair the tear which will require a six month over all recovery and rehabilitation process. What pushed me over the edge were his thoughts that while he was in there he should just make sure the ACL is not really in need of repair or reconstruction. If it is, then an additional surgery will take place and her recovery will be twelve months.

I cried. The doctor cried because he knows our story. My tough girl held back her tears. And my husband asked a bunch of questions.

For as long as I can remember, this sweet girl has loved the game of basketball, attending her first clinic at the age of three – just to be with her boys. Now once again, she will have to sit out while her peers are getting to play. To add insult to injury (no pun was intended there), she loved swimming, but due to a severe allergy had to give up swimming competitively. Because of the injuries she received to her shoulder in the bus crash, she was forced to choose between softball and basketball.

My heart was broken for my girl, who didn’t do anything to cause any of this. She has the heart of a competitor and a love for the game. My spirit was crushed because I know the uphill battle she is climbing, chasing a what now feels like an elusive dream to play at the college level. My soul was searching, pouring my heart out to God asking “Why can’t you just fix this?” For the record, this will push us over thirty surgical procedures in seven years for our children. I am thankful that my children are still here, but in my book that is about twenty-nine too many surgeries.

Outside of brokenhearted and crushed, I was simply mad. A WHOLE LOT OF MAD! Mad because this keeps happening to us. Mad because instead of support last year, what she had to deal with was a lot of rumors about her faking her injury to get attention. Mad because those rumors persist today. Mad because my children have to continue settle, because disappointment is a part of their vernacular. Mad because our big family vacation will have to deal with a child who cannot bear weight on her leg or our dates will have to be changed altogether. Mad because I now have to cancel all of the camps and clinics she had signed up to attend. I am sick and tired of dealing with plans B, C, and D. I just want to get up in the morning and not have to deal with changing every aspect of our lives because once again, we are in hospital and rehabilitation mode, where making plans and moving forward are really just plain tough.

Oh, we can do tough. If it isn’t in our DNA, it certainly is in our collective experience. Some days, I just want to do easy. I want to get up and not have the hurts of our story be so blasted time-consuming. I want to get up and fly by the seat of our pants, not worrying about medications, crutches, braces, and appointments. Yesterday was the first time I wanted to just simply quit. I wanted to jump on a plane, land anywhere there was a beach, and add my salty tears to the briny water.

When the doctor was crying, I said I remember when Sawyer was two and diagnosed with severe asthma after we found him blue and nonresponsive in the backyard. I thought that was the worst possible news we could ever receive. I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG! All the days I played momma as a little girl never once did my imagination think I would encounter all of this.

But I won’t quit. My children deserve better than a momma who throws in the towel. I will resolutely stand on the sidelines cheering them on and working to help her get better. I am not promising what might happen to the next person who tells me that my children are faking it, but I will remember that pledge when I hear someone else talk about anyone with a hidden hurt. Trust me, there are millions of people who look absolutely fine on the outside, but who are dealing with invisible pain or loss every day. EVERY. DAY. I will figure out how to balance the needs of a surgery of one child mixed in with the graduation of another one. I will cry because that’s what mommas sometimes do when we know that there isn’t a single thing we can do to make any of this better outside of praying. I will pray A LOT, even when my prayers are ones of anguish, despair, rage, and bitterness, because even though I don’t FEEL it right now, I KNOW God has a plan for all of this. I will beseech everyone to pray that the lesser surgery is all that is needed, and I will cling to that hope. I will do my best not to let tomorrow’s challenge rob today’s joy, but that will take every last ounce of energy I have to do it.

But first, I will have to change out of my sackcloth and wipe away the ashes. Along the way, a big glass of sweet tea with extra ice probably won’t hurt either. Taking a little liberty here, it would help to remember that perhaps I was chosen to be their momma for such a time as this. (The book of Esther, chapter 4)

My little baller in one of her first basketball t-shirts (which of course, she had to wait until her brothers outgrew it).

My little baller in one of her first basketball t-shirts (which of course, she had to wait until her brothers outgrew it).

It’s okay! My mom shares!

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When I was in the seventh grade, my family moved from about as deep in the South as you could get to a prairie valley in North Dakota.  Through my dad’s career as a college basketball coach, we befriended many families of his players.  One of my life’s mottos: “Family includes people you choose” had its rudimentary origins in that little town.

I will never forget when we were asked us to bring the matriarch of one family to an away game. Grandma Leone Nilsen was unlike anyone us kids had ever met. Norwegian (we didn’t even know where Norway was), proper, and one heck of a Scrabble player (never, and I mean never, challenge her words because she was a walking dictionary)! A real fairy grandmother like a character from a storybook. Upon hearing about our situation of being “proximally family-less” meaning no family within a thousand mile radius, she made a declaration that she stood by to her dying day. “I will be the grandma now!” She remembered all of our birthdays, special events, and even sat with my grandparents at my wedding.

Once, my parents had to travel out of town; so, she invited us to stay with her because she lived in town close to our schools. Boy! Was that an adventure! The first day’s breakfast was buttered jelly toast with eggs. The only problem was she didn’t clarify that there were two types of butter in the fridge, and we choked down grape jelly and garlic butter on wheat toast. Not a combination that I would recommend – ever. But we sure did have some giggles.

Later that night, we went to the local pizza restaurant. Grandma Leone, who was everything maternal including fair, decided we should order the three ingredient pizza, giving each of us a chance to make one selection. Our parents never did that; so, my brother and I thought this was the best idea ever. Back in those days, my food tastes were fairly conservative; so, I didn’t branch far in pizza topping selections. Canadian bacon was my choice. My brother, always having a flair for the dramatic, ordered pineapple. What kind of goofball orders pineapple? (Today I love that on pizzas.  At 13, I was less than enthused by his selection.)  If I thought that was bad, what came out Grandma’s mouth made me wish that my quirky brother could have had the third selection. Sauerkraut! What in the name of all that is holy would make her pick that? Miserably, we ate our pizza because we didn’t want to be disrespectful. I have hated sauerkraut ever since, even ordering Reubens sans that ingredient.

Even though her pizza topping choices were less than appealing, the love she lavished on us kids was genuine and real, even if the bloodlines that connected us were not.

Her church had a mother-daughter tea, and since I was the closest granddaughter, she invited me as her guest. She picked me up in her big boat of a car, complete with stuffed white kitty in the back window. (That was her signal as to which car was hers in a crowded parking lot.) On our drive to the church, she told me to pick up a small box in the backseat. Inside were the most beautiful teacup and saucer. She told me that she wanted me to know how absolutely beautiful and special I was to her and how honored she was I chose to spend my afternoon with her. It is a moment I have never forgotten.

The actual teacup given to me.

The actual teacup given to me.

Just recently, our church held a “Daughters of the King” tea. Since it was held on the last night of our church’s youth group for the school year, that left just one little Sally Gal to be my date. While fellowshipping after church, C asked a family friend if she was coming to the tea. Her heartfelt response was her girls would be going to youth group; so, she wasn’t sure. Without batting an eyelash, Cloie said, “Oh please come. Don’t worry! My momma shares!” As if there wasn’t any other choice in her mind, my nine year old decided that was just the way it was going to be. She made sure our friend signed up, and we would attend as a trio.

As the tea approached, C sat me down for a heart to heart. “Now mom when we get there, I know this is a special night. But, I will have to sit between you and Miss Linda. That would be the only fair way to handle this.” Which is exactly what she did, and we all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Tea parties are pretty special events indeed, but even more special are those people who open their hearts to share moments with people they love – biological family, family of God, or simply the family you choose.

Looking back now, even if it was not due to genetics, I am so glad that Cloie has her Grandma Leone’s heart. I know that she would be so proud!

A ticket to the dance

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Today’s start was leisurely and peaceful – two words I would not use to describe most of my mornings.  Our children were out of the house early to volunteer, giving my sweetie and I time to read the paper while the quiche with kale and red peppers was baking.  What a delicious way to start the morning!  We talked about the headlines: the loss of another business in our small town and the recognition of a friend’s dad for forty years of service at the university.  We lamented the former and celebrated the latter.  Eventually, our talk turned to basketball.  Not very surprising in our house as it is March Madness after all.  My husband is a reluctant fan.  He isn’t glued to the results but always wants to see a good match-up.   I, however, watch the games with an eye discerning athleticism and a heart looking for a good story.

Last Thursday was no exception.

It was a busy afternoon for my taxi service, completing carpool duties and driving my own children to appointments.  The entire ride all ears were riveted to the radio for a girls’ basketball semifinal play-off game.  They weren’t from our school, but we wished and cheered, hoping they could pull ahead from a double digit deficit. As the game clock was slowly ticking away, my littlest and I continued on with errands.  The final minutes of the game unfolded. We sat in our van in the beautiful sun . . . outside of the mall.  While she loves playing basketball, her interest started to wane, as she plucked her latest book from her backpack.

At one point, she looked up from her pages and tenderly said, “Momma, are you crying?”.

I assured her worried heart that I was crying happy tears.  When you are nine years old, happy tears are more than just a bit confusing.  An oxymoron in its truest form.

So overjoyed with emotion, my response was one that only muddied the waters more.

For this child I prayed.

The scrunched up nose and tangled eyebrows told me everything. She still didn’t understand.

Remember when we had the cancer game at sister’s basketball. 

Quietly, a yes came forth.

Do you remember whom sister chose to play for?

basketball shoes

Another quiet acknowledgment.

Not that long ago, she was very sick and she was fighting to get better.  When she was so sick, mommy prayed.

I didn’t tell her how for years after the bus crash, I suffered from night terrors.  In those dark moments where silence clung in every crevice of the room, my nights were filled with every worst case scenario my terror-filled imagination could create.  The horror of the immediate and the fear of what more could happen to our family, to my children, were my only thoughts.  I was weary and tired.  Anguish replaced peace-filled slumber.  To drown out the silence, I created noise in my night time routine, until sleep would finally overtake my thoughts.  When we heard about this sweet girl’s diagnosis, my heart hurt for her family because I understood what it felt like to have a child hurt and suffering.  We pray we hear of those hurting universally, but in this case, the hurt came knocking at our door . . . because she was one of “our own”.   As a friend of my children, I am a tiny part of her village.

Rather than allowing my fears to consume me, I changed my night-time routine.  Instead of filling my head with noise, I chose to flood heaven’s gates with prayers.  Whenever I could not sleep, I prayed for her.  While she lay (hopefully) sleeping and fighting the cancer in her body, I prayed for just that – rest for her body, healing for her cells, and peace for her family.  My own nights began to get better, as God and I settled into a routine.  Fitful nights became less frequent for me, but when they did happen, I happily chose to pray for her.  It brought me peace.

In my edited version, I explained to my little girl that even though she wasn’t part of our family, I had spent many, many hours praying for God to heal her.  God doesn’t always answer those prayers in the way we want, but this time, he did.

The joy in her face was priceless . . . “Oh, I get it.  You are crying because you are so happy for her and her team.”

Today, a girl I know, the one for whom I prayed, has a ticket to the dance – the state championship.  Replacing glass slippers with basketball hi-tops, she along with the rest of her team will once again play, with heart and perseverance, hoping to come back as the victors.

What she doesn’t know is someone in the village has been praying for a Cinderella finish . . . for a very long time.

Bleeding Laker Blue

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basketball

I really don’t like sports bullies, especially not the ones wearing lipstick.

My first encounter with this phenomenon was when Reed was in 7th grade football.  I was at the grocery store hurrying to make my purchases before it was time to pick him up from practice.  As I was heading to the check-out, I ran into a lady I know from town.

Picture it – her cart jutting in front of mine.

So, I hear Lakeview is going to play Marshall in junior high football.

Since I had no knowledge of this, my response was curt (plus I was in a hurry).

I don’t think so.  You’re not on our schedule.

Oh yes we are!  The game just got added today. 

Well that will be great. The team doesn’t have many more games; so, this is great news! I’ve really got to go because I still need to head back to the school.

I politely said my goodbye, and gently pushed around her cart.  I was a few feet away when I heard her parting words.

Well, it is a good thing Reed is such a good sport.

It was almost as if the Mama Bear in me awoke from hibernation right there in the cereal aisle.

Excuse me???

The smug look in her eyes said it all.  We live in the largest town in the county (pop. 13700), but we CHOOSE to go to school (for a myriad of reasons) in a smaller town (pop. 1215).  I knew what she was implying, but I was shocked.  For goodness sake, this is junior high football.

What do you mean?

Well, you know.  It is Marshall after all.  I just know Reed won’t take it so hard when they lose. 

What I wanted to say, and what came out are two different things.  I erred on the side of remembering that God was watching.

Well, I’m not so sure that they will.  And even though we live here, he still bleeds Laker Blue.

I honestly hadn’t thought about that conversation until . . . this week.  I overheard someone saying that today was my daughter’s team’s last game.

Do what??? It is a play-off game. 

Two teams will show up today, and each has as good a chance as the other to go on.

Today’s match-up involves a team that has beaten our girls twice, and I am pretty sure that they are taking the court with an attitude of superiority.    What they don’t know is that each and every one of our girls also bleeds Laker Blue.

Just thinking about today’s game reminds me of another story that didn’t end the way others predicted it would.  A tiny young man with five little stones and one giant!  The key factor is David’s belief that he would succeed.  He didn’t listen to what those in the Israeli camp were saying.  He showed up and “played his game”.

All the things I wish for my daughter and her teammates.

These girls have talent, and from what I’ve seen they also have the largest fan base of any school in the area.  The 6th “man” has helped turn the tide on more than occasion.  They work hard, have been coached well, and put in the extra time to succeed.

So NOW is the time to show up with their heads held high and Laker blue pumping through their veins – knowing they can do this!

Talent & teamwork will get you so far.  Play to the final buzzer – Finish strong!

And BELIEVE – that sometimes the giants will fall!

My [imperfect] church

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After Sunday’s service, there was an endearing exchange that occurred at the back of the church. An elder was praising our girl for her great game on Friday night. Jokingly, I asked him if she was now speaking to him. The reason for the ribbing was her “insistence” that he jinxed her team when he came to root for her in his town wearing that town’s fan gear. She said she was going to blame him for their addition to the “L” column. Despite the bad apparel choice, he cheered for her team (and her specifically) the entire game. All of this playful teasing was followed with raucous laughter, lined with appreciation, love and support – and of course, basketball advice.

I have purposefully waited a few days to let the words in my previous blog ruminate in all our hearts. My intention was to share that no church anywhere is perfect, because they are full of sinners. If you are looking for the perfect church, you won’t find it because all are filled with imperfect people. My writing was also to proclaim that a veil had been lifted from my myopic vision. God showed me how I contributed to the problem, keeping me from my heart’s desire is to encourage others in their faith.

I don’t want to be a stumbling block or obstacle – which required me to take a long look in the mirror of my soul and get real with God. Rather than forgiving, I internalized hurts and perpetuated a problem. I do have a fervent wish to love without reservation – just like Jesus did, and in my inner recesses, I think he would be grieved by how we who love him have turned away both the lost and the found by our actions.

Many years ago, I had a friend who believed in Jesus but never attended church. She would always quote Matthew 18:20 (For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them. [NIV] ) as her reasoning. Whenever I asked if she would like to go, she would respond that churches were full of hypocrites. Well that is true, but I didn’t really feel like our shopping trips and fun excursions counted as church. I know Jesus was in our midst, but that didn’t fill my longing for church.

This is not a condemnation of anyone’s views or church attendance patterns. This is more a love story of how a collective group imperfect people work together to encourage each other in God’s love and what that means to me, personally.

When our darkest hour happened, the first people to rally around were church people – our own and those from sister churches. I could write a tome on all the kindnesses that have been extended to us over the last six (has it really been that long???) years. Those acts of being the hands and feet of God were forever etched in my heart. Church, however, is so much more than Sunday morning service and helping out when a hardship hits.

SO. MUCH. MORE.

We eat together, serve together, craft together, study together, pray together, love together, and mourn together. Basically, we just do life which includes the messy stuff too.

Do we fail each other? Yes, but we forgive and reconcile. Like the time, Reed learned the hard way that casting the first stone might break the nursery window. The grace extended to him in that incident embodied encouragement and understanding. For me, Hebrews 10:25 let us not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another [NIV] is more in line with why my church matters to me.

Encouragement. We all need it.

Do we forget that verse sometimes? Yes, I am afraid we do, but when the Holy Spirit convicts our hearts, we return with repentant attitudes.

One of my favorites is how much we laugh together which I know has to be music to Jesus’ ears. Young and old – we really know how to fellowship. From quilting bees to freezer meals and from campfires to game nights, there isn’t a moment where you would not find some chuckles to be shared. Some jokes just seem to never grow old either.

The Herdmans in the The Best Worst Christmas Pageant Ever have nothing on us, as one year an exuberant preschooler hit the lit advent wreath which flung up in the air in what appeared to be slow motion before it came to rest – thankfully extinguished – at the base of the organ.

This, of course, is second to the pageant where the wiggly preschooler fell off the stage and was wedged upside down with only his feet showing between the piano and the alter area while the soloist lived up to the slogan, “The show must go on!”

Our senior pastor is often at the helm of many of those jokes as he encourages us to laugh with (and frankly sometimes at) him. Not many can say their spiritual leader has attended parties dressed as an octogenarian to celebrate someone being “over the hill”. He was also one of the chief cheerleaders as our Boy Wonder healed from surgeries, and his prowess with Nerf Dart Gun attacks on stacks of Styrofoam cups would awe anyone.

crockpot

We clip newspaper articles of each other’s children, exchange high fives, bake cakes for funerals, make jello molds (something I thought I would never do), exchange recipes, know who made what food for the potluck based solely on the crockpot, send letters and notes, (and laugh when we put the wrong card in the wrong envelope), create new traditions, cuddle babies, make quilts, sing Hallelujahs, hug and wipe away tears, help you pick up the pieces when life seems shattered . . . all out of love. A love for a God who made us all family even with all our flaws and imperfections!

So it was last Sunday, loved exuded as three generations of God’s people gathered around the back pew to laugh about the familiarity of friendship and the love of a game. No we aren’t perfect, but we are all trying to love God and love others. Somehow that just feels like home.

One load over the line, sweet Jesus

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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!

To laugh or to cry

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I recently shared that my oldest daughter had to undergo an extensive surgery due to injuries she received in our family’s darkest day.  The part about this story that is so upsetting is that we had no idea that she had even hurt her nose.  Sadly, my children are not the only ones who are continuing to find injuries that no one knew or even thought to check.  These are the ones that can be seen on CT scans and X-rays, but there are a myriad of hurts that cannot be detected by modern technology.

This surgery which involved a septinoplasty and turbinoplasties (three of them) were to allow our girl to be able to breathe again – literally.  For all these years, she had a non-functioning nose which was susceptible to sinus ailments and headaches.  Erin’s dream is to play basketball for the glory of God above all else.  As her momma (and one of her biggest fans), I was moved to tears this year when one of her specialty coaches told her that she believed that God gave you basketball as a platform, now go out there and shine your light for him.

Despite being a coach’s kid, I never played basketball.  Tennis was my love, and I cannot for one minute, imagine playing that sport or any land sport without the ability to breathe through my nose.  Honestly, I do not know how she has functioned all this time.

When the cause of her troubles was discovered, some things (aside from struggling for air in games) did start making sense.  Food is just something she eats, not enjoys.  She could never smell if there was an odd odor in our home.  The icing of this ridiculous cake was when her baby sister explained that the different color candies tasted different, and she thought it was a joke.

Yesterday, she went for her first post-operative surgical appointment.  I won’t divulge the gory details, but let’s just say for a squeamish girl, she was a little shell-shocked at the size of the stents removed by the surgeon.  He asked if her expression was one of horror or disgust (as in if she wanted to kick him).  Her one word answer, “Yeah”, quietly uttered, said it all.

The fact that her mother wanted to examine the stents (because she is after all a science teacher) probably pushed the envelope a little too far.  Just one of the many things that will cause her embarrassment in her lifetime!

Her surgery, while definitely necessary, was somewhat radical for someone so young.  This was her shot (pun intended) to get back to living and to experience life with some modicum of what everyone else does.  In the back corners of my cerebral matter, I had to wonder if it was going to be worth it.

As we walked out of the hospital that day, I asked her if she could breathe better.  She said that indeed she could, but she just had to get out of there.  Thinking that she was still mad at the doctor, I joked that he could probably take it.  She further explained that it was the hospital smells that were making her gag.

Did she just say what I think she said?

Later we walked into a store to pick a prescribed item, and her response was priceless.  “Whoa! Smell overload!” I took a big inhale and realized she was right but I had just learned to tune that sensory overload out.  But for her, it was like she had awoken from an olfactory coma.

Over the next few days, she has shared realizations about foods actually have tastes, smells that really bother her, and memories of how the hospital smell brought back memories of her brother’s stay in intensive care.  Of course, her sister, who seems to have inherited my love of science, conducted an experiment by having her try each of the six flavors of Smarties, and yes, now she can discern a difference.

With each new discovery, we laugh, but a part of me wants to cry because of all she has missed.  It has been over five years of having a deadened sense.  From the early evidence, I would say that the surgery was more than worth it.

One day, while home playing nursemaid, I was reflecting on everything that has evolved from the firestorm our lives have been. To laugh or to cry played around in my head, partly because I felt that I had let her down. How could I not have known?  During my devotion, God gave me a small glimmer into an analogy on this very concept.

He reminded me that sin (anything that keeps us separated from him) has the same effect on our spiritual senses.  Whatever it is might start off rather benign.  I have to believe that Erin could smell in the aftermath of the crash.  But over time, our soul becomes desensitized to the effect it is having in our life.  One day, we wake up and a myriad of other things have happened that simply do not make sense, and we are often left wondering where God is.

Wow!  I was not expecting that answer when I was cuddled up, asking him to insulate my family and to help us get through this chapter of our story.  Choosing joy.  This seems to be a theme that time and again, God is pounding into my soul, and many times I AM my biggest stumbling block.

A little later, I had an overwhelming sense that laughter was indeed what he wanted from us.  Not laughing at our circumstances, but laughing through them.  And yes, that might mean, laughing at a budding scientist, using her big sister as a guinea pig.  It may mean laughing when our girl realizes that not everyone smells pleasant following a grueling game.

The more we laugh, the more we are reminded that the Creator of laughter delights in our joy!

I am utterly and completely thankful that he does!

Psalm 30:5 Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (AMP)

One of my favorite things about Erin is her ability to laugh with her whole spirit. Captured at our family photo shoot, this picture explains what I mean perfectly. Portrait by Inspired Portrait Photography.

One of my favorite things about Erin is her ability to laugh with her whole spirit. Captured at our family photo shoot, this picture explains what I mean perfectly. Portrait by Inspired Portrait Photography.