Tag Archives: blessings

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?

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.

23 days: Let heaven and earth rejoice

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I apologize that you will get two countdown blogs today. My travels took me away from home and brought me back safe and secure, although tired and exhausted. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to travel with a dear friend to hear her daughter’s collegiate Christmas concert. My sneaky friend billed it as girlfriend’s day with shopping, music, and fun. What she failed to mention was she would be belatedly treating me for my birthday.

We had a delightful time, but it was the concert itself that stirred my heart. The sweet college freshman happens to be the most current recipient of the Reed Stevens Memorial Scholarship; so, of course, I had a vested interest in more than one way to be present. While I thought that I was going to admiringly listen, for a second time I was completely surprised. This was not simply a concert. Truly, it was an experience!

A conversation with another friend reminded me this week so few people actually understand the crescendo of anticipation the season of advent has for believers. The event we had the blessing to attend yesterday would epitomize that effect. My soul was stirred with joyful hope with every note. There were instrumental arrangements, small choirs, large concert choirs, stringed instrument bands, piping organ accompaniment, and hand bells. We, the audience, were asked to sing in worship at many varied points throughout the worship service. Yes! Worship, not a concert at all! We worshipped as we actively participated, both singing and listening, reciting and praying together, a communion of souls in peaceful harmony while remembering our Savior’s arrival.

Even my friend was taken aback. We were of one accord, envisioning the same thing. Well, this was the big leagues, and we were blown away by the talent and the professional production our senses delighted in. After the opening of various concert band pieces, the whole choir walked in and surrounded the chapel. They sang a few liturgical lines in Latin, and then the whole congregation was asked to join in another song.

My friend whispered in my ear, “I had no idea! No idea this was going to be this amazing!” With tears in my eyes, I replied, “I know. I keep closing my eyes and thinking this is what it will sound like in heaven!” So while we rejoiced with other earthly souls, my thoughts were on the choirs that my sweet children hear every day in heaven.

This advent, remember to rejoice in the little ways . . . because they truly matter!

Note: I wanted to see if there were any video clips that I could link to this blog. What I found instead was information regarding livestreaming of the concert. The final performance will be this upcoming Sunday, December 7. If you follow the link provided below, you find the information needed to watch from the comfort of your home. You will be blessed if you do choose to participate online and you will get to see “our” Rachel and other talented students from “out here”. The concert begins at 4 pm CST each day, but the instrumental preludes started about 45 minutes earlier. Be blessed and rejoice! https://blc.tixato.com/buy/christmas-at-bethany

The amazing ride

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Dear readers – I am so sorry my posts are infrequent these days. Our family is in the process of remodeling our upstairs. Serving as contractors and work crew between school, church, and work, our progress resembles the tortoise racing the hare – slow and steady. As usual, I have a few blogs that I have been pondering and feel I am ready to tell their stories. Just know that I miss sharing my world with you all. Kandy

Nostalgia, like a comfortable pair of old shoes, is both a gift and a burden I seem to be wearing often these days. Perhaps this sentiment stems from all the transition my family is experiencing: back-to-school, home remodel, and preparation for our son’s senior year of high school. I am fighting back tears as I type those last words. Oh my goodness, my once chubby-cheeked, curly-haired boy is ready to launch. My launch pad locked in old memories isn’t quite ready for the countdown from mission control. Memories, sweet memories, are present at every turn.

Add to all of this, Boy Wonder and I visited with my high school best friend on a recent trip to my childhood hometown. While we were downing chili slaw dogs at The Varsity in Atlanta, we laughed and giggled about our adventures while growing up in Pensacola. I believe Sawyer was amazed to hear I never picked a prom dress without M being present. He was best friend, my best confidante, and a gentleman of great taste. I am so glad that God has allowed us to reconnect all these years later.

As I grow older (and thus so do my children), stark differences between our childhoods really stand out. This became more obvious as M and I swapped tales over the table. One of those dichotomous details was the prom experience. Back in the day, our prom was typically held at some posh location (country club or beach front hotel), and other than a few chaperones, our parents were nowhere to be found. Not so, for my son. The tradition at our children’s school is to bring bleachers around to the front door of the high school; so that every parent, grandparent, neighbor, friend, family, and school mate can gather around the red carpet (yes there really is one) to watch the young couples arrive for the prom. Remember these young people are the greatest product we produce, out here. Later everyone relocates to the bedecked and resplendent gymnasium to watch the couples promenade for the onlookers. The drive-up portion was utterly and completely foreign to me.

Talk about grand entrance! The pressure to be larger-than-life is palpable. There are classic cars, muscle cars, tractors (c’mon y’all it is rural Minnesota), and jacked up pick-up trucks. The first prom was an easier entrance because there are very few vehicles that Sawyer and Rachel’s special guest, Brayden, could utilize for “stylin’ wheels”. Trust me, full size RV made a statement, but their love for one of Reed’s friends was an even bigger statement.

For last spring’s gala, we were really perplexed as to how to make an entrance. (Listen: I am fully aware of this being a first world problem. So is my son. His solution was to wash and wax his dad’s pick-up and be fine with that.) That was the plan until an e-mail changed the night.

A friend of ours pointed out a super cool car that was for sale on a local garage sale site. While I would have loved to have been able to purchase said car, it just wasn’t in the cards with the years we have saved to complete this remodel. Dream kitchen versus one night’s ride! Clearly, the kitchen won out. But I have learned that if there is something you desire, you simply garner the courage to ask. The worst that can happen is for you to be told no.

“Be brave! Be bold!” became my motto as I sent a message to the owner of the car (oh which happens to be a classic Corvette). Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then one day, as I was walking into a spring AAU basketball tournament, I got the call I hoped for, but had no guarantees I would receive. Let me tell you what transpired next left me astounded!

My wait was due to the fact that the gentle spirit and owner of the car, J, had a hard time getting a hold of me. In my original message, I explained who our family is and about how we knew mutual friends. I explained Sawyer’s story, and I also stressed how safe a driver he is because of all he has gone through. My concerns were halted when J said, “You are never going to believe this”. His “unbelievable” story was his rig (as a semi driver) was one of the first to come across the crash that changed our lives forever. He had always wanted to do something for our family, and imagine his shock when he received my request, crazy as it was!

Yes, friends, it takes a special kind of crazy bold, to send a message to a stranger asking, “Hey! Could my 17-year-old son borrow your classic ‘Vette to go the prom?” Proudly, I am that kind of eccentric.

Almost without taking a breath, but yet taking a break from being choked up, J explained that not only would the Boy Wonder be able to drive his car to the prom, but also he could drive it for the week to get the feel for driving it. J was going to add him to his personal insurance if needed and have it taken in to get a tune up. His only request in return was for my boy to have a good time and send him a few pics.

His words were met with stunned silence as the tears ran down my face and the lump formed in my throat. I am not too proud to tell you I bawled outside that gymnasium, to which I tell you there were more than a few barbed looks tossed my way along the lines of “Lady, it is just a basketball game.” Normally barbs of such insensitivity would sting. Not today, my friends. Not today! My heart soared because Sawyer is tough to surprise, but more so, the kindness of strangers is awe-inspiring.

Our clandestine rendezvous to procure the dreamy wheels went without a hitch as did the lesson on how to remove and store the T-tops. The twenty mile drive back to our house gave me a chance to live out a high school fantasy as I drove through the countryside, turning heads. This ride was a far cry from the Dodge Omni I drove my junior year. His face was absolutely priceless when his sisters (who were in on the secret) brought him outside. He couldn’t believe someone would do something this kind for him. My boy, almost a man, was genuinely humbled. He couldn’t believe it!

I have been asked many times if I railed at God during our darkest hour. I am no saint, definitely far from perfect, but I can honestly answer that I never did. Questioning how long this pain would endure happened, but anger never came. From dear friends who were with us moments after to new friends (angels on earth) who make the junior prom a night to remember, there have been constant reminders of God’s love every step of the way. So maybe some of that nostalgia I’ve been feeling is a gentle reminder that God has been present in every leg of my life’s journey, including the steps that led me to one sweet ride.

Photo by LSM photography.

I had to throw in a couple more photos just to highlight the fact that the Boy Wonder doesn’t always squint in pictures. The sun was really shining that beautiful sunny day.

Out here

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I live in Minnesota which boasts one major metropolitan area, comprised of many geographically proximal cities. For the rest of us, we live in what is referred to as “out-state” where the numbers of churches and bars are typically equal and where elevators are not what people ride in to go to another floor. According to 2012 census data, 5.379 million people live in the Land of 10,000 Lakes and just shy of 3 million of those live in the “Twin Cities”. For the rest of us not living in the major metro, we are often made to feel . . . well, like chump change.

This phenomenon even happens within my own family. More than once I have heard, “Why would we want to go to there?” I have decided that is their loss, not mine as I find these small hamlets some of the best places on earth. But what those “big city” kids don’t know is how deep a little hometown pride can run.

While others might think of us as small beans, we are proud to call our corner of the world – home. We know our neighbors, their kids, and even their pets by name. Heck, we even know whose crockpot is whose at the church dinners. We watch out for each other’s houses, gather for coffee on a regular basis, share garden produce, complain about the weather and the roads, sometimes both at the same time, and create our own fun. As for that garden produce, I’m not sure if loading someone’s car with extra squashes from overly abundant zucchini vines counts as fun, or just plain shameful.

We celebrate where we are today and the places of our ancestral homes. We know the origins of the first settlers in every town and village. We can be Irish or Norwegian and still celebrate the joy of aebleskivers with the Danes, tickle our taste buds with polska kielbasa with Poles, or enjoy the meatball supper with the Swedes. Vestiges remain of the divisions along denominational lines, but as time will do, the focus on our faith differences have seemed to lessen as the years passed on.

While those things are all fine and dandy, nothing compares to the heart and soul of small town living in America where we take care of our own. Few things bring us closer than two that are disparately different – tragedy and sports.

I will never forget the words of the Red Cross worker who finally tracked us down in the hospital the night of the bus crash while our son was undergoing surgeries. “As soon as I heard where you were from, I knew every crockpot in Cottonwood would be on tomorrow.”

More prophetic words have never been spoken. That’s what we do when the going gets tough: we feed each other – not just our physical bodies, but also our spirits. We cry, we laugh, we hug, and together, we pick up the pieces. And when the crockpots are quietly simmering away, we crank up the ovens and we bake. We watch legions of little old men dutifully carry Tupperware containers of baked goods to churches and schools. In our case, it was thousands of cupcakes made with love by friends and strangers.

Over the weekend, we have learned of deaths of young men in two different small towns close to us. For those who walked the journey with us, we remembered the horror of our own losses, how it shook us to our core, and we reached out. We prayed, we offered help as others did for us, and we told them the one thing they most desperately needed to hear – you will make it through. It won’t be easy, but you will survive because that is what will bring honor to lives gone much too soon. Most importantly, we promised (and we meant it), your children’s lives will not be forgotten.

Out here in out-state, our children are the best product we produce. They are the ones that keep the small town hopes and dreams alive. Quite literally, they are our future. No matter what town you hang your hat, it hurts us all when we lose one, and we mourn missing out on how they would have impacted the world.

Because they are the best we have to the offer, their activities are the ties that bind the fabric of our lives. We cheer, we congratulate, we give pats on the back, and we smile when we say, “We’ll get ‘em next time” because we sincerely believe they will. Even though we watched every minute of the game as well the pre- and post-game festivities, we can’t wait to open the local paper (whether it comes out each day or as in most cases, on Wednesdays only). We read about the amazing pass and touchdown run or the incredible buzzer beater shot. Then in every gathering spot, that moment is replayed – countless times. Those are the glory days!

Of course, we have our favorite teams and colors to root behind, but even those lines can blur together on occasion. Don’t get me wrong! If you were to ask a local about their favorite team, a common response would be, “I cheer for the (insert local team) and for anybody playing our number one rival.” “Be True to Your School” isn’t just a Beach Boys song around these parts. It is our battle cry, our marching orders until . . . our children get knocked out of the playoffs and the season comes to an end.

This is where the allegiances reshape and temporary alliances form based on general common sense. We cheer for whatever team are the opponents of who knocked our kids out of the tournament, and then when one victor emerges, we cheer them on. There are some basic loopholes we agree to accept: cheering on a co-worker’s child, rooting for the team whose coach lost their child, and supporting your own children’s friends no matter what school they attend. It’s true what they say about sports and crazy parents, but the corollary is also true. Crazy sports fans produce amazing relationships. Our children have formed lifelong friendships (and by extension so, too, do the parents) through various activities.

One universal truth appears in the unwritten code among all of us out here in the forgotten fields and dusty small towns. No matter what – if our children or any neighboring town’s children make it to the “dance”, we will cheer like crazy and wish them the best. Collectively our hearts break when it doesn’t end the way we wanted.

I am not a betting girl, but if I were, I would put my money down on the kids who come from the towns that may, or may not, have a stoplight; the same towns that close up shop for the state tournament because it matters that much. I would wager that all their parents will be just fine too – whether facing hardship or glory.

We are spirited. We are resilient. We remember what matters.

We are small town, but never small in heart and soul.

We take care of our own.

That, my friends, is a blessing beyond measure.

The moment

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A week ago, we had yet another blustery day cancelling activities; so, thankfully, it was a quiet night at home. I love those evenings when all the chickens are in the henhouse, and this momma hen’s soul is peaceful and content while everyone was doing their own “thang”. My activity of choice was crocheting while ~~watching~~ crying through the Olympic tribute to Sarah Burke, when I heard the familiar ding for a text message.

Photo found at http://www.today.com/sochi/olympic-skiers-pay-heart-shaped-tribute-sarah-burke-2D12150211

Wiping my tears before swiping the screen unlock, I wondered who might be reaching out on this cold Minnesota evening. The picture on the screen declared it was one in the inner circle.

U watching the Olympics?

Yes! That was quite the story!

Broke my heart! Totally thought of u and the great lessons
you keep teaching the world about loss and grieving.

Her words, of course, brought more tears to my eyes. The lesson she referenced was from Sarah’s mom, Jan Phelan. In my best paraphrase, Jan explained that at first she was sad about not having Sarah any longer, but then she realized there exists a sadness even greater than that, which was never to have known her sweet daughter.

Intimately, I understood her words and sentiments.

Today marks a moment about which people still inquire, and if you have ever heard me speak, I do talk about it. I don’t think the inquirers remember that today was the day, but grief has a way of etching some dates into our psyches. However, this topic is just not something that comes up from my end of conversation very often. Six years ago today was my sweet boy’s Celebration of Life. I refuse to call it a funeral because it was so much more than that.

Many times, I have shared that due to Sawyer’s extensive injuries, we did not have the luxury of grieving Reed immediately. Required decisions had to be made, but we were doctor/nurse/grief counselor/physical therapist/pharmacist around the clock. Little energy was left to grieve. We arrived home in the evening only two days prior to the service. Greeting us at the door were a meal, a new ramp and flooring for a wheelchair, and the funeral home director. We needed to make final decisions for quite a few things still, and the clock was ticking.

I think I must have hugged over a thousand people the next two days. So when it was time for the final service, I was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. But we needed to say goodbye on earth, and we had planned a beautiful way to remember him. I probably caught the FH director off guard with some of my choices – from Reed’s dog being a pallbearer to light sabers and the Star Wars theme, but at the end of the day, I wanted Reed and Jesus to look down and be proud.

Instead of typical funeral songs, we chose to have a worship band and family members sing. During the processional, that included family, friends, classmates, teammates, teachers, and Scouts, we chose “How Great is our God” to be sung. Our family alone took up half the gym floor; so the processional took a long time, which meant the song was repeated over and over.

The moment that people still comment on was one that was intensively private between me and God, even though all eyes in the school gymnasium were able to witness it. At some point, the words of the song really washed over me. As I stood there with a broken heart, my boy was standing before the throne of a King wrapped in splendid light. The same God from the beginning of time who chose to let his own son die so that I could see my son again was not lost on me. The God worthy of all praise who is infinitely wiser than I will ever be . . . chose me to be Reed’s momma.

Tears, cleansing tears washed over me at that instant, and I realized how incredibly blessed I was to have had him in my life. I wasn’t aware of anyone else in the room as I lifted my hands high in praise and sang the words to that song over and over. Interspersed were whisper prayers thanking God for choosing me to Reed’s mom. What an honor that was and always will be!

All time stood still as I was singing, praising, crying, and praying simultaneously, wrapped in the peace that can only come from God. It is hard to explain, but I was truly thankful and blessed God gave me that realization.

Even today when I hear that song, I am transported back to the gym floor, and my hands are raised in praise of a God who loves me like crazy and who chose for me to the be momma to some really great kids.

If you are unfamiliar with the song, here is a link for the song and lyrics.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZFN8TBfgNU

One lump or two

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Well, um . . . none, if you are referring to coffee. Southern-style sweet tea is another thing altogether. I am almost embarrassed to admit how much sugar goes into a gallon of that, but today, I am talking about java – the caffeinated lifeblood for many. In my entire life, I have probably drank about 11 sips of coffee. The last time I tried coffee in my middle 20’s, I became violently ill with the stomach flu and have never touched the stuff again. (There was no direct correlation between my illness and the 3 swallows of coffee I drank that day, but let’s just say the experience left a lasting impression. )

My loathe opinion of coffee has put me in some awkward situations as an adult as it seems many friends want to hold impromptu meetings at one local coffee shop or another. Not my idea of a good time, as the smell sometimes is too much for me. However, I do regularly meet for “coffee and show-n-tell” with some of my favorite octo- and nonagenarians at our favorite gathering spot. I just order a Coke while we visit and share the latest project of our heart and hands work.

Fortunately, I didn’t allow my dislikes to sway my decision to attend “Coffee with Ingeborg” in which the writer Lauraine Snelling would attend clad as her famous book character Ingeborg Bjorklund. During “coffee”, we would have a chance to visit with the determined Ingeborg (and other characters) as well as enjoy wonderful Scandinavian goodies, music, and entertainment.

So what does a non-coffee drinker do when she has the opportunity to “meet” one of her favorite characters? She invites along her sisters-in-law who also have the same addiction to the book series AND who happen to be non-coffee drinkers. We all decided to put on our big girl pants and dive in – even if it meant proving the old adage “Misery loves company” true.

I won’t give away too much about the day, because I believe “Coffee with Ingeborg” might be a regular event for the author. I really detest spoilers; so, I won’t ruin the mystique for the next attendees. We enjoyed the atmosphere, hearing the guests’ questions and the stories shared in response. It was somewhat like a homecoming for me as well, because all of my new writer friends (sans one) were in attendance. Warm smiles across the aisles and later, genuine embraces reminded me that we had been brought together once again as part of God’s miraculous plan.

With my vivid imagination and child-like faith, I could almost picture the novels’ characters aging in time and their children constructing the very building (a memorial hall) where we were visiting. While purely fictional, those characters are based off the faith-filled, hard-working, salt of the earth immigrants that settled the lands of the plains. Even the adorable bathroom curtains were a reminder of the yearned for landmarks that legitimized towns. The dainty lace depicted rolling plains with a schoolhouse and church replete with steeple – both believed by the settlers were necessary to create a better life for their children. Such was the way of the prairie!

We had a delightful afternoon. I cherished the time spent with the sisters (as we seldom do anything together without our kids). We thoroughly enjoyed all seven Norwegian delicacies lovingly prepared by members of the local historical society. And we washed them down with water. Thankfully, imbibing coffee was optional. It’s a good thing too, because if it was a requirement, I would have been looking for a nice houseplant in one of the corners.

Blessed in Blessing

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I have four email accounts (don’t ask) for different purposes. To say I get a large volume of emails each day is an understatement. Today I am thankful for one such message received a few weeks ago. It was a “mass mailing” list to which I subscribe from one of my favorite authors. It arrived at one of my busiest times (packing a truck and camper for a weeklong vacation/family reunion for 2 parents, 3 kids, and one supersized dog.) I plopped on the couch in exhaustion that evening as I decided to “catch up” on my correspondence.

There it was – an e-mail from Lauraine Snelling. As far as favorite authors go, she is right up there in my top four. Her Red River of the North series transports me back in time to the homes of my favorite Norwegian immigrants. My wearied eyeballs came alive when they saw, “Mail from Lauraine Snelling”. (Okay, I know it is probably from an assistant, but Hey! It seemed pretty personal to me.)

I was hoping for an announcement that would proclaim the stage play based on her books set in North Dakota would be upcoming, hoping, I could get my hands on some tickets. What I saw instead almost made me drop the computer because I wanted to jump and dance around the living room. (Did I mention earlier that I was exhausted? That didn’t really happen.) The jewels of the email were two-fold. Number 1 – a writer’s workshop where she would help writers to hone their art AND Number 2 – Coffee with Ingeborg (more on that in a later post) to which I squealed with glee. (THAT really did happen.)

Immediately, I contacted the number listed, sent a message to my sisters-in-law (who are also huge fans), and crossed my fingers that I wasn’t too late on either opportunity.

I wasn’t.

I had the most wonderful day last Thursday once again back in North Dakota, transported to the fictional town of Blessing which has been adopted by the very real Drayton. I spent a day with Lauraine and eight new friends (I seem to have a way of collecting them) learning more about what I didn’t know that I didn’t know about writing and gaining some valuable insight.

Upon arrival, my thoughts were centered around Lauraine Snelling – I mean, THE Lauraine Snelling – such that I was giddy with excitement.

Among my favorites, I have to admit that she is no Dr. Seuss (of course, I have to wait to heaven now to meet him), but after spending the day with her, her ranking in my favorites moved right on up. Look out Beverly Cleary! In a one-day workshop, she answered many of my questions and self-doubts, but she also affirmed I am doing some things well. I learned that she has many of the same struggles that I do (losing a child, life getting in the way, the need to take breaks, her love of God, and the most important one – she is a HUGGER!)

It was the latter two that stole my heart. Very early in her instruction, she spoke about her “conversations with God” which often were when she told God what she wasn’t going to write about something such as historical fiction (the very thing for which she is most famous). As she spoke, I could feel the joy in my heart dance. It was the first time I had been at writer’s event where God was so openly shared. It felt like a homecoming because, she, all my new friends, and her book characters were God’s friends too. What a game changer!

The second shared character trait was discovered at our first real break of the day – LUNCH! After a visit to the salad bar, Lauraine walked around the room and “had to lay her hands” on each of us. Just a quick squeeze of encouragement and thanks! She wanted to personally tell each one of us that she was so thankful and happy we attended.

Later when she spoke on grief and how it changes everything. I sat with tears in my eyes across the table from her. She was no longer – TEACHER, but became the friend who walks in the shoes I walk – GRIEVING MOTHER.

At that moment, I knew that God had brought me to the point of exhaustion the day I received that email; so that I would have this very encounter with her. His message (through her words that day) was loud and clear. Do not be discouraged when you feel you aren’t getting enough writing done. Do not be despondent when you feel that you should accomplished more. Press on knowing your story is touching the lives of others.

So to my husband who said it was okay to drop everything and go off for four days, thank you for that gift. To our cousins, aunt and uncle who embodied the gift of hospitality in the Blessing books, thank you for taking in this little traveler. To the people of Drayton, thank you for adopting Blessing as your own. To my new friends, you are treasured. To Lauraine – well, actually to God – THANK YOU for bringing this blessing of a woman into my life.

I couldn’t be more BLESSED, and hoping that last hug we shared won’t be the last!

Pidamaya ye Medayto

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photo from www.spicercastle.com

Recently, my husband and I went away over night for our twentieth wedding anniversary. I wish that I could tell you it was a get-away that had been planned for a long time. We talked about doing something, but as the day approached we were up to our eyeballs in busy which explain much about how we live life. Our original plans to go camping were thwarted by the rains of recent days. Our thoughts for Plans B, C, or D trapped in the recesses of our minds while we dealt with day-to-day routines.

The night before, we were researching options ranging from a trip to the city to a simple dinner out. Somehow, we stumbled across a memory of the Spicer Castle Inn. Taking a chance, we placed a call to learn they did have available rooms. Perusing through the room choices, we delighted in what we saw – rustic charm – our kind of place. A quick glance at restaurant’s menu confirmed we had found a retreat where we would be fed, watered, and rested.

Upon arrival, my first thought was peace-filled. Surrounded by trees on the shores of Green Lake, the inn was buzzing with the sounds of nature only. Gentle breezes swayed the trees. Barely audible water lapped at the shore. Bird song abounded. Walking in, we saw many family treasures as the inn is appointed with pieces from the Spicer and Latham families. The aroma and warmth from the hearth of the fireplace invited us to relax and remove the chill chasing us from the damp air. Two aptly placed chairs sat on the enclosed porch beckoned us to sit and reflect while having an incredible view to the lake.

We settled into our room to wait for our dinner reservations. The first thing I noticed was silence. Complete and utter silence – save for the bird calls outside.

The remainder of the trip was the most romantically tranquil experience. The food wonderful. The stay serene. The breakfast delectable.

As much as I enjoyed those things, the conversation with the grandson of the builder, who is now a great-grandfather himself was captivating. He reminded me so much of our mutually beloved college chemistry professor I wanted to collect all the moments in my bottle of memories and savor them always. The elder statesman had me spellbound with stories of his childhood, particularly his tales of being a mischievous lad. We later held private audience with the gentleman, and it was then we realized how desperately needed this respite. Gentle souls interwoven in one sacred moment.

A line from an old song played in my head:

You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone

This is exactly what I have been craving: the joy of unplugging and being caught in the moment.

No agendas. No noise. No television. No computer. No children (and we seldom do that). No requests for our time or talents. No interruptions.

Divinely present.

Much needed manna from heaven filled my soul as I was able to relish these moments with the love of my life.

This retreat was God’s gift of rejuvenation and relaxation – exactly the desires of our dreams.

History lesson (Once a teacher always a teacher!): Spicer Castle Inn was not the original name of the property. Built by John Spicer, the retreat and farm was named Medayto Cottage for the Dakota name Medayto, representing Green Lake. After doing some research, I located the female version of Thank You (Pidamaya ye) in the Dakota language – a beautiful oral language handed down by generation to generation. I can only imagine the beauty the Dakota people found in the Green Lake/Spicer area all those years ago.

Blessings not burdens

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Hinged AFO

Autism

Cerebral Palsy

Traumatic Brain Injury

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Cushing’s Disease

Speech Delayed

Attachment Disorder

Lupus

Down’s Syndrome

Multiple Sclerosis

Attention Deficit Disorder

Spinal Cord and Nerve Injury

Depression

Schizophrenia

~~Different~~

~~Weird~~

~~Useless~~

~~Draining~~

BLESSINGS, but definitely not burdens!

Over the course of the last five years, God has given me a new type of vision. The visual clarity that sometimes only comes when you have a small glimpse into how someone else lives. Even though our son’s healing journey continues, his day-to-day activities become less and less impacted by the injuries he received.

Not so for many of the wonderful families we have met while in the hospital waiting rooms or on Caringbridge. This is something that I really took for granted prior to the day that changed our lives. I am embarrassed to admit, I never thought about the struggles that some families face. I remember the moment the tidal shift occurred in my visual correction.

We sent Sawyer to the store to pick up something that we had forgotten. He used his adapted bike to travel the few blocks to the store, and once there used the store’s mechanical cart. A store employee came over and berated him for playing with something he didn’t need, calling him inappropriate names. Apparently, this man didn’t notice the AFO or the scars on Sawyer’s leg or the struggles he had getting off the cart.

Distraught when he returned from the store, the news he brought home caused the Momma Bear in me to erupt with Old Faithful geyser-like timing. The problem was the same thing happened at two other businesses within the same week. After many tears and few choice words, I was exhausted battling stupidity.

I was disgusted with humanity. I was sick of people and their stares and their lack-of-understanding. Remember Kandy, this will be temporary in Sawyer’s life. That small realization straight from God completely changed my heart and my prayers. Back then, I had no idea that we would still be having surgeries now, but I knew some families wouldn’t have the same results that we would someday have.

After feeling the sting of discrimination and ignorance, my prayers changed. I began to ask God to see each person the way He does. The list at the top of this blog represents real people who have touched my life. Each one of them has blessed my life in ways so much more than I can explain.

Some of the greatest of these has been the ability to live in the moment, to love someone for whom they are, and to never see what you can’t do, only what you can. Those lessons will change your life. They did mine.

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Tag Archives: blessings

The Un-sale

23 days: Let heaven and earth rejoice

The amazing ride

Out here

The moment

One lump or two

Blessed in Blessing

Pidamaya ye Medayto

Blessings not burdens