Tag Archives: children

Patriotism: Teach Your Children Well

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American flag – photo credit Euclid Library

I’ve always been interested in politics.  Well, at least since the summer of 6th grade.  I was visiting my Nanny and Granddaddy and while they were busy running a wholesale nursery business, I watched the national conventions (for both major parties I might add).  All the fanfare of speeches promising to make America better had me hooked. Not that at that time in my life I had strong opinions about what was wrong with my country, but the passion for citizenship was alluring. I have never had an interest in running for office, but I believe the election process is one that we should all teach our children.

I am a product of the Weekly Reader voting booths.  I remember the pomp and circumstance with which the whole experience was created and carried out back in my days at Gentian Elementary School in Columbus, Georgia. The school used actual voting booths (complete with the little patriotic curtains) as we marched solemnly to cast our votes for either Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan.  The excitement was palpable even if we were marching silently in straight lines to make our mark on history.

Jumping forward in time, I have always taken my children (even in car seats) to the voting booth with me.  I read each word to them, and we discuss our choices (even though only my vote counted).  I am THAT mom.  The one huddled in the corner of the room so as not to disturb other voters.  This election season one of my children has reached voting age, and I am thrilled he will be exercising his right to do so, which leads to today’s message.

Having formerly lived in primary states, the caucus system was a somewhat new experience for me.  I wish my voting record (including reading ballots WORD FOR WORD to my kiddos) or my re-creation of my childhood voting booth for the last twelve years for my children’s school would be enough alone to speak to my patriotism.  It would not because I would only be fooling myself. The truth is until Reed was twelve I had never participated in a caucus before.

After learning about the caucus process, Reed really wanted to attend and watch (obviously being too young to participate).  For those who knew my red-headed wonder, his passion for a new idea or learning concept had no limits.  In his enthusiasm, he attempted to persuade his Social Studies teacher to offer extra credit to all who attended a caucus of their choice.  In Mr. W’s defense, I think he thought Reed was looking for a few extra points, when in reality he was trying to encourage his classmates to get out and learn.  I don’t know what the final outcome was of those extra points, but I do know that my sweet boy attended his first caucus and was thrilled by the experience.

I didn’t tag along with Reed that year because we had already made plans to have dinner guests that evening.  If I knew then, what I know now, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  Reed only lived one more week of life, but that one evening of learning is one that has never left me.  He cared more about what makes this country great than he worried about missing an hour of dinner with great friends.

We need more of that in America.

There are many times in life when the student becomes the teacher.  That night was no different.  I remember his enthusiastic conversation as I picked him up.  He was genuinely proud to be a part of history in the making, agog over the choice he would have made in the straw poll.  I secretly took pride and felt disappointed at the same time.  Proud of my young man for growing up and living out his passion for learning and disappointed that I wasn’t there to enjoy it with him.

So no matter your beliefs or ideologies, think about living out your patriotism for one little red-headed wonder (who would have advocated for extra credit for all of us). Step out of your comfort zone, learn something new, and be a part of what makes America AWESOME!  I know Reed would be proud of my plans for the evening.

Crashing waves of dark and light

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The turning of a calendar page

Such a simple act for most people. For me, the turning eleven months out of the year is no problem. But, there is always a but, the twelfth month is a harsh reminder. A reminder that the waves I don’t see now are swirling out there in the inky abyss and they will come crashing down around us at various times in the course of these twenty-nine days. I am not ready. I haven’t packed any lifelines – other than well-worn knees that ask God for divine portions of his heavenly grace.

I turn the page and see the young man born in this month. As great as my sadness is I can only imagine the dichotomous roller coaster he must feel. Celebrating the day God gave him to us, to the world, but (there it is again) a few days prior we mourn the loss of his best friend – our first born. The world grew darker when our little sunshine was dimmed. In a world where he was perfectly happy to be second to the big brother who was his world, do we now make him feel second even more so as we regroup from our sadness to celebrate his awesomeness.

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The waves start to crash down. I confidently know that we are part of God’s melodic love song. Reed’s verse was shorter than we had hoped. But my heart’s song will always echo more. More. I just wanted more.

Like those waves of grief, I cannot stop the reverberation of more.

The cheerleaders, the well-wishers, the givers, and those on bended knee are still there. Their love carries us forward, even when we know the waves are coming. We prepare ourselves to be beaten into the rocks and to taste to saltiness of the waves. Somehow we are buoyed by those who remember.

Then an unexpected wave comes crashing down. I am caught completely off guard.

Stinging tears fall down. Maybe it is because I know the page turning will commence soon. Maybe the month I dread is on the next page. Time flies when you are having fun and sneaks in when you aren’t ready.

Everyone is gone from home and I sit and cry. I cry remembering all those long ago moments when the holes and scars and battle wounds didn’t fill our days. The days when life was simple, and we would spend half a summer day in our jammies and be filled with the wonders of the world.

Then somewhere deep in the cortical folds I remember the games we made up. The ones we played (momma and kiddos) on the white carpeted floor. The games where we would play for hours and fall out laughing from the joy of our silliness. I long for those days. I want to savor them, hold them in my aching arms and embrace them. The scent of childhood innocence still lingers here.

The memory of the game makes me laugh and smile, but it makes me cry even more. The simplicity of days. The joy of memories of days long ago, but days that God allowed us to have. The memories are too precious to carry alone.

I grab the phone and text the college son.

Having a tough grief day. Missing the days when we played “we are going to make a salad”.

In one moment, the university man remembers his time as one of the boys of summer, Stevens style.

That game was the best and me and Reed always had to be hair ball ingredients.

His response – reassuring and validating – was like manna of grace raining down. The lifelines I hadn’t packed God amply supplied. God’s grace. God’s amazing, providential, all-loving grace seeps into the dark crevices that ache for the time when this month wasn’t painful.

Once again, I am reminded that God’s light shines brightest in the darkness. Through it all – the pitch black of grief and the moments of silliness in our summer jammies and everything in between – God’s love has been in every moment.

And come what may in the tsunamic waves of grief and the turning of calendar pages; this same love will carry us through.

God once said, “Let the light shine out of the darkness!”

2 Corinthians 4:6a (NCV)

 

 

 

 

 

23 days: Let heaven and earth rejoice

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!

christmas at bethany

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

It’s okay! My mom shares!

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!

The blind date

There is a catchy country song that came out a few years ago that ends with the line, “Thank God for good directions and turnip greens.” The cute song tells how a boy, selling turnip greens on the side of the road, steers a beautiful, yet lost, young lady back to the interstate and some good sweet tea (of course, you know I would like that part of the song). Once the young lady gets there, the purveyor of that intoxicatingly sweet beverage is the boy’s momma who steers the young lady right back to the boy in the truck.

And my favorite part is implied.

HAPPILY. EVER. AFTER.

Since today is Valentine’s Day, you might think that this blog is all about me and my sweetie. It isn’t. Okay, maybe a small piece.

As today’s title infers, we did indeed meet on a blind date. Only it wasn’t all things quintessentially Southern like turnip greens and sweet tea that brought us together. Nope it was much more academic than that. And I do mean academic – think Calculus and Chemistry. Two of our professors – mathematics and science – thought we would make a good couple, and they were right. From our first date, we both just somehow knew we would be together. We had the stuff that added up to the right chemistry. (I couldn’t resist a silly pun.) The motto of our alma mater, Mayville State, is “The School of Personal Service”. I have joked for years; it doesn’t get much more personal than picking out your husband for you.

Even through all the ups and downs (and trust me, we’ve had plenty), no one can make me laugh like he can, nor surprise me like he does. At the end of the day, there is no one whom I would rather spend all of my days.

So even though, I love my sweetie, today’s blog is actually dedicated to a woman that I don’t even know.

Somewhere out there in the world is a girl – probably now a grandma – who missed out on an opportunity. That opportunity was a blind date with a Navy boy. Well, if my understood version of the story is correct, he was an Alabama boy, college graduate, and Naval officer stationed at Pensacola Naval Air Station. All things dreamy back in the day. Well, maybe not the Alabama part to Florida girls.

The girl I want to thank was supposed to go as the escort – on a blind date with this Navy boy – as a favor to her friend who was dating another Navy Officer. For those of you not familiar with living in a Navy town, this sort of thing happens all the time. Many a relationship have started with service men or women meeting local people. Pensacola is no exception.

Well, except for this day. The woman I do not know – not even her name – got cold feet, leaving her friend in quite a perplexed situation. I mean really – not having a double date for going out with your sweetie could be quite devastating news! I like to think of her looking something like this after her friend’s refusal to even entertain the thought of going on this date.

photo found at beatlesnumber9.com

photo found at beatlesnumber9.com

Not to be known in this story as one without resources, the now only female member of a rather odd three person date decided to beat the path of her co-workers to see if anyone would help her out of this ridiculous predicament.

Lo and behold – there was a willing soul found in the workplace washroom! This unsuspecting local girl who worked at the library of the university was pounced upon by Miss Debbie Desperate in the bathroom.

“Hey! Would you be interested in going on a double date with my boyfriend’s friend tonight? They are both in the Navy.” That last tidbit could possibly seal the deal . . . or break it, depending on how you look at it. A casual conversation that took place over the porcelain sinks with the reflective images of the two girls watching and listening earnestly.

The replacement girl’s answer was something rather romantic and dreamy like, “Um. Sure. Why not! I’m not busy.”

Cue the super hero music because replacement girl just saved the day!

Turns out in the stories of happily ever after, that good fortune of needing the potty at that time and having an adventuresome spirit was a good thing.

Tomorrow, replacement girl and Navy boy will celebrate three kids, eight grandkids they’ve met, three they will meet in heaven, and forty-five years of marriage together!

So today, I am thanking God for cold feet and blind dates!

Note: The events of this story took place in November 1968. Since I wasn’t born (as the first of those three kids) until November 1969, I might not have all of the details exactly accurate. That, and I might be known for having a little bit of a flair for embellishment.

My Mom & Dad.  And no! They do not normally pose in front of racy art auction paintings.

My Mom & Dad. And no! They do not normally pose in front of racy art auction paintings.

Happy 45th Anniversary to my mom (replacement girl) and to my dad (Navy boy)! Love you both!

And for the record, I adore happy endings!

Blessed is

This last week has been one of wonders for me.  So instead of a traditional blog with a story, I am going to just tell it in snippets with a few pictures thrown in for good measure.

Bliss is working together as a family for four days straight side-by-side to reach a common goal.

Celebration is seeing the chaos of your life begin to dissipate.

Awe is discovering that wayward tree growing in your lilac bushes is actually a mulberry tree your boys planted years ago on Arbor Day.

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Happiness is realizing you didn’t cut it down when you first discovered its appearance above the hedge.

Wonder is spending forty-five minutes watching monarch caterpillars munch on milkweed leaves in your garden.

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Satisfaction is realizing that when others thought you were weird for planting milkweed you were confident God would bring the butterflies.

Excitement is letting out a squeal of delight when you see the life-sized mechanical dinosaur move.

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(Of course, this kind of delight may cause one of your best friends to almost run off the road.)

Thankfulness is knowing she loves you anyways – even if you are a science geek with a child-like love for dinosaurs.

Awe-inspiring is watching your little girl see a friend she met only once before walk hand-in-hand with that friend immediately while introducing her to her other friends.

Proud is watching the fruits of your friends’ labors create one of the most amazing small town open air markets I have ever enjoyed.

Tasty is bringing home those labors and enjoying every single bite.

Joy is watching your children smile – even in life’s smallest moments.

Amazement is being surrounded by your family and friends watching fireworks.

Rapture is swapping stories at our favorite viewing site.

Crazy is finding prairie roses in the ditch and wishing to bring them home to your garden.

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Crazy love is a dear friend getting you the shovel.

Captivating is finding a killdeer nest in the community garden.

Nurturing is making little flags that warn others not to disturb the eggs.

Exuberance is espying the first lightning bug of the year!

Blessed is my life!

The thing about leprechauns

One of my earliest memories is arriving to my kindergarten classroom on St. Patrick’s Day only to discover the whole room turned topsy-turvy with the windows left wide open.  Keep in mind this was March 17 in Pensacola so Minnesota’s winter wind wasn’t something we had to contend with.  The alarmed and shell-shocked teacher asked us all to help her pick up and to see if we could figure out what happened.  Eventually one of my classmates discovered footprints – GREEN! and lots of them on the windowsills.  Leprechauns!

I only have a few memories from kindergarten, but this one is definitely my favorite.  As the Luck of the Irish would have it, those leprechauns stuck with me my whole life, and now they come to visit each year that my children remember to put out our special St. Paddy’s day treasure box.   Fortunately, we know all about the wee folk, their friends, and all their doin’s.

Once or twice, we have been pixie-led in a forest.  We have listened for water sprites in babbling brooks.  We look for faerie nets in the morning dew, and we sincerely hope that those faeries are wearing out their shoes.  (Of course, that’s how the leprechauns get their gold – fixin’ faerie shoes.)  Then there are the leprechauns. . .

As I’ve gotten older, I seem to have a complicated relationship with the three that visit our house.  For as long back as Reed was old enough to leave out a treasure box, the same three Irishmen have visited our house.  Oh, I believe in them, but I just don’t endorse their ways all the time.  The funny thing about leprechauns is they do keep their promises; albeit not exactly the way you think they should.

They are obliged to fill that treasure box if you leave that treasure box out by the light of the moon on St. Patrick’s Eve.  The problem arises when the whole “Hey! They’re trying to find me gold” mentality that the wee folk have rears its ugly head.  When the kids were really little that thought never crossed their minds. But as it goes with children, they, too, get bigger and their thinking gets more sophisticated.

Almost overnight, some type of magic switch turns itself on, and my normal children become construction experts as well as engineering and architectural aficionados.  They have created elaborate traps, each offering some alluring “bait” to entice the leprechauns to enter in the hopes of hitting it big – meeting a leprechaun.  (So far, none have spent their gold before they caught one.)

Trap 2013 - complete with Fairy Cloie's house on top of a gold mine

Trap 2013 – complete with Fairy Cloie’s house on top of a gold mine

All the shoes that Fairy Cloie needs repaired.

All the shoes that Fairy Cloie needs repaired.

All that gold - notice the trap door string.

All that gold – notice the trap door string.

Well, despite their yearly return, the leprechauns don’t take too kindly all this trap business.  Each year they leave a treasure ranging to sugary cereal like Lucky charms (which my kids’ mom would never buy) and various Irish treats and treasures.  But what they really leave is a big fat mess and a treasure box hidden in some elaborate place!  Whole rooms of furniture have been turned upside down, children’s rooms have been toilet papered, and one year the entire dining room was set up outside on the lawn.  They might be little, but they aren’t weak.

Expensive cereal and messes in my house! Sometimes my love of these pint-sized gentlemen wears a little thin.  But when I see the sweetness in the notes they leave each and every year encouraging my kids to keep studying because someday  – just someday – they might actually catch one of them, my heart goes right back to my first leprechaun encounter all those years ago.

So to Seamus, Finnegan, and O’Malley if you are out there reading this blog, thank you for keeping the magic alive at our house. Somedays it really does pays to be an Irish girl, especially one young of heart.

Oops, I almost forgot. Finnegan – Cloie did find your hat, and she promises next year to leave it next to the trap treasure box.

Finnegan's hat and this year's note.

Finnegan’s hat and this year’s note.

Before the throne

The place I always feel closest to God. Pensacola Beach

The place I always feel closest to God. Pensacola Beach

Yesterday I shared about the words that the missionary spoke that were a balm to cover up an old wound.  Well, that same day, one of Reed’s friends led worship for the day.  Yes, a sweet high school senior listened to God’s prompting to lead a congregation in praise and song.  During the offering that day, he sang a song that had me crying in my pew.  It seemed as if the words he sang were an affirmation to what I believe to be God’s will for my life.

As I sat there in the pew, I allowed the words to sink deep within. All of my own struggles (too many possessions, worrying about the wrong things, prideful in accomplishments, my failings and where I have failed others, and the fear of not leaving a Godly legacy for my kids) were right there – packaged in one song.  By the time we got to the fifth stanza, I was a puddle of tears. I literally would give up everything I own to know that my children’s hope (and future) lays securely at the foot of Heaven’s throne.

Songs do that to me.  I have shared that before, but sometimes I will hear a song and I will have to pull over on the side of the road and cry.  I have always loved to sing, grew up singing (church & school), and hope that my family will honor my wishes when I pass away of having an hour-long time just singing praises to God.

I do have a small confession to make.  The song resonated with my soul; so, despite all my normal sensibilities, I whipped out my smartphone during service and did a Google search.  My efforts discovered the song, “Everything I own” by Marshall native, Jason Gray.  (I have included the lyrics and a Youtube link below.) After services, I did thank our sweet boy for his role in my heart-stirring and confirmed that I had found the right song.

I am going to play this song often this year as a reminder (when I get off the path – which I know I will) that this is where I want to be.  I want to be in daily contact with the giver of wings so that all else will be according to His plans in my life. Who knows, this one might just be added to the playlist one day for my family to sing one day. Because by that time, I will standing before the very throne that this song reminds that I need to be before every day!

I would love to hear about what songs (of any genre) really speak to you and why! Hoping to be daily before God and praying I see you there too!

Everything that I own (Jason Gray)

What would I give to be pure in heart,
to be pure in flesh and bone
what would I give to be pure in heart
I’d give everything that I own

I’d rid my whole house of its demons of lust
and open the window to trust,
and out of that window all fear will have flown
I’d give everything that I own

What would I give for the words of God
to come tumbling from the throne
tell me what would I give for the words of God
I’d give everything that I own

I’d open my head and they’d roll right in,
When I opened my mouth they would roll out again,
and up root the weeds of the deeds that I have sown
I’d give everything that I own

What would I give
for my children’s strength on the day they stand alone
I mean, what would I give for their strength to stand firm
I’d give everything that I own

Cause I’ve wasted my life accomplishing things,
ignoring the giver of wings
so Lord teach them to fly to the foot of your throne
I’d give everything that I own

All I’ve accomplished, the titles I hold,
my passions, positions, possessions and gold.
To God they must look like a thimble of foam
and it’s everything that I own, dirty rags are all that I own.

So I stand before God with my stubble and hay
He just laughs , but says there is still a way
because Father forgive, are the words Jesus moaned
and He gave everything that he owned

So what would I give to be pure in heart
for the known, to be made unknown
what would I give to be born again

To everything there is a season

Ecclesiastes 3 is foundation for the title today. This set of verses in Ecclesiastes has always been one of my favorites.  I love those verses so much that a dear friend gave them to me on a plaque that hangs in my dining room.   I have welcomed the literal change of seasons in southwestern Minnesota, especially in relation to my gardens.  The verses have been a soothing balm when I have, often in retrospect, applied them to my children’s growth and maturity or even to the loss or waning of friendships.  But just this morning, God laid them on my heart because of something big that is occurring in my life tomorrow.

If I were completely honest, I wrestled with God on this blog.  I just wanted to go forward with the least amount of people knowing.  God, however, had other ideas.  I have learned over the years that when God stirs me, I should act.

For years, I have struggled with reproductive health issues.  Given that I have had three midterm miscarriages, years of health struggles and a personal family history of many hysterectomies in their 30’s, I shouldn’t be that surprised.  In my head, I know that my procedure tomorrow is medically necessary, but in my heart I am not ready for that season to come to end.

Thankfully, my procedure is much less intense than a complete hysterectomy, but it does mark the end of my ability to bear children, which was growing up one of my two life goals.  All I ever wanted was to be a mom and to be a teacher.  Thank goodness – I have a husband who understood my goals, because we discussed raising kids on our first date. (And he DIDN’T run for the hills!)

Telling my head and my body (which is tired of being tired and anemic) that I need this procedure is one thing. Convincing my heart is another matter entirely. Birthing more children has not been on our agenda at all, but when the reality of the end loomed, my heart ached.

I am grateful to close friends and family for their advice and love over the last week and half.  A few have had the same, similar or larger procedures.  Not one has poo-pooed my feelings, and actually most have shared they experienced the same.  One friend even went so far as to say that most women have a long period of time to adjust to that idea, but it is as if the doctors slammed the door on me.  Her words were prophetic, speaking exactly what my heart was feeling.  Two friends, who know me very well, went out of their way to call and encourage to not delay because their procedures were the best things they had done for themselves in years. Offers for help with the kids, help for me, and of course, prayers came pouring in as well.

Through their kindnesses, I have seen God’s message of love.  My friends don’t want to see me suffer through anymore.  They don’t want to see me miss out on things because I am either tired or afraid to go out because there might be “accidents”. I think instinctively they knew that due to losing four of our own children this would be a BIG deal to me.  Even more than all of that, they know (sometimes more than I know) that God has plans for me and my life, and often my health gets in the way.

So today, while I know that my heart is going to need some time to adjust, I am not going to mope or be fearful. I realize after God’s reminder of these verses this morning that he is the Creator of all things, including the inspiration for medical procedures that do indeed transform lives. Also, I see through my friends and family that God’s love is all over this transition in my life.

I really didn’t want to write this blog, but God reminded of how many years I suffered in silence.  This most private of topics was something that I didn’t want to air publicly, but God said since when has that stopped me. He was right, of course, because I have no problem sharing deeply about my grief, loss, and faith. Why would my health be any different? I didn’t want to share that I am vulnerable and that I might need help, but when I did, many stepped up and offered it.  Even my fears for the procedure itself were laid to rest by the sweet surgeon’s reassurances echoed by the same day surgery nurse.

Yes, a season of my life is coming to an end, but I know, I KNOW, that God has something amazing waiting in store for me at the beginning of my new SEASON.

LOVE NOTE:  Our physical needs have been graciously attended for the next several days, but all prayers will be coveted!