Tag Archives: Florida

Returning home

Who says you can’t go home
There’s only one place they call me one of their own
Just a hometown boy, born a rolling stone, who says you can’t go home
Who says you can’t go back, been all around the world and as a matter of fact
There’s only one place left I want to go,

Jon Bon Jovi & Richie Sambora

I don’t know what creativity transpired for the musicians to pen the lyrics to “Who Says You Can’t Go Home”. What I will never know in song origin, I make up for in sentiment. Last week, I lived those words. Standing underneath the stately magnolia tree, I was transported to the elementary school days of my childhood when teachers would ask us to clean the erasers. Smacking those black woolen felt erasers into clouds of white dust, we would enjoy the Southern dappled sun peeking through the waxy leaves.

Carefully walking over the exposed roots, I traipsed back to the vehicle where my completely Midwestern family patiently indulged my tour of childhood schools and homes. The older I get the more I value roots; both those supporting my favorite tree of all time and those connecting and grounding us to our childhoods. Although I haven’t lived in the South for nearly thirty years, the scent of Gulf air and the sound of the whippoorwill are not far from my soul’s memories. I haven’t spent much of my life thinking about the influence of the place I call home, but sometimes paradigm shifts are subtle.

It’s always the little things. The interior paint of our home is called “sea salt”, my grandmother’s cast iron cornbread pan rests on my stove, and a big bag of grits can be found in my cupboards. The South never truly leaves a girl.

mama

On our recent vacation, one which was planned to correspond with my grandmother’s 92^nd birthday, I realized just how much the South has shaped my life. Although I love both of these things, my nostalgia extended far beyond “yes ma’am’s” and door-opening gentlemen and somehow I felt more alive than I had in many days. Of course, visiting in the summer was questionable judgment, but when your Mama is a June-bug there aren’t many alternatives.

My senses were overloaded in way that made my soul say, “Remember this. Savor this moment because your next infusion might be awhile away.” The sound of the Gulf waves lapping the shore were the melodic framing of many days and nights. The smells of home cooking and the sea aroused my olfactory bulbs. All the swirls of green and blue with a few white blossoms punctuated my vision causing heart to be truly content. The feel of salt spray on my skin and sand between my toes lingered for days.

This is home. This is where I truly feel happy.

It wouldn’t be the South without the swapping of tales and little humor sprinkled in the right places like the when my uncle teased the waitress the cooking was so good it would make someone want to slap their grandma or when my vegan cousin suggested he could buy a whole lot of carrots with a gift card to a fish house.

My South included the divine, sitting in the wooden pew of a little white church being surrounded by the “Amen’s” of God’s people and the standing to sing the hymns of my childhood. Having the opportunity to speak and share God’s love for others while my Southern Baptist uncle, who happens to be the pastor,, looked on and said I had missed my calling melted my heart completely.

We did a whole lot of visiting and eating. Sharing my childhood with my children included a gastrointestinal tour of the southeast. There were Cracker Barrel and Po’Folks veggie plates, lemonade and chicken sandwiches at Chic Fil’A, big ol’ Texas sized burgers at What-A-Burger, juice dripping Georgia peaches, and limeades at Sonic, but somehow my favorite boiled peanuts eluded us. Buying the shrimp straight off the boats at the biggest tourist attraction in Florida, Joe Patti’s, was a must as was al fresco dining at Flounder’s amid cannons firing at pirate ships on Pensacola Beach. A little walk-up stand was frequented twice, because the best foot long chili dogs and milkshakes in Alabama can be found there.

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Included in our moments were the new memories made like when my children asked to eat at a Waffle House because they had only seen a bazillion of them on our drive from Atlanta to Pensacola. They were dismayed at my neglect of never having brought them to one of the iconic diners. Mutiny akin to that of those pirate ships was on their mind when I professed that while they had never eaten at one, their older brother actually had. Their steely silence lifted when the gigantic waffle was set before them. Thank goodness for pecan waffles – a mother’s saving grace!

waffles

None of the places visited or the food eaten was the greatest part of our trip. No sirree! as my tiny little cousin exclaimed more than once in our visiting time. He along with every other cousin, aunt, uncle, mom, dad, and grandmother were the best part of my grounding. Hugging necks and breathing the same air as my family – all of them – was truly the greatest blessing of my summer. Having my Minnesota children experience every bit of it was – well, the lemon in my sweet tea.

cousins

Today no matter where you are and where you define home, be thankful for the memories stored there. They are a priceless collection.

As for me, these are my people and this is my home – every Southern fried bit of it!

Counting our eggs

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Hanging in my new office (that tidbit explains my recent absences from the blog-o-sphere) is a photo taken from the most magical vacation my family has experienced in a very long time. The essence of that trip lingers sweetly for all of us. From the time spent with family to the hours spent with our legs dangling from the dock watching the manatees, every second was amazing. Even on the one rainy day; we found ways to be entertained, simply soaking in (I couldn’t resist), the wonders of island life.

Rain is a given on the Gulf Coast. A torrential downpour might last for fifteen minutes, which will be just enough to add a little more humidity to the day. On our vacation, we awoke to one pouring day and knew immediately we would not be making the trek to sit on the beaches that morning. We scoured the local paper and stumbled across a lecture being given by the local Turtle Watch organization. When in Rome! We had already seen manatees, stingrays, hundreds of fish and birds, so why not learn a little more about the famous sea turtles.

Headquarters for the turtle organization was a small brick community center, where many of the volunteers held Thanksgiving dinner together. We learned about turtle lifecycles, breeding behaviors, nesting sites, sizes of species, and what Turtle Watch volunteers do. We were entranced by their daily vigils to walk the shoreline in hopes of finding a true nesting site and not a false crawl (where the sea turtle momma changes her mind). At the conclusion of the informal gathering of eager learners, our heads were swirling.

Buoyed by our new knowledge, we left with renewed “island marching orders” to get up and walk the shoreline scouting for signs a momma turtles had chosen our sector as a suitable nesting site. We were very careful not to interfere with the work of trained and licensed volunteers as sea turtles are very serious business in the state of Florida. Read: do not MESS with a sea turtle!

The remainder of our week at least one member of our entourage would get up early and scour the sand for the tell-tale signs a beautiful turtle had been in our midst. We had given up hope, and almost didn’t go out our last day on the island. My sweetie and I finally convinced ourselves we would be so disappointed if we didn’t go and later learned a nest was created.

We got on our beach clothes and started our trek to the beach – always a good investment in my soul. Truth be known, I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to the beautiful water and its enticing siren call. Within moments of our arrival, we noticed our last minute wishing was about to pay off. The distinct tracks in the sand led to a pit closer to the native grasses. A quick scan of the beach told us, the trained “officials” had already walked their sector and they were waiting for back-up to properly locate and cordon off the nest. As a science teacher and a LOVER of God’s amazing creation I was downright giddy. This was one of the coolest things ever! A quick call to the beach house roused all the other nature lovers in our clan.

For both nests, it took the officials several tries to find the actual nest. Using only their hands, they very carefully dug, providing minimal disturbance to the delicate creatures housed within. Upon locating the actual nest which can be as deep as a couple feet, the Turtle Watch volunteers put up stakes and ropes, with signs imploring others not to disturb. A quiet excitement reverberated among those gathered. Our hearts reminding us, “Shh! Babies are developing!” With so many odds against them, the baby sea turtles would need every well wish proffered. Our quiet morning was goose-bump inducing. Everyone from our family was in awe of God’s beautiful creation at work.

As the researchers completed securing the sight and recording vital data, we wanted to continue to be a “part of the action”; so as a family we chose to adopt the two nests that were laid on our last night on the island. One honored my dad as they came to shore on his actual birthday and the other in memory of Reed who loved everything nature. Our adoption fees came with the knowledge we were helping researchers and volunteers continue to champion for these beautiful sea creatures. We left hoping we would become “parents” to hundreds of hatchlings.

This is the wording we chose (from a list of possibilities) for our plaque at the site.

Advice from a Sea Turtle

Swim with the current

Be a good navigator

Stay calm under pressure

Be well traveled

Think long term

Age gracefully

Spend time at the beach

~AMITW

Sage advice, indeed! Wherever you are today, I hope God’s creation sings to you.

To all our little sea turtle babies (who have hatched by now), may God be with you as you are rocked gently by the beautiful blue waters of my childhood!

The Magic of Florida

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The Magic of Disney

The Orlando Magic

Those might be the first things that come to mind when seeing the title of today’s blog. While I know quite a bit about the game of basketball, I know zippety-zap other than the existence of the professional basketball team from my home state.

On the former, I still remember my first trip to Disney World. I was older than the park. I was eight, and Disney World was only six years old. It was cold with drizzly rain. We had the park practically to ourselves. In my daddy’s words, “this was back before they had caught on”. Whatever the reason for being one family among the few, we had a great time. Back in those days, you needed coupons for the rides. My mom who is a meticulous saver of memorabilia still has our coupons from that day. When I called my parents to confirm my childhood details matched theirs, my mom shared she still has those coupons. My parents have moved more times than I care to think about since that December 20^th date (yep, she recalls the actual date of our attendance), and yet, a piece of our day spent there has survived all the moves. If truth were told, I, too, have a few pieces, Disney World coffee mug and a Bear Country Jamboree patch, from our day. This trip in family lore has lingered on and absolutely could be described as magical. Less because of the theme park, and more due to our family being able to afford to go and enjoy it. At the time, my daddy was a graduate student and assistant coach (neither of which are high paying gigs), and for one day, even if it was less than ideal weather, we treated ourselves. Living life and making memories . . . a true definition of magical.

The hoopsters and the hipsters known as Mickey and Minnie are permanently attached to the moniker “magic”. But for me, my whole definition of the word was transformed at the end of a dock in a marina slip. It was the least likely place in the world to experience true peace, but I wasn’t the only one who found it there.

My sweetie who sadly isn’t always able to vacation with the kids and I laid down the law before we left for Florida for the Boy Wonder’s graduation trip. He sat our party of six down and explained other than boarding the airplane, there would be no, none, zero, zip, zilch, nada, NOT ONE IOTA of stress during this vacation. This was the trip of our dreams and he wasn’t going to allow any of us to sweat the small stuff. To demonstrate he was serious he mock threatened to implement an NCIS reinforcement technique. Despite his size (think football lineman), my sweetie is the gentlest giant among men I know. We were all in giggles when he suggested that any stressing would result in a Leroy Jethro Gibbs head slap. He got his point across although he had no intentions of actually doing it.

He was the leader in the no stress brigade the entire trip. His vision of peace and tranquility came to fruition two minutes (I am not exaggerating here) after we arrived at our beach house. We were unloading some food in the kitchen, when his trained-to-look-for-wildlife eyes zeroed in on a blackish blob in the water behind the property. Curiosity won him over and he went to the dock to check it out. Giddy with excitement because he found what his girl was hoping to find. his discovery held us – all of us – captive all week. Manatees! Not just one or two, but more like six or seven. There were mommas and nursing babies and all other sizes in between. The marina slip despite its mucky appearance must have been a marine mammal smorgasbord, because they were there all week. To say we were captivated would be the understatement of the century.

On the plane down, I told everyone despite growing up in Florida, the one thing I had never seen in the wild was a manatee. Alligators, crocodiles, snakes, sharks, and dolphins, I’ve got them covered, but not manatees. I had even searched for manatee tours, but felt that with Sister on crutches with strict restrictions from the doctor would not enjoy a boat tour at all. We did see some rescued manatees at Sea World, but that really wasn’t what I was hoping to see.

Not the manatees from the dock who were extremely camera shy. These are the rescued ones from Sea World.

The smallest among us at three months old really could take ‘em or leave ‘em (mostly leaving ‘em), but every other member of our party of twelve spent hours at the end of that small dock every day. The rising and lowering tide kept the rhythm of the island as we sat with legs dangling just breathing in God’s majestic beauties. In our tranquil observations, we learned some of their articulations and movements. Even when someone would call for a meal time, those at the water’s edge would wish to linger just a little longer, not wanting to miss one moment.

Inside we had every modern convenience known, and as nice as those were, they didn’t hold a candle to God’s magnificent beach and the manatees in the backyard. We were all mesmerized by their peaceful life below the surface and wishing we could live our lives as freely.

And for one week, we did.

I couldn’t ask for anything more magical than that.

5 days: the most wacky time of the year

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I promise this blog is not about the ridiculously crazed people in line in the final countdown to Christmas. I could write a book about that insanity. Since I make many of my gifts, I always forget not everyone does, and I end up at the store for a jug of milk, flabbergasted by the ensuing chaos. In the past couple of days, I have been reminded of just how special family traditions are . . . even the whack-a-doodle ones.

My childhood Christmases were all pretty special. (Okay, not getting the one doll I wanted left quite an impression, but I think I’m getting over it.) Like most families, we had traditions which we typically recreated each year. Looking for the magic bell, eating sausage biscuit balls Christmas morning, visiting the miniature Christmas village in Pensacola, driving around looking at Christmas lights, and of course, enjoying dinners with families where my cousins and I always pretended the kids table was in France while the adults were back in plain ol’ Florida. All are times I cherish.

Of course, if I were completely honest, one of my favorite memories which did not become a tradition was the year my maternal grandmother, Nanny, started the neighbor’s house on fire. This wasn’t some kind of Hatfield and McCoy feud, although that would make for a much more interesting story. (Similar to my brother’s wedding when both my dad and I had stitches. On the sly, we created great cover stories of a Wild West style fight and a snake bite which were infinitely better than skin tag removal and the attic stairs dropping on your head.) Meanwhile back in my memories, the reason for the neighbor’s carport fire was a little known tradition of lighting fireworks on Christmas Eve. A little flash, boom, and pzzzzoom, followed by a very unlikely landing made for one remarkable evening. The Floridian hallmark was one we kept for a while; starting fires on other people’s homes was not a repeat event. For the record, the fire lasted only a minute and did not cause any serious damage to life or property. The part that made it so memorable was I had never seen my grandmother run – ever. Much like her dancing, her running was a sight to behold. Just writing this has caused the biggest smirk to appear on my face, and if she were still with us, she would be smirking too!

Another childhood tradition was just recently re-introduced to my own children. Last night we put up our trees. At some point, I began to wax nostalgic and blurted out, “This just isn’t right.” My loving and ever attentive family asked what had caused my dismay. (Okay, that didn’t really happen, but a girl can dream.) I eventually just kept on talking about how when I was a child we always, ALWAYS I tell you, listened to our favorite Christmas record when decorating the tree. Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, it was not. A little convincing on my part, but eventually we plopped in the “The Monster Christmas Mash” cd. It is okay you can say it. Monster Christmas Mash? What in the mayonnaise? The Boy Wonder just looked at me as if I had grown an extra head. He should never, I mean NEVER play poker, because “Mother, what in heaven’s name do monsters have to do with Christmas?” was written all over his face. The jazzy, blues, and funk style tunes did not do much to convince him or the Girl Awesome, neither did the great storyline of monsters learning the true meaning of Christmas (and I don’t mean the commercial one). At one point, they asked me if their grandparents were on drugs the day we purchased the LP at the Montgomery Ward’s. But thank goodness for the miracle of little girls, because Sally was singing along with me while simultaneously giggling at the thought of the Creep Castle chorus marching band AND dissection society.

I embrace my inner kookiness, but I am guessing others have completely weirdo traditions in their families as well. Monster Christmas may be unique to my family (as I am guessing even in the 70’s it was probably not a big seller.) But I equally certain that the other tradition we revisited Friday night is one in which many partake. We had the opportunity to give back in a most splendid way through the board that several Stevens sit on. At a local memory care facility, we created a shopping experience for residents so that they could shop for their families. Our group also had wrapping stations for the gifts. Truly a blessing to all of us present! Such a magical way to spend a Friday afternoon! I sincerely hope that we created a new tradition, but that isn’t exactly the one I was referring to earlier. We are big believers in leaving a place cleaner than when we arrived; thus, we picked up any mess we had made as the staff was preparing the table for supper. About the same time, the Boy Wonder’s eyes and mine fell upon a stack of the leftover gift wrapping tubes. A quick exchange of eyebrows told me he was thinking exactly what I was. Without much fanfare, we offered to take the cardboard tubes off their hands. The leader of our board, who also raised sons, knew precisely what we were up to. “You short a few swords at your house?” was spoken through a sheepish smile.

She gets us. She really gets us. The best part of wrapping presents is getting rid of the paper . . . off the roll so you can sneak up and whack your brother. Absolutely the best part!

Traditions are the fabric that makes families unique. Some are worth repeating, just as some are okay to let go. Others are even worth passing down through the generations. Monster Christmas Mash might not make it to another generation, but wrapping paper tube swords will definitely make the cut.

En garde, peeps! En garde!

Why I blog. . . (a.k.a. the blog hop)

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I have been away from home for a week while traveling with the Boy Wonder, who had an amazing opportunity to attend an academy in my hometown for a week. While he was away on daring missions, I was blessed to visit with some family and friends. Anyone who knows me also knows that I enjoyed every morsel of good Southern eats because unless I make them, I’m not getting them in Minnesota. During my stay with my 90-year-old Mama (pronounced maw-maw), I received a message from a friend that I had been tagged in a blog hop. My quick response back to her was to let her know that I would definitely participate, but my internet was spotty – read: zero bars – so I would have to get back to it when I had better service.

Seriously, awesome food at The Varsity in Atlanta, GA. Enjoyed with my son, my uncle, my friend and his family.

When I did, I was off on adventures with my mom and daddy whom I have waited to have to myself for a while – 1973 to be exact. My children know I have a saying, “Unless Jesus or Reed are calling, I’m not missing hanging out with peeps right here in front of me.” So, dear sweet readers, this blog could wait until today.

I met my friend, Nancy, who nominated me for this blog hop on a plane. Wait a minute. That last sentence looks like she nominated me on a plane. No, no. This won’t do. She actually met me on a plane, but nominated me when I was hanging out in Alabama. Part of the story of that first encounter can be found here. She became more than comfort in my not finest hour, but rather a true friend. We don’t get to see each other as often as we would like, but when we do, it always seems we just pick right up where we left off. She is the kind of friend, who shares my sense of humor, but more importantly shares my awe and wonder at how Jesus loves completely flawed girls like us. Her writing often leaves me in stitches, and knowing her like I do, at times in tears, because her writing is real and refreshing!

Why do I write what I write?

Before I answer that directly (and since when do I ever do that?), I want to say that I am amazed that anyone would ever want to know that about me. As a science and math teacher by trade, English was my worst subject. Yes, I am old enough to call the class “English”, not “Language Arts”, where I am certain I would have been an abysmal failure. Seriously, I grew up in Florida during a period of time where if you used a contraction in an essay, you were automatically marked as an “F”. C’mon y’all ? Does anyone else see the problem with that? Although, I did earn excellent grades, more than once I had to de-Southernize my papers to bring my grade up. I still shudder thinking of those red F’s on my paper.

One of my all-time favorite quotes is this one by Anne Frank

“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”

My writing sprang up from a well of deep pain and sorrow. Following the bus crash that claimed Reed’s life and injured Sawyer and Erin, I wrote on their CaringBridge sites to tell people what our prayer needs were. From there, people began to come out of the woodwork telling me that they looked forward to my writings and to the honesty with which I shared our struggles. (They weren’t kicking us when we were down, but something in my writing stirred their hearts.) The more I wrote, the less the burden of our reality seemed to bog us down. As time wore on, I dabbled in blogging and realized that the things that God lays on my heart on a variety of subjects resonate with others. If what I write helps anyone in any way, then the bearing of my heart is worth every re-write.

How does my writing process work?

Now that my deep dark confession of being terribly afraid of writing is out there, I will also confess that my knowledge of the writing process is probably less than my knowledge of a hole in the ground. But I have also learned over time that I know way more than I often give myself credit for. Way back in high school, my daddy and his buddies were enrolled in an FFA judging contest. When they arrived at the competition, the advisor told them that they had been entered in the soil judging because he needed someone to do it. They were rock solid on their other competition, but soils – what do we know about soils? They were given clipboards, judging forms, and pencils, and then escorted to (I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP) holes in the ground. They scratched away their best thoughts on each hole, and lo and behold, they ended up taking first place.

While I have made public apologies in my blog to former English teachers, I write just like I think and speak. The story ideas; however, come from God. Most often it is something from my everyday life that moves me. Many times I sit on it, but it will just keep popping back up in my thoughts. That is when I know that God truly wants me to write about it – even if it isn’t something that I would have chosen to share. One hundred percent of the time I get a private message from someone after posting one of those gut-wrenching blogs that my words were EXACTLY the encouragement they needed to get through a hurdle.

If that is how God works, I am delighted to be his vessel – even if I use contractions. Carving out the time to write and faithfully listening to God seem to be my largest hurdles.

I also read and re-read my writing trying to catch all the little mistakes. That can sometimes be an exhausting experience.

What am I working on right now?

The honest answer is just trying to be the best me, wife, momma and writer I can be. I am so glad that God’s grace covers all of that! Amen! Since I know this is about writing projects, I won’t give a litany of all the things I see I need to do around here.

My number one writing focus has been this blog and my books. I have a contract to publish my first book. (Again, finding time to write is my largest obstacle.) There have been road blocks along the way, but I truly feel that the finished product is one that is better than if I had hurried through.

I have written for some writing contests, and I have enjoyed the challenge. I won one of the contests, earning a major award. Daniel didn’t like the fish net stocking lamp. Oh wait, that was in a movie. In actuality, I won a Google tablet and a signed copy of a new novel, by one of my favorite authors.

Recently, I was asked to begin working on articles for the Minnesota Bridging the Gap’s website. I am honored to have been chosen, and am looking forward to getting to know the other ladies and to write God’s story of my life for a broader audience.

My writing also opens doors for speaking opportunities – which I L.O.V.E. (I mean absolutely love). So I have been working with a web designer and a long-time friend to get our ministry out there. We are “this close” to launching our own website, which tickles me to no end.

What other writers would I like to introduce to you?

I read quite a few blogs. I enjoy them all. Some move me to tears with their writing gifts, like tony, who never wishes his name to be capitalized in the blog-o-sphere. His shares about his life, mostly centered on his career as a musician and song-writer. If heaven has sirens like in Greek mythology, I think tony’s words would be a part of their repertoire. I have never heard him perform, but I will consider myself blessed if I ever do.

Others amaze me with the way that they see God in the every day.

One such “friend”(as we have never met) is Daisy. She writes over at www.adaisygarden.com. I will tell you that she, too, writes from her everyday experiences, and she posts the most amazing pictures. There are days that I envy her eyeballs. Some of her pictures make me want to just follow her around for a day, taking in the beauty that she shares on her blog. Her recent post would be a good example of what I mean. What I enjoy most outside of her pictures is the heart she has for finding the blessings in the ordinary. A girl after my own heart! She follows my blog as well, and I am always amazed at her heart for prayer. And I, for one, need all the prayer warriors I can get!

This last blog is from someone whom I have gotten to know in “real life”. We didn’t always know each other personally, but our blogs connected us. We chose to meet one day for coffee (okay, I ordered a smoothie since I don’t drink coffee. AND sweet tea wasn’t offered there). When our food arrived, Missy wanted to take a picture of the beautiful muffin on her plate. I laughed, not because that was a silly notion, but because it is exactly what I would do. This blogging friend is a warrior. She truthfully, honestly, and sometimes very poignantly raw shares her life through her words. Our connection originally was one of deep and profound loss, but our mutual decision to trust in the Lord’s plan of hope is what keeps us connected. I am amazed at her persistence to find the good in life – even if it is a beautiful muffin on a café plate. Her words resonate with my soul, and I am proud to call her my friend.

While the presentation isn’t nearly as beautiful as Missy’s muffin, shrimp straight from the Gulf, bought at Joe Patti’s Seafood, is my kind of comfort food. Oh yeah, guest appearance by sweet tea, too!

Daisy, Missy, and tony – you are welcome to jump on the blog hop, and I hope you do. I would love to know more about your writing process, but I understand that life pulls us in many different directions. Sometimes all at once! If you are able to participate, then I want you to know that I admire your writings, along with Nancy’s who nominated me. You, my dears, are sweet balm to my soul.

For any aspiring writers out there, the best advice I can give is to write from your heart, especially if it is something God lays there. You can never go wrong with that.

The Two Grandmas

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For a few days in August, we had something akin to a miracle occur right at my dinner table. Most people would think that I am waxing poetically, but for me, it is a moment that I will treasure forever. While I was on my train trip with Mr. Jimmy, my parents arrived for a visit with my family. A few days after my return, we were also expecting the annual Grandma & Auntie Vacation visit from my other mom (Daniel’s mom) and sister.

We live in a humble-sized house, but like my husband’s ancestors, there is always room for one more in a bed, one more plate at the table, and one more chair for visiting at our home. The problem with this scenario, due to the craziness of travelling and raising a busy family, was we neglected to tell either mom they would be here at the same time. That task fell to my husband as I was soaking up every bit of wonder in a great place called Kentucky.

To most people, this wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but I will be honest, our moms would have never met had their children not fallen in love. By never, I mean like that scene in Mall Cop where Paul Blart says at the intersection of “Ne and ver”. That kind of never, as opposed to the never Hollywood uses when it tells us there is never going to be another sequel to a million dollar movie franchise. Yeah, right! (more on this thought on a later post)

It isn’t that our moms dislike each other; it simply is that they come from vastly different backgrounds and lifestyles. Each one has her own “thang”, and no one should apologize for being herself.

They have been at some events together (our wedding, one baby shower, Reed’s services, and the laying of his headstone). Other than when Reed died and one time during a Reed’s Run, our two moms have never stayed in the same house together. It just never happens. Even though they don’t normally hang out (which is geographically impossible with one being a native Floridian and the other being a North Dakotan), they do share one colossal common interest. Both adore their grandchildren.

During one of the days of the “Grandma Invasion”, our littlest one says, “Hey Grandmas! Let’s play a game!” Since the old standby preschool game, Ice Cream, a favorite of Grandma L, is soon to be outgrown by Cloie, we settled on a favorite of the big kids in our house. Although neither had ever heard of the game, both grandmas were willing, if may be a little reluctant, participants. There we were, seated around the table, two grandmas (well technically three grandmas as sister Rita had recently become one herself), one mom, and one spunky, little, eight-year-old girl.

It took a while to recall the directions for the game, but once we did, we settled into a routine of fun competition with a whole bunch of cooperation as we cheered each other on. At one point, I distinctly remember wanting to scoop up my little Clo, holding her freckled cheeks in hands to breathe these words into her soul.

“You are the luckiest little girl in the world! This moment – right here, right now – is one so many little girls never experience. You are blessed to have both of your grandmas play a game with you. Capture this moment! Cherish it forever because this will be one of the best days of your life!”

I am certain my far-away, captured-in-my-thoughts-look was not noticed by anyone present, but in my bottle of memories it will always be stored in the library of my heart. I have a few of those moments with my own grandmothers, and every once in a while, I dust off its jacket and pull it out to revisit. Every time I do, it is precious time well spent.

Someday, when Clo wants to revisit the amazing time she shared with Grandmas L and S, my heart library will always be open, and she is welcome to check this treasure out as many times as heart desires!

For this, I am so thankful!

When we first envisioned doing something to fund the Reed Stevens Memorial Scholarship, we never saw an event as big as what Reed’s Run became. The four runs produced many different results: some expected and others pleasant surprises. The obvious by-products were a successful fundraising venture and a community event enjoyed by many. Among the unexpected were the blossoming of friendships and the renewal of friendships from long ago.

One of those friendships was rekindled in those early days in the hospital when Sawyer was still in the Intensive Care. It was something akin to the proverbial blessings that those who have walked through tragedy really have eyes and hearts open enough to see. The connection was with one of Sawyer’s godmothers.

As the days drew closer to the final run, we realized that we were going to have a house filled with loved ones as well as a few hotel rooms with other loved ones. For those travelling from far away, we decided to send out an agenda of what we would be offering in the way of entertainment. After working set-up all day Friday, a break would take place to cheer on Sawyer and the Lakers with a September/October birthday party at the fire pit in Reed’s garden afterwards.

To be honest, we didn’t think many would take us up on the offer for the football game. To our surprise, there were 15 people that comprised the cheering section for number 74. One among our group was Sawyer’s little god-brother, S, proudly clad in Laker blue and waving homemade flags emblazoned with Sawyer’s name and school “mascot”. S cheered on the team, and more than once he wondered aloud why the team or coaches weren’t listening to his flag as the score did not reflect his impassioned cheering. Sadly, Sawyer didn’t play for three fourths of the game, and for a while I felt like we had asked these loved ones from Georgia, California, western North Dakota, and Florida to come for nothing. Then in the final few minutes, Sawyer and the other Junior Varsity guys went in.

All of a sudden an amazing tackle happens, and over the loudspeaker we hear, “Tackle made by Sawyer Stevens.” (This, of course, reads better if you do the loudspeaker echoing voice out loud.) The Sawyer Stevens entourage cheered exuberantly, but none compared to little S. He jumped up and down, declaring for all who would listen, “Sawyer listened to my flag. I knew it would work!” I don’t really care what others would call the play of that game. For one sophomore player, that was definitely it.

For the trip to the birthday bash, Sawyer rode with his god-family the 30 miles back to Marshall. Even though I wasn’t there, the story told by his godmother about the trip home was priceless. Huddled together in the back of the car with their heads touching were two brothers (one in high school and one in elementary) deep in conversation and game playing.

For the one who misses his big brother every day, it was a model example of brotherly love and what used to be. For the rest of us, it was a reminder that even though the circumstances aren’t what we had planned, God’s vision of family is BIGGER than we could ever imagine.

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Tag Archives: Florida

Returning home

Counting our eggs

The Magic of Florida

5 days: the most wacky time of the year

Why I blog. . . (a.k.a. the blog hop)

The Two Grandmas