Tag Archives: Minnesota

Just don’t.

Like millions of other Minnesotans and Midwesterners, I spent much of my weekend in tears and when I wasn’t crying, I spent the rest of my time on my knees praying for the family of Jacob Wetterling. Much like other moments in history, I remember exactly where I was when I learned of his disappearance. I was a college junior in North Dakota, eating supper with my family. We prayed then and we pray now for his family. At the time, my sister was just a month shy of her seventh birthday. Around that time a little girl went missing from our neighborhood. Unlike Jacob’s story, hers had a happy ending. She, at three years old, decided to ride her tricycle to the Dairy Queen about 8 blocks away. I stayed behind with the neighborhood kids while the adults formed a search party. Long before the advent of the cellular era, word finally came back that she was found. After all the kids had gone to their respective homes, I held my baby sister really tight and made her promise she would never, never, NOT EVER, do something like that. In her naivete, she responded with I don’t even know how to get to the Dairy Queen. Through my tears, I laughed, but the reality was the carefree days of letting your children play and run about the neighborhood were gone.

Because of the actions of one, the innocence of a child, a family, and an entire region were stolen. We sang along to the Jacob’s Hope song, we looked at every child’s face hoping he would be Jacob, but mostly we cried and we prayed. Jacob’s story and his beautiful full-of-life face were burned into our collective psyche.

It would be many years before I would be married and have a son of my own, and through all this time, I have admired the quiet, displayed strength of Jacob’s mom, Patty. I would shake my head and wonder how she goes on each and every day with such a gigantic hole in her heart. To me, and I am certain to countless other moms she was the pillar of strength, of which I am equally certain she never wanted to have that label.

Every time a new “break in the case” would occur, I would pray for peace and for answers, knowing both had to be in short supply for the Wetterling family. At some point in time, Patty’s face to me became as personally iconic as Jacob’s. She was the face of every mom’s worst nightmare and selfishly, I thanked God that I wasn’t her because I never wanted to walk in her shoes.

This isn’t a message about being careful what you wish for, but I now know what that prayer of thanks looks like on the countenances of other people. While my story and Patty’s are not at all similar, I know the deep grief of losing a son in tragic circumstances, and I know grief is never comparable. I know what it is like to be today’s news story, and I know what it is like to have news media camped out on my lawn and at the hospital where my other son was fighting to live. I know what it is like to lose friends because they just can’t stand to think that their children might die too and I know the pain of someone asking “Aren’t you over that yet?”. And I know all the wrong things people say when they are trying to comfort grieving people.

I know the days where if someone told me I was so strong one more time, I was going to punch them because what they don’t see (and probably what we don’t see of Patty’s life) are the days where tears are all I have to offer the world. There are plenty of days where getting out of bed seems like an insurmountable task. But like what I hope for Patty, there are the days I can physically feel the prayers and well wishes sent our way, and I go on.

With a huge hole in my heart and with scars of pain that sear deeply, I go on. We go on.

I am sure Patty saw our news story of four children dying in a school bus crash and thought about us too. She just strikes me as that kind of mom and dynamo in this world. And even though, she and I have never met and quite possibly never will, when I was crying or praying this weekend, I had a burning desire to want to protect her from all the things I know are coming her way. While I cannot do that, nor would I want to disrupt their private grieving, I can do one thing.

That one thing is to be the antithesis to Nike’s “Just Do It” campaign. My message today is all about don’t. As the news broke about the possible discovery of sweet Jacob, social media and news media went bonkers. And with each posting and reposting, my heart broke for Jacob, for Patty, for his brother and his friend, for his dad Jerry, for his sisters, and for all the rest of his family. In my own quiet momma corner of the world, I wanted everyone to just stop saying one word. Closure. Don’t. Just don’t.

The word was used often after the trial and the conviction of the woman in our story, but let me tell you there was absolutely not one ounce, not even a scintilla of closure. My son has been gone for 8 ½ years now and I am NEVER going to have closure. Neither are my husband or our kids or families. Patty and Jerry won’t either.

We will all go on, but this side of heaven, we won’t find this elusive closure.

Just don’t say it. Don’t post it. Just don’t. The Wetterlings have endured more than what most people could and they have done so with grace, going on to fight to save and protect all of our children. Let’s not diminish their courage and fortitude with the word closure.

We can close on a house. We can close the door, literally and figuratively. We close on business deals. But we don’t ever CLOSE on our children. The love a mother has for children is a love so deep that it doesn’t have an ending. Ever. Period. Amen.

Closure – Stop saying it. Refrain from posting it. Don’t think it. Don’t utter it. Do not even breathe it around grieving people. Remove it from the vernacular. Don’t. Just don’t.

I know I am not the only one who has cried and prayed for the Wetterlings this weekend. I also know I am not the only one who has bristled at the flagrant use of that awful word. I believe a small educational lesson can go a long way to help all grieving people, and I am simply sorry it has to be for Jacob.

Yet, his mother has taught us so much about grace and dignity and hope. So, even though I will most likely never meet her, I had to smile when I saw her message for us all as her words echoed the message I gave shortly after the bus crash. I shared a statement that was read on my behalf about the amazingness known as my son, Reed, and asked everyone to go home and hug their children.

As much as I desire for people to “don’t say the word closure”, we can all DO something. Patty’s message to all of us is something we can and should do for the Wetterlings, but mostly to honor the boy we have all grown to love.

Photo from KSMSP Fox 9 News

And as for me and my house, we are going to hug the mess out of our kids and believe in the good in the world.

The price of yesterday

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My family like millions of others enjoyed our country’s birthday yesterday. Our fanfare was reserved to the later afternoon and evening because unlike many others looming deadlines kept us tethered to the computers for a few hours. Nonetheless, the significance of the day was never forgotten. As dawn broke, we posted the “Stars and Stripes” outside our door, and we recounted how incredibly lucky we are to have been born here in the “land of the free”.

The cost of that freedom has never been questioned in our family as military service dots our family tree like the ripe mulberries in our backyard currently. Generations of uncles, cousins, grandfathers and my own sweetie have served proudly in the various branches of the armed forces. We often get a few raised eyebrows when people hear of our college graduation dates because mine is three years before his. When folks learn it is because of my husband’s service during Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm, the incredulous looks we receive are a mixture of gratitude and awe that war changes everything including your college graduation date. The cost of freedom is never free.

In the last month there have been a few experiences that have brought this knowledge to the forefront of my thoughts in unexpected ways. Recently we traveled to one of the absolute best World War II museums, Fagen Fighters. Although we had visited this collection before, our visit that day was to see a travelling Holocaust exhibit featuring Minnesota survivors. Also new to the museum was a German boxcar which houses a two-sided exhibit. One side featuring Nazi officers supervising as a Jewish family exits the boxcar, and the other depicting American soldiers who were prisoners of war. Our visit was emotionally draining as the journey was heart heavy indeed, but I completely lost it when we got to the boxcar. I broke down and sobbed. When I looked in the eyes of the extremely realistic wax figures on the GI side, I felt as if I was looking in the eyes of my great-great uncle, Arlie, who was captured shortly after landing on European soil and was forced to work in awful conditions the remainder of the war. I have only heard bits and pieces of his story as it just wasn’t something he talked about, but I knew enough. And there I stood overcome by my emotions as my baffled family looked on. The cost of freedom is never free.

As a part of our family’s commitment to service we participated in the second annual flag placing for our Modern Woodmen youth service club. For this project our club purchases hundreds of small flags and places them on the graves of veterans in our local cemeteries. It warms my heart that our children and friends spend hours walking cemetery rows, honoring those who gave of their time and energy to answer freedom’s call. Walking in the hot July sun is a small sacrifice compared to what these men and women gave to us. This year one marker really stood out to me and made me wonder how I missed it last year. The inscription told of the greatest sacrifice of the man commemorated there. “He died as prisoner of war in Germany during World War II.” Once again, I was overcome with tears. My people came home from their various wars, but this man’s family wasn’t as lucky. The cost of freedom is never free.

Over the years, I have witnessed some things that I never believed I would like a female college student refusing to stand for the national anthem while seated next to my veteran husband, who had tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Then there was the time we were shopping in another college town and there were young people protesting soldiers. Protesting war is one thing, protesting soldiers is something altogether different. The sacrifices made by individuals protecting their rights to do so, but both times I wondered how we as a society forget the sacrifices that were made on our behalf.

Twice I was reminded through the eyes of my children that while we can’t jog the collective memories of a nation we can instill patriotism one child at a time. When Reed saw the protesters he asked that we never drive by that corner again, he was too overcome with emotion to explain his daddy was one of the soldiers. Even at his tender age of nine or ten, he knew that the protestations were laid at the wrong boots.

Over the weekend, while tending to the grave of that sweet boy, his baby sister looked around at the North Dakota cemetery and noticed the veteran plaques sitting empty. “Where are their flags momma?” It was a quiet little question, but it reminded me that in her eyes every veteran in every cemetery should be honored with a tiny little flag each Independence Day as a token of our gratitude.

While the prairie wind whispered through my hair, I was reminded she understood the cost of freedom is never free.

For this momma, that was more than enough.

Returning home

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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!

Thinking about Sunday

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

photo captured by Microsoft maps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yes, I took that nap . . .

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

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

Respect IntegrityCourage*Honor

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In a few weeks, our little town will have its annual Crazy Days (which is something akin to a city-wide sidewalk sale). I had never heard of this tradition until my family moved to the Midwest. While the sales are fun to participate in, my personal favorite has always been the kiddie parade. My kiddos have been participating in them since Reed was three years old. Our streak has been a fun one. One year, we had the boys, two neighborhood friends, another friend, and Sister who all wanted to join in the fun. Oh my goodness! Thoughts of “Oh my!” and “How am I ever going to put a theme together for five boys and one tiny girl?” swirled in my head for days.

Cleaning up the toy room one evening, I had an “AHA!” moment. Sitting in the dress up bin were my Papa’s police shirts. My Mama had let me have them because for ethical reasons they could not be donated to a thrift store, should someone have nefarious reasons for purchasing one. Our parade unit would be a tribute to 9/11. Some of the boys were police officers, some were soldiers (uniforms courtesy of my sweetie), and Sister was Lady Liberty!

I can tell you that even though my Papa enjoyed the festivities from heaven, he was extremely proud. Law enforcement runs deeps in my family. My Papa and both my uncles Gene and Donnie were LEO’s. Growing up with a scanner running in the house was just something that happened on the Noles side of my family.

As the granddaughter and niece of police officers and sheriff’s deputies, Sawyer’s invitation to the graduation of the 56^th Training Academy by the Chief of the Minnesota State Highway Patrol was a pinch-me moment. I know to him it was an incredible honor as well. We were escorted to and from the event by the lead investigator from our darkest day, and we have considered him our friend for a very long time. Our journey to the Mariucci Arena coming one day after our Sister’s major knee surgery; so, only Sawyer and I were able to travel to the ceremony.

Our lives first crossed paths in a meaningful way when Trooper L came to our home to interview our children about their accounts of the bus crash. I remember his quiet and understanding nature allowing them to tell their memories of the day. I could not imagine the pain he had to feel collecting the stories of the children whom he had worked to help. He offered his phone number and told us we could contact him anytime. His was the number we called when the friend of Reed had a vision of where Reed’s glasses could be found on the bus. And he was the one who reverently returned the small lens back to us.

Our travel time was filled with lots of stories, the kind of catching up old friends do when they haven’t seen each other in a while. It was a beautiful time, another healing moment ordained by God. There were many poignant moments at the ceremony, each causing tears to pool in my eyes. The first being when we were escorted to our seats. The seats were marked with papers saying “Reserved for Dignitaries”. The Boy Wonder and I exchanged glances. Are we really supposed to sit here? Oh, my goodness! Papa, are you seeing this? There were real dignitaries in attendance, but to the troopers we were more than a young man and his mom. Our neighbors in the next seats were a delegation from the Wisconsin State Troopers who were present on a mission of remembrance and appreciation to this class of graduates for honoring their fallen comrade. Their sorrow was palpable, beating in their hearts under their badges. Watching the families, often multi-generations be a part of the badge ceremony moved me to tears, especially the ones who were repurposing a badge that was once worn by a father, grandfather, or great-grandfather. Just like in my own family, the pride of the profession runs deep. The messages given by the speakers were touching, but each of them gave profound advice – use your training to come home safely. When the Chief gave his address, he ended with the words written by my son. He asked Sawyer to stand and shared who “these dignitaries were”, and said he had struggled with how to end this year’s speech . . . until a letter arrived from a young man from Marshall.

The Chief read these words as the closing of his commencement remarks. He began by saying the cadets had chosen a noble profession: one that truly makes a difference. If they ever doubt that, remember the words of Sawyer.

As the bus lay upside down on the highway, it wasn’t strangers that helped get every child off the bus; it was the heroes of my community. The paramedics, firemen, policemen, and state troopers that I had known as my neighbors and members of my community who came to help me and my class mates in our darkest hour. People, who, to this day, I encounter almost on a daily basis, are real heroes. The frigid Minnesota winter afternoon of the crash, these men and women left the warmth of their families and jobs to come and save many lives, including my own. They came expecting nothing in return from those who were on the bus. They simply saw the children they had always known who needed their assistance. Even to this day the humility possessed by these local heroes is astounding. Instead of taking pride in the many lives they saved that night, they take pride in how well I and the other children have been able to recover since the crash. I do not believe that you can become a hero by chance or by simply showing up. Heroes are the people who have a desire to help and make a difference and the compassion to truly be there for those in need. A hero is a person who does what it takes to help those in need regardless of the personal risk or cost.

I couldn’t hold the tears back. The pride bursting forth that we were blessed to have this young man in our lives. The joy barely contained because he had come so far and his life was impacting the lives of others. The honor of being invited to an amazing event left me humbled.

In the final oath of office, the newest troopers standing right before us, I bowed my head and asked God to please keep them safe as they work to serve and protect others. We took the time to congratulate each one, and even more tears accompanied by big smiles when several thanked Sawyer for the words of encouragement. I saved my commencement bulletin; so that it would be a visual reminder to pray for them throughout their careers.

As we were leaving swirling in my thoughts were the core values central to the mission of the Minnesota Highway Patrol: respect, integrity, courage, honor, all the things that we have tried to instill in our young man. The same values his Papa and Grandpa Earl lived by are what his Granpa Junior and Dad model every day. I was overcome with emotion. What a day! One I will never forget. Frankly, this was one of the coolest things I have ever done. If I thought that long ago parade would have made my Papa proud, this day would be the pinnacle of all he embodied. In the wind I could almost hear him whisper, “You done good, Gal. You done good.”

View from the top as we were entering the stadium.

Roses from Heaven

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In the days while we were waiting for the phone call that could change EVERYTHING for our family – again, I was preparing for an amazing speaking opportunity. My local newspaper hosts an annual event, Exceptional Women of Southwest Minnesota, and I was asked to be the speaker for the evening. After working with the organizers, I chose taking care of you as the theme of my address. I shared I was downright giddy at being asked because I was very familiar with last year’s speaker. I follow her work, and it felt like big shoes to follow. To say the least, it was a huge honor for me. I will confess I wasn’t quite ready for the marketing campaign for the event as every other day the paper had my picture and just about every business I went into had a poster with me staring back at myself.

Some days I just felt unworthy of all that attention because the beautiful polished photograph of me looked back at the no make-up, hair pulled into a ponytail, clad in workout clothes version of me. Many friends and neighbors gave me such positive encouragement, even despite my efforts to deflect all the attention. I was consistently asked one question before, during, and after the event, “Do you get nervous when speaking?”.

The honest and simple answer is I don’t, but for this event, I poured my heart into my thoughts and preparations because of the significance of the evening. Our small town paper, the Marshall Independent, not only hosts this event, but they also share with their subscribers and readers excerpts of the nomination letters as well as thoughts from the nominees themselves. I was truly humbled to read what these amazing, incredible, and well . . . EXCEPTIONAL women were doing in our community. Their stories made me smile, brought me to tears, and generally inspired me to learn of all the ways they were giving back. Every nominee’s story touched my heart profoundly. For these women, I prayed in the days leading up to the event. I prayed God would give me the right blend of wisdom and stories to encourage them to invest in themselves because without them there would be huge holes left in our communities.

As usual with every time I go off (or stay home) and speak, following the event there was a big line of those who want to hug me. I savor every word of their story, relish in every smidgeon of encouragement, and covet every prayer. Telling our family’s story in an honest, raw, and, at times, humorous way, is draining, but if sharing helps one person do anything better, I will do it every chance I get.

After all the hugging and story swapping, I went home to take a day or two to reflect on all that goodness and let’s be honest, worry that the phone call I was waiting on might not be the one I wanted to hear. When the call finally came in, I hit my knees in praise and adoration, before I cried for all those who wouldn’t receive good news. Then I got up to tackle some cleaning in preparation for our upcoming graduation party. Only the girls and I were home when the doorbell rang.

As soon as I opened the door, I had a huge smile on my face (which for the record was not made-up and my hair in a messy bun). On the front step was one of the nominees, holding a vase with some roses. I quickly invited her in and was completely blown away with the message she came to share.

This sweet new friend is a business owner and when she woke up to start her day at her family owned operation, she noticed something amiss in the parking lot. She rises really early to make sure that all her customers’ needs are met. When she ducked out in the darkness to check on the odd sight, he husband accompanied her for safety. They discovered a broken vase of roses that had been left on the pavement. Quickly cleaning up the glass and retrieving the roses, they returned to the busyness of their morning routine. Finding a replacement vase, she placed the flowers by her kitchen sink and got busy doing the dishes. As she finished that chore and went on to tackle others, her eyes kept being drawn to various words of inspiration. Two in particular kept drawing her in. Those words were “peace” and “family”. Eventually, she felt that God was bringing her close to those words. After a few hours of this repeated drawing near, she knew that God’s message was persistent. She announced to her husband, “those flowers aren’t for me, but I know who they are for”.

I can only imagine his perplexed look as she shared that she thought they were from a red-headed boy. Now here she stood on my doorstep, long-distance roses in hand. Tears quickly pooled in my eyes as she lovingly showed me how the one rose had to have fallen from quite a height in order to have the small indentation that it had on its side.

She couldn’t stay long, but her thoughtfulness and caring lingered for days. I did need that message more than she could have ever known. The sweet messenger was simply God’s instrument of love that day, and for that I love her. I don’t really know how the flowers ended up in the parking lot, but for me they will always be the roses from heaven.

I lost it

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With a month left of his high school career, my Boy Wonder was swamped with papers for several of his college classes. Unfortunately he had to skip out on a family outing to support my mini-me at a volleyball tournament. When we returned home from the day’s games, he informed us he had a lump on his leg that concerned him, and he had called the Ask-A-Nurse number for advice.

Insert screeching halt sound effects – Do what? You have a lump? You called Ask-A-Nurse? Since when do teenage boys call Ask-A-Nurse? Is my boy now a man? Do I have to change his pseudonym from Boy Wonder to my Superman?

After all those swirling thoughts calmed in my brain, we dissected the advice given by the voice on the other end of the line. He needed to get in as soon as possible. We made an appointment, not too worried because cysts have become a routine part of his story since the bus crash. I have lost count of the number of those that have had to be surgically removed. The one that required a delicate three hour procedure definitely hasn’t been forgotten.

Our meeting with our family doctor did not go at all how I had expected. After examination, he gave us four possibilities: a hematoma, a cyst, a benign fatty tumor, or a cancerous tumor. At that last one, I think I began having heart palpitations. Due to the size of the lump, he lowered another blow. My kids adore our family doctor, but his best advice was he was not the doctor we needed. A surgeon was required. I don’t care that my children have had over 25 surgeries in the last seven years. I turn to mush every time the “s” word is uttered. I am so tired of my children hurting.

The meeting with the surgeon came the day before the prom, and I was hoping that if a procedure was needed we could, at least, let him enjoy the final dance of his high school years. I never in a million years imagined what happened next. The doctor quickly ruled out the hematoma and the fatty tumor, and really didn’t think it was a cyst. He then went on to say that the lump was presenting as sarcoma.

The Boy Wonder was fast and furious taking notes on his phone so that he could do some more research later. Have I mentioned lately that he hopes to become a doctor? While he went into future physician mode, I wanted to ball up on the floor in the fetal position. I fought back the tears in my eyes and tried (very unsuccessfully) to be brave for my son.

Miraculously, the MRI machine was currently empty, and we jumped at the chance to get a diagnosis sooner rather than later. After about a half hour, the technician came out and asked if I was “the mom”. She then explained how the radiologist didn’t like the images and had asked for a dye injection. She assured me that the procedure would take only fifteen more minutes. Are you kidding me, lady? I would wait until kingdom come if needed for my son.

Fifteen minutes it was not. Forty-five minutes later, he emerged famished and eager to get back to school. We got into the car, and my steely resolve vanished rapidly. I tried to ask if he was okay, when he noticed the tears in my eyes.

All I could get out was “we’ve come so far”. I didn’t have to say anything more. He knew what I meant. He was weeks away from graduating from high school and clearly more than ready to spread his wings to soar. A diagnosis of cancer would change all that. Not to mention the surgeon’s words echoing in my head, “if it is sarcoma, then we wouldn’t be able to operate in that location”. Oh sweet Jesus, please let this cup pass our family. I lost it.

My incredible son looked me in the eyes and these are the words he said . . .

Oh momma, don’t cry. I don’t think it is sarcoma. I just don’t feel it is. Mom, I get it. You are worried, but here is what I know: there isn’t a challenge I have met in life that I couldn’t handle.

Although I was momentarily reassured, my thoughts kept running away from me again. When did he grow up? When did he stop being my little boy and become a man ready to make more of a difference in this world than he already has? When did he become the comforter?

The next few days were agonizing. We told only a handful of friends and asked them to pray. We plastered smiles on our faces, and we pressed on. We pretended that our insides weren’t melting to goo, our crisis survival skills weren’t kicking into high gear, and our thoughts weren’t questioning if we could endure another blow. Lots of prayers were sent heavenward. Memories replayed an MPR show from winter stating that 1 in 2 Minnesotans will be touched by cancer in their lifetimes. One in two? And very little sleep transpired.

The call finally came five days later. (In their defense, there was a weekend in there.) The radiologist found that it was NOT sarcoma (THANK YOU, GOD!). I only heard very little of the rest of what the nurse explained. The name of the diagnosis was extremely long and basically may or may not go away on its own. It will need to be watched, but it won’t take my son’s life.

After spending some time on my knees, my heart began to take its own roller coaster ride. As much as I wanted to celebrate, I couldn’t because my heart hurt for the mommas (and daddies) of the world who wouldn’t be receiving the same good news we did. They would be gearing up for the fight of a life (literally), and they would be enduring sleepless nights, searching for countless hours to find ways to help their child, fielding phone calls and e-mails and texts from well-meaning friends who have offers of miracle cures, and learning just how powerless they really are when it comes to their child’s health. All the while, they will be savoring each day, each moment, and sometimes each breath they have with their child. They will celebrate milestones and will put on plastered smiles and will cry in the hospital corridors and elevators so as not to scare their child and will do anything to make it a good day for their sweet babes. My heart cried out for them all.

Sometimes, I think God gives me these moments to remind me of those who so desperately need my prayers because I know firsthand how such prayers can give you that extra ounce of energy to take the next step forward. Prayers have bolstered my family in the darkest moments of our journey. A literal life line! I know I haven’t reminded us of this in a while, but please, please, PLEASE hug your kids tonight and be thankful for every day you have with them.

Under the sea

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Although the sun is shining bright on the prairie today, the scene outside my picture window is a little more than fantasy of a beautiful day. The weatherman says the temperature outside feels like 30 below due to the windchill. Morning chores done, I sit wrapped in a blanket surrounded by the glow of candles for a hygge-like trip down memory lane. I need this journey because after reading the letter from the mom of the sweet courageous, selfless young lady who passed on the bus in North Dakota, I am clinging to God’s promises of showers of blessings even in the midst of great trial.

There will be showers of blessings. Ezekiel 34:26

Last August, I embarked on the most amazing trip with my son. In reality, I only spent one day with him because he was attending the National Flight Academy. For me, this trip was one of desiring to place my feet deep within the roots of my childhood, hoping to get tangled there for a while.

After spending a few days with my grandmother, I drove from Opelika to Pensacola to simply hang out with my parents for the rest of the week. I don’t know why, but it was the most magical time I have had in a long run. Truth be told, I haven’t had my parents to myself in forty-two years. I am nothing if not patient, but that was a long time to wait. It was worth it, because we had a blast! (Although, I thought they were trying to kill me when they took this Southern-transplanted Minnesota girl to clean out their storage shed on a 110 degree day.)

My parents have just about everything they could want in terms of material goods; so, a few years ago, I started giving them gifts of trips and adventures. Before I arrived, my dad called and asked if I would want to go with them on one such adventure – a day of snorkeling and kayaking in the Gulf of Mexico. Would I? That was about like asking me if I wanted sweet tea to go with my meal.

I was so excited! A day on my beloved Emerald Coast with just my mom and dad where I didn’t have to worry about anything or anybody! I believe everyone has a place on earth that brings them great joy. Those white sand beaches (and my vegetable garden) are mine.

My happy place!

Driving over to the pier and settling onboard the vessel were fairly uneventful. Although, we did meet a lovely Minnesota born and raised server at the What-A-Burger for breakfast. This will not be much of a shocker but yours truly won a little game called, “Who travelled the farthest to be on our little excursion today!” The prize wasn’t much other than a little repartee with the ship’s captain who happened to hale from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. A free beverage would have been much more appreciated!

The trip to the man-made reef was a surprise all in itself as there were dolphins that escorted us along the way. They are absolutely the most amazing and entertaining hosts. We snorkeled for an hour or so until the tide came in. The fish were as diverse in their beauty as in their number. Even the moon jellies were captivating to watch float by!

Everything’s better down where its wetter . . . under the sea.

The last leg of our trip we journeyed over to the sound side of the island. We set anchor just mere yards away from my sweetie’s retirement village, where boaters anchor and have a floating city all day. Counting the days until that dream becomes a reality – especially on days like this one!

Where we hope to retire!

I will admit that on the way over there I was thinking they really should do this trip in reverse. The sound side is much less adventuresome than the gulf side. I could not have been more wrong in my thinking.

At this point, my mom had more than enough adventure; so it was just my dad and I exploring. I don’t know if it was the adventure part or true to her Southern roots she didn’t want to mess up her hair. (Sorry mom – it was a toss up!) My dad and I soon discovered there was just enough current that you could get in a good work-out without leaving your spot. Like cartoon characters who spin their “wheels” without going anywhere, here we were a mom and grandpa frolicking like we were Neptune’s children, uninhibited without a care in the world.

During that crazy moment was when I uncovered my greatest memento of the day. I reached down and found a complete shell (okay if I was going to get all science teacher on you, I would tell you it was an intact, minus its former inhabitant, bivalve shell). In all my years, I have never found one that still hinged and lined up perfectly like when it was someone’s home. I cradled that sweet treasure in my hands as I ran (I seriously did not care what I looked like) to my sweet mom’s shady spot on the banks of the sound.

At that moment, I wasn’t a forty-something momma and wife, I was transported back to the days of when I put flowers behind my ears for earrings and was the little mermaid I have always believed myself to be. Pure bliss washed over me as I showed her my discovery. It was truly one of my most magical moments!

Today, that little gem of the sea sits on my night stand to remind me of the day when my roots transported me back to a time I had long since forgotten. I might have gotten more tangled in seaweed and less in roots, but it was more than worth it. That tiny little shell is like an Ebenezer stone reminding that joy does come after the storm. Because even though, the Boy Wonder still had another surgery upcoming and the Girl Awesome is still healing, for one day I was simply God’s and my parents’ girl. That is not something to take lightly. If not today, may someday soon will be one where a joy-filled moment finds you!

My version of the Ebenezer stone.

God is our refuge and strength,
    an ever-present help in trouble.
²Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
    and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
³though its waters roar and foam
    and the mountains quake with their surging.^[c]

Psalm 46: 1- 3 (NIV)

Music, like the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, always soothes my soul. This song has brought me comfort in many tear-laden hours wrapped under that quilt. If you are hurting today, may it bring you peace.

3 days: A Christmas bloom where you are planted

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As I sit typing this blog, it is a very, gray and dreary day on the prairie. Hovering right above freezing, early fog and light rain have been the highlight for today’s weather. I don’t even know if rain is the right word. Spitting is what my Papa would have called it. My childhood home lies closer to Mexico while I currently live closer to Canada. On days like today, I hoping for sunshine and not at all, dreaming of a White Christmas, especially when the lawn has big muddy patches from our ninety-something pound dog.

We spent the weekend, cleaning house and working at the Elf Workshop. Having a daughter who plays high school basketball limits how far we can travel during the season. So it will be just us home for Christmas. We are planning a low key day, and we even gave our kids the freedom to choose what they would like for Christmas Eve and Day meals. Chicken Enchiladas and Poor Man’s Lobster were rather interesting choices, but nonetheless, we will be together celebrating the anniversary of Jesus’ birth. Next to him, my children and a love of learning and imagination are the best gifts I have ever received.

Dreary days like today drain me, but I am pulling myself together because it is baking night. No one in this house has any Belgian DNA in their cells, but we live among Belgians and have adopted their customs. Among the delicacies on the bakers’ agendas for this evening are these delightfully, crisp little waffle-like cookies known as Belgian cookies. We will be using a specially designed waffle iron (though I personally prefer the native name of lukkenyzer), which was fashioned, patented, and manufactured down the road in Ghent . . . Minnesota by “The Belgian” (who lived in the house that one of my best friend’s dad grew up in). I have very special memories of learning how to make these cookies from another bus family, whom Reed adored. So in a small way, he’ll be here with us.

In addition to looking forward to tonight’s family baking extravaganza, I found a little bright spot earlier when I looked up from my dining room table to discover the Christmas cactus, given to me for directing the children’s pageant, was starting to bloom. It reminded me of another dreary time this summer when I found a blossom in the most unusual of places. The sweet friend who sent the pictures of my kiddos making the fairy gardens a few days ago was the same friend who owned an amazing herb farm down the road. Reed loved her lemon balm, and one year chose that plant as his special addition to his garden space. I think it must be propagated on the wings of angels, because it has sprung up in the most unlikely of places all over our yard.

I was having a really bad day following the Girl Awesome’s sports injury this spring. Some people had said some really awful things to her. My heart broke for her, which brought up all the hard things our family has been through in the almost seven years since our worst day. I spent most of that day in bed crying and talking to God. Eventually I needed to get back to living. After dishes, the most pressing thing on my agenda was taking out the trash. (I know – I live the glamorous life.) A little glimpse of green caught my eye on the way to garbage can. Embedded in the rocks (where no plants have been in over ten years) was the tiniest lemon balm plant poking through the rock bed.

A different kind of tears filled my eyes as a chuckle so tender and quiet alit from my heart. I knew exactly what God (with maybe a little help from a redheaded boy) was trying to tell me. If I can make a plant grow in the most inhospitable of environments, I can take care of your troubles too.

There is always hope. Revolutionary, day-changing, love-filled hope!

Tonight we will bake and forget our dreary day! We will laugh and sneak batter and eat way too many cookies and dance like crazy people (a baking necessity), but most of all we will bloom where we are planted.

If you are in the neighborhood, stop in. There is always room at the table.

Prisoner of the high seas

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Every time I go on a trip I return home with some of the best traveling stories. In fact, one of my friends and I try to top each other with the crazy shenanigans that somehow have a way of finding us when we travel. After relaying this story to him yesterday, he paused momentarily before reflecting this would be a tough one to top.

I wish that I could tell people at least some of my adventures are fictional, a by-product of my overactive imagination. They, however, are one hundred percent true.

I have the world’s best friends, including ones who give gifts of amazing cruise vacations. Winter continued to hammer crushing blows on the Minnesota prairie; so, a trip to the Caribbean for a week was truly a blessing for this girl. I was the sole Minnesotan among a party consisting of ten fairly eclectic Kentucky personalities – all female. We were loosely held together by the game of soccer. Long story short – my friend is the coach, four of her players, three of their moms, one family friend, my friend’s mother, along with the team’s motivational speaker (that’s me) – set sail for a week of fun in the sun.

All was great until our next to last night on the ship. After a hot and bustling day in port, we had a lovely evening meal and entertainment. I turned in early while others sang karaoke and enjoyed other ship amenities. Starting around midnight, things took a not-so-pretty turn. By things, I mean my gastrointestinal track.

I do have one shred of dignity remaining; so, I will spare us all the gruesome details. In three hours, I had made eight, explosive trips to the bathroom. This was not my first adventure on the seas, and I know ship staff desire to keep stomach ailments from spreading onboard. I made the ethical decision to go to the Medical Center (yes, they have those on cruises) both to inform and hopefully seek some relief.

This was my first mistake. Apparently I was one of many who were sick, but the only one who reported the illness on Cell Block C.

Upon arrival, I was handed a sheet documenting how expensive this little foray to the medical staff would cost, greeted by “Olga” the Viking ~~warrior~~ nurse. After listening to my symptoms unsympathetically and distributing some medications, she began her explanation of how things were going to go (for me not my bowels) henceforth.

She handed me a very legal looking document and proceeded to dispense her orders boisterously. If I hadn’t been doubled over with pain, I would not be surprised if I would have been required to raise my right hand and swear an oath to Odin, or at least the captain of the ship.

Next, her booming voice gave me instructions while I looked down at her steel-shanked nursing boots. By signing my name, AND I WOULD BE SIGNING MY NAME, I understood under Penalty of Maritime Law that I was now officially quarantined. That tidbit was repeated several times because apparently I appeared not only violently ill, but also deaf.

“Do I have to stay here?”, sincerely praying her reply would be “no”. Spending another moment with her alone, locked in isolation, did not sound like a good time – EVER.

The small sliver of hope in this story was her response requiring me to be locked in my cabin for the remainder of our trip, which thankfully was about another thirty hours.

Cruise ships are replete with marvelous buffets of twenty-four hour accessible delicacies of every imaginable kind, but not for this girl. Her parting gift to me was a lovely letter reminding me of my declaration (through signature) that under penalty of maritime law I could not leave my room. Yet, in their benevolent provision, the cruise company gave me a special number where food (in which the word bland was emphasized) would be provided by staff arriving in a haz-mat suit so as not to infect anyone else.

I didn’t want my friends to feel like prisoners as well; so, with genuine sincerity, I asked them to go forth and enjoy the last day at sea. My only request was an occasional of glass of water.

At some point during the day, I received a letter from the top brass again restating my prisoner status, but this time they upped the ante – my pass card (which is how you do just about everything onboard a cruise ship) was blocked. Should I feel I could flagrantly disregard my previous pledge, the gentle reminder of other accommodations could and WOULD be arranged for me.

One of my new gal pals on the trip retorted that she had watched a documentary on cruise ships before our “Bon Voyage”, where she learned that each ship also houses about four jail cells. The letter implied that would be my new housing, should I not keep my sworn oath. While that information should have been comforting, I was still having nightmares that maritime law might have “walking the plank” as one of those antiquated laws remaining on the books.

I wasn’t completely destitute as my friends did bring water, and I had a television. Of course, out of twenty channels, sixteen were live feeds of people having a grand time on our ship, two were in Spanish, one giving instructions of how to disembark the ship the next day, and finally one syndicated news channel.

At last, the anchors were dropped in port back in Tampa in the good ol’ U. S. of A. Hallelujah! But as we were getting ready to disembark, it occurred to us I had not been cleared to leave. My pass card was still blocked. The same pass card that was necessary for leaving the ship.

While my friend dialed the guest relations number, I had visions of the plights of other sick passengers that arrived at the steps of Ellis Island, only to be told America did not want them. This happened to the family of one of my former colleagues. They were turned away at Ellis Island, but were smuggled into Canada, eventually ending up in South Dakota. Briefly, only briefly, I was a citizen with no homeland. Perhaps Canada would take me.

I could hear the voice on the other end of the phone say all too enthusiastically, “Oh yeah. She’s free to go.” I had to ponder if my release papers were lost in the mail or if it was one of Olga’s final acts of whipping this gastrointestinal failure into shape by playing mind games with frail. But perhaps my ears detected a little too much enthusiasm for getting Dysentery Debbie off their ship.

As we proceeded through Customs and Border Patrol, I will say that my knees knocked a little at the thoughts of what questions were awaiting my new status as felon of the high seas. Thankfully I breezed through those checkpoints without the appearance of bringing the plague back to America.

After making the cut, I felt like a survivor of a crazy episode of The Twilight Zone. A few pounds lighter for obvious reasons, I walked away into the possibilities of a new day with a much more settled stomach, hungry for just about anything at all. And downright giddy, I wasn’t one of the people starting a diet that day.

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Tag Archives: Minnesota

Just don’t.

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Returning home

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I lost it

Under the sea

3 days: A Christmas bloom where you are planted

Prisoner of the high seas