Tag Archives: Mothering

We’re back

When my boys were little, one of their favorite movies was a dinosaur classic.  We’re Back was where the dinosaurs return from the dawn of time, through the miracle of time travel and some brain grain, to live in modern times.  When the dinosaurs romp down the streets in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade singing, “Roll Back the Rock”, it didn’t matter what I was doing because Reed would beckon me to come and dance with him.  I could be covered in flour or soap suds, but to him, it didn’t matter.

Getting our boogey on down, we would rock with the best of them.  Holding his sweet little hand in mine, we would stomp and swirl, shimmy and giggle while a chubby cheeked toddler would laugh watching us.  That, my friends, is pure joy – when you lose your adult inhibitions and get lost in your preschooler’s loving gaze – knowing at that moment you embody motherhood at its finest.  You want to savor those moments forever.

Until the day, you don’t . . . which is exactly what happened to me this past year.

You lose your joy.

When you lose your happiness, you find quiet comforting.  There I said it.  I was sad. Heartachingly, gut-wrenchingly sad. Distraught. Overwhelmed. Frenetic. Chaotic. Heartbroken and sad.

It didn’t happen overnight.  No, I would say it took about five years for it to crescendo into deafening silence.

There were many things that happened that literally ripped my heart in two. What feels like a never ending saga with the tragedy in our family played a familiar role, but so did a myriad of smaller things.  Seasons in friendships changed, a health scare that frightened me, doors closed, dreams diverted, and quite simply the chaos of good intentions and overconsumption had brought a sense of darkness to our doors.

The hardest part about all of this was this was the first time that I wasn’t alone in my sadness.  The floor opened up and swallowed us all.   It is hard to be a cheerleader for a broken spirit of team.

In the fall of the year, I no longer felt like a cheerleader, let alone a candidate for Mother of the Year.

In the aftermath of our family’s darkest day, I had a conversation with someone who asked me some of the most unbelievable questions.  I think she was blown away by my answers, but one such response summed up a large part of my sadness.  When asked, “Other than the obvious things, what thing makes you the most heartbroken about your life right now?”  My heartfelt reply was, “Being a red-shirted freshman.”  I wanted to play in the game of life, and due to our circumstances, I simply could not.

Now here I was all these years later, and I had those same misgivings with a twist.  With all the distractions and disruptions, I had forgotten how to be me.  The authentic Kandy was tired. Worn-out. Exhausted. I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be, and that was breaking my heart.  I had lost my joy, and I thought that at this juncture all these years later, we should be feeling better not worse.

But this is where the story starts to change.  I retreated and clung as tight to God as I knew how.  About the same time as my forced sabbatical, back into our lives came a friend who knew those days of dancing with little boys in the basement. Gently, she reminded me what joy looked like.

Poked and prodded by her love and the love of several others who picked up the cheerleading banner, I became encouragingly dogged in my pursuit to let go of expectations that were boxing me in, of old hurts that kept me a prisoner in my own doubts, and of chaos that didn’t fulfill us.  I looked for the little things.  Guess what?  God showed me they were there the whole time.  Making time for the little things, clinging to His promises, and reclaiming the things I enjoy were all beginning steps to understanding what I had allowed to steal my joy in the first place.

Just like catching my breath when encountering that first blast of arctic air, joy was something that I needed to clasp my hands and heart around as well.

During the bench-warming sad place, I communed with God to revisit the concept of joy.  It was time well spent.

For this New Year, our family sat down and decided to follow through with the concept of a one word theme based off a devotional by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes organization.  We had a family meeting where I offered that I thought “joy” might be a good word.  One of our children enthusiastically concurred.  What she said next spoken years of wisdom, belied by her actual age.  “I agree with Mom.  You know, sometimes because of our family’s story, we simply forget what joy is.”  After a few murmuring assents, the vote was unanimous as we proclaimed three simple letters to be God’s cleansing tide for our souls for the next year.

We are going to search out and find joy in our lives, making it our battle cry. I don’t think Reed would want us to be perpetually sad, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that God never wanted us to lose sight of joy in our lives.  It simply happened.

You will go out in joy
    and be led forth in peace Isaiah 55:12 (NIV)

Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family.  Photos by Inspired Portraits

Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family. Photos by Inspired Portraits

Just like that movie title – We’re back! And who knows? 

You just might find us dancing in the basement somewhere along
that path.

I cry

In the past few weeks, I have been revisiting the sad place.  It is the place that I can only journey alone, in the earthly sense.  I never really travel alone. There is always a heavenly presence.  I don’t understand it, but often in the silent places of deep in the valley of the shadow, I feel closest to God.  In the sad place, I find that I can be totally honest with myself about how I am feeling.  No mask.  No filter.  Raw, but honest.

My littlest one asked the other day, “Momma, why are you crying so much.”  I had to explain that I had to go to a sad place.  She is eight; so, I likened the place to the “Slump” in Dr. Seuss’ “Oh the Places You Will Go”.  She gets that because in her world she doesn’t want a sad mommy.  But sometimes, you will come to a slump.  That she understands.

These were the words swirling in my most raw moments when I soaked my pillow with my tears.

DSC01297

I cry . . .

in a single moment all was changed. Now all we have is memories and old photographs.

I cry . . .

silently not wanting  to share my pain in front of my children, for fear of scaring them. Their pillar of strength is really human, after all.  Secretly I know they know this, but I will give my dying breath to protect them.

I cry . . .

The hole in my heart leaves such a scar in my existence.  Its caverns echo the beat of the sad song when the wind blows out of the valley.

I cry . . .

a melody reminds me of happier days when we sang and danced and laughed about our singing and dancing.

I cry . . .

Feeling that I have let my children down because there are days when I feel hopeless is winning.

I cry . . .

Jumping at the ringing of the phone, desperately wanting the answers I want to hear.

I cry . . . tragedy brings chaos.  I detest swimming in chaos. No matter which way I paddle my strokes chaos’ rip current threatens to pull me under.

I cry . . .

My scars are invisible, but theirs are real.  Pain is a daily visitor, and yet they hold their heads high.

I cry . . . perseverance might be one lesson while waiting.  Wondering how long that lesson must take and why did we have to earn advanced degrees.  For once in our lives, couldn’t we just be average?

I cry . . .

because everything he loved was taken away, and yet there are still people who say ridiculously stupid things.

I cry . . . wishing sometimes I was the kind of person who smacked people who say stupid things.

I cry . . . choking down the lump in my throat because platitudes and trite sayings, do not help.  I want to scream, “Do you not see the hole?” But we’ll take your word scars, your thoughtless actions, AND we will continue turning our cheeks, knowing very few could walk in our shoes.

I cry . . . understanding the tortuous relationship with genetics. When your children hurt, a part of you is woven into them.  Like tiny saucers sending a message to the mother ship, every fiber of my being is writhing in pain for them.

I cry . . . sadness has creeping tentacles grasping for all of my family.  Mustering the strength to become a warrior to fight back its choking appendages, some days takes all my energy.

I cry . . . bearing burdens is grueling, heart-breaking work.

I cry . . . fervently hoping that my visit to the pit of sadness won’t be long enough for my card to be punched.

I cry . . . eternity seems so far away.  Wanting to hear your giggle and wondering how you will look without glasses. My ears longing to hear,  “Hey Mom.  This is Jesus.  You are going to love Him!” followed by one of those sneaky behind the back hugs.

I cry . . . knowing that in the light of eternity all of this seems small.

I cry . . . remembering that He is collecting every tear in his bottle.

I weep . . . embracing the promise that He will replace my cloak of despair with a garment of praise.

I sob . . . knowing His grace is sweet, yet powerful enough to cover it all.

The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears.  ~John Vance Cheney

Surgery No. 7

brothers

Middle of the night,

Sleep wouldn’t come.

I looked for you there, snuggled in my bed,  calling out Your name.

I lay there waiting for Your peace, hoping Your loving hands would wrap around me with the message,

“Daughter, I am here. Your boy will be just fine.  He, too, is in my hands.”

I rested knowing that I know You heard my pleas.

Routine as normal – dogs, breakfast, school.

Our other routine – surgery prep came next.

Pack, prepare, read, re-read, do anything however small to take your mind off what comes next.

The clock ticks slowly, but it now says it is time to go.

My momma heart aches.  I know this is going to hurt.

If he’s afraid, he doesn’t show it.  Once again, he is comforting me.

Thank you, God, that this time . . . this time the surgery is on our home turf.

We aren’t splintered as a family.

Again, I wanted to feel your peace.

After necessary paperwork to the surgical suite we go.

I found You there.

as our pastor was praying with someone else.

A gentle reminder that we are not the only ones that hurt.

Off we go to his room.

I have to smile because maybe it should have our name on it because it is the room I had in the fall.

Stevens Family Surgical Suite

By now, our new family tradition is trips to hospitals with March being our “celebration” month.

Three of the seven surgeries took place in March.

Questions

Questions

More questions

Then it came. . . the dreaded question.

What did you do to get here?

Nothing.  He did absolutely nothing.

Grief washes over . . . loss of a child, loss of a childhood, two brothers changed forever.

I found You there

when the boy comforts the nurse who realizes what she said.

He comforts her like she is the one who has walked our story.

Later things don’t go as we had hoped for the IV.

I found You there

as the nurse asks for God’s hands to guide hers.

Relief fills the room.

More questions

Laughter stemming from how small town news travels fast

We pray.

Prayer – it is the only thing that makes sense.

It is what I’ve been doing since the middle of the night.

I found You there

as hands –  loving, healing hands were placed

as words were prayed from your Words.

It is time to go.

I sat

I prayed

I kept my mind busy by keeping my hands busy

I found You there

when an old friend stopped to see someone else

She simply smiled and said,  “Look at the possibilities.”

Look at the possibilities!

She dared us to dream.

Not just for the immediate future but for where Your plans were taking us.

Dreaming with new hope.

Wait

Wait

Wait

It is done. We talk with the surgeon.

I found You there

When the surgeon said she wished all her patients were as healthy.

After all he’s been through, her words give us new perspective.

Now he just has to awaken.

Wait

Wait

Wait more.

He’s starting to rouse.  We can come back to the suite.

Seeing something for the first time that I wasn’t sure I would ever see.

Five years! We have waited five years for this chance.

This could be a game changer for him.

Perhaps this is the end of this part of the story.

We are left alone and

slowly . . .

I feel them coming. I cannot stop them.

big, BIG tears start to stream down.

I look across the room to see my tears mirrored in the Daddy’s face.

I found You there

as we realized it would all be okay . . .

because You were there all along.

And now, his feet can follow wherever You lead him.