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Tearful Praise

Twice in the last week, I have heard the same alarming study. The television and news journal both telling the findings of recent research regarding the endemic rise of heroin use among younger and younger people. After hearing the details of the gateway experience attributed to this alarming trend, I was overcome with grief for the families chronicled in the stories.

My husband will explain he judges the quality of a story, movie, or commercial by my reaction. Not ashamed to admit: I am a crier. If the story causes me to cry, his judgment is two thumbs up. No emotional reaction means it probably wasn’t worth watching.

Yet the visceral response after hearing of the families impacted by heroin use, brought me to my knees in tearful praise. Tearful praise? How could that be my reaction you might wonder?

The proverb – There but for the grace of God – would be aptly fitting here. The youth in the studies had one common link – a childhood injury treated with narcotic pain-killers. I am not anti-pharmaceutical, but I remember a day when we were forced to make a decision.

Following the bus crash, one of the Sawyer’s doctors prescribing higher and higher doses of pain medications which had us questioning this line of treatment. Don’t get me wrong . . . my son’s physical and emotional pain exceeded any human scale, but my spirit was unsettled. If we continue to give him more and more of these medicines, what will happen in his future when he gets hurt?

With my educational background, I have enough knowledge of neuroscience, chemistry, and biology to understand how complex biological systems adjust to a new state of homeostasis.

Sitting in that doctor’s office hearing the physician wanted to add another narcotic to the already lengthy list for an eleven year old had me baffled. After consulting with other friends, who happen to be physicians and who shared our concerns, we changed doctors.

The first thing the new medical team prescribed was to wean off the narcotic pain medications immediately (as in do not pass Go and do not collect $200) which was acknowledgement of all my worries. I knew my son wanted to return to playing sports, and I knew injuries are often part and parcel with the sports he played. While other moms were praying for all the things moms pray, I was praying those things too with one addition, that my child’s brain chemistry would not crave medications to numb the pains.

God answered those prayers.

When I heard the news story, the vivid reminders of those prayers came flooding back. God answered the prayers of a broken hearted momma, who had nothing to offer other than open hands hoping for divine provision to fill the emptiness.

On my knees, tears flowing down. I praised him over and over for answered prayers. My heart overwhelmed with the power of what God achieved from the desires of my heart. Every surgical procedure, after the day we walked out of that original doctor’s office, we would take the powerful prescribed medications unopened to the police station for disposal.

Mightily, God answered the prayers of a mom who wanted to claim a future beyond his darkest day. Overcome with gratitude and through tearful praise, I thanked God for the provision and while I was there, I asked for his comfort for all the families whose story did not mimic ours.

My heart breaks for the families impacted by addiction, and if you have a little room in your prayers, consider praying for each of them asking God to someday provide for them a day of tearful praise.

By JFXie (Flickr: O Praise Him) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Commencement

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Oxford Dictionary gives two definitions for the word “commencement”. The second, North American in etymology, is a ceremony in which diplomas are conferred upon graduates. The former and more common is a beginning or new start. I will confess I had only ever really thought about commencement as the lesser used version, but after doing a little research, I clearly see how much I had previously missed. My vision myopic, other than my own degrees and diplomas, I have generally avoided attending graduation ceremonies, because I have always seen them as sad endings.

A few weeks ago, my heart was twisted and torn as the day of the Boy Wonder’s high school graduation finally approached. I tried so terribly hard not to let the feelings of being cheated out of Reed’s graduation cloud my excitement for Sawyer. Tried could definitely be loosely applied here, because eventually my broken heart blurted those words out loud. The gall-like taste of bitterness was choked down because I wanted the day to be amazing for Sawyer while the scab was still fresh from being treated like second-class citizens two years previous.

For me, it is often in the writing my fears or hurts that cause them to diminish. The giants are slayed. My confidence begins to bolster, as I remember that God’s light shines brightest in the darkest of places.

So it was on commencement day. I fretted about my feelings of loss, but once spoken aloud, I was ready as much as I could be. I did come fully supplied to the ceremony with plenty of tissues though, just in case. The tears did fall. At first they were tears of sadness, the end had come. (Remember I hate good-byes, but haven’t perfected the art of just slipping away quietly like my sweetie’s uncle used to do.) There were tears of laughter as I saw the superhero bedazzled mortar board atop his head. That’s my boy! There were tears of joy because we were surrounded by every one of Sawyer’s aunties, uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers (including the honorary ones), godmothers and godfather, and even his former nanny and her family. Even the few who couldn’t be there watched via the internet. Each one of those precious people had cheered him on through the darkest nights and hardest moments. For this boy-soon-to-be-man, these people (our people) had prayed.

We all basked in the miracle of the young man who was in front of us. The Boy Wonder who defied all the odds to not just persevere but to become a shining example of resilience, faith, and determination was supported by amazing love that evening. All those prayers were for him to live and hopefully to prosper (and no that wasn’t a Trekkie shout out), but God had so much more planned. . . to give him a hope and a future. God-sized dreams really do come true as he earned the distinction of being valedictorian.

As he spoke to the audience, tears of pride for all he had overcome to achieve the goal he set in the eighth grade fell down my cheeks. Despite all the surgeries and days of missing school, he never wavered in his commitment to coming out on top . . . God-sized dreams, for sure.

Sitting next to one of my best girlfriends whose son also happened to be graduating that nigh, we both shed bittersweet tears. Our boys were leaving, but both grew to be amazing young men. Both a part of the day that changed our county forever. Tears welling up, we held hands. Then, it hit me. Yes, my son was growing up and leaving. No matter which way you look at that, it would be heart wrenching to have another son gone from our home. My revelation came from the true meaning of commencement, this was a new beginning. The boy who had endured so much came out on top, but more importantly along the way touched the lives of many. In the next steps of his journey, I can only imagine what God has in store for him.

All smiles while giving his teary momma a hug! photo courtesy of his godmother

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.

Sackcloth and ashes

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Yesterday, our family was dealt another blow in what seems to be a never ending litany of challenges. A little over a week ago, Sister had a one year check in (on a partial tear of her left ACL) with the orthopedic surgeon. I was unable to go, but I was not expecting the phone call I got afterward from my husband. Our doctor did not like the pain she described, ordered a second MRI, and asked us to return in a week.

For the entire week, I prayed desperately not to let fear rule my days. We only told a handful of people, until the night before our visit when I rallied the prayer warriors to flood heaven’s gates. Their response was immediate, bringing tears to my eyes. If you get nothing else from today’s blog, know that we are loved and know that we know it.

At first, our doctor was very happy to see her ACL was unchanged. It had not gotten worse which could have happened. All was looking really good until he spotted a small tear in her medial meniscus. His suggestion was to repair the tear which will require a six month over all recovery and rehabilitation process. What pushed me over the edge were his thoughts that while he was in there he should just make sure the ACL is not really in need of repair or reconstruction. If it is, then an additional surgery will take place and her recovery will be twelve months.

I cried. The doctor cried because he knows our story. My tough girl held back her tears. And my husband asked a bunch of questions.

For as long as I can remember, this sweet girl has loved the game of basketball, attending her first clinic at the age of three – just to be with her boys. Now once again, she will have to sit out while her peers are getting to play. To add insult to injury (no pun was intended there), she loved swimming, but due to a severe allergy had to give up swimming competitively. Because of the injuries she received to her shoulder in the bus crash, she was forced to choose between softball and basketball.

My heart was broken for my girl, who didn’t do anything to cause any of this. She has the heart of a competitor and a love for the game. My spirit was crushed because I know the uphill battle she is climbing, chasing a what now feels like an elusive dream to play at the college level. My soul was searching, pouring my heart out to God asking “Why can’t you just fix this?” For the record, this will push us over thirty surgical procedures in seven years for our children. I am thankful that my children are still here, but in my book that is about twenty-nine too many surgeries.

Outside of brokenhearted and crushed, I was simply mad. A WHOLE LOT OF MAD! Mad because this keeps happening to us. Mad because instead of support last year, what she had to deal with was a lot of rumors about her faking her injury to get attention. Mad because those rumors persist today. Mad because my children have to continue settle, because disappointment is a part of their vernacular. Mad because our big family vacation will have to deal with a child who cannot bear weight on her leg or our dates will have to be changed altogether. Mad because I now have to cancel all of the camps and clinics she had signed up to attend. I am sick and tired of dealing with plans B, C, and D. I just want to get up in the morning and not have to deal with changing every aspect of our lives because once again, we are in hospital and rehabilitation mode, where making plans and moving forward are really just plain tough.

Oh, we can do tough. If it isn’t in our DNA, it certainly is in our collective experience. Some days, I just want to do easy. I want to get up and not have the hurts of our story be so blasted time-consuming. I want to get up and fly by the seat of our pants, not worrying about medications, crutches, braces, and appointments. Yesterday was the first time I wanted to just simply quit. I wanted to jump on a plane, land anywhere there was a beach, and add my salty tears to the briny water.

When the doctor was crying, I said I remember when Sawyer was two and diagnosed with severe asthma after we found him blue and nonresponsive in the backyard. I thought that was the worst possible news we could ever receive. I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG! All the days I played momma as a little girl never once did my imagination think I would encounter all of this.

But I won’t quit. My children deserve better than a momma who throws in the towel. I will resolutely stand on the sidelines cheering them on and working to help her get better. I am not promising what might happen to the next person who tells me that my children are faking it, but I will remember that pledge when I hear someone else talk about anyone with a hidden hurt. Trust me, there are millions of people who look absolutely fine on the outside, but who are dealing with invisible pain or loss every day. EVERY. DAY. I will figure out how to balance the needs of a surgery of one child mixed in with the graduation of another one. I will cry because that’s what mommas sometimes do when we know that there isn’t a single thing we can do to make any of this better outside of praying. I will pray A LOT, even when my prayers are ones of anguish, despair, rage, and bitterness, because even though I don’t FEEL it right now, I KNOW God has a plan for all of this. I will beseech everyone to pray that the lesser surgery is all that is needed, and I will cling to that hope. I will do my best not to let tomorrow’s challenge rob today’s joy, but that will take every last ounce of energy I have to do it.

But first, I will have to change out of my sackcloth and wipe away the ashes. Along the way, a big glass of sweet tea with extra ice probably won’t hurt either. Taking a little liberty here, it would help to remember that perhaps I was chosen to be their momma for such a time as this. (The book of Esther, chapter 4)

My little baller in one of her first basketball t-shirts (which of course, she had to wait until her brothers outgrew it).

At the back of the bus

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Our journey home from the girls’ trip changed at the last minute. The reason for the change was our town festival coincided with our plans. On the surface, that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but when you are nine and the title of being “Queen” of the county is on the line, your priorities shift. Bragging momma warning alert! She did indeed win a title in the pageant; so, our switcheroo paid off, even if it meant some logistical changes in our transportation home. We traded in our train passes and purchased one-way tickets via Megabus (a double decker, wi-fi express).

The current Queen of Lyon County

The bus company uses the same stations as Amtrak so it was easy to know where to go in the city, although if it did take us a moment in downtown Chicago to locate where exactly the pick-up would be. Of course, I was a little flustered after leaving my phone on the concierge’s desk, and subsequently pretending we were playing Amazing Race with the taxi driver. Sadly, stations are places where people who haven’t seen blessings in a while congregate. This does not daunt me, and I try my best shine God’s light while I visit with them. The group waiting for various buses was an eclectic mix, and just before several buses pulled up, a young black man sitting on the retaining wall got my attention.

“Miss, I want you to know I think that is awesome.” It took me a moment to figure out what we did that was so “awesome” before I realized he was talking about the fact that a little white girl was holding a black baby doll. When I explained that he was the only doll she wanted, he was grinning from ear to ear. The call for Madison and St. Paul came and once again, it was time for “all aboard”.

So proud of her new doll, Noah.

The first thing I noticed was a shocking shift in temperatures from Illinois August air to the freezer inside the bus. I had packed a blanket but we were woefully underdressed for the mandatory cool temps (to keep drivers alert). Other than a few college kids heading to University of Wisconsin, the remainder was made up of young families and a few individuals. Since we were the last to embark, we took the only remaining seats left (which for those who know me struck fear in my heart). The final two spots were the very last row – where my son was seated the day he died on the school bus. That is a no-go zone for all of us, but I couldn’t ask families with tiny children to move. My fears subsided (a little) when I noticed both the bathroom and the stairs to the upper deck were behind us.

Once we were seated, I noticed our neighbor to the right was seated alone. Our driver gave the basic instructions of passenger-ship, and I almost peed in my pants when she said absolutely no alcohol, just as my fellow passenger had pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a swig. A sheepish little smile and a shoulder shrug resulted in more than a few giggles from me. Over time, the conversation began to flow between us. My neighbor, Eugene, had fallen on hard times and was trying to get his life back in order. I had to smile when he stated unapologetically that without God’s help that was never going to happen. Between Chicago and Madison, we learned much about each other’s lives, including the fact that we actually knew some of the same people from our college days.

At some point, my friend from back at the sidewalk came down and stood between us. He joined in our conversation and asked if we would mind if he stood for a while as he was healing from a back surgery. Eugene and I were both amenable, and our new friend, Anderson, a city advocate/Franciscan missionary from Detroit, jumped right in. The next hour was spent sharing our faith stories, including the tragedies that helped solidify or test that same faith.

As the sun started to set, the conversation took on a more solemn note. The date of this ride was August 13, four days after the shot that took the life of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri. The irony was not lost on me that here I was seated in the back of the bus (with two black men) while our country was being torn apart with hateful thoughts and acts on each side of the racial divide once again. Since the Saturday before, I had simply been praying for love to prevail and for our country to heal, which would take amazing courage, gut-wrenching hard work, and a willingness to talk, but more importantly listen.

Almost as naturally as me grabbing a sweet tea, we decided we should pray. Holding each other’s hands, we prayed, each in our faith comfort zone and pattern, but pray we did. We prayed for each other, we prayed for families hurting, for our own families, our communities, and our country. And we prayed for Ferguson. We asked God for his strength, his peace, and his light to shine in a place that none of us had ever visited. By the time, we were done, the remaining passengers were staring. I had tears streaming down, because I felt like the seat I didn’t want was a divinely appointed one.

We weren’t the only people in the world praying, but that one moment felt like God’s love was shining through as we road down the interstate. Even though we all knew our paths would most likely not cross again this side of Jordan, our prayers were the prayers of people who knew that none of our differences mattered when we came together in love. In God’s eyes, we are all his children, and no place was that more beautifully displayed than on our knees at the back of the bus.

The making of a Grammy

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My last few posts have been about grandparents and how the world is truly a better place because of them. Whether by blood, “adoption” or simply by taking an interest in the lives of children, grandparents fill a magical place in hearts.

A dear friend of mine, who I’ve always thought of as the quintessentially hip grandmother, had this picture posted on her Facebook wall the other day. If you knew my friend, the sentiment suits her. As far as being a grandmother, I think I fall somewhere between all things magical with a little bit of adventure thrown in for good measure.

Before any of my friends fall out of their chairs, I did not become a grandmother by blood. Not just yet! (My high school son just looked at me in horror.) Although I will confess, I do already have things stored away for when that day becomes a reality. I like to think of it as Grammy’s secret stash of goodies (remember the magical and adventuresome description). I now understand the trance that Cracker Barrel holds on all grandmothers.

There is a really long background story here, and if you ask me in person, I will be happy to tell you. We’ll grab some iced teas and chat! The shortened version of how I became a Grammy (more on that name later) is one of L.O.V.E. lived out through friendship.

When Jesus called us to love others as the second greatest commandment, there are those who embody his teaching. A blessing to me is how I am a recipient of that love. I have written and spoken about how once upon a time, a former student stepped up to “fill in for” but never to “replace” Reed as the big brother of our family. When he met the girl of his dreams and was married, our “son’s” mom gave me the honor of being listed as “honorary mother”. It was one of my life’s proudest moments.

Well this year, my son and his wife had their first baby. Before sweet little L’s birth, I had been knitting and sewing all matter of items. She had a rough beginning; so, my whole family (aka Team Stevens) had a very brief visit to give momma and baby the rest they needed. We gave L her knitted blanket, said we would be praying, and asked them to keep us posted.

When they were finally able to come home, I was out in my flower beds prepping soil. A series of text messages left me with a puddle of tears and one befuddled husband.

The first message told me that they made it home, and they received many compliments on L’s new blanket. My response was complete momma bear mode asking if baby’s health was okay now, and if they think of it sometime, please send a picture of her with the blanket. Within seconds, I had a picture of happy, healthy and sleeping baby wrapped in the blanket stitched with love and prayers. Tears began to well in the corners of my eyes. I told her parents that whenever I make any gift, I pray for the recipient; therefore she was wrapped in many prayers.

A quick whirlwind of text messages cleared my anxiety about baby L’s health, assured me my prayers had been answered, and amazed me with an honor I didn’t see coming.

The closing message was: We love you Grandma and the rest of the family.

Even though our county had been experiencing a drought for some time, that little patch of ground was watered with salty drops, leaving my husband perplexed. I simply handed him the phone, and he whispered, “Wow!”

Not only had one mom loved in selfless ways by allowing me to be “the other mom” at her only son’s wedding, but now two grandmas (moms) were sharing in a way I could have never imagined. Sweet L is the first grandchild of both flesh and blood grandmothers. I know these ladies personally, and both, along with their husbands, raised amazing children who daily live what it means to love others first. There are many other compliments I could give to both J and B, but honestly, that last sentence is the highest praise from my momma heart to theirs.

Here is where the Grammy part came in. L is one lucky little girl. She is blessed with amazing grandmas, who simply adore her! I would never want, nor could I ever achieve, replacing or being in competition with that love. Even though her tiny heart could not physically fill a measuring cup, she has enough room to fit some great-grandmothers, Grandma B, Grandma J, and me – one incredibly humbled and thankful, Grammy!

So yes ma’am! I am a Grammy through God’s love poured out through his Son and lived out in faith by my incredible adopted family!

My baby holding my grandbaby wrapped in a prayed up blankie! B-L-E-S-S-E-D!

Taking a deep breath

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Growing up, our family did two things almost without fail. Both followed other anchors in my life, as if that was that natural order in our home. Following basketball games, we often went out with other coaches’ and team members’ families for dessert. My standard order was hot fudge cake at Shoney’s. That succulent tower of chocolate cake, ice cream, fudge and whipping cream is still my all-time favorite dessert. The second thing we did rather dependably followed Sunday morning services. We went to eat at a local restaurant, known as The Varsity. Growing up, I didn’t much appreciate this second one, because I wanted to go eat at some hip cool fast-food restaurant rather one that served good ol’ Southern cooking. At that time in my life, I wanted to venture on the edge of dining, and not be stuck in deeply entrenched ruts. Right now (older and wiser), I wish The Varsity was still open, and I could force (I mean, take) my kids to eat there.

There are several things that I vividly remember about both of those old hang outs. First and foremost, each time we went there I was surrounded by people who loved Jesus (and who loved us). I don’t know that I can adequately describe that feeling. Growing up the way I did, there is just something about Southern people who love Jesus. They have an air to them – full of life, hearty talks, and bellies full from all the tables piled with food. It’s true what the Bible says about Christians having an aroma. Then and now, my soul senses want to soak up every molecule. Another thing that defines those memories is the ease of Southern hospitality. I miss “Yes ma’am’s” and “No sir’s”, and I really miss being called, “Shug or Honey” by just about everyone, including the waitress. Formal rituals dot every rhythm of society in those memories, but yet those rhythms come with ease. Finally laughter punctuates every memory. Next to salvation and creation, I think laughter was one of God’s finest masterpieces.

The flavor of my childhood is not something I experience often these days. It’s not that I live among heathens who also happen to be curmudgeons. Quite the opposite, I live among wonderfully vibrant and caring people (who also love Jesus and who love to laugh), but that Southern hospitality (and sometimes craziness) is seldom found in my neck of the woods.

Following my talk to the sweetest bunch of Sunday school ladies ever, a group of us decided to high tail it over to the Cracker Barrel for lunch. There were six of us at our table, but seated at the table directly behind us were fellow worshippers from that morning. We created such ruckus at our table that one gentleman from the other asked if he could be re-seated . . . with us . . . because we were having too much fun. His proclamation reminded me so much of some of Granddaddy’s friends that I wanted to jump up and hug him.

I shared both laughter and tears with sweet Miss C. Love her!

I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Florida to South Dakota, but that day surrounded by new sisters is one I will remember. A biscuit is a biscuit no matter where you eat it; so, it wasn’t the food that made the lunch memorable. It was the essence. There were stories swapped, tears shed both in laughter and in awe of God’s amazing grace in trials of life. There were hands held and prayers shared.

Somewhere in that crowded restaurant, God reminded me that the things longed for aren’t always that far away because I took a deep breath and inhaled the precious air of my childhood.

Where the dance will lead . . .

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Photo found at www.selectregistry.com

In addition to the tender moment shared yesterday, there were a couple more moments that took my breath away at the hospital. One in quiet reflection, and the other in laughter.

Over the course of the summer, my pastor has had a wonderful sermon series entitled, “What’s messing with your faith?”. His transparency is palpably real as he confesses to struggle with each topic. His genuineness in delivery has touched me very deeply, because I struggle with all the same things. These things that mess with our faith take us so far away from contentment in God’s plans for our lives.

On my travels, I decided that I would use what God had been stirring in my heart based on what I had gleaned from each topic this summer. With a renewed spirit, I wanted to travel with no agenda other than to love and to serve.

Just a few days ago, I saw a post a friend had on Facebook and it read something like this. “Are you waiting on God? Tell me then, when did you ever get ahead of Him?” Those were very convicting words, indeed!

The times when my faith is the most vulnerable is when I allow – worry, fear, bitterness, doubt, or busyness – to lead my thoughts. So upon embarking on this journey, I decided to just follow. Follow where God took me, and not try to get ahead of Him. It was already evident that traveling this far from home was His idea; so why not enjoy the travels.

One Saturday in July, following God’s heart took me to the hospital bed of a black grandfather and pastor. As we sat there swapping stories, I felt compelled to ask a question. When I say compelled, it was like an explosion of my soul as I was being pulled farther and farther away from the shore of my control. My question was simple. Can we pray?

Just the four of us, including the patient, clasped hands and prayed. I prayed for peace, for healing, for wisdom, and for all the things God laid on my heart. It was beautiful and tender and very much God-breathed.

As family members and hospital staff came in and out of the room, Ninny would introduce me. “This is Kandy. She is Bug’s friend, and she KNOWS the Lord.” Not one single person that entered that room was spared of that introduction. Those words made me smile, at first, but later became a badge of honor. I was His beloved, and I KNOW His love. I had never stopped to think of myself using those words, but they tasted so sweet. THIS is Miss Kandy, AND she KNOWS the Lord!

As the day unfolded, I was unceremoniously adopted as “Daddy” proclaimed me, somewhat teasingly, as his to the nurse. She came in to take some vital sign measurements and asked him how he was doing. Despite feeling pretty awful, it was joy to see that he still had a bit of mischief up his hospital gowned sleeve. He said that he was doing great because he got a new grand-daughter today.

“Really!”, she excitedly asked. “Where was she born?”

In a barely perceptible grin covered by the oxygen mask, he replied, “I have no idea, but you can ask her. She’s sitting right there.” At this point, he motioned to me sitting at the foot of the bed.

If I were a poker playing kind of gal, I would want to play cards with this nurse. The look of confusion was painstakingly present. How can this grown white woman suddenly be your granddaughter? The rest of us in the room could hardly contain our giggles.

I have to think at this point even Jesus snickered in heaven. His Dad’s love opens wide the door of family. When He does, you get a small glimpse of how He sees you and all his children. In those moments of tenderness and a fit of giggles, I began to see what transformative power slowing down and ceding control can do for your soul.

Allow God to lead the dance of your life’s journey, and see – just see – where He and the dance take you.

Seeing clearly after the fog

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Although he brings sorrow, he also has mercy and great love. Lamentations 3:32

This morning I started my day as usual with devotions. Technology was not my friend as my Bible app would not open. Not to be deterred, I grabbed my Devotional Bible – edited by Max Lucado – from my nightstand. As I was heading to Ezekiel, my trusty book fell open to Lamentations. Not just anywhere in Lamentations – nope – at a page that I had dog-eared and worn. The highlighted words were a mirror reflection of where I was at last week – in a fog.

Thankfully, I had friends and family members praying for me and guiding me through what was quite possibly the hardest day of my life since the bus crash. I did make it through, and miraculously with God’s help the fog lifted almost immediately.

I don’t believe in coincidences. I needed that reminder this morning that God was not absent last week, nor was He when my son died.

I’m a prayer vigil person. If I cannot sleep, it is usually because God has someone in mind that I should be praying for. Last night was no different. I have several friends, their kids, and communities facing a fog of their own. So, I prayed . . .

While I personally cannot do much other than that to help ease the storm for each of them right now, I can remind them that there is one who can lift the fog. My life story is a testament to that fact. Cling to him and He will guide you to new found peace.

The devotional below is from “No Wonder They Call Him the Savior” by Max Lucado.

The fog of the broken heart.

It’s a dark fog that slyly imprisons the soul and refuses easy escape. It’s a silent mist that eclipses the sun and beckons the darkness. It’s a heavy cloud that honors no hour and respects no person. Depression, discouragement, disappointment, doubt . . . all are companions of this dreaded presence.

The fog the broken heart disorients our life. It makes it hard to see the road. Dim your lights. Wipe off the windshield. Slow down. Do what you wish, nothing helps. When this fog encircles us, our vision is blocked and tomorrow is a forever away. When this billowy blackness envelops, the most earnest words of help and hope are but vacant phrases.

If you have ever been betrayed by a friend, you know what I mean. If you have ever been dumped by a spouse or abandoned by a parent, you have seen this fog. If you have ever placed a spade of dirt on a loved one’s casket or kept vigil at a dear one’s beside, you, too, recognize this cloud.

If you have been in this fog, or are in it now, you can be sure of one thing – you are not alone. Even the saltiest of sea captains have their bearings because of the appearance of this unwanted cloud. . .

Think back over the last two or three months. How many broken hearts did you encounter? How many wounded spirits did you witness? How many stories of tragedy did you read about? . . .

The list goes on and on, doesn’t it? Foggy tragedies. How they blind our vision and destroy our dreams. Forget any great hopes of reaching the world. Forget any plans of changing society. Forget any aspirations of moving mountains. Forget all that. Just help me make it through the night!

The suffering of the broken heart . . .

Seeing God . . .does wonders for our own suffering. God was never more human than at this hour. God was never nearer to us than when he hurt. The Incarnation was never so fulfilled as in the garden.

As a result, time spent in the fog of pain could be the God’s greatest gift. It could be the hour that we finally see our Maker . . . Maybe in our suffering we can see God like never before.

The next time you are called to suffer, pay attention. It may the closest you ever get to God. Watch closely. It could very well be that the hand that extends itself to lead you out of the fog is a pierced one.

I know the story behind this song, but sometimes I believe that it was written just for me. I think music is often a reflection of my soul and story.

Surgery No. 7

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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.

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Tag Archives: prayer

Tearful Praise

Commencement

I lost it

Sackcloth and ashes

At the back of the bus

The making of a Grammy

Taking a deep breath

Where the dance will lead . . .

Seeing clearly after the fog

Although he brings sorrow, he also has mercy and great love. Lamentations 3:32

Surgery No. 7