Tag Archives: raising children

Rainy days and Mondays

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Recently I have been busy, overwhelmed, and frankly at times, worn out. Amazing things have been happening, and accompanying those have been some moments that have shaken my foundation. While at times I may need a reminder, I know that my foundation is laid on God’s solid ground which has and will always anchor me through the storms of life.

Despite my best efforts, the clock hands continued to turn and so too flipped the pages of the daily calendar leading up to yesterday – which happened to be a Monday. Blech. In my mind, I wanted to pretend that the day wasn’t coming. Mondays are sometimes bad enough, but this Monday was the worst of them all as it was the day we would be taking the Boy Wonder back to college. Much like the unexpected Friday e-mail that sentenced me to my bed weeping, the arrival of this Monday had me not wanting to leave the bed. If I just lay here this day will come and go and we can go right back on living our lives with our guy home.

But then I saw the excitement and joy and anticipation in his eyes, and I put on a happy face and kept on keeping on even though my heart wanted to hold on tight. And while my spirit was sad for me, for us, my soul knew he was going in exactly the right direction on the path God has laid out for him to truly shine a light in this world, desperately in need of some illumination.

I know this with every fiber of my being, but it was confirmed while we played the game known as “Let’s change passengers with our college boy every 30 miles; so, we can all have one-on-one time with him”. He, of course, while willing to play along, knew nothing of this plan. When I had the coveted co-pilot seat in his sporty little car, I asked him about his goals and dreams for the year. This seemed like a better plan than sobbing and pleading with him not to go. His answer helped soothe my worried momma heart. Adding to his goals of continuing to be involved on campus and being the best student he can, he dreams of adding more leadership opportunities and hopes to start a new campus club. Whoa! Socks blown off! I often look to heaven and marvel that we had a hand in the shaping of this amazing young man.

I am a better person because of him and his brother and sisters. These tiny moments, even while hiding tears behind sunglasses, are the glimpses showing me how blessed we truly are. No matter how tight I want to hold on to our past, he, with God’s help, needs to create his future.

When my heart is breaking, there are always friends that receive my distressed Bat Signal, and they respond with rapidity unparalleled by any caped crusader. A perfectly timed text saying to hug my kiddo and tell him “how proud he makes us all” and a personalized card saying to keep shining because that is what the world will see in our son changes everything. I am left smiling through my tears, counting my blessings. Who would guess both of those could happen on a Monday?

There are many days when laid out grief is all I have to offer, and then there are the moments in life when someone has to offer the bit of humor to fill the awkward silence. I prefer the latter and it seems I have developed and (if I can brag for a moment) perfected this technique over time.

Growing up, I don’t think I would have ever considered myself funny. It just wasn’t in my repertoire. I loved to laugh, but creating laughter wasn’t my strongest subject. In school, I was never the class clown, being more concerned with trying to learn everything about everything. I know the apples don’t fall far. I am certain in all my growing up days my parents would have considered my brother the humorous one.

But, like my son – who has always been hilarious – I went to college chasing my dreams and along the way somehow developed that sense of comedic timing where a snarky comment, a light-hearted sarcastic retort, or an aptly-placed witty comment could save the day.  Although not my superhero power, this skill has helped me on more than one occasion to change my outlook on something. All my besties share this knack, and it is the glue that bonds us together as a tribe of mommas doing the best we know how to do.

So while my boy goes off to college, I can always take solace in the fact that technologies have improved so that we can stay in contact much more easily. If that doesn’t work, I always have pictures for blackmail memories.

To all the returning college students: Be your best. Shine your light. Call your mother. Make good choices. Find your adventure. Be brave and take chances. Make a few mistakes and learn from them. Be resilient. READ THE SYLLABUS. Find your own tribe of weirdos and embrace them. Be kind and gentle. Give back to others. Don’t forget to study. Remember why God gave you knees. Read a book just for fun (trust me you have way more time than you think you do). Have fun and my most favorite of all-time: Be Particular.

And for our guy – Ride like the Wind!

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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.

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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.

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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.

FullSizeRender (5)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.

 

Warrior On, Momma

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Recently, I was hired for three speaking engagements for our local hospital system.  I was honored, humbled and awed by the requests.  One of the talks was for a leadership group that met monthly, and my talk corresponded to the chapter about leadership on the frontier from the book the group had been reading.  Before visions of Walt Disney’s “Frontier Land” flash before your eyes, the frontier in question is being intentional about leading and looking for ways to serve those who have been misaligned, neglected, forgotten, hurt, or misunderstood.  I shared lessons learned as a quarter of a century (How could that be true?) educator, peppered with anecdotes and tales from the trenches classrooms of children ranging from 2nd grade to college seniors.  At the conclusion, my challenge to the group was two-fold:  1) ask God to break your heart, because from the depth of sadness we often find our passion and 2) don’t think too highly of yourself.  The latter being a message for me as well.  I have had successes as an educator, but I have had equally as many failures, steps backwards, and misunderstandings.  And there I stood before vice-presidents, presidents, and top-notch health care executives asking them to remember every leadership lesson I shared that day was taught to me by children.  Physician: heal thyself, and teacher: educate thyself.

One of the greatest lessons I have learned in life (and one of my leadership points) came from one of my life’s saddest moments. After enduring the heartbreak of losing Reed and trying to help Sister and Sawyer heal from the bus crash, I quickly came to the realization that much of what I think I know about other people’s lives is wrong.  This education arose through the wisdom of those who had walked in our shoes but was refined by those who had no idea the advice they were proffering was not helpful and worse yet, at times, hurtful.  While our valley of grief was long and arduous, it was still worthwhile, producing gentler and kinder versions of ourselves.  We became a people who realized that much of the ugly in the world is a direct result of sadness and hurt.  As a teacher, this education was better than anything I have ever learned in a book or in a classroom.  I had to walk a journey of a million steps in pain to produce a heart that recognizes when a student seems to be out of sorts, there is typically some type of hurt or sadness behind it.  Serving others came naturally to me before my darkest day, but loving those who appear “unlovable in the moment” became my rally cry afterwards.

I honestly wish that all educators would have an earth shattering, heartbreaking moment. Many have already experienced their own sadness, but for those who have not, the result would be eye-opening.  Sadly, I know this be true, because of experiences one of my children has had over and over again.

Six years ago, my oldest daughter began to experience hives.  At first, the outbreaks appeared to perhaps have an environmental trigger (akin to seasonal allergies), and then a suggestion was made that maybe water might be to blame.  Swimming produced hives, but showering and using our hot tub did not.  Time and again, we went back to the proverbial drawing board. None of the “causes” were the real culprit. She has been poked and prodded (one visit required 17 vials of blood), written incessant journals of food and activity logs, and tried all sorts of medications, creams, and ointments.  We have even tried homeopathic remedies, but not a single thing made any difference.  Meanwhile, she has endured urticarial (the scientific name for hives) episodes every day – EVERY DAY – for the last six years.  Some outbreaks would be small clusters.  Others would be large nodules, and worst of all, would be the times  hives the size of dinner plates covered her body.

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Photo by Steph Moon of Moon Photography (Even for the prom, the hives were present.)

 

While some notice the welts that would appear at whim, very few notice the side effects.  Sleep would be elusive due to eruptions happening or the uncomfortable nature of itching and scratching.  Outbreaks are also mentally and emotionally draining.  How many teenage girls do you know that want to sit in class and suddenly have red and enflamed clusters of hives break out? Fashion accessories they are not. On top of it all, how does a student maintain focus and concentrate when pain is a constant companion?

Removing my teacher hat and simply being my child’s momma, we have seen every possible specialist with the hopes of finding a definitive diagnosis.  We have logged hours in clinics and hospitals, in the car travelling great distances to talk to the “best of the best”, and in the library reading every possible article and study on raising a child with chronic illness.  Often we shared these studies with her school, in the hopes of helping others to understand how debilitating chronic illness is.  Some times our efforts seemed to be in vain, when it was suggested that

  • These hives are all in her head.
  • Pretty sure this is a sign of anxiety. (She does NOT have anxiety.  Trust me, among the myriad of doctors, we checked and double-checked.)
  • She is doing this for attention.

Short of “appalled” and “righteous indignation”, I have no other words for these suggestions.  I will be honest.  I have cried more tears than I knew possible; many of those tears wept while lying in my bed grieving my child’s journey. No momma dreams of her child having a debilitating, chronic illness. While some call me “strong”, they might be shocked to learn there are definitely things that sentence me to my bed because life is simply that overwhelming. Yet somehow in those painful moments quietly tucked under the covers, my eyes are drawn to a God who I know loves us and my sweet girl more than I ever could.  

During these times, He reminds me there are the teachers and school nurses whose hearts have been broken and who try to understand what our girl is going through.  There are also doctors who look your sweet child in the eye and say, “I believe I know what you have.  No more pokes and prods. No more journals.  And while there isn’t a cure, there is a treatment for which I think you would be an ideal candidate.”  Even more so, this amazing physician held my child’s hands and lovingly reassured her that she would no longer slip through the cracks and told her emphatically “No! None of this is in your head.” and cried with her.

I have learned many lessons through this saga, and as the treatments continue (Praise the Lord successfully so far!), I am sure there will be others to learn.  Throughout my career, I have always tried to err on the side of compassion, but for the times I failed, I am truly sorry. For my students of the past, present and future: I can only offer that today because our struggles, I am a better person for it.  So when you come to my classroom or office, just know I will listen and together we will make a plan for you to be successful. For every educator – no scratch that – for every human being: ask God to show you the sufferings of others and how you can be a shining light in the midst of their storms.  For all the mommas who have children with illnesses seen and unseen, who search for answers even when they aren’t the ones wanted, who have shed tears and have lost sleep, and who have had to explain their child’s illness over and over, just know you hold a special place in my heart and more importantly in my prayers.

For you sweet mommas, I have two words: Warrior On!

 

 

 

The art of hospitality

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I am not with the Welcome Wagon, although I maybe should be. One of the best compliments I have ever received was regarding my hospitality. This alone should aver my qualifications! More than once I have told my pastor that someday my front door will be painted red, a symbol of safe harbor and refuge. Need a place for your children or pets? We’ve got you covered. Need a warm hug, meal, or bed? There’s always room at the inn! Need a cup of sugar, a lawn tool, or a costume for your kids? We love to share. Even in our darkest hour, we have desired to be a place where guests feel comfortable. Moments before we told Sawyer that Reed had died as a result of the bus crash, my sweetie and I made a very conscious decision that our home would continue to be the place where people gathered and felt welcomed. Despite the many and varied differences between our childhoods, this is one COMMONALITY our mothers share. If there is food, beds (or floor space), gas in the car, or an item in need, our mothers would be first to offer assistance. They both passed their hospitality genes onto to their children.

Our love of sharing our home with others has blessed us with amazing friends over the years.

Some years back, we got up one Saturday morning and embarked on a typical weekend activity: a trip to the farmer’s market. On our trip home, a moving truck was parked two doors down, signifying the new neighbors had arrived. After unloading our freshly harvested produce, we headed down the street to greet the new neighbors as they were waiting for our college football team to come and help them unpack. When our friends tell this story, they always share the part when after introducing ourselves we ask if they have any children. They explained they had a 13 year old and 5 year old and were flabbergasted when we said, “We do too, with an 11 year old in the middle.” It was the first time in their lives someone didn’t make a snide or judgmental comment about the age gap. Having a sister who is 14 years younger, I would have never entertained the thought.

We didn’t help them unpack, but we did offer to mow their grass and invited them to the backyard movie night we were hosting later that evening. We have been kindred friends, well, really more like family, ever since. I regularly thank God for moving them in just a few doors down. Ours has been an easy friendship with lots of shared adventures, life’s celebrations, a place of refuge in moments of trouble, and plenty of times of gathered around tables.

But there was this one time . . . when I looked like a crazy person running down the street. While I am not officially the town’s welcoming committee, I did try extremely hard to share with our friends all the best things to see, do, visit, eat, and attend around our town for the first year. All was going well until early October, when I burst into their home looking something like Kramer from Seinfeld.

“OH! MY! WORD! I promise Mrs. O’Leary’s cow did not start the town on fire!” came spewing out, before I could explain our local fire department takes Fire Prevention Week very seriously. Every year on the Wednesday evening of FPW, the fire trucks complete with flashing lights and sirens blaring drive up and down every (and I mean EVERY) street in town as a reminder to practice Operation E.D.I.T.H. (Exit Drills In The Home).

My sweet friend had seen the trucks as she drove our Sister and her daughter home from swim practice. As the hurrah made it to our side of town, I jumped up from the dinner table, yelling, “I have to warn the neighbors.” Suddenly, it hit me I forgot to warn them about this time-honored town tradition. Although my entrance was comical, my friends were somewhat concerned about what was going on.

Maybe my dereliction of duty is why I have never been extended an invitation to perform official Welcome Wagon duties. Whatever the reason for this egregious oversight every year about this time; two families have a pretty good laugh!

Our town's fire department is pretty hospitable too! Reed was the first young man to have his birthday party at the Fire Hall.

Our town’s fire department is pretty hospitable too! Reed’s 4th birthday party was at the Fire Hall.

Special Note: If your family does not have a plan to escape in the event of fire, today is the perfect day to plan and practice one. Know your escape routes, practice fire safety with your children, and have a meeting place. We have crawled through windows. We have practiced not going back to get our family pets if conditions are not safe; no matter how heartbreaking that would be. We have felt for hot doors, and planned alternative routes, working to get out safely and meet at our designated gathering spot. If you happen to be in our town on Wednesday, you will see us at the mailbox, and then you will hear a whole of lot of “remember when Mom ran down the street”. Now that’s the stuff that makes memories!

When did this happen??

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As Super S entered his senior year of high school, I was often asked how I was handling it. My pat answer was “kicking and screaming”. Time had ticked on, but my heart never counted the sands slipping through my fingers. I simply wasn’t ready for my chubby-cheeked, curly-headed boy to grow up and be ready to launch. Head knowledge told me he was more than ready, but often my heart is not on speaking terms with the logic my brain is offering. If you were to ask one of my best friends, she will tell you I am not good with big transitions for my children. She will throw back her head and laugh while telling about the tears I shed after spending an exhausting day at Track-N-Field Day a long time ago. Sun-kissed and windswept, I stopped by her house to drop some thing or another off and broke down in tears because my oldest, Reed, was graduating out elementary school. “NOT GOOD WITH TRANSITION” would be the understatement of the year!

Often the anticipation is much worse than the event; akin to the pain you know is coming when removing a Band-Aid from a healed wound. Like Super S declared after knocking a bully silly in the first grade, “They give me a wide berth now!” (I know. I know. We should have seen the inevitable valedictorian status when he was using idioms like this in the FIRST GRADE.) I give myself large latitude of grace as milestone events approach; knowing full well I don’t do transition well.

But like those sneaky behind the back hugs Reed used to give so freely, moments have a way of catching me off-guard. Last Tuesday almost knocked me flat.

The day started innocently enough when I asked Sal what her plan was for afterschool. She informed me she would be helping a neighborhood friend with piano. Do what? You haven’t practiced piano in 6 months and you aren’t exactly what I would call a piano tutor. She assured me that her friend, K, was just getting started in piano, and she would definitely be able to help her. I reminded her she needed to be home in time for voice lessons, gave her and her school walking buddy a squeeze for the day, and headed off to inspire the future teachers of the world.

True to her word, Sal returned home about fifteen minutes before voice lessons, only to learn our beloved teacher was ill. No lessons for the day. Saddened by the news, she decided to tackle her homework so that we could have some fun later when Daddy got home. We worked side-by-side, math for her and grading papers for me, when she suddenly realized she left her weekly vocabulary words at her friend’s house. I thought nothing of it and kept working away.

I was still deep in the world of correcting of grammar glitches and offering suggestions when she returned without much fanfare. But oh! My heart was not ready for what I saw when I looked up. No warning! Absolutely no warning was given to see my little girl had blossomed into a thoughtful caring young lady!

Standing before me was my baby holding a pizza spaghetti casserole in her oven mitted hands. Piano lesson help – my left toe! Sal and K researched recipes online, settling on one from Southern Living (be still my heart and notice it was a casserole NOT a hot dish!), raided the two homes’ cupboards, sent a brother to the store for what they couldn’t find, prepared the whole meal for both families, and blessed two busy mommas with a night off in the kitchen.

Sal kept her casserole warm until the rest of the family came home.

Sal kept her casserole warm until the rest of the family came home.

 

I was SPEECHLESS. Both the girl and the supper were amazing gifts! When did this happen? When did my baby girl become a young lady? This revelation brought my “kicking and screaming” meter to a whole new level when my heart realized that my baby was only two years away from “graduating” from elementary school herself. I am not ready. The struggle is real.

Unfortunately for her, I am not the only one feeling this tug of sentimentality as none of the big people in our family are ready for her to become more than the “baby” of the family. She, however, is showing us that she has this growing up thing well under control.

I think we all better buckle up because there is very little she lets slow her down. I cannot wait to see to what heights she will soar – now if I can just convince my heart to enjoy the ride.

The place that never leaves you . . .

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We have had a few visits with Super S and his “Plus One” since they left to chase their dreams and what God has called them to do.  This previous summer, I had the opportunity to go back and relive some of the “glory days”.  During that visit, I realized that even though I would truly miss my son, the one whom I have spent hours in hospitals and clinics for the last seven years, I truly wished for him to have the stories and experiences college had for me and my sweetie.

The transformation from trepidation to excitement began at Super S’s graduation weekend when we learned of a wonderful opportunity which Sal could attend back at a place our hearts hold dear – our alma mater. S’s godmother told us about a STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) camp which Sal and her son could attend together. Be still my science teacher’s heart!

Maybe I am wrong in my thinking, but I believe most graduates of small colleges and universities keep a spot reserved in their souls for the place that launched them into adulthood. Graduating from the same university a couple years apart, my sweetie and I often speak of our years there with the same nostalgia. Our time at Mayville State University was a cherished part of our lives.

I just didn’t know how much so until I made a pilgrimage there to spend a week with Sal while she attended camp, mere steps down the hall from where I spent hours earning a chemistry degree.

Due to serving in a war thousands of miles from that idyllic place, my husband and I did not graduate together, and a few months after his commencement, we loaded up the truck and moved hundreds of miles away. Once upon a time we had family living in the town that shares its name with the university, but after they moved away, our trips to our old college home grew farther and farther apart. Other than a recent funeral, we hadn’t spent quality time in the area in close to a decade. Within seconds of arriving in the small North Dakota town which rests on the edge of the rolling Red River Valley, floods of memories and “Oh, we have to do this or eat there!” came rushing into my thoughts.

The first place we stopped when rolling into town.

The first place we stopped when rolling into town.

The School of Personal Service is a motto that expects much and often delivers more. I don’t think I realized how much so until my mini-me and I spent a week there, including residing at the farm where I was a nanny during my college days.

Sal and I toured every inch of Mayville State, ate at all my favorite local dining establishments, spent an afternoon at the nearby lake, and soaked up every adventure at the farm. While she learned about science, I spent my hours reminiscing and working on my book. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain a switch magically clicked into high gear, my body remembering the long hours spent studying in that environment, and some great book writing came pouring out. If I could survive the intricacies of PChem (Physical Chemistry), writer’s block would have no chance in these hallowed halls.

Catching up with the world while taking a break from writing

Catching up with the world while taking a break from writing

Every friend I encountered brought me back to our days there. Catching up and recalling memories of days long ago sometimes brought laughter and sometimes a few tears. The very best recollection was how the school’s motto proved to mean something more to my family than just launching our careers.

It all started my senior year when half-way around the world a larger country decided to invade a tiny neighbor. America heard the cry for help and sent the Army, including a very young North Dakotan to fight for freedom. At that time, I was already dreaming of returning to the South with plans of an internship in one state and graduate school in another. Patriotism is another one of those things small towns do well, and Mayville State was no different. A huge banner that looked like a parchment scroll was hung in the cafeteria listing the names of our soldiers in the desert. I spent one quarter at a different university, returning the next fall to the place I truly loved. During the one quarter’s absence, my sweetie began his studies. Our paths never crossed and we never met. Every day when waiting in line for lunch, I would ponder that list of soldiers knowing everyone on the list except one name. Mayville State was tiny; so, I began to ask others if anyone knew of this “Dan Stevens”. Sadly, no one did, and I began to wonder if he was fictional, the Comets’ own version of “G.I. Joe”.

I did leave the safety of academia and set off to Tennessee for an internship and later to Alabama to study more chemistry, coming back to be in a wedding and at Christmas to visit my family. During that holiday visit the school’s motto became more than eloquent words etched on the school’s emblem. Even though Christmas meant time with the family that reared and raised me, I couldn’t resist visiting my “other family” – some of the most amazing and truly dear professors. A small suggestion happened innocently enough by two of them. There was this nice boy in the Chemistry and Math courses, who the Doctors’ thought I should probably meet. I had never really been on a blind date before, but my reverence for those two faculty members pushed me to agree to this crazy plan.

One blind date and the rest is history. School of personal service . . . it doesn’t get more personal than handpicking your husband for you.

Coming back to school for a one week reminded me of all the university had bestowed in my life. I left there with much more than a degree and a stunning panoramic photo for our wall. I gained a confidence to tackle any challenging problem, a compassion and desire to serve others, a resiliency that would serve me well in dark days, and a lifetime of memories of lasting friendships, including the love of my life. After a couple days back on campus, I realized that while I had left Mayville State . . . Mayville State had never left my heart.

Its impact etched permanently, like a powerful force in the universe – once a Comet, always a Comet!

Mini-me and I just outside Old Main on her last day of STEM camp

Mini-me and I just outside Old Main on her last day of STEM camp

Oh and by the way,it wasn’t until years later, after we were married and Reed was a newborn I realized who I had married. I woke up one night after dreaming of my college days, and blurted out in the darkness, “Oh my goodness! You ARE Dan Stevens!”

Her first words

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We have a joke in our family that one of our children bucked the normal speech patterns of development. Instead of the typical da-da-da-da (which of course brought great delight to my sweetie), this little tyke’s first word was “ball”. He didn’t talk for quite some time, but when he did, the first word he uttered was “baw” which he followed with whipping a Nerf one the whole length of the family room. His message was clear! Even today, the messages sent by my children often stir my soul.

Back in May, our Sister had to have major surgery for her knee which was injured further in the basketball season. Although we should be well equipped in how to handle surgeries (this being number 34 for our children since 2008) and in some ways we are, our whole demeanor that day was one of somber. Our hearts sang melancholy. Joined by our pastor (who travelled three hours to be with us), Daniel, Sister and I gathered pre-surgery to pray as we prepared for the time that for me is like a living hell because once upon a time in a surgical post-operative meeting room I was officially told my son was dead. I hate those stupid, clinical, sterile, devoid-of-life rooms. I often beg the doctors to just tell us the news in the waiting room because at least that is a little more welcoming and comforting.

My heart ached when we received the call from the operating room telling us that our sweet girl would need the greater of the two options (complete ACL reconstruction with donated tissue) to repair the damage. Instead of forty minutes, we were told to strap in for a four hour surgery. How would we tell her that most of what she loved was going to have to be put on hold for a year? How much more would she have to endure? Our entourage of three grabbed a bite to eat, visited, and prayed. Because we had left our home at three in the morning, we were offered a private waiting room so that I could nap while we waited. I sat watching old episodes of Reed’s favorite, The Andy Griffith Show, thinking I would never be able to rest, but the mental anguish and physical exhaustion won because the next thing I knew we were meeting with the surgeon.

When we were finally able to all gather together in her recuperating room, I tried my hardest to put on my bravest face. After a little bit of time, I asked if the doctor or nurses had told her any news. In her grogginess, she had enough wherewithal to be able to read the clock. The tables turned when my not-so-little girl tried to comfort me, “Momma, it’s okay. I saw the clock. I know. I know.” No tears fell from her eyes as I fought to hold mine in. There was no steely strength that could have stopped my floodgates from opening after her next utterance. “Mom, I would like to write to my donor’s family to tell them ‘Thank You’.” Here she lay still under the effects of anesthesia, nauseous and unable to walk, and the first thing she wanted to do was to thank someone. Instead of shedding tears on what wouldn’t be (for her specifically: no basketball), she wanted to give back to a family of a person who gave the ultimate gift: an improved quality of life for her. As the sister of a donor, she was firm in her commitment to acknowledge and honor the gift she received.

It took us a little bit (logistically) to secure the information needed for her to do this, but we are now in the process of getting that letter to the tissue organization that will ultimately deliver the letter to her donor’s family. As a donor family ourselves, we hope her small gesture will bring them comfort. In addition to her sincere thanks, she will share that her ultimate goal is to return to playing sports, something not possible without their generosity, and along the way on her healing journey, she will take a stop as member of the Team MN-DAK delegation to the National Transplant Games in Cleveland, Ohio next summer.

I don’t know that she will ever interact with the donor’s family, but I do know that for the rest of her life, she will carry a little piece of their loved one in her knee, but more importantly in her heart.

Photo done by Inspired Portrait Photography

Photo done by Inspired Portrait Photography

Special Note: Organ and tissue donation is something near and dear to my heart. Our son, Reed, at 9 years old, told us that he wanted to be a donor. Never did I image three short years later I would be honoring his wishes. Giving the gift of life is the one of the most selfless acts of service a person can choose. If you are interested in becoming a donor, please visit www.donatelife.org and make sure to share your wishes with your family. Over the course of the next year, we will be sharing our Sister’s journey to Cleveland, including ways to support the team.

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

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

Roses from Heaven

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pink-roses-8dIn 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.

The waiting room

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It was a long and agonizing wait when the Boy Wonder was in the MRI machine to determine the correct diagnosis for the lump on his leg. I refused to sit and search on my phone for all the statistics and logistics regarding sarcoma, because I knew that would do nothing but stir up my heart even more than it already was. Having had an acquaintance battle sarcoma, I already knew some details – none of which were good.

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I did what any person trying to avoid her feelings would do when sitting in the lobby area of a hospital or clinic. I picked up a magazine and tried to redirect my horse galloping heart to slow down, peruse the pages of a battered and worn Better Homes and Gardens, and attempt to calm down. For a little while it worked. I did text a friend who had asked me to apprise her of the situation, and I prayed for a while. She joined me in those prayers, her heart echoing my own fear.

After a short while, another friend and mom of a schoolmate of my children came in with one of her sons. We chatted about all sorts of things, before she asked why I was there. When I said my son was in the diagnostic machine, she grew a little concerned. All I could comfortably share was “it may not be good”.

She smartly changed the subject to prom and graduation, inquiring how planning was going on the latter. We talked for quite some time about my worries (and hers for next year) and getting everything just so, noting that not one of our guests would ever know the difference. I shared what another friend had said to me, and she quickly breathed a sigh of relief.

“I have been sitting here thinking exactly that.”

The sentiment was one of finally getting to have a graduation party. In all the ways that counted, the day was all about Sawyer, but in some inner recesses of my heart the day would also be for Reed and all the ways he and his classmate were not celebrated two years ago. This sadness going all the way back to the e-mail we received from the school stating that our “student” would have been graduating. The caged agony had been brewing. Come on! Are you serious? He was in a class just shy of 40 and no one had the decency to use his actual name? Did you forget that he died as a part of the normal school routine, riding the bus home? I would be lying if I said that shocking correspondence doesn’t still hurt, because it deeply and profoundly does.

The friend sitting there knew nothing of that nor the agonizing months we waited to hear if our son would be remembered at all, but what she did know was how much we love our children and how incredibly difficult it had to have been to not have a party for Reed. Her words of acknowledgement of that hurt soaked deep into the pores of my soul like the soothing balm of Gilead. Her words were healing, as if she had scooped me into her arms and we rocked together on a peaceful front porch, wiping away locked up tears, and sipping some iced tea for good measure. Her words so simple, so sweet, began to cover the ingrained scars on my heart for a loss of something I didn’t realize I was grieving until I was confronted with it for my second son.

In this world, we have the opportunity to do the right thing. I am learning as life goes on not as many people as I would have hoped choose to do that. For those who love out loud, please know your gifts of encouraging words, calls, texts, e-mails, prayers, unending love and support matter. Without those two women speaking truth into my heart, I don’t know how well I would have made it through the ensuing days – waiting for the phone call, preparing for graduation day, and surviving the party we had while thinking about the one we didn’t.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Whether it is the ravishing scars of grief or a possible cancer diagnosis or anything that brings hurt to your heart, keeping such things locked inside is an anguish that I wish on no one, but one I intimately know.

For one small moment, in a sterile clinic waiting room, battered magazine in my lap, I was incredibly thankful for a friend who let me open the cage for the bird, hiding in there, to fly away. The gentle flutter of the wings of sadness passing by the crevices of my heart created a feeling of being beautifully lighter once released.

photo by Laauraa found at http://sgsushant.blogspot.com

photo by Laura Kok found at http://sgsushant.blogspot.com

I couldn’t help but imagine that is how God’s heart feels when he is waiting in the throne room for me to bring the hurt to him. Sadly, more often than not, I embrace the hurt before I carry it to him. I think he often uses friends, family, and yes, even strangers to speak the words I need to hear to relinquish the hurt for which he is so much larger and his grace is more than sufficient to cover. He is waiting with his bottle to collect my tears, a lap big enough for my hurts, and a promise to love me through it all. A perfect reminder: I will always be his child, the one worth waiting for.