Tag Archives: South Dakota

Her heart spoke volumes

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She has been a confidante, a friend, and most importantly an “adopted” grandparent. Grandma Ruth Lee is the matriarch of our church.  At 95 years young, she has been a guiding force in our lives for many years.  She is an encourager and prayer warrior, cementing her place in my heart one day over “coffee”.

As an organizer’s for our church’s National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day service, I had no idea the first year would help Grandma Ruth. “We didn’t have those things back in the day.”  As a momma who has miscarried three babies, my heart momentarily leapt to my throat. Grandma Ruth lost a baby too? I never knew. Little did I know how much she really does understand the longing to want to hold your baby, one more time!

Grandma Ruth grew up on the South Dakota prairie in a home where “God was always with her”.  Recently she shared how relieved she was to learn Ruth Graham didn’t have a special faith acceptance day either.  God was just always with her, and so too, was her mom.  She was mother, friend, and sister to Ruth as an only child.  Even in her 90’s, she still speaks reverently of her parents and her childhood. She went to college to become a teacher, fell in love with her high school sweetheart, and lived a very quiet life. . . until America joined World War II.

Leaving her classroom in Iowa for a few short days, she traveled to Mississippi to marry her love.  Ruth and Bob Lee were wed on Christmas Day in 1941 in the manse of the Presbyterian church.  Without today’s fanfare, they celebrated by going to the movies with the couple who stood up for them. She felt an urgency to return to her school and didn’t tarry long enough to have the honor of pinning her newlywed’s wings.  Today, she laments that decision, following her brain and sense of duty, rather than following her heart and staying for the formal aviators’ graduation.

Her trip “home” was not without complications, however.  The taxi which was supposed to pick her up never arrived, prompting she and Bob to walk to the station.  They arrived in time to see the train pull away.  She had to wait until the next day for the next northbound railcar, which broke down halfway back to Iowa, causing her to resort to telegraphing the school along the route.  Exhausted, she returned four days later than expected.

B17 Super Fortress World War 2 Bomber

B17 Super Fortress World War 2 Bomber

She finished the school year, and along the way discovered she was expecting their first child.  Grandma Ruth returned home to live with her parents while her beloved was halfway around the world flying fifty-one missions at the helm of a B-17 flying fortress.  Waiting for the arrival of a new baby was a delicate time when your husband was serving his country thousands of miles away.

When I first met Grandma Ruth, she was already the matriarch of a family and a church family.  The momma of four and grandmother of many, she loved our family like her own offering comfort to us when our oldest son died. The story I learned a decade after first meeting Grandma was their precious David Paul was born, but lived a little more than an hour. She wrote every day to Bob, but the only letter he ever received was the one informing him of his baby son’s death.  Upon learning the news, all he wanted to know was if his girl was doing okay.

Over coffee one morning, she quietly shared she knew exactly the first thing she was going to do when she got to heaven.  I’m going to rock my baby. I have never forgotten the moment. Many years had passed between her baby passing and our coffee time, but a momma’s heart never forgets. I believe God knows her heart’s desire too, and I am hoping when she gets there, he will have the rocking chair ready.

He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us.  2 Corinthians 1:4 (MSG)

Is there someone in your life today to whom you can offer comfort? Can your story offer hope and healing to another? Grandma Ruth may never know how much her story, shared over a coffee (and a Coke) and some Hardee’s biscuits changed my life forever.  While she was most definitely Bob’s girl, more importantly she is God’s! When to the rest of the world ours is a quiet – often not spoken – hurt, God’s girl, Ruth, boldly shared her heart which gave life-changing, life-breathing hope to mine. Instead of a rocking chair, I think I am going to ask God to have the front porch swing ready when I arrive . . . with toes dangling my babies and Reed and I will swing away.

Sitting with her dear friend, V, Grandma Ruth on the right at her surprise party at our church!

Sitting with her dear friend, V, Grandma Ruth on the right at her surprise party at our church!

Note: October is National Infant and Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Month.  If you have experienced the same pain my “Grandma” and I have, please know our hearts are with yours!

Fourteen years . . . and nothing changed

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I don’t know how it happened. Time literally slipped through my fingers. As much as I am feeling the pain of lost days, my baby girl is experiencing the sadness even more. When I was her age, Christmas took forever to arrive. I am certain for her that date on the calendar is insignificant compared to another date she pines for every day. There is not a day that goes by in which she doesn’t lament how much she misses her big brother. This side of mothering is a terrible tight-rope walk. On one cliff’s edge is the fragile, beating heart of a little girl who misses her other half of the dynamic duo, who loves superheroes and Dr. Who as much as she does. On the other mountaintop is the man who was once our precious boy, scaling to higher and higher heights. Yes, I miss him every day, and I wish he were closer. But I also wish for him to soak up every experience offered to him, hoping his university years are as memorable and cherished as my own.

In between the rock and the hard place, I tenderly cradle my girl while secretly cheering him on.

We do hear from him, albeit not as regularly as his little sidekick would like. I can’t quite be certain, but I would not be surprised to see her create a public shaming encouraging video, like the mom who posted on Facebook explaining to her son how to use the phone to call home. I can see it now: E.T. wants to phone home, and sassy sisters want to hear from their big brothers.

If I were honest with her, I could have known this is how his college days would be. I knew it fourteen years ago . . . on the first day of kindergarten. My theory is that children don’t really change all that much over the years. I knew on day one of kindergarten what move-in day as a college freshman would look like. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

After taking our annual First Day of School pictures in our front yard by the tree near our driveway, we drove away anxiously anticipating a new adventure. The school district where I taught had just built a new K-12 building. We made the difficult and prayer filled decision to open enroll our children so we would all be in the same building with the same schedule. For Reed, it meant leaving his beloved Christian school, but for Sawyer it meant starting fresh as the first kindergarten class in the new school.

I took a picture that day which is still my dad’s all-time favorite photo of my kids. Then we walked from my classroom to each of the boy’s. Reed’s entrance was fraught with a little more questionable outcome because these kids were not his classmates from the previous two years. A quick hug and more than a few prayers went up, as two of us walked on to the kindergarten room. I was hoping for a smooth entrance, but maybe not as a smooth as it actually was.

first day of kindergarten sawyer

I wanted to take in every corner of the excitement known as Kindergarten Room 1, but alas, my boy wanted nothing of it. We no more than stepped into the room when my chubby-cheeked, curly-haired boy spun around and told me, “You can go now.” WHAT? No hug? No photo of your name on the desk. No helping you put your supplies in your cubby. No putting away of your napping mat. No last minute pep talk by the locker. NOPE. Nothing!

All I got was a “You can go now”, and he was off and running. He had people to meet, things to do, and a world to change!

The whole drive to South Dakota to the college of his dreams, he and Sal and I giggled and enjoyed the three hour drive, while Dad and Sister were bringing up the rear with a mini-van full of what every college kid in America was hauling to campus. In my heart, I was trying to tell myself to savor the moment, because I knew it would be over quick, no matter how much I didn’t want to believe it.

Going through the check-in process, we continued to rock out because somewhere he read to have your favorite jams because Move-In day can be long and tedious. They lied. It was neither. His university had the whole process down to assembly-line precision. From start to finish, I think it took less than one hour (which included getting his paperwork and keys in order, hauling all his belongings up three flights of stairs, and unpacking almost all of his items).

As soon as the last box was unpacked, he had the same look he had back in Room 1. The look of a caged animal who knows he is about to be set free. Thankfully, we raised him to be a gentleman and he didn’t actually utter the words, but my heart knew what his heart was saying. . . Mommasita (yes that’s what he calls me) and Dad, I’ve got this! You can go now.

He did at least allow us to get some pictures this time, even though I had to wait fourteen years to get one! And it is a good thing that we parents had on shades to hide the tears behind the dark glass.

first day of college sawyer

The best I can do is to savor each moment, because it won’t be that long before I will be sending my girls off to college. We will have to trust that we did some things right along the way, and that God has the rest covered. But hey! If my theory proves right, we might want to warn the university that we will have to peel one of the girls off of me, and I will be sending some of my students to check in on her to make sure the crying has stopped.

But for now, I will cradle my sweet girl and together we will miss her big brothers – the ones in heaven and the one away at college.

Happily ever after and once upon a time

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On a flight from Minneapolis to Orlando, the onboard movie kept cutting in and out, much to the frustration of all who were trying to watch it. After many different stops and starts, all viewers were able to finally watch a good chunk of the movie until the pilot announced that it was time for our final descent, thus we would not be able to finish the movie. To hopefully soothe some ruffled feathers, he joyfully announced, “I am sorry ladies and gentlemen that we will be unable to show today’s movie, Dear John, to the end. Let’s just say the boy gets the girl, and they all live happily ever after.” Since I was only half-heartedly watching (or attempting to watch in between praying for my life and squeezing the blood out of my husband’s hand because this was a flight back before Freedom Day), I didn’t care much about the ending, concentrating much more on what survival skills I might need to employ should anything go wrong.

All that energy spent on worrying about nothing. I had already lived through my worst nightmare, and at that point was still daily living with its aftershocks of medications and therapy visits. Sometimes, I look back and wonder why I wasted so much of my energy on all that worrying, often missing the joy of some of the best blessings I have ever received. The greatest of those has been the friends who have come along on our journey and who have loved our family in incredible ways.

One of those dear friends found us through Caring Bridge. She was a two-time survivor of thyroid cancer, a prolific supporter of those battling other illnesses and injuries, a prayer warrior extraordinaire, an avid outdoorswoman, and champion to returning soldiers and their families. Just writing this, I am amazed at all she could accomplish in a day. She befriended our family while Sawyer was still a patient at St. Mary’s hospital in Rochester, a tireless friend and encourager who would daily post our prayer requests on her webpage. Having never met in person, she helped orchestrate for our family to be guests at a Minnesota Twins game. We asked her to join us, because she we really wanted to meet her.

From our first moment together, our kids were smitten with the dynamo, they quickly named their “Auntie Stacy”. Over the years, we had other times we would get together, where she would prove that “auntie” was the perfect title. Very few know this, but it was she who gave us the inspiration for the Reed-A Cheetah program, buying the very first Reed-A Cheetah at the Mall of America’s Build-A-Bear workshop. She encouraged our kiddos’ interests, and even went so far as to ask them to be official photographers of one of the military hunts she helped organize for returning soldiers. Imagine the pride they had at being a part of the official team helping military families.

Shortly, before graduation, I received a message from her saying that she would like to return the favor, by taking pictures at Sawyer’s graduation party. We were ecstatic for such a gift, because we knew our evening would be hustle and bustle. She was so proud of the young man, who called her auntie and for whom she had relentlessly prayed.

Sadly, she wasn’t able to join our party, in the way we had hoped. A couple weeks before our Boy Wonder’s graduation, Auntie Stacy collapsed at work. Although, she was rushed to the hospital, the woman who to all of us was larger than life passed away six days before his big day. Her funeral service was held the day of his commencement, just three hours prior. Due to the distance between our homes, we were unable to attend.

Our hearts were broken. How could this happen? I shared our sadness on Facebook, and another dear friend, who wanted to honor Stacy’s life, stepped up at the last minute to fulfill her wish to photograph our evening. Although her presence was not like the ending of that in-flight movie, tucked quietly into the decorations of his party was one of the photographs our kids took of her on “official” duty. It wasn’t the “happily ever after” moment we would have all wished for. Yet, a love like hers never completely dies, but rather lingers forever, because once upon a time, my children were loved by Auntie Stacy.

Just one of the puppies Auntie Stacy arranged to be given to returning soldiers. She was a dynamo in life and will be missed!

Just one of the puppies Auntie Stacy arranged to be given to returning soldiers. She was a dynamo in life and will be missed!

*Special note: The Reed-A-Cheetah program is our family’s way of giving back to the hospital where Reed died. The Reed Stevens Legacy program is available at the Avera McKennan hospital in Sioux Falls, SD. A stuffed cheetah is given to the surviving siblings of any child who passes away at that medical facility. The cheetah (which was Reed’s favorite animal) is extremely rare in nature and so, too are the relationships that siblings share with each other. The cheetahs symbolize three children in Minnesota who understand what it is like to lose a special sibling.

8 days: the shepherds were told to go

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It’s a really great “job” I have, sitting on a philanthropic and community-minded board. Three times today, I had the opportunity to go spend give back funds for others in our community. It is such a wonderful feeling to give, and I love being a part of this organization. Joy, utter joy, is the best way to describe what it is like to give expecting nothing in return.

In the midst of all this elation filled giving, I received a text message from my sister. Her inquiry was as honest and heartfelt as I had fielded in a while. Recently a dear friend of hers lost her husband in a very tragic way. My heart still hurts for them. My baby sister wanted to know if it was okay to send a Christmas card. Ironically, I had read a blog yesterday about that very topic. My personal experience was so much different than the author’s I struggled just to get through it. Many of the cards and well wishes we received that first Christmas did exactly what the author requested; they acknowledged the hurt we were pushing through.

My first suggestion was to definitely send a card, but to make sure to send a note expressing that you are thinking of her and that you understand how difficult this first Christmas is going to be. All the firsts will be. But to be honest, I found the second year much more challenging than the first. The reality of the empty (chair, stocking, Easter basket, or backpack) of the second year was, for me, much more despair-inducing because the hole was always going to be there. Reed wasn’t coming back, and as a doer, I needed to do something to fill that hole.

The morning after the crash with one son gone and one son fighting for his life in intensive care, my best friend asked me one question. Do I need to go get you some yarn and knitting needles? Like I said, I am a doer. It takes a very special friend to recognize your need “to do something” to help you heal, which ties in to the second suggestion I made to my sister today.

Through my flying fingers, I suggested acknowledge the hurt, but more importantly, DO SOMETHING in her honor of her friend who had passed. An act of kindness or a gift in memory reminds the world the person we loved was here. They mattered. They made a difference. Their light shone brightly while they were here. We had a few of those kinds of cards too. These cards, like soothing balm, told us they were praying for us, they gave to a child in need, they were lighting a candle in our son’s memory or my personal favorite they shared a Reed story.

The healing began through those acts of kindness, no matter how big or small. For a doer like me, the leap to paying it forward wasn’t a hard one to make. Sitting on a board that has a mission of pouring back into its community wasn’t a stretch either. My son loved to give to others, and every time we do, in his name or in private, his light continues to shine . . . like a beacon peeking out from the holes in our hearts.

Cheetahs - Reed's favorite animal. Given as part of the Reed Stevens Memorial Legacy Program at Avera McKennon hospital to any surviving sibling of a child who passes away at the same hospital Reed did.

Cheetahs – Reed’s favorite animal. Given as part of the Reed Stevens Memorial Legacy Program at Avera McKennon hospital to any surviving sibling of a child who passes away at the same hospital Reed did.

Motorcycle Momma

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Not that long ago, I did something that I think many nice Christian girls dream of doing. I took up with a motorcycle gang. Okay, I am just kidding. Sort of.

I didn’t become a gang member, but I played one on TV while on vacation. Actually, my sweetie loves his ride, and I agreed albeit somewhat grudgingly to go along on a four day motorcycle trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota with some other friends (read: cycle enthusiasts).

This wasn’t my first ride, and it certainly won’t be my last. The begrudging part was while it was a dream destination for my husband, having a sore butt (from not riding often enough), chapped lips and face, and more tangles than Dirty Sally ever encountered are not my go-to ideas of a great time. My fantasy vacations involve sandy shores, lots of seafood (with sweet tea, of course), and just enough sea-spray to give my natural curls a permanent beach-wave.

Because I love my sweetie, I “signed on the dotted line” to go for an adventure of a lifetime. That it was in more ways than one. At one point on the trip, I leaned in close and whispered (this is a relative term on bike speeding down the road) about how I cannot imagine how one could ever drive through Spearfish Canyon and enjoy it without being on a cycle. I think that was the moment sweetie longed for – me to love what he loves doing.

devils tower

There was much more to that trip than one moment, and perhaps someday, I will share more. But for anyone who follows this blog at all, the second you see the words “Kandy” and “trip”, you know it is time to grab something to drink, some Kleenex, and get ready for another crazy “How does she end up in these places?” story.

As I have already confessed, every day my bum was as sore as that one time I tried the “Buns of Steel” work-out video in college. If I knew all I needed to get a gluteal work-out was spend hours on the back of a motorcycle, well I would have taken this up biker babe thing long before my thirties.

Bun work-out is one thing. Intestinal fortitude is another.

On our first full day of riding, all was going well . . . until it wasn’t.

My stomach started churn. I felt like the horsepower under my rear was gaining strength in my intestines. We made a pit stop to fuel up – both the rides and ourselves. I politely declined as I made a beeline to the bathroom.

I was there a long time, actually praying asking God to not let me ruin this vacation for my husband. I wanted it to be all that he wanted it to be.

(I later learned that he was ready to send in a search party because I didn’t come back.)

Meanwhile back in the bathroom, another fellow traveler was having similar troubles.

I overheard a momma trying to console a weary (and sick) child with promises of not being far from home and apologies that the hot dog didn’t agree with the medicine. Eventually, we both came out to use the one sink at the same time. The sick baby was a three year old little boy who was a little taken aback when he saw me all dressed in leather.

I told the momma I didn’t mind waiting for them to use the sink first, knowing how hard it is to travel with sick kiddos. I helped her the best way I could. Then with tired eyes, she explained what I had overheard. She didn’t have to do that, but I was in the right place at the right time, and despite my tough biker chick façade, I know she could see my eyes held the key to a gentle soul.

My son has leukemia. The chemo he is taking is really taking a toll on him.

I teared up and gave her a hug. It was all I had to offer.

She quickly exited as her number one priority was to get to the safety of her home. HOME –  the powerful siren’s call that we all long to hear.

After washing up in the bathroom, I ran as fast as I could outside hoping to catch her. She was just backing away from the gas station when I lightly rapped on her side door.

As she rolled the window down, I asked her what her son’s name was and told her I would be praying for him, for them. Tears were all she had to offer.

As I walked back to my gang, who now had faces of bewilderment, I staved off their obvious questions of what exactly just happened here with the only answer that made sense.

God made me sick so I could help that little boy and his momma.

He needed me to be in that bathroom at that moment to give encouragement to one momma who desperately needed to know that someone cared. The funny thing is my stomach was fine from that moment forward. God just needed to slow me down for a little while.

So, little Gavin, wherever you are: I will never forget how God put us together in that bathroom. Every time I suit up and ride, I am praying for you on the back of that bike.

 

 

Prisoner of the high seas

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

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

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

cruise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

Blossom and bloom

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Nowatzki Family Homestead by Neil Nowatzki (All Rights Reserved)

Nowatzki Family Homestead by Neil Nowatzki (All Rights Reserved)

Twenty – two years is a relatively long time to spend with one person by some standards.  Over the course of those years, I am so glad that we have lost some of the formality of titles.  At some point, I just started calling his people – MY PEOPLE!  When I talk about my cousins (like Ellen or Amy) or sisters (Mary, Rita, or Lori), I don’t mention the words in-laws any longer. First of all it is exhausting and complicated to explain the relationships, and second, in God’s eyes we are all family.  Frankly, I don’t like to say, “Well this is so-n-so and she is married to Daniel’s cousin”, because honestly we are closer than our husbands; therefore, we ARE the cousins! Along with my own people, I quite possibly have one of the biggest families around.

Woven into the fabric of families are traditions and treasures.  I recently finished the memoirs of an adopted grandma (Here I go again! My FAMILY is HUGE!), and cradled in her words were examples of those sweet time-honored traditions like the ebb and flow of life on the South Dakota prairie.  While it might get missed by the careless reader, one such tradition shared over and over was that of lunch twice a day.  (I could write a whole book on colloquialisms of the word lunch, but on the prairie that meant coffee about nine or nine-thirty and again at two. Just roll with it, if that’s not your definition of lunch.)  When I read her words, I was surrounded by the warm cozy feeling you get when wrapped in a favorite old quilt.

On Friday, I had my own blessed encounter – shared with my beloved – regarding a treasure that originated in his family.   Said treasure is a rose bush that started out on the family homestead in Wales, North Dakota. This was the home where my other Mom and her siblings were raised in the backyard of the Canadian border.  As my understanding goes, cuttings from the rose followed the family into town, and later into the yards and gardens of the children and grandchildren of Grandpa and Grandma Nowatzki.

A few years back, we asked Mom if we could have a cutting for our front yard garden.  She said that we could, but the time of year wasn’t the best to make one.  Unbeknownst to us, she and Rita lovingly and tenderly drove the cuttings down to Minnesota later that summer.  Promptly, we planted it right outside our bedroom window, where we nursed, fertilized, and generally loved on that plant.

More than once, I was moved to tears because she never looked like she held much promise. I felt like such a failure when it came to the Wales rose (clearly not her trade name, but as my sister Mary says, it’s her name now).   In fact, one time a friend came to help me do some landscaping and declared our family treasure – a stick.  I vehemently argued that she was, indeed, NOT a stick. How could she think such a thing?  I explained it was a family heirloom and exhorted that I was disappointed that she couldn’t see its beauty inherent.  The slight shrug of her shoulders indicated she wasn’t convinced.

Over the weekend, we were a demolition crew, home remodelers, landscape architects, and home organizers, all wrapped into one big team.  During the landscaping portion of our home improvement, I was beckoned to come quickly by  my sweetie watering the garden bed between our house and the neighbors.  There was urgency in his voice that I don’t normally hear.  I jumped up and came running.  Upon arrival, all I saw were some zinnia cotyledons and beautiful clematis flowers (both of which I had seen all week).  My perplexed eyebrows must have given a hint at my annoyance of being called away from Reed’s garden.  A quick head nod indicating around the corner of the house to the front garden changed my outlook.  I moved over a few footsteps and was stopped breathlessly in my tracks.  There were two of the most beautiful blossoms on our prized Wales rosebush.

wales rose

I smiled in the middle of happy tears at two thoughts.  We finally did it – loved her enough to blossom!  Followed by how much love one man could give, fully knowing that simple sight would make my day!  He knows this because he also knows that none of my childhood favorites would survive the harsh winters of Minnesota; therefore, I had to adopt one of his.

Later as I got ready for bed, I saw those beautiful blooms outside my window.  I felt my heart stirring.  I’m probably a whole lot like that rosebush to God.  When, at times in my life, I have been the stick, He just kept on coaxing and nudging – hoping that I would bloom. (If you have ever read The Shack, the Holy Spirit as a gardener fits here perfectly.)  He didn’t give up when others declared – she is just a stick with thorns.  Nope! He saw the potentiality, the promise, the HOPE he had for me and my future.  I definitely needed pruning (don’t we all?) along the way, but there, at the core, was God’s beauty just waiting for the perfect timing to bloom.

Then sings my soul . . .

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I have written before about how God continually teaches me that lemons are just blessings waiting to happen.  Last Thursday was another one of those chalkboard sessions for me and my Papa.  I was disgruntled because one of our vehicles was in the shop, and we had three different directions to travel.  Thus, I was forced to rent a vehicle to make a trip to work on my upcoming BIG announcement. (I will admit that our local Enterprise agent is perhaps one of the sweetest people in this town; so, if I had to rent a car, at least, I got to spend time with that ray of sunshine.)

After taking off down the road, I remembered that she said the vehicle had satellite radio.  So I decided to channel surf, and I eventually landed on WSM which is the station for the Grand Ole Opry.  Right there in that compact car I had a front row seat at the funeral of The Possum, country music legend George Jones.

Listening to story after story, I realized quickly that George Jones could have been my uncle.  He embodied the working class of Southerners who work, eat, play, and, most importantly, pray hard.  All the things that describe my people: salt of the earth, kind-hearted souls who love Jesus and who love to eat. George faced demons that are similar to ones that are a part of the fabric of my family’s story.  The golden voice made us laugh, but the songs that touched me were the ones that made me cry and reminded me that through it all God loves us.

That message was repeated over and over during the moving service.  My two favorite speakers were two Mikes:  Mike Huckabee and George’s pastor, Mike Wilson.  Right there on a South Dakota highway, I was transported to Nashville, listening to the words of encouragement and wisdom.  Pastor Mike shared about how the transformed George was beloved by children – much like some of my real uncles, and one who rested in the knowledge of his ultimate destination – again like my uncles.  But it was Huckabee’s words that stirred something deep within my heart, bringing to the surface how much I miss “amen’s” from white church pews.

As he spoke my soul was ignited, and out blurted the words that no one heard but me. “Preach on, Governor!”  Hands raised (okay, one hand – I was driving) I was praising God for the message that was the Possum’s life.  The story was simple. He loved people for who they were and he understood the temptations, traps, and toils that ensnare us all.

George understood that Jesus loves the hardworking men and women of this country.  He knew that if Jesus was here today, He would have been at the honky-tonk on Friday night.  Not to live the life, but to the love people.  ~ Governor Mike Huckabee

I, for one, think we need to hear a whole lot more of that song – the song of love in the world. 4H

So on that day, I was thanking God for rental cars, satellite radio, men brave enough to change our hearts and The Possum.