Twice in the last week, I have heard the same alarming study. The television and news journal both telling the findings of recent research regarding the endemic rise of heroin use among younger and younger people. After hearing the details of the gateway experience attributed to this alarming trend, I was overcome with grief for the families chronicled in the stories.
My husband will explain he judges the quality of a story, movie, or commercial by my reaction. Not ashamed to admit: I am a crier. If the story causes me to cry, his judgment is two thumbs up. No emotional reaction means it probably wasn’t worth watching.
Yet the visceral response after hearing of the families impacted by heroin use, brought me to my knees in tearful praise. Tearful praise? How could that be my reaction you might wonder?
The proverb – There but for the grace of God – would be aptly fitting here. The youth in the studies had one common link – a childhood injury treated with narcotic pain-killers. I am not anti-pharmaceutical, but I remember a day when we were forced to make a decision.
Following the bus crash, one of the Sawyer’s doctors prescribing higher and higher doses of pain medications which had us questioning this line of treatment. Don’t get me wrong . . . my son’s physical and emotional pain exceeded any human scale, but my spirit was unsettled. If we continue to give him more and more of these medicines, what will happen in his future when he gets hurt?
With my educational background, I have enough knowledge of neuroscience, chemistry, and biology to understand how complex biological systems adjust to a new state of homeostasis.
Sitting in that doctor’s office hearing the physician wanted to add another narcotic to the already lengthy list for an eleven year old had me baffled. After consulting with other friends, who happen to be physicians and who shared our concerns, we changed doctors.
The first thing the new medical team prescribed was to wean off the narcotic pain medications immediately (as in do not pass Go and do not collect $200) which was acknowledgement of all my worries. I knew my son wanted to return to playing sports, and I knew injuries are often part and parcel with the sports he played. While other moms were praying for all the things moms pray, I was praying those things too with one addition, that my child’s brain chemistry would not crave medications to numb the pains.
God answered those prayers.
When I heard the news story, the vivid reminders of those prayers came flooding back. God answered the prayers of a broken hearted momma, who had nothing to offer other than open hands hoping for divine provision to fill the emptiness.
On my knees, tears flowing down. I praised him over and over for answered prayers. My heart overwhelmed with the power of what God achieved from the desires of my heart. Every surgical procedure, after the day we walked out of that original doctor’s office, we would take the powerful prescribed medications unopened to the police station for disposal.
Mightily, God answered the prayers of a mom who wanted to claim a future beyond his darkest day. Overcome with gratitude and through tearful praise, I thanked God for the provision and while I was there, I asked for his comfort for all the families whose story did not mimic ours.
My heart breaks for the families impacted by addiction, and if you have a little room in your prayers, consider praying for each of them asking God to someday provide for them a day of tearful praise.
By JFXie (Flickr: O Praise Him) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
Dear Miss Nelle –
I never had the honor of meeting you, and I hope you wouldn’t mind me greeting you so informally. Your story and mine are intertwined in ways many would not have imagined possible.
Years ago my dad shared how your then two year old book, To Kill A Mockingbird, was assigned reading in his sophomore year of high school. He still chuckles over how this played out among his rural Alabama country school mates. The movie version had just been released and most of his classmates went to see the movie, featuring the dreamy Gregory Peck, rather than read the book. I know you have left us now, but something in me wants to apologize for their youthfulness. I like to believe you would have been proud of my Daddy, because he chose to write his report chronicling the differences between the book and the movie script. My now college son laughs at how that must have gone over in class of twelve. I have read of your admiration for your father, similarly my apple doesn’t fall far. My Dad is my hero, and his love of learning is embedded and encoded in every fiber of my being. We are both educators now, and perhaps his book report was a gift to the Beauregard School teacher.
Loving your words is just one small example of paths crossing. Imagine my sophomoric shock when I discovered as a teenager the place where we had travelled all our lives for Back-to-School clothes was your hometown. Every year we would drive to Monroeville to stretch the dollars of a teacher’s salary to buy jeans and other items at the Vanity Fair outlet. Those were the days of family outings as often three generations of my family would spend a day perusing the aisles of denim dungarees (as my Granddaddy called them) and various unmentionables. Looking back now, I am guessing I was walking on hallowed ground where most likely you had once trod.
Although he never reached high school, I passed on the love of Scout and Jem and Boo to my oldest child. He spent the summer before seventh grade reading what I lovingly called the “classics”. After reading the stories, we would watch the film versions. He agreed with his grandfather’s assessment years before -the book and his imagination won out.
There have been many other moments woven into the fabric of my life – a family vacation to visit the your hometown, the reading of Truman Capote’s classic and wondering about all the ways you helped him research, naming one of the family dog’s Scout (though I don’t know if that would make you proud or cringe), and gifting my Daddy the opportunity to play a juror in the stage play (which he claims was the gift of a lifetime). All moments in dedication and honor of someone who probably never wanted all the acclaim given her.
To someone who has been a fan of yours from the first chapter, riveted by the words of your story. I couldn’t believe my ears as I sat at home on my darkest day – the anniversary of the day my son died. Much like your private retreat from the spotlight, on that day I always seek the sanctity of somewhere safe with someone good. As I was reflecting on the day, snuggled tight with my tears and memories, I heard the newscast which caused me to shed a few more tears. The anchor announced the world was saying good-bye to Nelle Harper Lee. The world didn’t notice but I certainly did – a favorite author and my favorite reader share a heaven’s anniversary date.
My heart broke and was comforted at the same time – such is the dichotomous nature of grief. I can only imagine if my red-headed wonder has run into you in heaven he will have about a million and a half questions. My best advice would be to grab a couple RC Cola’s and settle in for a great conversation. Maybe – just maybe – he will save a few for me when I get there. And if you don’t mind, I would sure love to hug your neck when I do.
May your days now be filled with peace and thank you, Miss Nelle, for the memories.
American flag – photo credit Euclid Library
I’ve always been interested in politics. Well, at least since the summer of 6th grade. I was visiting my Nanny and Granddaddy and while they were busy running a wholesale nursery business, I watched the national conventions (for both major parties I might add). All the fanfare of speeches promising to make America better had me hooked. Not that at that time in my life I had strong opinions about what was wrong with my country, but the passion for citizenship was alluring. I have never had an interest in running for office, but I believe the election process is one that we should all teach our children.
I am a product of the Weekly Reader voting booths. I remember the pomp and circumstance with which the whole experience was created and carried out back in my days at Gentian Elementary School in Columbus, Georgia. The school used actual voting booths (complete with the little patriotic curtains) as we marched solemnly to cast our votes for either Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan. The excitement was palpable even if we were marching silently in straight lines to make our mark on history.
Jumping forward in time, I have always taken my children (even in car seats) to the voting booth with me. I read each word to them, and we discuss our choices (even though only my vote counted). I am THAT mom. The one huddled in the corner of the room so as not to disturb other voters. This election season one of my children has reached voting age, and I am thrilled he will be exercising his right to do so, which leads to today’s message.
Having formerly lived in primary states, the caucus system was a somewhat new experience for me. I wish my voting record (including reading ballots WORD FOR WORD to my kiddos) or my re-creation of my childhood voting booth for the last twelve years for my children’s school would be enough alone to speak to my patriotism. It would not because I would only be fooling myself. The truth is until Reed was twelve I had never participated in a caucus before.
After learning about the caucus process, Reed really wanted to attend and watch (obviously being too young to participate). For those who knew my red-headed wonder, his passion for a new idea or learning concept had no limits. In his enthusiasm, he attempted to persuade his Social Studies teacher to offer extra credit to all who attended a caucus of their choice. In Mr. W’s defense, I think he thought Reed was looking for a few extra points, when in reality he was trying to encourage his classmates to get out and learn. I don’t know what the final outcome was of those extra points, but I do know that my sweet boy attended his first caucus and was thrilled by the experience.
I didn’t tag along with Reed that year because we had already made plans to have dinner guests that evening. If I knew then, what I know now, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Reed only lived one more week of life, but that one evening of learning is one that has never left me. He cared more about what makes this country great than he worried about missing an hour of dinner with great friends.
We need more of that in America.
There are many times in life when the student becomes the teacher. That night was no different. I remember his enthusiastic conversation as I picked him up. He was genuinely proud to be a part of history in the making, agog over the choice he would have made in the straw poll. I secretly took pride and felt disappointed at the same time. Proud of my young man for growing up and living out his passion for learning and disappointed that I wasn’t there to enjoy it with him.
So no matter your beliefs or ideologies, think about living out your patriotism for one little red-headed wonder (who would have advocated for extra credit for all of us). Step out of your comfort zone, learn something new, and be a part of what makes America AWESOME! I know Reed would be proud of my plans for the evening.
Hey Reed – Today before I opened my eyes, my ears heard the tell-tale signs of rain. My heart was somehow relieved, an acknowledgement heaven was crying with me, with us, on your heaven day. The cold rain fell and the winds blew – reminding me how grief sometimes storms my heart.
But then just like this actual day, I am reminded of one little promise.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
The gray skies were still reigning. My heart was with Sawyer, Erin, and Clo hoping that no matter what was going on in their schools today that they were being loved. The unexpected shone brightly and my heart felt lighter.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
The rain plastered the picture window, but the calls, the texts, the Facebook messages, the cards were stronger. Laughter peeled when love came riding up in a minivan. There were bended knees and we felt each prayer lifted up. Each kindness sang a melody of “You are loved. He is not forgotten. You are loved. We are with you. ”
And God said, “Let there be light.”
When I wasn’t watching the rain lifted, and the sunshine came out in full force. I don’t recall the last time the sun shone as bright on your heaven day. I felt wrapped in one of those sneaky from behind hugs you mastered in your time on earth.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
Yours shines brightly still.
I can feel the warmth radiating through glass panes. We still deal with many layers of the grief and the aftermath of this day. Then there are moments when I remember how incredibly lucky we are to have such amazing, resilient and kindhearted kiddos. I think you would be proud of them. The college guy comes home and we forget to tell him we are going to a game with a passel of 5th grade girls. The results melted my heart and remind me of how much you loved others.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
Remember all the hours you spent in the church nursery loving on the little ones. Sister shares those genes. We went to another game, and this happened.
That morning, she didn’t even know those kiddos. By suppertime, they moved their chairs to sit by her at the restaurant. She loves them all. I swear we cannot go anywhere without a little one running up and giving her a hug. It is beautiful and precious and I think you must be doing this every day in heaven.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
Then there is the littlest one. I blink and often I think that she is you. You share so many of the same loves that I forget you didn’t share more time together. We still tell the stories. We share the tales – lest she forget the details. One day, she sang and sang in her room. I listened to the music, but didn’t hear the words. When she shared, my heart ached for more time, but I now know she won’t forget.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
And while you were here, yours shone the brightest of all.
Reed – we love and miss you every day.
Love – Mom
GRIEF came to visit a few days ago and to make matters worse he brought EXHAUSTION, the kind of fatigue that causes the world to swirl as I sink further away. I STRUGGLE to hold my head up, to keep my teary eyes open. Deep in the back of mind, I am reminded all those who say I am a STRONG. Do they not know how some days I can barely BREATHE? The maniacal laughter of DOUBT rises from my soul as I remember a recent splurge of DISTRACTION. Drawn by the allure of my roots, I played one of those silly online quizzes to uncover my Celtic name.
I am certain Boudicca would be DISAPPOINTED. I feel nothing like a Celtic warrior. The lingering thoughts of FAILURE of all those I have let down wiggle to the surface. I want to rise up and fight the INVASION, but I have absolute zero ENERGY left to do so. I WORRY about the ways I am not enough for my husband, my kids.
Then somewhere from deep inside me my own words come back to HAUNT me.
Be gentle and kind to yourself.
I may not be a warrior, but in the moment, those appear to be wise words. I CHOOSE to EMBRACE them. I don’t plan away the seconds, and I am PRESENT in the moments of our ordinary day – a day scarred by GRIEF and EXHAUSTION. I CHOOSE not to listen to the enemy’s LIES.
Eventually, I do the only thing that makes any sense. I CRY out to God. I lift an OFFERING of EMPTINESS. Empty hands and lifted face pour out a heart that hurts. And as much as a warrior I am NOT, he is – a LEGION of comforters at the ready.
HOPE arrives.
My daily bread.
My nothing is transformed into his SOMETHING.
It is the SMALL that I find the IMMENSE. God is present in it all.
A phone call from a friend who just “knew” I needed encouragement – RE-ENERGIZES and REFRESHES. A card from a coworker ACKNOWLEDGES the pain and reminds me that many are PRAYING. A Facebook message WHISPERS – God loves you!
I LIFT empty hands and DISCOVER God’s hands are not empty because I am CRADLED there, rocked gently by his LOVE. Even though GRIEF came to visit, God PROVIDED the comfort to ask the houseguest to leave.
And for me that is MORE than ENOUGH.
No matter how hard I resist, a good quality book fair will suck me in every time. The memories of all the hours cuddled up with my kiddos on the floor, beds, or couches, in the van, at the park, and on gymnasium bleachers fondly race through my mind. This is the only excuse I can proffer for the reason I stopped by the book fair organized by the EMSP club at the campus where I teach. Like a moth drawn to an inviting light, I tried hard to avoid the colorful display, but eventually succumbed to the adventures found within the pages of a good book. I perused the titles, read the jackets, and one book sang its siren song . . . until the next thing I knew I had purchased the hardcover wonder to take back to my office. Safely behind closed doors, I read The Day the Crayons Came Home by Drew Daywalt and laughed until my sides hurt. I couldn’t wait to take my new treasure home to share with my youngest, even though neither of us fit the book’s targeted demographic.
Much like the book’s story, a once beloved item recently found its way home to our house. I wish I could say its arrival brought celebratory joy. Unfortunately after it was dropped off, numb was all I felt. My sweetie confessed to having similar feelings and we decided we would tuck it quietly away. The day Reed’s glasses, well one lens, came back to us was a day filled with tears of joy, but we have been so overwhelmed with intense feelings of disappointment recently that when Reed’s coat was returned to us, it was just one more reminder of the pain we still endure.
Without fanfare, I hung the coat in the closet.
And there it has hung – a silent reminder to a boy who isn’t coming home.
Days come and days go and my thoughts don’t swirl around the camouflage winter jacket hanging in the front closet.
Then in a search for a lost mitten, I see it again and stand frozen before the door, while everyone else is trying frantically to get by me. I stand in silent agony and let the tears fall.
In some small, weird way, I feel I owe the coat more. Reed loved that coat and all it signified. He was now a hunter, following in the footsteps of his dad and his Grandpa Earl before him. If the coat were like the crayons in the book that made me smile, perhaps it might pen a message to us about its journey home.
Dear Family –
I know you didn’t expect my return. I have been safely tucked away in a quiet corner at the house of someone you hold dear. The someone who was called to come and pick me up when the broken pieces of your life laid strewn across a highway, later to be scooped up and sorted through. Unlike the backpacks and shoes that never made it home, I was spared the fate of those other items. I see when you open the closet, you catch your breath. It is hard not to notice. I never meant to cause you any pain.
I remember the day our boy first put me on. He found me nestled under the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, sitting next to a new duck call and a gift certificate for duck and goose decoys. When he put me on I could feel how proud he was, standing a little taller, officially a hunter with all his gear. Pride mingled with joy are amazing feelings. He wore me every day after that through all those cold and bitter days. The only day he didn’t wear me in the few months we were together was when he needed his parka to go skiing with his best buddies and Dad. I didn’t mind the slight, because I knew he always chose me when we romped and wrestled in the snow with Huck each day.
One of the best smells in the world is wet boy mixed with wet dog and I proudly wore it.
Our last day together wasn’t anything spectacular, other than being cold when we left the house. I waited quietly stuffed in his messy locker while he went through his day. I never complained how disorganized it was, because I knew our adventures would begin as soon as the bell rang.
I just didn’t know that day would be our last.
Why we got to the bus so early that day, I will never know, because most days we barely made it on in time. Sitting there behind Sawyer, it was time to go home . . . only I didn’t know which home that meant for our boy.
I know our story didn’t end the way you had expected. You know – the story where I either ended up well worn with holes or passed onto the next one in line or given away to someone more needy. I didn’t expect to be locked away in a box for over seven years, waiting to come home.
And while I want you to know I feel your pain every time you open the closet. I was proud to be the one who gave our boy his last warm hug, wrapping around him for one last time. There are others in the world who would feel the pride and joy he once had, and it is okay with me if you want to give me to another. My suggestion would be the cute little girl who will someday soon tag along on some really epic adventures.
Either way just know – I was proud to have been loved by our boy.
Sincerely
Camo Coat
The turning of a calendar page
Such a simple act for most people. For me, the turning eleven months out of the year is no problem. But, there is always a but, the twelfth month is a harsh reminder. A reminder that the waves I don’t see now are swirling out there in the inky abyss and they will come crashing down around us at various times in the course of these twenty-nine days. I am not ready. I haven’t packed any lifelines – other than well-worn knees that ask God for divine portions of his heavenly grace.
I turn the page and see the young man born in this month. As great as my sadness is I can only imagine the dichotomous roller coaster he must feel. Celebrating the day God gave him to us, to the world, but (there it is again) a few days prior we mourn the loss of his best friend – our first born. The world grew darker when our little sunshine was dimmed. In a world where he was perfectly happy to be second to the big brother who was his world, do we now make him feel second even more so as we regroup from our sadness to celebrate his awesomeness.
The waves start to crash down. I confidently know that we are part of God’s melodic love song. Reed’s verse was shorter than we had hoped. But my heart’s song will always echo more. More. I just wanted more.
Like those waves of grief, I cannot stop the reverberation of more.
The cheerleaders, the well-wishers, the givers, and those on bended knee are still there. Their love carries us forward, even when we know the waves are coming. We prepare ourselves to be beaten into the rocks and to taste to saltiness of the waves. Somehow we are buoyed by those who remember.
Then an unexpected wave comes crashing down. I am caught completely off guard.
Stinging tears fall down. Maybe it is because I know the page turning will commence soon. Maybe the month I dread is on the next page. Time flies when you are having fun and sneaks in when you aren’t ready.
Everyone is gone from home and I sit and cry. I cry remembering all those long ago moments when the holes and scars and battle wounds didn’t fill our days. The days when life was simple, and we would spend half a summer day in our jammies and be filled with the wonders of the world.
Then somewhere deep in the cortical folds I remember the games we made up. The ones we played (momma and kiddos) on the white carpeted floor. The games where we would play for hours and fall out laughing from the joy of our silliness. I long for those days. I want to savor them, hold them in my aching arms and embrace them. The scent of childhood innocence still lingers here.
The memory of the game makes me laugh and smile, but it makes me cry even more. The simplicity of days. The joy of memories of days long ago, but days that God allowed us to have. The memories are too precious to carry alone.
I grab the phone and text the college son.
Having a tough grief day. Missing the days when we played “we are going to make a salad”.
In one moment, the university man remembers his time as one of the boys of summer, Stevens style.
That game was the best and me and Reed always had to be hair ball ingredients.
His response – reassuring and validating – was like manna of grace raining down. The lifelines I hadn’t packed God amply supplied. God’s grace. God’s amazing, providential, all-loving grace seeps into the dark crevices that ache for the time when this month wasn’t painful.
Once again, I am reminded that God’s light shines brightest in the darkness. Through it all – the pitch black of grief and the moments of silliness in our summer jammies and everything in between – God’s love has been in every moment.
And come what may in the tsunamic waves of grief and the turning of calendar pages; this same love will carry us through.
God once said, “Let the light shine out of the darkness!”
2 Corinthians 4:6a (NCV)
An unexpected rap at the door on a cold wintry night removed me from a cozy blanket cocoon. A sleepless night the previous evening prompted my unusual self-indulgence. Standing at the door was a dear friend, passing through town. Maybe it was the fogginess of a tired brain, but his appearance served as a beacon to remember – write that blog, write that blog.
Many times the teacher becomes the student. Watching this friend has been all lesson in my life as this man, and his family, have been the models of generosity.
Snow melted off of sturdy boots while we talked in my living room and old dog inched closer for extra rubbings behind elderly ears. The impromptu visit became a necessity because of a societal ill – never enough time. The last time our lives crossed paths was when my friend had been honored for being a Hometown Hero – a title more than aptly fitting.
What a blessing it was to surprise him with the bestowed honor and to be there among those who like us had been recipients of his family’s boundless gifts of love, time and resources. All in attendance were there to surprise him. But here is the thing about heroes, they never cease to amaze. After learning of the award and the monetary award to a charity of his choice, he stunned everyone in the room. He quietly explained how he had hoped to surprise all of us by awarding Special Olympics with a donation. The givers became doubly blessed as not one but two checks were awarded to some of his biggest fans. Not a dry eye could have been found in the room.
I have witnessed his family who models what it means to give generously – especially to those small, overlooked, and often without a voice. Special Olympics, Big Buddies, and the Ronald McDonald house were some of the bigger names. The others are too numerous to list, but among them are the grieving, the souls beat up by loss that while the rest of the world goes on they are trying desperately to make it to the next minute. It is a marathon for life’s breath. My family would be among the recipients of their beautiful commitment to loving others even when, at times, the world was falling apart around them.
Without their help, our dream of remembering Reed at the hospital where he died would have been nothing more than idealistic, swirling firings of neurons in my head. Their perseverance while waiting for just the right thing led to a beautiful friendship. Through their business the Reed-A-Cheetah program was born, allowing us to build a dream of bringing comfort to those who need it most, in their darkest hour. Through their love our dream became real. Reed would have been proud.
We were stunned last spring by their sad news. What happened that day still leaves me in awe! Salinated drops came pouring forth as my ears and heart did not want to hear their business was closing. They have given so much. Why is this happening? In a moment that was both surreally raw and beautifully poignant, even when their darkness was coming closer, they shone a light of incredible hope. The cheetah “business” could not – would not – die. Our friends had met as a family and decided the way to ensure the proliferation of cheetahs would be to give our family the stuff your own animal business. Do what? You are giving us the entire kit and caboodle? My knees were weak as I tried to protest. This was too large. Too generous. Too lavish a gift. My bitter tears gave way to the blessed tears of being loved, overwhelmed with thankfulness. Who loves like this? My feeble attempts to protest were met with a matter of fact it-is-done-this-conversation-is-over determination. Honestly, I think I cried for days.
Friends like this are rare to find.
This is not a gift to be squandered. We have had family meetings, talked, and dreamed, talked and dreamed some more. In the end, we have decided we want this adventure to reflect the generosity with which it was bestowed. Our intention is to have a Give It Forward model of entrepreneurship. With the purchase of one stuffed animal, we will give one away. Purchasers can stuff their own animals and the ones that will be gifted to charity. If someone has a charity or fundraiser they want to support, we will work with them to hopefully make that dream happen just as our friends did for us.
It doesn’t happen often in life, but through all our dreaming and planning, words fail us on one important aspect – a name for all of this goodness. How do you name a gift so incredible? We struggle decide on a name for this new venture. Adam was given the charge to name creation. We would have woefully failed in his duty.
What I do know is that no matter the name we will strive to live up the gift givers expectations, because our last see-you-soon, prior to our quick respite from the snowy day, held the parting words “The Ronald McDonald house could sure use some little animals.” Yes. Yes, I would guess they could. Because while we move forward in healing, hurt, needing comfort is always around the corner. We never lose sight of the comfort lavishly poured out in many different ways. His words were both a blessing and a reminder to live generously with a hope that no matter what darkness surrounds someone’s story – love will conquer all.
Name our Adventure contest: As the new proprietors and caretakers of a dream making adventure, we need your help! Reed-A-Cheetah and all his stuffie friends are waiting for a new name for their big adventure: bringing comfort and joy to those who need it most. Please submit your ideas for a name for this business adventure. The person who submits the winning name will be awarded a free stuffed friend and the opportunity to “bring him or her to life” as well as the donated friend. All submissions should be sent to mominmn@hotmail.com by January 31st. Children of all ages (3 -103) are encouraged to participate.
You never know what adventure your stuffie will find!
The what?
Well, let me tell you, the best thing I did all holiday season (aside from hanging with my peeps) started from one of my BIG ideas. Only . . . I can’t really claim any originality in this one. A while back I had read a post by a Facebook friend who shared she was doing a blessings “sale”. The reason for the quotation marks – which my now eleven year old has mastered the use of the air version of these – is that there would be absolutely nothing for sale. All the items would be given away. I watched her pictures and her posts. Her garage was neatly organized; equipped with beverages and treats at the ready to bless her friends and neighbors. Longingly I admired her commitment to less – which is an ever elusive siren song for me – and unabashedly I’ve wanted to be her.
There, I said it.
I wanted to steal her idea and love with abandon – not my stuff but – people in my own village a little more than an hour away.
On some random Tuesday, God opened that door. A small group message among teacher friends started innocuously with a question about having some items of clothing to give away and mushroomed into an amazing-drop-me-to-my-knees-hands-lifted-in-praise-moment.
Anyone who has spent ten minutes with me immediately knows three things: I am a hugger. I have a story for everything. AND finally, I am a dreamer always swirling with ideas – BIG ideas.
I seized my opportunity and blurted out (okay through my fingertips) what my friend accomplished down the road and how I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO DO THAT. After an impassioned explanation of my big idea, my sweet cohorts announced in their own Jerry Maguire moment I had them at “blessing others.”
The crazy thing though about less is you often come away with more.
We got to plan hatching (small confession: this is my favorite part of dreaming). We chose a date, a location, created posters (both online and on paper), asked other friends, neighbors, and students to help us give back. We delivered flyers to organizations that would be able to distribute them and left the rest to God.
Well, mostly.
We three teachers live among good people, who shine brightly in the dark of winter. Donations came pouring in – once loved items, treats to share, and amazing volunteers. The entire church basement was full. The original four tables were matched with another four and another four after that. No one wanted to utter the thought, but we were all thinking it. Mother Nature had begun to stir her wintry stew. What if we did all this and no one came?
A couple students from my department joined us in the blessing of others.
Even in the blessing, we faltered. We allowed God to be less. I should have known better. I sent the original idea friend a message telling her what we were doing and asking for any last minute pointers earlier that morning. Her simple reply baffled me.
Be prepared to have your socks blessed off.
Do what? We wanted to bless others. Not the other way around. How could this be? Is it in the giving – the getting rid of the more to have less that would somehow result in more of something else?
Blessed we were. The formerly shod were humbly drawn closer to the soul of God.
Worry we should have not.
In came one. Then two. Then four or five more were followed by countless beautiful, amazing people in need of a blessing. God’s mighty hand was opening the bags we handed at the door but more importantly opening our souls to the power of possibility, the grace of the divine, the holy of giving and loving.
Those who had doubted if any would show up fought hard to hold back tears as new friends wrapped our necks with hugs. Glimpses of glory were savored as we overheard parents saying they were rushing home to wrap new treasures for their babes. Tiny grandmothers bowed in reverence, whispering in broken English – “Thank you, Teacher.” Sweeter words were never spoken – until later that evening – when through tear stained faces, we thanked God for the more we received.
More blessings
More faces that resembled God’s own
More love
More joy
As I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was swirling with visions of how much more I could give away, of how I never wanted to forget this moment because I wanted more of them, and of how much more of God I wanted to see in the everyday ordinary moments of life. Swollen eyelids heavy from the tears shed and from the busyness of the day took their toll.
For that one cold and blustery night, my heart was warmed while my feet were cold; my socks being blown away much earlier in the evening.
A few weeks ago, I was invited to be the speaker at a neighboring school for their Pay It Forward day. The students completed acts of service throughout the day, and I spoke twice in the afternoon, once to senior high and later to junior high students. Many hours of preparation went into the big day, because the message would be life-changing – not because I spoke it, but because kindness is transformational. Intertwining stories of my family and our darkest hour with humor and heartfelt truths of compassion, not only from friends and family but also from complete strangers, was a beautiful tale to tell.
The oldest students would have been nine or ten years old when our tragedy occurred; so other than the few in the audience who know us personally the story would be new. Delicately balancing the human side of a major news story is hard work, exhausting at best and gut-wrenchingly aching at worst as my mind, body, and soul are transported back, reliving each moment. ALL. THE. MOMENTS. The beautiful ones AND the ones so painful that some days I look in the mirror and want to high five the girl on the other side because I don’t know if she truly knows how awesome and amazing it is she survived.
In the end, I wanted my young friends to leave not feeling sorry for us, but rather to be inspired by the acts of kindnesses lavished upon our family.
Early in my presentation, I wanted a gauge of how honest and sincere my audience would be. The measure of sincerity was simple. Raise your hand if someone somewhere at some time in the world has been kind to you. Every hand in the room was raised.
Then, I upped the ante. Raise your hand if you have ever felt lonely, isolated, different, afraid, left out, unsure or insignificant. Only one brave hand was raised. The rest were liars.
Little did they know, I completely expected those results, because I wanted them to squirm a little bit before I shared my mission – creating revolutionaries. Genuine change requires some struggle, including confronting your own battles.
Sharing some basic facts about my family, I eventually expounded on our loss and pain but mostly explained why I could be considered an expert in receiving kindnesses. I wanted the precious scholars to know no matter how limited they or their budgets may appear to be, there is no kindness too small which does not leave a person transformed. If something appears to be an obstacle, plan big and DREAM BIGGER to reach out to those who are hurting.
What I didn’t share was the firestorm known as the political hot button issue at the center of our sadness. Truth be told, I lied (in omission) to them all. I never spared the truth about the hardships we have had (and still endure) as a part of that day. I openly told how the girl, who went from doing everything, relied on everyone else to do most anything. My heart was bare when sharing how much these acts of compassion truly taught me about community and love – transforming, selfless revolutionary love. What I didn’t share was the black part of my heart early on in our story.
Very few know this story, but given the news of recent days and weeks, it is time to finally come clean.
I hold many different titles, but even fewer know that for a brief period in my life I was our town’s chief crane inspector. Okay, not really. My then three year old was. I was just the chauffeur. The rebuilding of our lives came agonizingly slow, while our little town’s infrastructure was booming. The baby of our family has been and most likely always will be infatuated with construction cranes. After dropping off the big kids at school, we would drive from construction site to construction site “inspecting” the crane’s work. The final one in our tour was completing a new expansion at our county jail which at the time housed the woman who killed my son and ripped our lives apart.
Every day, while sipping on sweet tea, I wished for the crane operator to be unsuccessful in his endeavor to securely place the large preformed concrete walls. Just drop the wall and she will hurt as much as I do. Dark was that corner of my heart. The news of the amazingness known as my son and the other three children who were gone tapered off and all that was left were court cases, commentaries on illegal immigration, and sound bites from her attorneys, who in an attempt to humanize their client crossed the line when suggesting a conviction would mean her elderly parents might not ever get to see her again. Really? I am fairly certain I am not ever going to see my child again on this earth. EVER. It was all too much for me and my brokenness.
But it was through that brokenness, God showed me how much my darkness was only hurting me and how it was not now or ever going to be a part of the solution. I wanted to be better. Different. Transformed by my heart and through my darkness. Realizing my son would never want hate and bitterness to be a part of his legacy, I chose forgiveness and began carefully and tenderly (with God’s divine grace) choosing love over everything else.
With every tragedy (and by every – I mean EVERY SINGLE ACT – especially the ones on the news, where someone is left hurting), I am reminded that choosing love is a revolutionary act of defiance. The world perpetuates evil. Choosing to love in the face of darkness is an uncommon act. Everything about my sweet boy was not common, and in honoring him, choosing love was the granddaddy of all antidotes to hurt and a slap in the face of darkness.
Hate mongering, fear inducing rhetoric, social media memes shared virally, and us vs. them mentalities will never solve any problem. Evil will never go away, but none of these go-to platforms offer any sincere opportunities for hope. So here’s a thought: STOP doing them. STOP saying hurtful things. STOP posting divisive things. Stop teaching this rhetoric to your children.
And while we are at it STOP focusing on our differences. STOP pointing them out.
STOP taking tragedies like mine, Sandy Hook, Ferguson, or San Bernardino and reducing it a sound bite, a meme, a rally cry, an ideological platform, a banner flag because behind all of that chaos are real people who are truly hurting and who never asked to be a poster child.
The real issue is HURT. Even if my young friends lied it about it, pain is real and isolating. At the root of every hurt is a genuine, amazing and awesome person – who deserves better in this world and of this world.
While real conversations can and SHOULD take place, the issues have never been illegal immigration, gun control, skin color, terrorism, or mental health issues.
The real issues are the lack of understanding, the lack of respect, and the LACK of love.
How do we uplift and honor instead of tear down and divide?
After we stop doing all those other things, let’s lead with kindness. Let’s call it our gift to the world. They will never see that one coming. Look for ways to help others. Make that our new habit. Have real conversations with eyes and ears that can see the hurt others bring to the table. Be the voice of change for those who have no voice. Stand up, beside, and behind those who are hurting, especially those different from ourselves. Give generously with your time, your resources, your mind and your soul, and not to mention your heart. Smile at everyone. Read to your children about all kinds of people and whisper in their ears they are what make the world a better place. Buy a stranger a meal or a cup of coffee. Celebrate you and celebrate others! Hold hands and pray, and when it doesn’t look like that is working, hold on a little longer. Envelop those you love (and those who are hurting) in hugs that leave everyone better.
Be genuine.
Be sincere.
Choose hope.
Be hope.
Be brave and inspirational and kind.
Never forget kind.
The world is watching.
High five that guy or girl in the mirror, for at least trying to change the world.
And, be revolutionary in your love!
kandynolesstevens 
