When I went back to teaching full-time this fall, I really spent a lot of time with God asking if this was truly what he wanted for my life. While I like to pretend I am superhuman, in reality I know I am anything but. If my life was a balancing act before returning to my career as an educator, deep in my heart, I knew I would be giving up some things in order to keep my sanity. Just what things was the question.
Writing? Speaking? Time with family and friends? Volunteering?
None of those items did I really want to put on the back burner. They were all too precious in my sight.
My prayer time with God probably sounded a little whiny. God, every time I think I am done with my book, you tell me I am not. How am I going to finish it while working full-time? And what about my blog? Lord, throughout the last few years there have been dry patches because of dark times when my writing was put on the back-burner, what if this job takes that away too? Are you asking for this season to be over? I am not sure I am ready. And speaking? Lord, how can I do that while teaching classes at the university?
Like the proverbial frying pan of cartoon fame, God stopped my crazy train of swirling what-ifs with a song. Reed’s song. When our kiddos were little, our bedtime routine consisted of getting ready for bed, reading a book, saying our prayers, and then a bedtime song. Each of my kids had their favorite requests which would be sung every night. One day during my internal thought wrestling, Reed’s song which was a childhood vespers song, sung in the midst of the north Georgia mountains in my years spent at summer camp.
Seek ye first, the kingdom of God
And his righteousness.
And all these things shall be added unto you.
Hal-le-lu, Hal-le-lu-jah.
The very hard truth was God knew the balance I needed in my life and provided it in a way I never saw imaginable. Instead of taking away the things I loved and in reality draw me closer to him, God showed me the many (and trust me the list is lengthy) distractions I have in my daily routine. Those needed to go, and I need to daily trust that God has a plan.
I am very protective of family time; so, while that might have to become more creative at times, I knew those precious moments would remain a safe harbor. Writing has become both my release and my platform. But speaking was the one which I adore and in my small “let’s put God in a box” plan, I believed would be the one which would go by the wayside.
Ironically, not knowing God’s plans is my specialty because not only have I not given up any speaking engagements but my number of requests to be a speaker has grown leaps and bounds. In the two months since I walked through the door God held open, I have had more speaking engagements and requests than I had the previous year AND to add a cherry to the top, my employer is supportive of me doing so!
How little was my faith! If God asks for a mustard seed, I was offering less than a grain of sand. Where was my trust?
Why does my mind always sneak back to all we have lost or given up or did without or waited for or wished was different, but forgets about God’s amazing steadfast presence? While in the seasons of being a red-shirted freshman sitting on the sidelines of life, I yearned to someday go back to my career. But like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football, I believed that I would end up disappointed. Through our journeys through seemingly endless dark valleys and never-ending turbulent seas and storms, God has always been there through each tear-stained, worrisome step, why would I doubt that he would not have a plan to bring me the desires of my heart?
Like those years long ago, when a tiny (and tad bit homesick) girl missed the comforts of her own house, the vespers song brought the peace of God’s love, a new (to me) worship song brought in waves of grace of divine dimensions which calmed my heart a couple days ago. Soothed by the lyrics, I transformed them into my own personal prayer.
Maybe, just maybe, my heart needed the reminder that all is well, through dark moments AND through absolutely amazing experiences of new opportunities waiting to be savored. GOD.HAS.A.PLAN. All he asks of me is to trust Him, just as the song proclaimed
Let go my soul and trust in him
the waves and wind still know his name.
His love is everlasting, and I truly needed a refresher course in the promise of his guidance in burdens AND blessings. Of all the songs that could have been chosen for worship on the first Sunday of Advent, what a blessing this one was chosen for his girl.
Wherever you are today and whatever you are facing – may God’s steadfast presence whisper to your soul.
May Emmanuel (God with us) be the best Christmas blessing you have ever fully embraced.
Photo courtesy: Licensed under Public Domain via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:North_georgia_mountains.JPG#/media/File:North_georgia_mountains.JPG
When I was a little girl the church we attended had recently built a new and bigger sanctuary and chapel and created a “campus” by building a large gymnasium and classroom building. Unlike the modern trend of bulldozing the old church and Sunday school classrooms, the wise souls in leadership at Hilton Terrace Baptist kept those buildings intact, creating a place for Children’s Church on Sunday mornings and a large area for the women’s quilting group to keep frames up year-round. Going to the BIG church was a BIG deal. Usually the only times children were present was for special performances, the less attended evening church, or Vacation Bible School, otherwise we were in our own church just up the hill a small piece. I really lived an insulated life because that church was not only our house of worship, but also served as our version of the YMCA because the leaders were forward thinking, putting in a skating rink in the gym and placing an emphasis on children and families. Of all the days of the week we were there, Wednesday evenings were my favorite. This was the time when it felt like I had the biggest family in the world as we all gathered on that same gym floor to eat together –like clockwork every week.
photo captured by Microsoft maps
I don’t remember exactly how old I was when this happened, but I remember how grown up I felt when a tiny little box arrived for me. The box contained an assortment of envelopes, mostly white but a few of assorted colors thrown in too. Sometimes I refer to my childhood church as “old church”, and these offering envelopes were an old church experience for me. I was so proud to be a “regular” that had my own way of contributing to the place that I loved. In my youthful way of thinking, it never crossed my mind that I was a “donor”. I doubt I even knew what that word meant as I stuck a few coins here or there in my various envelopes and marched them right on into Children’s Church each week.
Yesterday sitting in a grown-up church over a thousand miles away from that childhood one, I was thinking about the significance of the day on the calendar when my mind did a play on words. For most, the day was a typical day of worship, just two Sundays before Thanksgiving, but for others it is a day to have real conversations about another kind of donor: those who chose to donate their organs and tissues. It is not an easy conversation, and one that my tiny little Georgia peach self would have never imagined she would be thinking about years later. But think I did!
Many know the story of choosing in our darkest hour to ask if Reed could be a donor, honoring a promise made to a nine-year old child was also something my childhood dreams of motherhood never imagined. But we made the decision to give the biggest gift we would ever give – our son. We chose donation because the then twelve-year old Reed would have wanted us to do so. Of all the decisions we made the night of the school bus crash that changed our lives forever, that was one that made the most sense and one which has always brought us peace.
My childhood coin-filled envelopes probably made a small impact on our church and God’s kingdom, but choosing for our child to become a donor was one that would be life-changing for many. Making that decision did not negate or lessen our grief by one second, but through our pain we provided others joy. And if there was anything, other than his incredible faith, our boy would ever want to be known for, his love for giving to others was it.
The next days and weeks were filled with hospital stays and countless hours at doctor’s and therapist’s offices. Three months later, while our family was literally split in two, Super S and I living four hours away at a rehabilitative hospital, and the girls and Daniel back home, we were all together at the hospital for Mother’s Day. Second only to the year we lost our first baby; this was going to go down as the worst Mother’s Day in history. Reeling from the pain of not having our firstborn, but wanting to spend time with the three beautiful blessings we were still parenting, I experienced one of the most agonizing roller coaster rides of my life. Back then, the days were bad, but the nights – oh the nights – were horrible, filled with pain and night-terrors. Hospitals are not spas and I was exhausted. Everyone was having a great time in the hospital and I asked if it would be okay to just take a break, knowing full well I wanted to find a place to release from my eyes what my heart was feeling. Instead of going on a walk, I retreated to the back seat of our mini-van parked in the basement parking garage of the St. Mary’s hospital with plans to cry my little heart out and perhaps take a nap. My focus was singular. Nothing else mattered but a good crying session and rest from what was the most difficult season I had ever faced in my life. As I approached the cold, cemented structure, I noticed the lack of cars in the garage. It was Sunday – Mother’s Day – after all. The rest of the world was out eating, going to church, planting flowers, and enjoying the sunshine. As I approached our vehicle, I realized the only other one in the entire place was parked right next to ours. So much for a retreat! I was beyond caring – as in DID. NOT. GIVE. A. HOOT – if the owner of that full-sized van came back and found me sleeping in mine. Maybe it was the proximity of the two automobiles or maybe it was something much more divine (because I never saw that van again), my eyes were drawn to its bumper sticker.
Donate your organs . . . because heaven doesn’t need them.
The theology may not be sound, but at that moment, I didn’t care. The flood of grief came pouring out. The anguish of not having my son on Mother’s Day felt as if some cosmic force was ripping my own heart out of my body. Yet mixed in with my electrifyingly burning heart was the joy of all the bumper stickers in the world, God chose to place that one in my line of sight. I cried tears of joy for a God-sighting and for the families who were the recipients of our donor.
And yes, I took that nap . . .
resting peacefully knowing the God of my childhood was still faithful to the little girl who grew up to raise a superhero.
To learn more about organ and tissue donation (and becoming a superhero): please visit this website.
Ponce de Leon
Lewis & Clark
Indiana Jones (Okay, I know he isn’t real, but he is one of my favorite fictional explorers.)
Jacques Cousteau
Reed Stevens
That last one is definitely real, but relatively unknown in the world of great adventurers and explorers. Reed and his trusty sidekick, Huckleberry were the rarest of adventurers. Every day, they were outside battling all kinds of foes. The neighbors never really knew the troubles which befell our street. Thankfully, the boy and his dog saved us from the worst calamities – dragons, pirates, aliens, and of course, the rare evil villains normally conquered by superheroes. The rest of us innocently went about the busyness of our days, oblivious to the perils surrounding us.
Thankfully, our boy was ever vigilant, because his imagination was packed on every trip and vacation. A quick look out of the camper would find him engaged in an epic duel with a heretofore unknown baddie. His enthusiasm for the stories his mind created carried over into the some of the most interesting places, including his grandmother’s treasured (no pun intended) vegetable garden.
One year, my sweetie and I decided to take a much-needed parents-only vacation. We trekked to North Dakota in a minivan filled with kids, suitcases, a few fries on the floorboards and visions of sleeping in and eating grown up food swirling in our heads. Dropping the kids at Grandma’s house, we hopped a train on tracks which literally followed in the long forgotten prairie footsteps of Lewis and Clark heading westward.
Refreshed and renewed we returned to learn of the fun created by our boy, his siblings, and cousins. Every good grandma has a junk drawer. Grandma Lorraine has one to rival all others. In a moment of sheer genius (or boredom – one can never tell in these moments) Reed convinced Grandma to allow the gang to bury some of the items from her stash of once loved, but now neglected, items to create a treasure map.
Adventure rarely leaves the explorer, but sometimes the great ones leave us much too early. Although I am certain he would have continued to create glorious and epic scenes here on earth, God called him home to heaven, what I can only imagine is the greatest place of exploration, at twelve years old.
When you love someone with that much creative and imaginative force in the world, his absence leaves a craterous hole in your existence. A few years after his passing, we quite accidentally stumbled upon a way to fill in some of the excitement for which we silently longed.
Our find – geocaching – was one that we know without a doubt, Reed would have loved. After gaining some experience (the rest of us were, of course, novice adventurers), we decided to create a geocache in memory of our great explorer. But where? Where would we place such a worthy remembrance? We considered North Dakota, where our adventurer now rests, just a mile or so away from his buried treasure spot.
Believe me, the gut-wrenching irony of one of my greatest treasures buried in the same fertile prairie soil is not lost on me.
Eventually we decided it would be more fun to show the rest of the world a spot he loved closer to our home, settling on our favorite place to snowshoe. Nestled in a relatively unknown location right on the campus of our local university, we spent many days were spent hiking and snowshoeing throughout the trails there. If he were here, Reed would tell you his favorite part was when we would go on the trails deep in the woods and he would wait for just the right place to tap a tree, causing a mini-avalanche of snow to land on the person behind him. Often that person, I would not recall that as my favorite part. Adventure and a wicked sense of humor make for a very interesting combination.
It was the perfect place to share our boy and brother with the rest of the adventuring world. Securing the proper permission, we logged our cache on the world’s greatest treasure hunt www.geocaching.com and hoped that some would find the treasure. They did; many extolling they would have never known Reed’s favorite spot existed.
Notifications from treasure hunters usually arrive at those moments when we could really use a pick me up. For this we can only thank God and smile remembering a boy we all love (never in the past tense, because he will always be a part of our lives).
That very thing happened last week at work. It was one of those days when the passion I pour into being an educator exhausted me until . . . one of my colleagues stopped by my office to share about her class. Holding up a tiny baseball card featuring a familiar face, she melted my heart, reminding me I work at one of the best places in the world. I believe all the great explorers have one major thing in common: an insatiable curiosity, a drive to know more and more about the world – its beauty and its people. Reed lived life large. Some of his greatest influences were teachers who dared him to dream BIG. Holding back a few tears, I hope my colleague knows one little redheaded boy would be thrilled to know a classroom full of future teachers were inspired to dream and to someday plant those dream seeds in the imaginations of their students.
I know for sure his momma was!
Here’s to the red-headed wonders, explorers, adventurers, teachers and students: DREAM ON!
Isolation, busyness, and exhaustion seem to punctuate the days for many. We yearn for time to connect with others, yet there never seems to be enough time or energy. How do we start making connections within the church, the workplace, anywhere? This is a question we have been asking over and over in our Bible study group. Our homework, due tonight, is to bring ideas on how we can bring people together within our church family and how to spread that fellowship out into the community.
In a world that idolizes activity, our task was challenging. I had spent days thinking about my ideas. The answer came rushing in about the same time I watched my littlest dart across the street to hug one of her best buddies. Sitting back and watching that scene unfold, reminded me of Jesus’ admonition to have a childlike faith. I think he also meant a youthful spirit as well.
For an answer Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me. Matthew 18:2-5
Her jubilant dash reminded me of a time years ago, when my sweetie and that same curly-haired child shared a best friend. When Sal’s lifelong bestie moved in, M would often wander two doors down to play with our baby girl. Upon discovering that Sal wasn’t home, M would stay and shadow my husband, assisting in all sorts of tinkering projects. When her parents would come a short while later, they would be shocked that Sal was nowhere in sight and M was happily hanging out with my man.
Daniel quickly brushed away any nonsense about his little buddy being in the way or slowing him down. He cherished the company of a sweet little girl. The message was clear: happiness and fulfillment can be found in the unassuming places of the ordinary.
During my ruminating over our homework question, I have thought of all the buzz-word ideas, even thinking of how to use social media to help us find time to fellowship with others. Then, God gently reminded me that lasting bonds are formed in the simplest ways, and he used a childlike spirit to reinforce his message to capture my heart.
The story made simple is this. The parents and grandparents of some dear friends of ours and our children moved into the house across the street a few years back. The new neighbors have spent hours updating both the interior and exterior of their home and yard. Daily, the grandpa, D, can be seen outside doing one task or another. Many conversations between our family and these sweet neighbors have taken place on the curb, in the street, or by the mailbox. To the outside world, the scene would be about as interesting as dry toast, but to Sal, a true friendship was blossoming.
Grandpa D is a jokester, and Sal is often caught in his tangled web of shenanigans. After watching her jump rope one day, he asked for her assistance with a most perplexing problem – his driveway slab was upheaved at a corner. She listened very carefully to his instruction to stand on the corner of the slab and to continue jumping. It took just a little bit before they both erupted into fits of giggles because her slight frame was never going to push in the driveway no matter how many times she jumped up and down. The ordinary moments, God blesses those.
One day we received a call that Grandpa D had taken ill and was being transported to a larger hospital than our local one. Sal was heartbroken, crying for her buddy and lamenting how he just had to get better because he was now the best part of this neighborhood. (Her best friend moved across town a while back.) She made sure we sent him “love messages” while he was away. We kept in close contact with his family, but didn’t realize Grandpa D came home from the hospital earlier than expected, while awaiting a surgery date.
Here we were enjoying a quiet family supper, when my sweetie remarked, quite shockingly, that D was in his yard doing some fall clean-up. We were all surprised. One quick glance at Sal told me she could barely contain her excitement. My heart melted as I allowed her to leave the table. She tore out of her chair, bypassed putting on her shoes (even though it was in the low 50’s), and ripped across the street straight into the arms of her neighborhood buddy.
The storm in her heart was calmed as a peace settled on the two of them: one grandpa and one tiny neighbor catching up. I don’t know all the details of their conversation, although I doubt she decided to take him up on his offer to buy a new snow shovel just for her.
The answer to our homework was illuminated watching a ten-year old and her buddy. Instead of looking for grandiose gestures to reach out to others, we learned the little stuff matters. Maybe we are working too hard to manufacture fellowship, when God simply wants us to be present here and now in all our relationships, including the one with him. Real connections are made in the ordinary. A childlike spirit reminded me to stop and savor those moments, even while your supper’s getting cold. And for this, we couldn’t be more blessed.
My two lesson teachers started this race hand-in-hand and finished it the same way. Real connections support each other.
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
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
Over the years, I have been blessed with amazing kiddos (those I birthed and those on loan temporarily from their families). We are planning our annual family photo, and I got to thinking the other day how there are two photos that I really want. One would be similar to the one buzzing on social media where shadows would be in place of our children who reside with Jesus. I am proud to be a mom of seven, even though only three share the earth with us today. As long as I live the most difficult question to answer will always be, “How many children do you have?”
Every fiber of my being wants to yell “SEVEN”, but sometimes I don’t because I don’t always know how invested in the inquisitor I will eventually be.
Yet to pull off a picture of that significance means having to coordinate schedules with the three children who have busy lives. It will be a cherished treasure when we finally coordinate it all. The other photo I hope to organize is one with all of our children, including our “adopted” ones – who call me Mom, but only in the “God put us all together” sense of the word. These sons have never lived in my home and all have families who love them. For a period of time, we have had the joy of calling them one of our own. Now if I thought the first picture was going to be a challenge to coordinate, imagine adding one son (and family) in Africa, one son (and family) just up the road, two additional college student sons, and two other sons from our school days. If you didn’t notice a pattern here, our daughters are really outnumbered. Yep, I love each of extra sons as if they were my own, and once upon a time one of them surprised me one of the greatest honors I have ever received. I wrote more about it on the Minnesota Bridging the Gap ministry blog page, and I am sharing it here. But let’s just say the little girl in the tutu stole my heart from the moment she was born.
Adding a grandbaby into the mix helped start a new tradition – which is a really BIG thing around Team Stevens Headquarters. From cookies and cocoa on the first snow to tracing our handprints on Thanksgiving, we excel at celebrating the every day. To the world our celebrations may look to revere the ordinary, but to us, it is the reminder of who we are and what we cherish. The little stuff truly matters.
Families are incredibly unique. Birth families, adopted families, blended families, or family of your own creation. God loves them all. However you define family, and whatever traditions (old and new) you celebrate, be blessed in knowing that God loves the things that bring families closer together!
Now here’s hoping those schedules will work out for those photos!
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’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!
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.
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.
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 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
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
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!”
kandynolesstevens 
