A few years back I had a twenty-five day countdown to Christmas blog series. It was a wonderful way to reflect upon the joy this season brings to my heart. I decided to do the same thing again this year. As we count down the days to the best present the world ever received, I would love to hear from you about what makes the holidays special for you and your family.
Growing up, I had never heard of an advent calendar until my brother and I acquired an adopted Grandma on the way to a college basketball game. I didn’t learn of advent calendars that night, but I did get North Dakota roots when my mom volunteered to drive the grandmother of one of my dad’s players to an away game. Grandma Nilsen would not dream of children not having a grandmother close by. So right there in the spacious and roomy backseat of our Pontiac Catalina (affectionately known in our family as the S.S. Sheran), we became grandchildren to a sweet woman who had no obligation other than her own moral compass to love us.
She didn’t just pay lip service to this adoption either. There were so many ways tangible and heavenly that she showed us her love. Today, we revamped an old tradition in our house that remembers one started by my ND grandma. That first Christmas she gave us advent calendars. Those drugstore calendars with fun little scenes on the front, we would punch out the perforated boxes every night before bed revealing a tiny chocolate treat. A few moments ago, my older daughter said, “Mom, remember those calendars we used to get? Those were the BEST chocolates ever!” I had to smile sheepishly because I knew the theme of today’s blog. Before that first calendar, I had never really heard of advent. Oh! I had anxiously awaited Christmas morning, but I never knew there was a word for that. Advent, meaning coming or arrival, became a new and cherished word.
I love to craft, and I adore Christmas. Each year, I spend hours that morph into days and weeks creating gifts for those we love. This year, I merged those loves into an upcycled treasure that my family can enjoy for years to come. Using old woolen sweaters, I created mittens – twenty-five to be exact. We attached them to a wreath (although a garland would work well too) with clothespins. Each night as we prepare for bed, we will remove one mitten and of course, look for a little treat inside. All the while, I will be reminiscing on how one wonderful, giving, fascinating, intriguing, never challenge her in Scrabble, but incredibly loving woman showed us God’s love in all the ways that mattered. And isn’t that what Christmas is really about?
Our advent wreath. The background is a sneak peek of the work we have been completing in our kitchen remodel.
To my son –
I have struggled writing this “letter” to you, because there is something so final in it. I am not good with endings. But I don’t think dreamers ever really are. As a lot, we are always watching the world, and fervently hoping that our will aligns with God’s heart.
Two weeks ago, you were standing on hallowed ground. I don’t know if anyone else realized it, but I certainly did as I stood next to your adopted “auntie”. We stood cheering and hoping, hoping and cheering for our sons for whom we wished the cool, crisp nights, warmth of blanket bundles, smell of fresh grass, and glare of stadium lights would last forever.
Even though my dreamer heart doesn’t want to admit it, many good things do come to their ends. When the clock ran out of time, it was if the last sand in my heart’s hourglass poured out. Something you had fought so hard for was over. There are many who conditioned and practiced, but none that I know who went through more to be a part of the team. Even though you were often ridiculed, overlooked, and disappointed, you never gave up. Surgery after surgery, you never wavered in your dedication. You simply wanted to play the game you love. If I have never told you, I admire your courage.
Senior year – Photo by Devereaux Photography, Greg Devereaux
You might be wondering what I mean by hallowed ground since the final game of your football career was at an opposing team’s field. After waiting almost three years to be able to play again, the first step you took to play the game you shared with your brother took place on the very field where your final steps to a locker room occurred. The poignancy of that moment was not lost on me. Hallowed ground! I almost daresay it was sacred ground because Reed’s first game as a Laker was played on that very field too. Maybe, just maybe, the warmth I suddenly felt in your final minutes was one of his signature sneak-up-behind-you heavenly hugs, telling me, “Don’t worry, Mom! We are going to be okay!”
Your first step back on the field, hallowed ground. Photo courtesy of Gail Gregoire.
Letting go of a lifelong pursuit takes time, and thankfully, you eased the pain by having one more weekend as a coach for your Special Olympics football team. The joy I see in your face when you practice and coach your team is only rivalled by watching the parents of your players. I see in their eyes the respect they have for a young man who picked their sons first, something that many of them probably don’t get to experience all the time. If only my heart could tell theirs, you understand how that feels, and you pour your whole heart into making the game fun for them all. I watch as you tell them you believe in them and you are so proud of them. My heart soars. If I have never told you, I admire your spirit for how it seeks to help others.
I know you were hoping for another gold medal for your Pumas, but there’s nothing shabby about bronze, especially when you coach with honor and dignity. Just like I have watched your Granpa Junior for years, I could see your thoughts were playing out every moment questioning if there was anything you could have done differently. Let me tell you, son. There are lots of things that could have been tried, but you did the one thing that hundreds didn’t do. You showed up! You gave of your time and talents – all for the love of your game. Quietly, on the long road home, you said something that I will hold in my soul for a very long time. You were looking ahead for who could replace you as coach when you go away to college next year. It can’t just be anybody, Mom. It has to be someone with a servant’s heart.
I was trying so hard not to let you see my tears. They were a jumbled mixture of eclectic, cathartic tears. Tears of bitterness for all you have had to endure. Tears of joy that you were made of the right stuff to overcome all of that. Huge tears for the void where football used to be. Tears of sadness that the journey has come to an end. Tears of pride. Tears of wonder that God could use your injuries to teach us all kinds of things about life and loving his people. If I have never told you, I love your big servant’s heart. I admire the way you use it to love others.
In every definition of the word, that is a true champion to me.
Thank you for all the fun memories from flag football to varsity starter, and especially as a coach. This football loving momma will cherish them always.
Loving you from the sidelines for a long time and loving you always forever –
Faith – Family – Football
Momma
Bristle – It is a word I’ve been thinking about lately as God has stirred my heart’s reaction. With three girls in our family, each with very long hair, normally the image of bristle means it’s hairbrush cleaning time AGAIN. Trust me! Hairbrush is much better than clogged drain, which my enthusiasm for the latter is equivalent to the bristling that is grating my thoughts.
I ran across this article, which resonated with my teen years and is one shared by most women. While my wounds have healed over time, my skin crawled when I was driving my kiddos home from school one day. Many of our best conversations occur relationally side-by-side with the Minnesota countryside whizzing by. Such was this day. Like an eruption, Girl Awesome blurts out, “Mom, they are talking about banning yoga pants at our school.” After a long series of questions trying to debunk rumor from fact, I assured her that we had received no such notice from the school. She explained that a young man told her in class that he went to the principal and complained that yoga pants were distracting him. He smugly told her that she and the other girls were going to be limited in what they could wear to school. Keep in mind I was not there and I can only go by her retelling of the story, but I DO know how she felt.
powerless, devalued, second-class
Another generation of girls being told that they are valued less than their male peers! Great! Exactly the conversation I wanted to serve on my platter of cookies for snack that day. I spent the time investing in my daughters their intrinsic value and worth, simply because of who God made them to be. Honestly, I wanted to say something to that young man, but thought it might be wasted breath.
Before I get all kinds of comments regarding modesty, let me explain a few things on that. The point is not about what clothes any of us wear! Period!
I posted the article, which elicited quite a response, on my Facebook feed. This comment I made below in the very civil discussion seemed to be one that resonated with quite a few folks.
In my mind leggings (that my girls wear) are the same as yoga pants in thickness, with jeggings being even thicker. I would draw the line at tights however which are clearly too thin to be wore alone. Hopefully that clarifies what we call those things in our home. (Example: Clo lives in leggings made by Carters that coordinate with their tops.) We still believe in modesty, and do draw the line at many things like swim suits. Where I bristle is exactly the point that L made about raising respectful boys AND not ones that buy into the rape culture of blaming women/girls for how they dress.
As soon as I posted the comment above, I remembered I have had this conversation with my sons. Long before the yoga pants debate reared its ugly head.
I distinctly recall having a heart to heart talk with Reed and Sawyer when the Batman movie featuring Halle Berry as Catwoman came out. They were probably entering 7th & 5th grade. I asked them why they thought she was dressed like that. I wasn’t judging, because frankly after having 4 babies, I wasn’t fitting into that leathery get-up, but I have always wanted to have tough conversations with my kids on how we filter the world. Finally they hit on the fact that it made her look “sexy” which had nothing to with the power that Catwoman possesses. It was a projection of her external features, but did not show a reflection of the real heart, mind, or soul of a woman. I never knew if the conversation had not only captured their thoughts but sunk into their souls until we had a group of boys over that fall from Boy Wonder’s class. As the leaves of fall slowly gathered outside the window, four boys and our two girls settled in for homemade cookies for snack. One of the boys made a comment about Girl Awesome being “hot”. Sawyer and another boy who has younger sisters flew out of their seats and told the boy to “take it back”. Dining room chairs flipped over like in a Wild West movie. I watched wide-eyed at the sink as boys were coming to blows over my dining room table. The boy who made the comment had no idea why he was about to get knocked over. After a few tense moments, tempers calmed. Dining room chairs righted. I joined the table and had a heart-to-heart with everyone. I explained not just what he had said was offensive, but why. In his defense, he had no idea it could be hurtful.
It wasn’t wasted breath, after all.
Maybe someday those four young men sitting at my table all those years ago will raise sons (and daughters) who will know respect is something everyone deserves.
So please, breathe thoughts, breathe respect, and breathe love into your daughters and your sons!
A few cookies might not hurt along the way either!
A small sample of photos that show the power inside all of us!
Dear readers – I am so sorry my posts are infrequent these days. Our family is in the process of remodeling our upstairs. Serving as contractors and work crew between school, church, and work, our progress resembles the tortoise racing the hare – slow and steady. As usual, I have a few blogs that I have been pondering and feel I am ready to tell their stories. Just know that I miss sharing my world with you all. Kandy
Nostalgia, like a comfortable pair of old shoes, is both a gift and a burden I seem to be wearing often these days. Perhaps this sentiment stems from all the transition my family is experiencing: back-to-school, home remodel, and preparation for our son’s senior year of high school. I am fighting back tears as I type those last words. Oh my goodness, my once chubby-cheeked, curly-haired boy is ready to launch. My launch pad locked in old memories isn’t quite ready for the countdown from mission control. Memories, sweet memories, are present at every turn.
Add to all of this, Boy Wonder and I visited with my high school best friend on a recent trip to my childhood hometown. While we were downing chili slaw dogs at The Varsity in Atlanta, we laughed and giggled about our adventures while growing up in Pensacola. I believe Sawyer was amazed to hear I never picked a prom dress without M being present. He was best friend, my best confidante, and a gentleman of great taste. I am so glad that God has allowed us to reconnect all these years later.
As I grow older (and thus so do my children), stark differences between our childhoods really stand out. This became more obvious as M and I swapped tales over the table. One of those dichotomous details was the prom experience. Back in the day, our prom was typically held at some posh location (country club or beach front hotel), and other than a few chaperones, our parents were nowhere to be found. Not so, for my son. The tradition at our children’s school is to bring bleachers around to the front door of the high school; so that every parent, grandparent, neighbor, friend, family, and school mate can gather around the red carpet (yes there really is one) to watch the young couples arrive for the prom. Remember these young people are the greatest product we produce, out here. Later everyone relocates to the bedecked and resplendent gymnasium to watch the couples promenade for the onlookers. The drive-up portion was utterly and completely foreign to me.
Talk about grand entrance! The pressure to be larger-than-life is palpable. There are classic cars, muscle cars, tractors (c’mon y’all it is rural Minnesota), and jacked up pick-up trucks. The first prom was an easier entrance because there are very few vehicles that Sawyer and Rachel’s special guest, Brayden, could utilize for “stylin’ wheels”. Trust me, full size RV made a statement, but their love for one of Reed’s friends was an even bigger statement.
For last spring’s gala, we were really perplexed as to how to make an entrance. (Listen: I am fully aware of this being a first world problem. So is my son. His solution was to wash and wax his dad’s pick-up and be fine with that.) That was the plan until an e-mail changed the night.
A friend of ours pointed out a super cool car that was for sale on a local garage sale site. While I would have loved to have been able to purchase said car, it just wasn’t in the cards with the years we have saved to complete this remodel. Dream kitchen versus one night’s ride! Clearly, the kitchen won out. But I have learned that if there is something you desire, you simply garner the courage to ask. The worst that can happen is for you to be told no.
“Be brave! Be bold!” became my motto as I sent a message to the owner of the car (oh which happens to be a classic Corvette). Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then one day, as I was walking into a spring AAU basketball tournament, I got the call I hoped for, but had no guarantees I would receive. Let me tell you what transpired next left me astounded!
My wait was due to the fact that the gentle spirit and owner of the car, J, had a hard time getting a hold of me. In my original message, I explained who our family is and about how we knew mutual friends. I explained Sawyer’s story, and I also stressed how safe a driver he is because of all he has gone through. My concerns were halted when J said, “You are never going to believe this”. His “unbelievable” story was his rig (as a semi driver) was one of the first to come across the crash that changed our lives forever. He had always wanted to do something for our family, and imagine his shock when he received my request, crazy as it was!
Yes, friends, it takes a special kind of crazy bold, to send a message to a stranger asking, “Hey! Could my 17-year-old son borrow your classic ‘Vette to go the prom?” Proudly, I am that kind of eccentric.
Almost without taking a breath, but yet taking a break from being choked up, J explained that not only would the Boy Wonder be able to drive his car to the prom, but also he could drive it for the week to get the feel for driving it. J was going to add him to his personal insurance if needed and have it taken in to get a tune up. His only request in return was for my boy to have a good time and send him a few pics.
His words were met with stunned silence as the tears ran down my face and the lump formed in my throat. I am not too proud to tell you I bawled outside that gymnasium, to which I tell you there were more than a few barbed looks tossed my way along the lines of “Lady, it is just a basketball game.” Normally barbs of such insensitivity would sting. Not today, my friends. Not today! My heart soared because Sawyer is tough to surprise, but more so, the kindness of strangers is awe-inspiring.
Our clandestine rendezvous to procure the dreamy wheels went without a hitch as did the lesson on how to remove and store the T-tops. The twenty mile drive back to our house gave me a chance to live out a high school fantasy as I drove through the countryside, turning heads. This ride was a far cry from the Dodge Omni I drove my junior year. His face was absolutely priceless when his sisters (who were in on the secret) brought him outside. He couldn’t believe someone would do something this kind for him. My boy, almost a man, was genuinely humbled. He couldn’t believe it!
I have been asked many times if I railed at God during our darkest hour. I am no saint, definitely far from perfect, but I can honestly answer that I never did. Questioning how long this pain would endure happened, but anger never came. From dear friends who were with us moments after to new friends (angels on earth) who make the junior prom a night to remember, there have been constant reminders of God’s love every step of the way. So maybe some of that nostalgia I’ve been feeling is a gentle reminder that God has been present in every leg of my life’s journey, including the steps that led me to one sweet ride.
Photo by LSM photography.
I had to throw in a couple more photos just to highlight the fact that the Boy Wonder doesn’t always squint in pictures. The sun was really shining that beautiful sunny day. 
It isn’t often that I envy my kids. They live in a such a high-tech and fast-paced world, that I think my days of Saturday morning cartoons and playing outside until dusk seem downright genteel. But the ol’ green-eyed monster did rear his head after picking up my son from a week long experience he had the honor to attend.
My parents made mention of this academy a few years back and remarked about how they really wanted him to attend. When I told the Boy Wonder, he was intrigued by the idea of an elite training in all the subjects he loves. I’m telling you the apple does not fall far from the tree on this one. Science, Math, and Engineering, oh my! On the beaches of Pensacola Bay! I ask you what is not to love here? When we further researched the experience, I was momentarily deterred by the cost, but nonetheless made a vow that the summer between his junior and senior years we would make it happen. My parents kept us up-to-date of times to apply and opportunities for scholarships.
Let me back up a little bit in this story. Every time, we have gone home (to Pensacola), we get up early to go watch the Blue Angels practice. If my children bleed Laker blue from school pride, then I think the color of my blood must look like a combination of gulf green and Blues paint. Following the aerial show, we tour the museum. The volunteers have asked my kids if they would like to fly like that. The boys always answered with an enthusiastic, “Yes!” to which the tour guide faithfully replied back, “Study your math and science!” If that wasn’t enough to swell this teacher momma’s heart, I don’t know what would. (Seriously y’all! Melt My Heart!)
The dream slipped by the way side when he endured years of hospitalizations and surgeries, but his commitment to excellent study never did. Even though it seemed like an impossibility, he completed the very rigorous application process. Not only was he accepted but also offered a full scholarship. After what seemed to be a sequel to Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, the Boy Wonder and I arrived in Alabama where he was swiftly whisked away by my folks.
I won’t give away everything that he did in the week so as to not spoil it for future AXPs, but let’s just say I was jealous before he began and even more so afterward. From the moment he arrived, they are welcomed on board their carrier, Ambition. Throughout the week, they train, coordinate, plan, and complete missions. Think: intelligence and rescue missions. The technology is so amazing at this academy that my son could name every local airstrip within a short drive of Pensacola Naval Air Station (because he had flown over them or to them). Not to mention, when we toured the Ambition at the closing, he showed us equipment that exists nowhere else in the world.
At graduation, they received their wings, but family members were in for a real treat when we learned our children’s call signs. I was a little perplexed when I learned my son’s co-pilot (6’4” and already a Marine) had the call sign, “Elsa”. When I later learned that it is very common for pilots to sing during missions, I was still a little baffled. With a small chuckle, he explained that the Commander overheard his friend singing Frozen songs and the name stuck. No, Goose and Maverick, here, but Astro and Elsa have their own ring, I guess.
During the debriefing (by which I mean the point when you go grab an amazing burger with your mom and grandparents at Whataburger), we heard his tales of the great blue sea and sky. We heard about his dismay on the first day they introduced themselves. Everyone there had experience as pilots or the dream of being pilots. When it got to him, the Boy Wonder explained, “I’m planning to be doctor. Um, naval doctor.” He didn’t let the disconnect deter him one bit. Going on to successfully complete missions, he loved every minute of strategy, navigation, and of course, flight.
While eating our burgers, he did share one story that had my dad’s and my hearts swelling with pride. He explained that not everyone was as versed in some skills as others and about how on his first mission, he and Elsa were the navigators at the beginning. The pilots weren’t responding to his coordinate instruction, and it was frustrating him. When it was their time in the cockpit, he quietly whispered to his buddy. “We are NOT taking navigational advice from those guys. I’ve got this! I know vectors like the back of my hand.” I know that is not exactly a team mentality, but as math teachers, we understood. I think Minnesotans could have seen our beaming smiles, and to every single one of his math teachers up to this point, I THANK YOU!!!
Well, he didn’t attend the National Flight Academy with the intention of being a pilot, but he sure caught the bug while he was there. On our three hour drive home from the airport, he remembered something he learned at med school camp a year earlier. Sometimes the pilots for medical rescue missions ARE the doctors. And yes, he has already asked to earn his pilot’s license, just to be ahead of the game.
Oh, Boy! Here we go! Up, up and away!
Special Note: A very special thank you to the National Flight Academy for the opportunity he had to attend and to learn that his knowledge and passions have real-world applications. He is waiting anxiously to learn if the advanced academy will be up and running next year. On a similar thought, I am waiting for the teacher training academy. I will bring friends! Also, to my readers, if you want to learn more, go to www.nationalflightacademy.com or ask us, we have some great stories to share.
Dear kids – On your first day back to school, I missed y’all so much. Our house (although neater) was so quiet that I could hear the sadness echo in my heart. I had meant to write this letter to you long before today, but other blogs, responsibilities, and opportunities for fun took priority. I will never regret that last one, especially.
Although you probably wouldn’t want me to meet any of your friends on the street, none of you seem to mind when I don my old overalls, t-shirt, baseball cap, and garden shoes. You know my destination: the garden! What you didn’t know is it is one of the places on earth where I feel the closest to God. I know it’s hard to believe. I am out there crawling around on my hands and knees, looking like Ouiser Boudreaux, but it’s true! In every growing blossom, crawling bug, and whispering wind, I feel God is showing me how wonderful his creation truly is. When the sun shines down on my shoulders, I close my eyes and pretend he is smiling.
While digging in the dirt, I spend most of my time pulling weeds. Let me tell you I have learned quite a bit about the behavior of weeds over the years. One day this summer, those weeds reminded me of a few valuable lessons. Ones that I hope you learn much earlier than I did.
Some of those pesky plants are so invasive I still seem them after I close my eyes. There will be times that your real life struggles will feel the same way. No matter which way you look, your troubles will be looking right back at you. Times will come where you will only see darkness. I know that you have already experienced some of those times. I wish I could tell you that they were over, and now you have a free pass. But just as weeds pop up in my turnips; so, too will times of troubles come into your lives. Just know that God’s light shines the brightest in the darkest places. Cling. To. That. Truth.
and you will make it through.
When all the green little shoots poke out of the ground, it is really hard to discern weed from vegetable. Even though I have had a garden for years, I just don’t know which one is which. At times, the weeds resemble a produce plant. I will even admit some of them are beautiful in their own way. It isn’t until much later that the pesky thorns and thistles rear their ugliness. I have learned all too hard that the same is true of activities, idols, and sins in my own life. Things that often seem harmless enough in the beginning can spin out of control – fast. Don’t be seduced in life by the easy way out, the going with the crowd, or the just this one time mentalities. They will let you down – each and every time. We all fall short of God’s glory. Just don’t forget that faith is the first word in our family’s motto. If the way you spend your time puts that word last, then it is time to make some adjustments. It. Will. Take. Work.
but you will make it through.
Eventually, it is obvious what plants are keepers and which ones have to go. Then the real struggle begins. Many of the weeds send out deep roots and traversing tendrils that wrap around neighboring plants. When I go to remove them, some of the weeds have chokeholds so strong, good plants are ripped out of the ground. The ugly truth comes when we realize that there are people and obstacles in our lives that do the same thing to us. Sadly, you also know some friends are like gardens, they are meant for a season only. Our nature is to want to help when things are awry, yet God doesn’t call us to fix the world’s brokenness. Only he can do that. Just like my neglected garden can get, we can have influences and relationships – both good and bad – that bring us down. It is time to take a step back and realign our priorities. If we don’t, the very things we are called to do are left undone. It is a painful thing to walk away from a friendship, from a situation, or from a place of overwhelming suffocation. It. Will. Hurt.
but I promise, you will make it through.
Just like newly tilled soil is ripe with potential; so, too are new school years. This week was just the beginning. Stay strongly rooted in God’s and my love and be grounded in his Word. Try with all your might not to let the weeds of the world prevent you from growing and flourishing. I can’t wait to see what you produce!
I believe in you always –
Momma
My husband and I participated in a tawdrily-named event from Memorial Day to 4th of July. Before you envision that this blog has become a tell-all confessional, our activity was the Runner’s World magazine one-mile streak. No, thank you! We did not run or walk in our birthday suits akin to a Ray Stevens song. Close your eyes, Ethel! In reality, it was much less adventuresome. Every day for that period of time, we completed a mile run/walk.
We had some entertaining moments along the way, but we started to have this eerie feeling that we were being watched. We soon discovered this much needed and coveted time spent together, just the two of us, was nothing of the sort. Little black beady eyes were everywhere. Black eyes attached to long ears and white tails followed our every move.
As birders, we are familiar with the Christmas Bird Count; so if streaking wasn’t scandalous enough, we took to calling our evening outing the “Town Rabbit Count”. On most nights, in our one mile, we would average around 20 furry little “friends”, and I use that term loosely.
Our town has become inundated with members of the Leporidae family. I was worried that streaking was causing my sweetie to have oxygen issues because he was pretty sure that those cottontails were taunting us with threats ranging from devouring all of our Monarda to nibbling our star gazer lilies to nothing. These were not idle threats either as they accomplished those goals with gleeful success.
Instead of this, which is what I planted, I got green stems about an inch tall.
A friend has a childhood story where he, his brothers, and a classmate found a baby bunny walking home from school. They came to their grandmother’s house before reaching their own. When they showed their little treasure to the grandma, she asked to see it. What happened next scarred them for quite a while. Let’s just say, baby bunny earned his heavenly reward that day.
I always felt bad for the baby bunny in that story. I have even been known to rescue a few batches in my day, but after hundreds of dollars of plants were devoured overnight – literally, there was a shift in the tide of my thinking. As I sit penning this blog, there are four of the little scamps merrily tra-la-la-ing away in Reed’s memorial garden. Do not mess with a mother’s heart.
This is why our streak times got better and better.
If our city fathers (and mothers) will not recognize this pervasive problem, I am here to tell ya we’ve got trouble right here in River City. Have they not seen “Night of the Lepus”? Because I have . . . well, a few parts of it. My dad will swear to you that I never walked in one late, turbulent night and saw gigantic bunnies eating buildings. I reminded him about that recently, and he swore no such event ever happened. I think he may be going senile or at the very least trying to cover his tracks. He is a gardener too, and I think he was trying to plant the seeds of what could happen if we were not ever vigilant.
So while streaking and tabulating counts of taunting members of Bug’s clan, we decided to come up with some options on how to help our fair city rid ourselves of the pests among us. These are listed in no particular order.
- In story books, Mr. MacGregor’s place was pretty enticing, perhaps we could come up with a great relocation package, including lifetime ice cream and sporting and fine art tickets. Perhaps that would allow the dear old farmer to move to outskirts of our city. As for replenishing his produce, those of us with gardens would be more than willing to share our bounty. What happens there need never be questioned because you know the old saying, “What happens at MacGregor’s, stays at MacGregor’s”. At least, that’s how I think it goes.
- On more than one occasion I have been called the Pied Piper of Children. Perhaps the bunny equivalent exists out there who could woo away the entire fluffle to a land flowing in vegetables. (Add that one to your vocabulary. Fluffle – an obscure term for a group of rabbits.)They would merrily march hop down the street faster than Pooh’s friend, Rabbit, would protect his rutabagas. There must be some community (far, far away) that would love them.
- Issue live traps along with curbside recycling and garbage receptacles. Provide instructions on how to properly care for the rabbit until pick up. Then rabbits can be relocated to cities that are considering new rabbit project groups for their county 4H. Personally, I think this is a win-win!
- Since our fine city has pretty severe leash laws, allow an evening once a month where dogs and cats are allowed to roam free. Now before you think we would be creating a greater problem, this freedom would only be allowed if your pet was spayed or neutered AND registered (think: tax dollar revenue, people). I am not suggesting the pets eat the rabbits, but it might give a few rabbits comeuppance about their nonchalant attitude to spend a night being chased.
- Finally our favorite as we are true environmentalists at heart. We recently read an article about how the lynx was once plentiful in our area, but encroaching habitat destruction pushed their territories farther away. Reintroduce the lynx to our county. This could be similar to the reintroduction of the wolf to Yellowstone National Park. We understand that program had some success. We can make no guarantees, but even a lynx has to eat.
We are nothing if not people of action. We feel that we didn’t just complain to city hall about our concern. We asked not what they could do for us. Rather, we have spent our time wisely while streaking (not solely for our physical health either), but I daresay, performing our civic duty brainstorming ways to improve our little town.
Hoping that someday soon, the invasion is much less noticeable. Even though we see them as pests, rabbits do serve a purpose in this world. Until that balance is reached, we may need to buy some more fencing before one stands on his back leg and greets us with, “Eh, what’s up, Doc?” At that point, we may be taking a left turn to Albuquerque.
Note to my dad: I used creative license in this post. I do not believe you are going senile; so, please do not have Mom call me and question my sense of humor.
I have been away from home for a week while traveling with the Boy Wonder, who had an amazing opportunity to attend an academy in my hometown for a week. While he was away on daring missions, I was blessed to visit with some family and friends. Anyone who knows me also knows that I enjoyed every morsel of good Southern eats because unless I make them, I’m not getting them in Minnesota. During my stay with my 90-year-old Mama (pronounced maw-maw), I received a message from a friend that I had been tagged in a blog hop. My quick response back to her was to let her know that I would definitely participate, but my internet was spotty – read: zero bars – so I would have to get back to it when I had better service.
Seriously, awesome food at The Varsity in Atlanta, GA. Enjoyed with my son, my uncle, my friend and his family.
When I did, I was off on adventures with my mom and daddy whom I have waited to have to myself for a while – 1973 to be exact. My children know I have a saying, “Unless Jesus or Reed are calling, I’m not missing hanging out with peeps right here in front of me.” So, dear sweet readers, this blog could wait until today.
I met my friend, Nancy, who nominated me for this blog hop on a plane. Wait a minute. That last sentence looks like she nominated me on a plane. No, no. This won’t do. She actually met me on a plane, but nominated me when I was hanging out in Alabama. Part of the story of that first encounter can be found here. She became more than comfort in my not finest hour, but rather a true friend. We don’t get to see each other as often as we would like, but when we do, it always seems we just pick right up where we left off. She is the kind of friend, who shares my sense of humor, but more importantly shares my awe and wonder at how Jesus loves completely flawed girls like us. Her writing often leaves me in stitches, and knowing her like I do, at times in tears, because her writing is real and refreshing!
Why do I write what I write?
Before I answer that directly (and since when do I ever do that?), I want to say that I am amazed that anyone would ever want to know that about me. As a science and math teacher by trade, English was my worst subject. Yes, I am old enough to call the class “English”, not “Language Arts”, where I am certain I would have been an abysmal failure. Seriously, I grew up in Florida during a period of time where if you used a contraction in an essay, you were automatically marked as an “F”. C’mon y’all ? Does anyone else see the problem with that? Although, I did earn excellent grades, more than once I had to de-Southernize my papers to bring my grade up. I still shudder thinking of those red F’s on my paper.
One of my all-time favorite quotes is this one by Anne Frank
“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”
My writing sprang up from a well of deep pain and sorrow. Following the bus crash that claimed Reed’s life and injured Sawyer and Erin, I wrote on their CaringBridge sites to tell people what our prayer needs were. From there, people began to come out of the woodwork telling me that they looked forward to my writings and to the honesty with which I shared our struggles. (They weren’t kicking us when we were down, but something in my writing stirred their hearts.) The more I wrote, the less the burden of our reality seemed to bog us down. As time wore on, I dabbled in blogging and realized that the things that God lays on my heart on a variety of subjects resonate with others. If what I write helps anyone in any way, then the bearing of my heart is worth every re-write.
How does my writing process work?
Now that my deep dark confession of being terribly afraid of writing is out there, I will also confess that my knowledge of the writing process is probably less than my knowledge of a hole in the ground. But I have also learned over time that I know way more than I often give myself credit for. Way back in high school, my daddy and his buddies were enrolled in an FFA judging contest. When they arrived at the competition, the advisor told them that they had been entered in the soil judging because he needed someone to do it. They were rock solid on their other competition, but soils – what do we know about soils? They were given clipboards, judging forms, and pencils, and then escorted to (I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP) holes in the ground. They scratched away their best thoughts on each hole, and lo and behold, they ended up taking first place.
While I have made public apologies in my blog to former English teachers, I write just like I think and speak. The story ideas; however, come from God. Most often it is something from my everyday life that moves me. Many times I sit on it, but it will just keep popping back up in my thoughts. That is when I know that God truly wants me to write about it – even if it isn’t something that I would have chosen to share. One hundred percent of the time I get a private message from someone after posting one of those gut-wrenching blogs that my words were EXACTLY the encouragement they needed to get through a hurdle.
If that is how God works, I am delighted to be his vessel – even if I use contractions. Carving out the time to write and faithfully listening to God seem to be my largest hurdles.
I also read and re-read my writing trying to catch all the little mistakes. That can sometimes be an exhausting experience.
What am I working on right now?
The honest answer is just trying to be the best me, wife, momma and writer I can be. I am so glad that God’s grace covers all of that! Amen! Since I know this is about writing projects, I won’t give a litany of all the things I see I need to do around here.
My number one writing focus has been this blog and my books. I have a contract to publish my first book. (Again, finding time to write is my largest obstacle.) There have been road blocks along the way, but I truly feel that the finished product is one that is better than if I had hurried through.
I have written for some writing contests, and I have enjoyed the challenge. I won one of the contests, earning a major award. Daniel didn’t like the fish net stocking lamp. Oh wait, that was in a movie. In actuality, I won a Google tablet and a signed copy of a new novel, by one of my favorite authors.
Recently, I was asked to begin working on articles for the Minnesota Bridging the Gap’s website. I am honored to have been chosen, and am looking forward to getting to know the other ladies and to write God’s story of my life for a broader audience.
My writing also opens doors for speaking opportunities – which I L.O.V.E. (I mean absolutely love). So I have been working with a web designer and a long-time friend to get our ministry out there. We are “this close” to launching our own website, which tickles me to no end.
What other writers would I like to introduce to you?
I read quite a few blogs. I enjoy them all. Some move me to tears with their writing gifts, like tony, who never wishes his name to be capitalized in the blog-o-sphere. His shares about his life, mostly centered on his career as a musician and song-writer. If heaven has sirens like in Greek mythology, I think tony’s words would be a part of their repertoire. I have never heard him perform, but I will consider myself blessed if I ever do.
Others amaze me with the way that they see God in the every day.
One such “friend”(as we have never met) is Daisy. She writes over at www.adaisygarden.com. I will tell you that she, too, writes from her everyday experiences, and she posts the most amazing pictures. There are days that I envy her eyeballs. Some of her pictures make me want to just follow her around for a day, taking in the beauty that she shares on her blog. Her recent post would be a good example of what I mean. What I enjoy most outside of her pictures is the heart she has for finding the blessings in the ordinary. A girl after my own heart! She follows my blog as well, and I am always amazed at her heart for prayer. And I, for one, need all the prayer warriors I can get!
This last blog is from someone whom I have gotten to know in “real life”. We didn’t always know each other personally, but our blogs connected us. We chose to meet one day for coffee (okay, I ordered a smoothie since I don’t drink coffee. AND sweet tea wasn’t offered there). When our food arrived, Missy wanted to take a picture of the beautiful muffin on her plate. I laughed, not because that was a silly notion, but because it is exactly what I would do. This blogging friend is a warrior. She truthfully, honestly, and sometimes very poignantly raw shares her life through her words. Our connection originally was one of deep and profound loss, but our mutual decision to trust in the Lord’s plan of hope is what keeps us connected. I am amazed at her persistence to find the good in life – even if it is a beautiful muffin on a café plate. Her words resonate with my soul, and I am proud to call her my friend.
While the presentation isn’t nearly as beautiful as Missy’s muffin, shrimp straight from the Gulf, bought at Joe Patti’s Seafood, is my kind of comfort food. Oh yeah, guest appearance by sweet tea, too!
Daisy, Missy, and tony – you are welcome to jump on the blog hop, and I hope you do. I would love to know more about your writing process, but I understand that life pulls us in many different directions. Sometimes all at once! If you are able to participate, then I want you to know that I admire your writings, along with Nancy’s who nominated me. You, my dears, are sweet balm to my soul.
For any aspiring writers out there, the best advice I can give is to write from your heart, especially if it is something God lays there. You can never go wrong with that.
Not that long ago, I did something that I think many nice Christian girls dream of doing. I took up with a motorcycle gang. Okay, I am just kidding. Sort of.
I didn’t become a gang member, but I played one on TV while on vacation. Actually, my sweetie loves his ride, and I agreed albeit somewhat grudgingly to go along on a four day motorcycle trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota with some other friends (read: cycle enthusiasts).
This wasn’t my first ride, and it certainly won’t be my last. The begrudging part was while it was a dream destination for my husband, having a sore butt (from not riding often enough), chapped lips and face, and more tangles than Dirty Sally ever encountered are not my go-to ideas of a great time. My fantasy vacations involve sandy shores, lots of seafood (with sweet tea, of course), and just enough sea-spray to give my natural curls a permanent beach-wave.
Because I love my sweetie, I “signed on the dotted line” to go for an adventure of a lifetime. That it was in more ways than one. At one point on the trip, I leaned in close and whispered (this is a relative term on bike speeding down the road) about how I cannot imagine how one could ever drive through Spearfish Canyon and enjoy it without being on a cycle. I think that was the moment sweetie longed for – me to love what he loves doing.
There was much more to that trip than one moment, and perhaps someday, I will share more. But for anyone who follows this blog at all, the second you see the words “Kandy” and “trip”, you know it is time to grab something to drink, some Kleenex, and get ready for another crazy “How does she end up in these places?” story.
As I have already confessed, every day my bum was as sore as that one time I tried the “Buns of Steel” work-out video in college. If I knew all I needed to get a gluteal work-out was spend hours on the back of a motorcycle, well I would have taken this up biker babe thing long before my thirties.
Bun work-out is one thing. Intestinal fortitude is another.
On our first full day of riding, all was going well . . . until it wasn’t.
My stomach started churn. I felt like the horsepower under my rear was gaining strength in my intestines. We made a pit stop to fuel up – both the rides and ourselves. I politely declined as I made a beeline to the bathroom.
I was there a long time, actually praying asking God to not let me ruin this vacation for my husband. I wanted it to be all that he wanted it to be.
(I later learned that he was ready to send in a search party because I didn’t come back.)
Meanwhile back in the bathroom, another fellow traveler was having similar troubles.
I overheard a momma trying to console a weary (and sick) child with promises of not being far from home and apologies that the hot dog didn’t agree with the medicine. Eventually, we both came out to use the one sink at the same time. The sick baby was a three year old little boy who was a little taken aback when he saw me all dressed in leather.
I told the momma I didn’t mind waiting for them to use the sink first, knowing how hard it is to travel with sick kiddos. I helped her the best way I could. Then with tired eyes, she explained what I had overheard. She didn’t have to do that, but I was in the right place at the right time, and despite my tough biker chick façade, I know she could see my eyes held the key to a gentle soul.
My son has leukemia. The chemo he is taking is really taking a toll on him.
I teared up and gave her a hug. It was all I had to offer.
She quickly exited as her number one priority was to get to the safety of her home. HOME – the powerful siren’s call that we all long to hear.
After washing up in the bathroom, I ran as fast as I could outside hoping to catch her. She was just backing away from the gas station when I lightly rapped on her side door.
As she rolled the window down, I asked her what her son’s name was and told her I would be praying for him, for them. Tears were all she had to offer.
As I walked back to my gang, who now had faces of bewilderment, I staved off their obvious questions of what exactly just happened here with the only answer that made sense.
God made me sick so I could help that little boy and his momma.
He needed me to be in that bathroom at that moment to give encouragement to one momma who desperately needed to know that someone cared. The funny thing is my stomach was fine from that moment forward. God just needed to slow me down for a little while.
So, little Gavin, wherever you are: I will never forget how God put us together in that bathroom. Every time I suit up and ride, I am praying for you on the back of that bike.
This summer, our lives have settled into a different routine than we had been dreaming about during our hygge moments of the long winter. One of the by-products of having an athlete injured is all your have-to’s and want-to’s were changed in an instant. Instead, our summer has turned into a pretty freeing one (although wrapped around doctor appointments and therapy) where each new day holds its own adventure. We wake up and decide what new and fun thing we are going to accomplish today. I just wish our carefree days were completely free of cares. But as I have alluded to before, we tackle Mt. St. Laundry each week.
Thankfully, though another by-product of being limited in choices of activities has been my children deciding there are certain chores that they prefer over others. As long as we aren’t looking like a pigsty, I don’t mind who does a job as long as the job gets done.
My knee brace-wearing girl has decided laundry is her thing. She has developed a Zen-like attitude about the whole process. She enjoys the washing and drying, but she has proven to be a true All-Star when it comes to folding. At times, she has even recruited her siblings in supporting roles, especially when needing to return folded items to their proper location. She has also learned about the thorn in my side when it comes to folding laundry. Our ninety-seven pound golden retriever thinks he is four-legged iron, laying on top of any item and pressing it flat with all his furry-ness.
At times, my basement family room appears to be a Gap store (more on that in a moment) with stacks of items arranged for a quick sale. I really should consider this a proud moment; however, more than once, I have encountered this scene in my travels up and down the basement steps.
Notice the beautifully folded and stacked clothes and towels. Did you also notice the wadded up pile of bed sheets. I decided to use this as a teachable moment. What follows next is the true conversation:
Me: Do you see anything wrong with this picture? (Imagine me doing my best Vanna White interpretation gesticulating my hands over the room.)
Oldest Daughter: Not really.
Me: How many times have I shown you all how to fold sheets?
OD: Not enough, I guess.
Me: It really isn’t that hard. Let me show you.
OD: (With as much enthusiasm as if I asked her to trim my toenails) Okay. But for the record, it only bothers you.
Me: I don’t think I am going to enjoy going to your houses in the future. All your sheets will be wadded up messes.
Oldest Daughter: Well, we don’t plan on washing our sheets like you.
Me: Whatever do you mean?
OD: We will wash the sheets. Dry the sheets. And then replace the sheet sets right back on the bed; thus eliminating the need to fold them.
Me: But you have flannel and cotton sets now. How do you plan on dealing with that?
OD: Maybe our spouses will know how to fold fitted sheets or maybe you can just bring your own set when you come to visit.
Argh! I have one leaving for college a year from now, and I am probably going to have to add lack of ability to fold fitted sheets to my letter of apology to the college roommates. I have tried. I have really tried. I use the fist method of folding fitted sheets, as in each fist in a corner . Then fist over fist until the whole works is folded into a quarter of the original size. A little smoothing out, a final couple folds, and Voila! You have a nice bundle that matches your flat sheet; both of which are placed inside the pillowcase for organized (read: not a crumpled mess) storage.
How can I reframe this utter disinterest for finely folded bed linens? My solution to this perplexing dilemma is to have a tutorial. If you think I am kidding, talk to my kids. The summer before their 7th, 5th, and 3rd grade years, the big kids watched the how to “fold a t-shirt Gap style video” one afternoon, per their mother’s insistence. Then we practiced folding shirts like it was some necessary skill needed to return to school. That little tidbit came in handy in a folding contest against a football coach at a camp. Wasn’t such a big waste of time after all, was it?
So who could I turn to for assistance in my disheveled dilemma? The guru of all fine homemaking skills herself has a delightfully entertaining video on this very issue. But seriously, even I struggled with that tutorial.
This one is much more my speed. Not nearly as funny as the first one, I think we can follow Jill’s instructions in the second one. Although, I almost sprayed iced tea on the screen, the moment I saw the crumpled mess example. She gets me. . . she really gets me.
Guess we know what we will be working as we start collecting school supplies over the next few weeks. Because, I really do not want to wave the white flag sheet too soon. I still have hope that these young pupils are moldable and impressionable.
Of course, we will probably end up in as much giggles as the audience of the first video because you can never take yourself too seriously.
In all honesty, who do I think I’m kidding? I cried the day Reed finished 6th grade because I wasn’t ready for him to grow up. How small that worry seems today. So even if their sheets aren’t folded, I will still visit their future homes someday, just to be with them . . . wishing for the days when we previously used the sheets to build forts instead.
Hug your kids every day and let the laundry worry about itself!
kandynolesstevens 