My last few posts have been about grandparents and how the world is truly a better place because of them. Whether by blood, “adoption” or simply by taking an interest in the lives of children, grandparents fill a magical place in hearts.
A dear friend of mine, who I’ve always thought of as the quintessentially hip grandmother, had this picture posted on her Facebook wall the other day. If you knew my friend, the sentiment suits her. As far as being a grandmother, I think I fall somewhere between all things magical with a little bit of adventure thrown in for good measure.
Before any of my friends fall out of their chairs, I did not become a grandmother by blood. Not just yet! (My high school son just looked at me in horror.) Although I will confess, I do already have things stored away for when that day becomes a reality. I like to think of it as Grammy’s secret stash of goodies (remember the magical and adventuresome description). I now understand the trance that Cracker Barrel holds on all grandmothers.
There is a really long background story here, and if you ask me in person, I will be happy to tell you. We’ll grab some iced teas and chat! The shortened version of how I became a Grammy (more on that name later) is one of L.O.V.E. lived out through friendship.
When Jesus called us to love others as the second greatest commandment, there are those who embody his teaching. A blessing to me is how I am a recipient of that love. I have written and spoken about how once upon a time, a former student stepped up to “fill in for” but never to “replace” Reed as the big brother of our family. When he met the girl of his dreams and was married, our “son’s” mom gave me the honor of being listed as “honorary mother”. It was one of my life’s proudest moments.
Well this year, my son and his wife had their first baby. Before sweet little L’s birth, I had been knitting and sewing all matter of items. She had a rough beginning; so, my whole family (aka Team Stevens) had a very brief visit to give momma and baby the rest they needed. We gave L her knitted blanket, said we would be praying, and asked them to keep us posted.
When they were finally able to come home, I was out in my flower beds prepping soil. A series of text messages left me with a puddle of tears and one befuddled husband.
The first message told me that they made it home, and they received many compliments on L’s new blanket. My response was complete momma bear mode asking if baby’s health was okay now, and if they think of it sometime, please send a picture of her with the blanket. Within seconds, I had a picture of happy, healthy and sleeping baby wrapped in the blanket stitched with love and prayers. Tears began to well in the corners of my eyes. I told her parents that whenever I make any gift, I pray for the recipient; therefore she was wrapped in many prayers.
A quick whirlwind of text messages cleared my anxiety about baby L’s health, assured me my prayers had been answered, and amazed me with an honor I didn’t see coming.
The closing message was: We love you Grandma and the rest of the family.
Even though our county had been experiencing a drought for some time, that little patch of ground was watered with salty drops, leaving my husband perplexed. I simply handed him the phone, and he whispered, “Wow!”
Not only had one mom loved in selfless ways by allowing me to be “the other mom” at her only son’s wedding, but now two grandmas (moms) were sharing in a way I could have never imagined. Sweet L is the first grandchild of both flesh and blood grandmothers. I know these ladies personally, and both, along with their husbands, raised amazing children who daily live what it means to love others first. There are many other compliments I could give to both J and B, but honestly, that last sentence is the highest praise from my momma heart to theirs.
Here is where the Grammy part came in. L is one lucky little girl. She is blessed with amazing grandmas, who simply adore her! I would never want, nor could I ever achieve, replacing or being in competition with that love. Even though her tiny heart could not physically fill a measuring cup, she has enough room to fit some great-grandmothers, Grandma B, Grandma J, and me – one incredibly humbled and thankful, Grammy!
So yes ma’am! I am a Grammy through God’s love poured out through his Son and lived out in faith by my incredible adopted family!
My baby holding my grandbaby wrapped in a prayed up blankie! B-L-E-S-S-E-D!
I make a small notation in my journal whenever I get an idea for a blog post. Today’s post is one that I have ruminated over for quite some time. Part of my hesitation has been that although my life is my story, I would never intentionally want to hurt someone else – especially not when they are on their own grief journey.
The blog posts that come to fruition are often ones that I have thought about for days, sometimes weeks. Along the way, the words just come together or I receive confirmation (like manna from heaven) that” indeed!” I was meant to write the sentences swirling in my head. Many times my own emotions are enough slow me down before I put pen to paper (or in this case, fingers to keyboard).
This morning after devotions and time spent with God, I checked in on my friends and saw this video. Needless to say, I was moved to tears. And almost as if, God whispered, I knew it was time to share this story.
My last post was a tender story of an adopted grandma and how special she was in my life. I never really had an adopted grandpa. My children; however, have a different story. If you take anything away from this post, I hope it is this message. Children need loving people in their lives. I am so thankful that some families share (even though to many it would seem unnatural to welcome another family into their own). My life and the lives of my children have been blessed in countless ways because others made the sacrifice of opening the hearts to love intentionally.
Over the years, this grandpa just sort of assimilated my girls into his life because two of his actual grandchildren are their classmates. His daughter (their mom) has gone from acquaintance to closest confidante. We have had the joy of getting to know them all through our mutual kids’ activities. Many laughs have been shared. But mostly, many hours have been spent watching our kids grow up together.
Due to geographical constraints and the fact that I never finished working on that time travel machine, both sets of my children’s grandparents are not able to attend every concert or ball game. I am so thankful that technology continues to make advancements, because for the first time ever, distance grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were able to “attend” those milestone events in their own homes via live-streaming.
But back here at home, my kiddos never felt completely neglected, because they soon discovered that a grandpa’s heart has more than enough room to encourage them all. Grandpa G always complimented them after games and concerts, making sure to point out a few things that he liked the best. To them, it has always felt that they had someone extra special in their corner.
Both Grandpa G and Grandma J have had their fair share of helping transport all the kiddos to various things. A natural by-product was for my girls to have special stories of time spent with them. These are their favorite ones.
When Cloie sang the National Anthem at a high school basketball game, there was Grandpa G with tears in his eyes in the stands. She was touched to know that her performance meant that much to him, even if she still thinks that all the applause is because people love America that much.
Over this past winter, there was an incident that touched my heart and solidified confirmation that love extends and overflows from a grandpa’s heart.
After earning her place on the varsity basketball team along with Grandpa G’s granddaughter, Erin, a freshman, made the front page of the sports section with a great shot. Even though the team had a devastating loss the night before, we thought the picture might perk her up. It did . . . until we read the caption, which listed not her name but one of the senior captains instead. It became a joke in our family, but it wasn’t so funny to Grandpa G.
Apparently he called his daughter at work because he was hopping mad. Her version of the story had me both in giggles and tears, because he didn’t really let her get a word in edgewise.
Did you see the paper?
Well, what in the mayo? (Okay, his version was more colorful than mayonnaise.)
I am so mad. Did you see what they did to Erin?
She has worked so hard, and they couldn’t get her blasted name right.
I’m thinking of calling them and letting them know what a horrible job they did.
Horrible, just horrible.
The giggles part came from the fact that my friend thought her dad needed to calm down, and the tears from the fact that someone other than us cared that much.
Usually I am the one who has no problems standing up and sharing at funerals and memorial services, but for some reason, I just couldn’t get the words out the day we remembered Grandpa G. His passing was so unexpected. You would think that I do unexpected well, given our family’s story. But I don’t. Even though, I wanted to share the story of how much that newspaper mix-up meant to me, I didn’t. Losing him was just too big a wound (and we were only bit players in his life).
It is never too late to make a difference in someone’s life. Take the time to be genuine in loving a child. Make time for them. Notice the areas where they excel and encourage them in the ones they don’t. Or take a page from G’s book, and just show up. It matters. It always matters!
To his family – thank you for sharing him with us. If heaven has access to this blog, thank you Grandpa G for always having room enough to love my kids!
Just of few of the girls loved by one special Grandpa!
When I was in the seventh grade, my family moved from about as deep in the South as you could get to a prairie valley in North Dakota. Through my dad’s career as a college basketball coach, we befriended many families of his players. One of my life’s mottos: “Family includes people you choose” had its rudimentary origins in that little town.
I will never forget when we were asked us to bring the matriarch of one family to an away game. Grandma Leone Nilsen was unlike anyone us kids had ever met. Norwegian (we didn’t even know where Norway was), proper, and one heck of a Scrabble player (never, and I mean never, challenge her words because she was a walking dictionary)! A real fairy grandmother like a character from a storybook. Upon hearing about our situation of being “proximally family-less” meaning no family within a thousand mile radius, she made a declaration that she stood by to her dying day. “I will be the grandma now!” She remembered all of our birthdays, special events, and even sat with my grandparents at my wedding.
Once, my parents had to travel out of town; so, she invited us to stay with her because she lived in town close to our schools. Boy! Was that an adventure! The first day’s breakfast was buttered jelly toast with eggs. The only problem was she didn’t clarify that there were two types of butter in the fridge, and we choked down grape jelly and garlic butter on wheat toast. Not a combination that I would recommend – ever. But we sure did have some giggles.
Later that night, we went to the local pizza restaurant. Grandma Leone, who was everything maternal including fair, decided we should order the three ingredient pizza, giving each of us a chance to make one selection. Our parents never did that; so, my brother and I thought this was the best idea ever. Back in those days, my food tastes were fairly conservative; so, I didn’t branch far in pizza topping selections. Canadian bacon was my choice. My brother, always having a flair for the dramatic, ordered pineapple. What kind of goofball orders pineapple? (Today I love that on pizzas. At 13, I was less than enthused by his selection.) If I thought that was bad, what came out Grandma’s mouth made me wish that my quirky brother could have had the third selection. Sauerkraut! What in the name of all that is holy would make her pick that? Miserably, we ate our pizza because we didn’t want to be disrespectful. I have hated sauerkraut ever since, even ordering Reubens sans that ingredient.
Even though her pizza topping choices were less than appealing, the love she lavished on us kids was genuine and real, even if the bloodlines that connected us were not.
Her church had a mother-daughter tea, and since I was the closest granddaughter, she invited me as her guest. She picked me up in her big boat of a car, complete with stuffed white kitty in the back window. (That was her signal as to which car was hers in a crowded parking lot.) On our drive to the church, she told me to pick up a small box in the backseat. Inside were the most beautiful teacup and saucer. She told me that she wanted me to know how absolutely beautiful and special I was to her and how honored she was I chose to spend my afternoon with her. It is a moment I have never forgotten.
The actual teacup given to me.
Just recently, our church held a “Daughters of the King” tea. Since it was held on the last night of our church’s youth group for the school year, that left just one little Sally Gal to be my date. While fellowshipping after church, C asked a family friend if she was coming to the tea. Her heartfelt response was her girls would be going to youth group; so, she wasn’t sure. Without batting an eyelash, Cloie said, “Oh please come. Don’t worry! My momma shares!” As if there wasn’t any other choice in her mind, my nine year old decided that was just the way it was going to be. She made sure our friend signed up, and we would attend as a trio.
As the tea approached, C sat me down for a heart to heart. “Now mom when we get there, I know this is a special night. But, I will have to sit between you and Miss Linda. That would be the only fair way to handle this.” Which is exactly what she did, and we all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Tea parties are pretty special events indeed, but even more special are those people who open their hearts to share moments with people they love – biological family, family of God, or simply the family you choose.
Looking back now, even if it was not due to genetics, I am so glad that Cloie has her Grandma Leone’s heart. I know that she would be so proud!
Dear Erin –
Today is your day! We celebrated in your favorite way, having lunch with family. Not much of a surprise, you received our family’s traditional gift, a cedar chest, passed down from my grandparents, lovingly restored by your dad and brother. Hours of work went into the restoration. Through their hands went love, tradition, and honor to give to you something that we hope brings you delight for years to come.
What you didn’t expect was the small black box resting inside, holding a pair of pearl earrings. Even though the pearl is your birthstone, there was another reason we chose that gift for you.
You are at a time in your life when there are many struggles girls your age must face. Society will tell you to be smart . . . but not too smart. You will hear that you have to be, dress, act, or look a certain way to be popular, because who you are isn’t good enough. The hidden message is you must do these things for boys to be interested in you. Enjoy activities you love, but don’t be surprised when people say you only got there because of something either you or your parents did or said. Critics will gloss over all the hours you spend working hard and playing harder. And the worst and most pervasive message of all: your God is not worth your time.
I wish that I could tell you none of this will happen. Sadly, you already know I would be lying. No matter how loud those messages are my heart will always be as steady as a lighthouse beacon responding to the deafening storms, “You are beautiful. You are talented. You are smart.” But most importantly, I will be shouting, “You are loved”! I will shout it loud enough to drown out the din of the other noises competing for your very soul.
And I am not the only one. Your fan club has countless members.
Today was a great day, filled with well wishes, visitors, and gifts. It is easy to hear the message of love in those circumstances. While I wish for all your days to be like this one, I know along life’s journey you will run into bumps and snags and sometimes, dreaded dark places. On those days, remember back to days like today. Listen to our siren song. “You make the world a better place.”
In the quiet places, you will hear us reminding you of my heart’s resounding message: “You are amazing!” Choose to listen to those words. Treasure them like gemstones like your gift today.
Long ago, I received my first pearl necklace much by surprise. It was the week of my senior prom. My Granddaddy took me to the store and asked me to pick out a necklace for the dance. This was not something he did routinely; so, I was rather taken a back. When I chose a dainty string of pearls, he beamed. After trying it on, he said, “Every beautiful girl needs pearls. You make these look stunning.”
It is a moment that I have never forgotten. His was one of the voices encouraging me to become all that God has designed me to be.
Do not give dogs what is holy, and do not throw your pearls before pigs,
lest they trample them underfoot and turn to attack you. Matthew 7:6
Today’s pearls were not meant as just a token, but rather, the passing of a tradition from one generation to another. It was a passage of love.
Oh, and for all those voices sending you a message that is in any way less than the one we are all proclaiming for you, they are hoping you will throw your pearls to the pigs. And I know you are smarter than that!
Happy 15th Birthday Sister!
Love, Momma
Dear Reed –
I am sure that Pastor didn’t know how his words last Sunday would impact me. I had heard the quote before, but for some reason, this time the sentiment washed over my soul as if God himself had given me the explanation.
“If there were no love, there would be no grief.” ~Zig Ziglar
Truer words were never spoken because I love you without end. From the moment we learned we were pregnant to the day we said good-bye here on earth and every single day in between, I have been your mom. I always will be. Even though our moments are memories now, you simply cannot tell the heart to stop loving. It is a heart well that will never go dry. Grief would be nothing if a heart didn’t love so deeply. Although, it hurts not having you here, I could never stop being your momma, even if I wanted to.
Sometimes, I think there are people who wish that we didn’t share our journey. This will come as no surprise to you. I really don’t care what they think. They didn’t get the chance to love you the way we did, with a love that defies the boundaries of heaven and earth.
Though our eyes may sometimes be clouded by grief, our hearts are always reminded that as much as we love you God loves you and us more! His beloved Son erased those boundaries so someday we will see you again. Definitely a love without end!
Today has been a delicate tightrope balance, because your birthday falls on Father’s Day. This has only happened twice since you passed away, but it is really a hard day for Dad. I was always jealous of how he had you to hold on his first Father’s Day, just a few days after you were born. Today, I just hurt for him. I think he often wonders what you would be like now, especially after seeing your friends return home from their first year of college.
Both of us are trying to prepare our hearts for Sawyer leaving home next year. Maybe it is because we didn’t get to share all those moments with you; both of us are savoring every moment. We want to hold on with a grip that would keep him young, yet we watch him navigate in a world as amazing person, knowing he is going to do great things. He follows in your footsteps, yet leaving a mark distinctly his own. If you were here, I know you would agree “The FORCE is strong with him.”
Sister is doing well, especially after hearing the news that she would play again after her injury. Just like that time you carried her after her bike crash, I know you would have gently carried her again telling her she was tough. You were there cheering her on. One of the most tender sibling moments ever is one she carries with her as she loves on all the little children that she babysits.
Huck, your four-legged best friend, is doing better than he has for a long while. He moves a little slower, but on a recent trip to “visit” you he moved without haste to lay next to his boy. Cloie is doing her best to help keep him young.
Speaking of our little Sally Gal, she is perhaps your greatest legacy. So much of her identity is you. Everyone calls her my mini-me, but her personality is a mini-Reed. Just yesterday, we finished reading one of your favorite summertime books, “Love, Ruby Lavender”. She laughed at exactly the same spots. In her giggle, I heard your laughter. In her repeating the good parts, I heard your voice. I loved it all. Though there were struggles to get her here, I am so glad that God gave us her, but more so, that she came packaged with your heart. It does mine good in so many ways.
Just like you always wanted to do, we once again celebrated your birthday with blizzards for supper tonight. So much better than “Happy Birthday”, the cardinal serenading us as we drove into the driveway was one of those amazing small glimpses of heaven.
The invisible boundary between heaven and earth doesn’t prevent grief, but neither does it stop love.
By God’s design, a momma’s love is a force much stronger than that.
Loving you always
Momma
Growing up, my brother and I once played a colossal game of Clue. By colossal, I mean our characters spent about five hours trying to figure out where poor Mr. Boddy had been done in. With 6 suspects, 6 weapons, and 9 rooms, there are 324 possible outcomes. (Have I ever mentioned I love math?) I am certain we tried almost all of them. We were sure of the perpetrator and the weapon, but we spent hours trying to determine where in the cat hair this murder took place. Complete and utter aggravation! Eventually, frustration overtook us or perhaps it was our early bedtime. We looked into the mysterious envelope to discover the error in our logic.
It was Miss Scarlet with the knife in Colonel Mustard. He might have been a big man, but I think he would have taken umbrage with his comparison to being as big as a room. Honestly, I don’t blame him.
It was our original card choosing and not our logic at fault. Whew! We laughed for days. Looking back now, our parents should have been proud of raising persistent children.
I recently ran into another one of those moments of frustration. Since I love to cook from scratch, I create stacks of dishes. Since none of my workers, children, are particularly persuaded by mine or Madge’s promise of extremely soft hands, I am (alas!) the cheese. You know the cheese stands alone washing all the dishes and cookware which appear to multiply when we leave the room. I envision Lumiere (of Beauty and the Beast) lighting up a rousing rendition of “Be Our Guest”, inviting all pots and pans to a luxurious hot tub soak.
Warning: Not a staged photo. These are the real dishes that accumulated between lunch and supper today.
When I am doing the dishes sans help, I have a system that works for me, but not necessarily for my small kitchen – the bane of my existence as a foodie. My method involves allowing the dishes to drip dry until . . . the saints come home. Since my sink-style drainer can only accommodate the silverware, three or four cups, and the plates, once upon a time I placed dish towels all over the counters with the remaining piles of sparkling dishes on top.
I am a nothing if not a woman committed to progress. My archaic system went by the wayside like the daily sweeping of my golden retriever rugs laminate floors did before God’s greatest invention since sweet tea, the Roomba. A chance encounter with an end cap special at the Mecca of the South and Voila! Instead of piles of dish towels, my counter had a lovely, little, rapid-dry dish mat.
Although not coordinating with my décor, the colors reminded me of the beach; so why not? Do what makes you happy! At least, my super soft hands can pretend they are in the Gulf of Mexico while my eyes are stimulated by the colors of my beloved Emerald Coast. If I poured sand around my feet, then I would have the complete package. That, however, might tax my precious Rosie (my beloved Roomba). “The Jetsons” fans would totally understand my attachment to her. Seriously, I adore her.
All was fine until my drying mat (who has no name – yet) encountered a wayward marshmallow. Really, who leaves a marshmallow, a green one nonetheless, to bake in the sun on my dish mat buddy? Oh wait! I get it now! One of my children just wanted their new little mallow friend to enjoy the illusion of Pensacola Beach like their mother does when Calgon doesn’t take her away after meals.
Wonder Twins (aka washer and dryer) to the rescue! Only that’s not what happened. Instead of a quick cleaning, I had to get an advanced degree in laundry terminology.
A cursory glance at the tag on the mat had me just about as frustrated as that Clue game of my childhood. My first thought was, “What in the mayonnaise am I supposed to do with this?” If Rosie had been more like her namesake, she mostly likely could have interpreted. She was no help – whatsoever! I was stuck trying to decipher what to me appeared to be the Rosetta stone of laundry.
One not prone to waving a white flag hastily, I managed to come up with the following instructions. Add one Alka Seltzer tablet to a glass of water, use not one but two drumsticks on a percussion triangle while listening to your favorite 45 play on your record player, and whatever you do – avoid bumper cars.
While I would love to sit around and bang drums all day, I failed to see how any of that was going to clean marshmallow (he seriously should have used sunscreen) off my drying mat. Acquiescing to husband’s sage advice of “this isn’t rocket surgery”, my quest for truth, justice and the laundry way led to a resource, with a saucy little name, which enlightened my laundry knowledge.
Frankly, I think my instructions had much more pizzazz, but at least the decoded ones actually work. I am attaching them here to save another mom or dad or better yet, teenager, the agony of a deer-in-headlights feeling of not knowing what to do. http://www.textileaffairs.com/c-common.htm See what I mean by saucy: textile affairs – which leads me to wonder if they know about any trysts involving wayward socks.
Oh well! Never take yourself too seriously, and next time, I think I will just have kids dry the dishes.
Not that long ago, I had lunch with a new-to-the-journey, grieving momma. While this isn’t how I expected my life to go, I am thankful that God has given me a heart that can help others find peace. However, if it were up to me, this would be an exclusive sorority, and we wouldn’t be having any new pledges. Sadly, though there will be other children that pass away, and we will have new members in this club that none of us ever wanted membership.
I am not an expert on grief. I am just one momma with a prayer that God would give her a heart that breaks like his does. God does answer prayers. Hence my journey of sharing our story and the agonizing aftermath that grief leaves in its wake.
This year our family has chosen joy as our theme word. We are committed to finding joy in our daily lives. Personally, what I didn’t expect in the hunt were the auxiliary truths I would uncover: beauty, creativity, resilience, silliness, simple moments, but mostly, contentment.
“Be careful what you wish for” certainly has its merits as well. Because even though we were in search of joy in God’s plans for our lives, this does not mean that there haven’t been obstacles. Along the way thus far, we have had several moments of sucker punching despair. I mean, lie in the bed for four days and cry despair! The dark place which stays that way until we ask for God to illuminate our path.
Every single time he does.
The journey to joy is a long and twisted one.
Most days are really good days; as it was when I was savoring every bite of my salad with my new friend.
How do you do this?
The simple answer is you just do. This amazing woman of faith needed real answers while her heart was freshly broken, and I really felt led that day to bare my soul, even if it meant to pick a scab off one of the scars of my heart.
You will get through this.
God grieves with you. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but he does.
Experiencing this deep of a hurt has truthfully allowed me to learn to love with abandon.
Eventually we settled back into a comfortable Q & A session about first birthdays and holidays, and then she asked a question that I had forgotten that I had an answer.
How do you get anywhere in this town without driving by a memory?
I stopped mid-bite, my mind transported back to the alternate routes we would drive to avoid seeing places that Reed loved. At six years later, like words written in the sand, my mind completely washed away the sanity saving (albeit not time saving) measures we had taken to avoid the crash site and various other places that were just too hard to endure.
Time had erased that particular pain.
My honest answer was we simply figured out ways to avoid those locations until our hearts told us we were ready to go back again. One grieving momma’s solution was the only response I had to offer.
About a month later, I was driving by one of those memory locations. After a quick look to my right, I felt like the weight of the world tumbled down upon me.
To everyone else in the world, it appeared to be an old forgotten football field replaced a few years back by an event center (in a different location) with fancy turf, not plain ol’ Minnesota sod. The bleachers had been neglected from the glory days of football games, marching band events, and concerts.
Progress often stops for no man . . . nor a momma’s grief. What my eyes espied was no different. Bulldozers and earth movers were ripping apart the ground to create a new regional sports complex.
My heart hurt because the last Memorial Day he was alive, Reed, Sawyer, and Erin (along with their Scout troops) helped place flags there in honor and memory of every soldier that had been killed in Iraq or Afghanistan. It was a sea of flags.
He was so proud to place one in memory of our local fallen hero.
Later that night, we took our whole family out to reflect before the flags would be removed the next day. I remember him so tenderly kneeling down trying to explain to his two-year-old sister what the flags meant.
These weren’t just any American flags. These remembered heroes. These are special.
So was that moment.
The old stadium might have been forsaken, but in my heart, it was hallowed ground.
The progress that will surely make our town even more amazing was messing with my memories. How did I know that I would have a new answer for some distant question about dealing with changes to your memories?
As I sat in my parked car with tears in my eyes, I remembered that God had shone his love in every part of our story thus far. Today would be no different. Although his creation was being changed, my memory of that beloved moment had not.
From here on out, it will be lovingly held in my heart – a safe . . . and joyful . . . place forever.
One of my favorite stories of my daddy’s childhood is the time he became very ill and had to stay at home for an extended period. The phrase “cut from the same cloth” has some merit in this story. His mom, my Mama (mawmaw,) helped him cut some butterflies out of fabric, and he stitched them onto quilt squares. But as will often happen with sick little boys, they get better, and so too did my dad. His quilt squares, the ones to take his mind off of not being in school, were soon forgotten and stayed that way for many years. A few months before my wedding, those quilt squares resurfaced – lovingly stitched into a quilt. Because the fabric is so fragile, we have to be extremely gentle with the quilt itself.
Unfortunately, as time marched on, my Mama grew older and eventually gave up quilting. (For the record, she still is a crocheting fanatic.) Although, I disagree with her, she often says, “What the good Lord didn’t give me in looks, he made up for the talent of using my hands!”
Because I never thought I would be talented enough to make a quilt, they are something I treasure – literally. Some of my most prized earthly possessions are quilts that either my Mama or my Nanny made.
This quilt from Mama is over 65 years old.
This tablecloth quilt was hand stitched by my Nanny.
One day I mustered enough courage and signed myself and one of my besties up for a “Quilting 101” class. My friend is quite an accomplished seamstress, who I must admit takes great joy in retelling the time that I called her in tears because I could not make heads nor tails out of a “Sewing for Dummies” costume pattern for the boys.
Much to my surprise, I had a real knack for quilting (albeit none of my quilts will probably ever win a purple ribbon at the fair). I think my analytical brain for math coupled with my love for matching colors pair nicely. (Who knew my hours spent in coloring books would have a future?)
My most recently finished quilt is one that ties in with both my daddy’s beginnings and my Mama’s end of quilting. One day, she discovered some unfinished butterflies in one of her closets. She loaded them up and had them mailed to me.
The butterflies were cut out and pinned to muslin backs. The only part that had been started was their antennae had been hand-stitched by my sweet grandmother. While I loved my Daddy’s style of applique, I wanted to make the butterflies . . . well unique.
The ultimate recipient of the quilt would be my Mama’s namesake, the third Cloie in our family – making this a fourth generation quilt. That’s right – four generations had a hand in the making of this quilt.
Since my little girl loves all things pink and purple as well as anything with butterflies and pigs, the quilt took on a life of its own. Somehow the finished product all came together.
The most daunting task was the beginning – learning to applique. The butterfly squares were a precious commodity. They were never going to be replenished; so, with much trepidation (and after hours practicing on throwaway fabric, the butterflies were machine embroidered onto the muslin backs using a variegated blue, purple, and green thread.
Next step was to determine what main fabric would be used in the simple pattern that I had chosen. Stumbling across a fabric that is a similar pattern to the one used in her big sister’s quilt was a God send. The pattern is the same with one in purple and one in blue (each girl’s favorite). One girl’s in flannel and the other in cotton.
That decision was a slam dunk, as were the choices that she made for the coordinating fabrics. Pinks, greens, purples, and her personal favorite: green with little pink pigs.
After what seemed like hours cutting squares, the piecing of the stacks of squares went blissfully quick.
Next off the whole works went to my friend with a long arm business for the actual quilting. She had a design which included butterflies, ladybugs, flowers, dragonflies, and hummingbirds. Darling!
Finally, we (I will give some credit to my sweetheart who helped) cut strips and strips and strips of remaining fabric to create binding for the queen-sized quilt. I spent one day bouncing between the garden and the craft room, sewing and ironing the binding.
The finished product is one that gives me goose bumps of joy just looking at it.
At a quilt shop over the weekend, I saw some pre-made labels that you could purchase and sew onto your quilts. One in particular caught my eye.
“A blanket is made with fabric, but a quilt is made with love.”
Based on the reaction of one little girl and her favorite pig, I think she knows that love was sewn in every stitch.
This past Monday, Memorial Day, was spent the way it typically is for our family – albeit in a different location.
This day is one we hold dear.
Normally our remembrances occur at the place where two special people (my father-in-law and our son) are laid. There the deer really do roam free as the geese and ducks fly overhead. It is a beautiful place where the wind whispers comfort to our hearts that creation knows our greatest sadness rests in her rich, dark soil.
On this day, our feet usually trod in the cold, dewy grass, before we journey through breath-taking, sun-dappled lands to a program and fellowship at VFW Hall (long ago also serving as the indoor basketball court) in almost forgotten North Dakota town.
Every year, we remember and we give thanks.
My heart always stirs driving by the cemeteries on what was erstwhile Decoration Day to espy a treed lane, green, yet bedecked in red, white, and blue splendor. Out here in small town America, we do it up right – almost reverently.
Old Glory waves exuberantly over the verdant grasses of the prairie as families make the somber pilgrimage to honor the lives of the ones held now only in their hearts.
For this day, we remember.
Silently and contemplatively, we remember our loved ones that have gone on to their eternal rest.
More so, we remember the sacrifices, a cost so high we dare not utter it aloud, made by others on our behalf.
Our usual sojourn for son delayed, we knew exactly the place he would want us to go this year.
Nothing hits a small town harder than the loss of one of their own children, our greatest legacy. When that loss is the result of a war, we can never erase the pain.
It is a sadness that lingers because it is a constant reminder at how precious life truly is. Our thoughts are cloaked by a thin veil of mourning; evoking such a strong soul response . . . our worst nightmares can and do come true.
For this day, we remember.
We want to shout to the heavens that we will not forget your sons and your daughters, but protocol is silence.
We were not alone as we walked silently up the car-lined dirt road to the cemetery on the prairie.
We went to honor a soldier our son revered. We are not alone; more people are in the cemetery than live in the nearby town. A grieving parent’s greatest horror is that their child’s name will not be recalled. Today is not that day.
The soldier’s parents are there. We hug them tight, whispering, “Your son will never be forgotten.”
They echo the same whisper to us.
For this day, we remember.
We remember that freedom has never been free, and we know that liberty come at a cost.
A stone surrounded by patriotic flowers and ribbons is our evidence. One of our own paid that ultimate price. He was taken much too soon.
For this day, we remember.
We remember gold star flags are bought at a thieves ransom, a price higher than anyone should ever have pay.
Tears overwhelm our wearied lids as we know that sometimes daddies, brothers, husbands, sons, cousins, wives, daughters, mothers and friends do not return.
For this day, we remember.
We grieve and yet simultaneously, we stand next to our own soldiers, quietly whispering prayers of thanksgiving – they made it home.
Later, we gather at park aptly named Liberty to hear the order of the day and reflect upon its meaning.
We watch as a generation of men and women, the ones who helped make this country great, lay wreaths, humbly recollect the stories of the lost, and cry tears for friends and loved ones that didn’t make it home.
We realize that this generation, remembering all who have taken up the America’s call, is aging before our eyes. Will this continue without them?
For this day, we remember.
We remember that those who are serving today work in conditions far worse than this drizzling rain, and we stand, wet, as if our small sacrifice honors what they do every day.
Watching them in their starched white and black American Legion attire, we know the salute is coming, and yet, collectively the entire crowd of souls jumps after the explosive first round fires away.
My children don’t know a world where this is a day of celebration.
For this, we are proud they don’t because for this day, we remember.
Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. John 15:13
For much of my childhood, I only knew a world of boys. I had a brother and two male cousins, who were my playmates. Don’t get me wrong! I loved being a girl, but I also learned to play baseball with the best of ‘em. A fact that wowed my kiddos the first time they saw me in a batting cage.
When expecting our first child, secretly I hoped for a boy. Thankfully, God answered that silent prayer with a red-headed bundle of energy, followed twenty short months later by a whopping curly-headed ball of all things boy.
Our house was strewn with balls, fire trucks, Rescue Heroes, swords, and dinosaurs for years. There were wrestling matches, amazing bouts with imaginary dragons and other bad guys, and an occasional jump with a homemade parachute. Happy were those days, and I couldn’t have been more proud.
In defense of my daughters, I just never pictured myself being the mom of girls. I am so thankful that God’s thoughts are so much greater than my own, because I couldn’t have been more wrong. However, if you’ve ever met my daughters, they are about the toughest girls I know. Pretty with flowing long locks – but packing a gritty fortitude willing to go to great lengths to get to the best fishing hole.
Yet, sticking with today’s title, my thoughts are on all things quintessentially – boy. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.
The heartbreaking truth about little boys is that they don’t stay little forever. The days of trying to get one to sit still long enough to eat more than three bites at a sitting are soon replaced by empty milk cartons lying on the kitchen counter.
A friend, who is like a sister to me, placed a picture similar to this one on her Facebook wall awhile back.
I know she was making a statement about life with a preschooler, but all this momma could do was cry. Those days are mostly over for this mom. Even though the Boy Wonder is a pretty good sport about playing with his baby sister and younger cousins, no matter how much I beg ask him, he won’t make his signature sound effects for Master Splinter of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fame for me – EVER.
While I don’t miss the dirt, I do miss the sounds that only come from the imaginations of little boys.
A few days after my pity party, I attended our church’s ladies mini-retreat. Think: quilting mostly, with a smattering of other crafting going on. In came a friend with her sewing machine AND her young son. The only open table was the one behind me. She set to piecing a quilt while he got busy with his Thomas trains.
Barely perceptible over the hum of my sewing machine, I heard the melodic rhythm of putt-putt-puttering that my knee-high neighbor thought his trains should make. Just like I take every opportunity to breathe in the smells of newborn heads, I allowed my fingers to take a break so my ears could hear the symphony of noise at my feet. Eyes closed, I soaked in every moment, transported to the days when my boys did the same. His momma was never the wiser about the gift she had given me that day. Little boy noise wrapped up like the perfect gift.
I have never been one that savors change, and I am going into this my-boy-is-too-soon-a-man, kicking and screaming. I am watching friends at church speak truths to their graduates knowing that life is short (like Reed’s) and time is precious (like what I have left with Sawyer in our home).
As much as I fervently desire that my knack for growing zucchinis would result in a little boy or two sprouting in my cabbage patch. I’m afraid that train (like my little friend’s) has left the station.
I have learned, though, that God truly means he delights in giving us the desires of our hearts –even if I didn’t get the chance to birth enough kids to field a baseball team. Time and time again, he hears my faint cries, providing opportunities where other mommas bless me with coveted time with their precious little ones – noise and dirt included.
My awareness of God’s blessings began during a reunion with our former nanny whose littlest one was only four years old. In the first hour of our relationship, I learned that not only did he love superheroes (just like my boys did and do), but also that he was an expert in walking backwards (his words not mine). It was the next morning that stole my heart, causing me to long for days gone by. I received a call on my way to church from my new little buddy who wanted me to know that he was heartbroken because he forgot to tell me that I was his best friend. No words just tears as my heart melted!
A little later, a mom who truly needed help came into our lives. She brought a baby boy who needed someone to watch him while she worked nights when her husband was stationed far away with the military. It was a time that I will cherish forever. Looking in from the outside, it would appear we were blessing them. Hardly! Each night I put to bed and was awoken by the most amazing little boy!
My big guy and the baby of my heart.
A last minute need for a sitter, results in amazing snuggles for an evening or an afternoon, complete with giggles and the kind of slapstick humor that only little boys find funny. Moments that remind me so much of Reed’s love of the ridiculous. I relish every second!
A trip showed me that anything and everything can and should be hauled in trucks, as I watched my cell phone go on an epic journey around the family room. Fits of giggles pursued when I discovered this tiny tot had more experience in selfies than this auntie. Ripples of laughter poured out like blessings.
My most recent favorite of these God-appointed moments was while serving as an extra adult on a class field trip. A little buddy spotted me and yelled out, “Kandy, check this out!” I couldn’t wait to see his accomplishment. My heart swelled as I realized among all the adults present, he chose me to share in his perfect moment. Big boys rarely ask their mommas to do this, and it was one more chance I had to relive the glory days of mothering little guys.
For the mothers who wonder if they will ever pick up their toys (especially after embedding another Lego brick in her heel), if they will ever hit the toilet bowl and not the seat, if the dirt track by the front door will go away, or if they will ever have quiet moment again, the truth is sobering. The answers to those things are yes, most likely yes, probably not if you own dogs, and sadly – very sadly – yes.
To the mommas of these little guys, thank you for sharing them with me. You have no idea what joy each of them brings to my life. Little boys grow up taking their dirt and sound effects with them, leaving mommas to wonder where the time has gone.
Hug them tight! Encourage their imaginations! Overlook the mess!
Oh yeah . . . bring on the noise – that joyful melody of life!
kandynolesstevens 