As I have shared on this blog before, I have a way of collecting friends. Recently, someone asked me about my love of moose, and before I answered the question, I blurted out, “Don’t buy me any, I don’t want to dust them”! The great thing about collecting friends is I never have to dust them. E.V.E.R. That’s a good thing because I am allergic to dust. Of course, like most people, I have the inner sanctum of friends, those girlfriends that know my heart and my struggles, and they love me anyway. This is partly their story.
I have those friends that I see only once in a while, but I cherish each moment I share with them. I also have friends whom I have never met. Some are the modern day version of pen pals, and others are people that I have done business with over the years.
Today’s confession, I mean, story is about one of those friends. For her sake, she shall be called X. (For all you math lovers, X is getting some love today.) X is a wonderful woman who over the years I would have called acquaintance until a certain EVENT solidified her place in my Hall of Friends. Hey! If the Super Friends can have a Hall, so can I!
X is a seamstress – well more precisely – Teddy Bear Maker Supreme. I am awed and amazed by her work, but more so, humbly grateful. A friend of a friend told me about her work. She put her life’s grief into action by epitomizing the verse “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” 2 Corinthians 1:4 (NLT)
She makes teddy bears out of the clothes of loved ones who have passed away. Magically, she transformed our first Christmas without Reed into one where we were able to “hug him” again. Over the years, I have probably grown into one of her biggest customers and fans.
I loved her work, her gentle nature, and her excellent service, but this past year, I fell in love with her sense of humor.
Brace yourselves, dear readers, because it is confession time up in here.
Normally, I am the buyer of the bears, but last spring, I was simply the middle man. A dear friend of ours asked me to order a set a bears made from his wife’s wedding dress. You want me to do what? Does she know about this? Are you crazy?
He said his wife didn’t know as this was to be a surprise. He relayed how the dress had been in a storage unit they were clearing out and how she said just get rid of it. Okay girls, that might be what she said, but is that really what she meant?
He gave me his money and gift certificate (purchased at Reed’s Run), and went on his merry way. How do I get myself into these things??? No way, am I cutting up someone else’s wedding dress without her permission. What in the world am I going to do about this???
So I didn’t do anything for a long time. The dress sat in a storage tote in my garage forever. My friend finally harassed, I mean, asked enough that I broke down and sent it. I explained to X that there were special circumstances as the family had recently gone through some horrific life events, but the order was for bride and groom bears.
Apparently, X, had the same thoughts as me, because immediately upon arrival I received an e-mail.
Are you sure that they want to cut into this wedding dress? Just checking to make sure, but I really hope they do because I have wanted to make bears out of a wedding gown for a long time.
I assured her they did.
Later that night, I received perhaps the most embarrassing e-mail of my life.
Just checking in. Also, within the wedding dress box was an animal print bra…was that to be used also as an accent or just got there by mistake?
As I sat at my computer that spring evening reading this e-mail, I am certain that I showed hues of assorted reds that would rival the hidden fabric stash of any of my quilting friends. Oh dear Lord, please just take me now. How do I explain what really happened here? Accompanied with: So that is where that bra ended up!
One of my best friends always says, “I had on my 18 hour bra, and those 18 hours are up”, and that is my only defense. I hate dirt – in my house – and as a girl who prides herself in digging in the dirt most every day in the summer; daily I am faced with the colossal decision of how to solve that problem.
My solution is one that I no longer think is ingenious. Leave a towel hanging in the garage, strip down to what God gave me, and run like crazy to the shower. That plan had worked real well . . . until now. Not to mention that the bra in question is a hand-me-down. There I said it! One in the inner sanctum lost a bunch of weight and passed on her secrets – literally as in Victoria’s – to me. Only of course, there is a much bigger story there as well. Maybe I will share that one someday, but right now, how does a sweet little Christian momma end up mailing a va-va-voom bra with a wedding dress to a pseudo stranger?
I finally summoned the courage to respond. If X didn’t offer a commodity that I adored, I might have just “dropped” off the face of the planet. I pulled from the last shred of dignity I had and went with humor.
Hey X! Right about now, I am a hundred shades of embarrassed. I have no idea on how the bra went travelling. We’ve been doing a major house cleaning and paring down of clutter. Is it cheetah print? If so, then it is mine, and the embarrassment meter went through the roof. Either it slipped into the box or decided it was time to go on a road trip.
Her response a little later in the evening, let me know that she didn’t think I was a total nut.
Yes, it is a black and gray cheetah, thanks for ending my evening with laughter. I will be sure and send it back with the bears.
This was a good thing because I can live with being thought of as a kook, but I did not want to have to find a new purveyor of custom made bears. Before I went to bed, I sent her back a little message.
X -I am so glad you have a good sense of humor. Someday I will have to tell you the story of that bra. When my friend hears this, she is going to crack up because she is a part of the story of my personal mortification on how I came to own the bra.
To tell the truth, I almost peed my pants at the thought of the bra being a part of the accessory packet.
Definitely smiling now
And so it went it. X made the bears and sent them back to my house as part of the surprise. I let our friend know they had arrived, but never opened the box. I felt they were his to open. The bears sat wrapped in the box waiting for their upcoming anniversary.
The day of the pick-up, I was not at home when our friend arrived. My husband called and asked me about them. I explained they were in the box in the living room. Daniel opened the box, pulled out two bears, and discovered a most mysterious package at the bottom.
Thank the good Lord that he gave my husband a good head on his shoulder. I could hear the perplexity in his voice when we called me back within minutes.
Hey Kan, we found the bears, but there is something here about a travelling bra? Am I supposed to give that to him too?
I am certain that they could have heard my response in South Dakota. Oh dear heavens, will this never end? Imagine if he hadn’t called me, and I sent anniversary gift of lingerie to this poor woman – not in her size!
When I returned home later that evening, I found the unusual package in the bottom of the mailing box.
X solidified her friendship with me by celebrating my ridiculous faux pas – complete with its own label and packaging.
With friends like these . . . life can definitely get interesting!
Embracing a new tradition need not be fancy. Our hodge podge collection worked just fine.
Recently, there was a linguistics survey from the New York Times floating around that would generate a map of your personal dialect. The questions are based off the Harvard Dialect Survey, which is a linguistics project conducted by two researchers. The link for the survey is found at the end of this blog. Friends and family were producing great maps that were spot on for their patterns of speech.
Sweet tea in hand, I sat down to answer the online questions. At the conclusion, I waited for my own map to be generated.
For those among us who share with me the experience of never finding their name among personalized merchandise at the store, my experience with creating a personal language map was equally as disappointing. This bust was not for lacking of trying; as I attempted the quiz three more times. All with the same result – no map was generated.
I am guessing any person who grew up on military bases, had a college coach or travelling salesman for a parent, or was the child of Bedouins would have the same frustrating experience as I did with that map. Because I have lived in many different regions of the country, my linguistic patterns have become a literal melting pot of the vernacular.
Now this might really put a damper on some things – like not having my own map that I can post on Facebook, but in reality, there are some up sides of growing up as a nomad. The biggest benefit is having friends in just about every corner of the world, and never really feeling like a stranger anywhere you travel. The second biggest benefit is adopting the customs of the locals that best suit your heart.
Ethnically, I like to identify with my Irish roots the most, and we incorporate plenty of Irish traditions in our home. Yet through all my life experiences, we have assimilated traditions that belong to other groups as well. Lefse making from the Norwegians, aebleskivers from the Danes, and meatballs from the Swedes are all regular part of our culinary repertoire. Sauna like the Finns never hurts either.
In the last week, I read an article passed on from some friends regarding a Danish tradition that we are not only adopting, but are also embracing with full spirits. This new tradition is known as hygge. I highly recommend the article I read as well as the article it is based upon. http://www.minnpost.com/arts-culture/2013/12/our-hygge-moment-how-danish-cultural-concept-can-help-cut-through-dark-minnesot
Since there is no direct English translation, I love this description by author Helen Dyrbye in Xenophobe’s Guide to the Danes “<Hygge> is the art of creating intimacy: a sense of comradeship, conviviality and contentment rolled into one.”
That description sounds like bliss to me, which is exactly why we have been practicing hygge in our home for the last week. Sure that isn’t much of a test run, but the spirit of calm in our home since we conscientiously put hygge into practice has been amazing. We lit candles in the early afternoon which seemed to stave off the blues of the setting sun and dark Minnesota winters. All five of us sat in a room together on Sunday afternoon doing quiet things, together and separately. Not since we implemented the required Sunday nap when most everyone was little have we done anything collectively on Sabbath outside of church.
We embraced the coziness of being together as a family. Last night at supper without being asked, our son lit candles for the table. As I watched him light each one, I knew the Danes were on to something. A custom that all our spirits needed – not just mine. It truly is the little things that matter.
For those that know my personal quest to reduce chaos in my life, I believe that God wanted me to read that article for real reasons. I have been moved to tears – happy tears – a few times this week as we have worshipped, fellowshipped, and relaxed together.
For a girl who still cannot pronounce the words “pen” and “pin” and make them sound different, my pronunciation of hygge probably isn’t better. Somehow I don’t think God (or my family) cares about my diction. We have found the perfect new tradition of “learning to be still” to cultivate and cherish because frankly exhausted, chaotic, and frenetic weren’t working so well. I am just wondering what took us so long to get here.
Hoping God blesses you with hygge this week!
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2013/12/20/sunday-review/dialect-quiz-map.html?_r=0
The radio ad where the small child talks about how it feels to be a fish out of the water struggling to breathe resonates with me. A few times a year, I struggle to breathe. Every muscle in my body aches as I try so hard to cough and wheeze, fighting for every air molecule I can suck in.
Of all the monikers I use to identify myself – wife, mom, teacher, friend, cheerleader, super-hero (okay a girl can dream) – asthmatic isn’t the one I love to share with people. Frankly in a world that has grown infinitesimally smaller with the touch of finger, why has talking about our health (especially that of the women in our lives) become something of a taboo?
Don’t get me wrong, I have a couple people in my life that my husband refers to as Internet M.D.’s. These are the people who look at themselves or their children, search the Weirdest Symptoms in the World web superhighway, and diagnose the frail and ill with Black Death or some other far-fetched malady. Some of these people go into graphic detail on all the symptoms that plague them.
Typically, however, we don’t share all that ails us with others.
As moms, we are supposed to have everything together. Our children, our spouses, and I daresay, society is counting on us to be well. So when we aren’t, we put on our big girl pants, tough it out, and move forward behind the veneer mask of “Everything’s fine”.
Photo by Lil’ Sprout Memories
I really did NOT want to write this blog because does this really matter to anyone other than me and my immediate family. (Remember: I like to think of myself as superhuman, and by writing this blog I expose the world to one of my forms of kryptonite.) I have put off sharing since August/September, when this all took place. Then a tragic ending happened to a family with whom I have had loose connections over the years, and I decided that God really wanted me to share my experience.
No one is to blame in this story, and that is not the purpose for writing this.
After recovering from another month long battle of bronchitis, I developed a severe sinus infection a week after my visit with the allergist. Following my asthma check-up, I was given some medications to hopefully calm my struggling airways. So when this sinus infection came in with the stealthy flank attack of a ninja, I shared my revised medication list with my physician’s new nurse. A round of antibiotics was prescribed, and I went on my way . . . to hopefully heal.
Only that’s not what happened. I began sleeping twenty hours a day, I gained 15 pounds in fewer than that many days, and I was an emotional wreck from missing out on life with my family.
I have suffered a few bouts of the blues in my life; so, I begrudgingly went to see my doctor again thinking this must be the cause of my troubles. She did not agree with me and ordered a series of blood tests. I didn’t receive the results until a few days later while watching my son’s football game. My liver panel was through the roof. My son had mono over the summer, and I relayed that information over the phone. I thought it was highly unlikely since I had mono my senior year of high school.
It wasn’t that, nor was it a myriad of other things.
The next two weeks were a blur as my waking hours were spent taking more blood tests each one for more and more dire situations. If I were a cartoon, any liquid going in would have come out through all the holes in my arms. I was terrified. Your liver is one of those organs that you never think about until someone tells you have something wrong with yours. I became more tired, gained more weight, and generally felt lethargic at best.
In one lucid moment, I felt God telling me to think. In my heart, I didn’t think I could have any of the conditions/disorders for which I was being tested. So in that brief state of alertness, I thought about what had happened over the course of the summer. I did travel to a region of the country I had not been before, but that puzzle piece didn’t seem to fit in the bigger picture. Eventually, I hit the mother lode. New medications! I did some searching and Voila! Two of the drugs I was taking should not mix and had fatal interactions in some people. I just happened to be a part of the group for which those meds had bad reactions.
The first thing I did was thank God for pushing me to think outside of the box and for not allowing me to give up. Secondly, I called the doctors. One agreed with me, and the other’s nurse thought it was crazy. I went with the one who agreed with me and stopped all medications. Lo and behold, a few days later, I felt human again. The weight came off, the energy levels returned, and most importantly my liver regained its healthy levels.
I was fortunate. The family mentioned earlier was not, and my heart hurts for them.
Moms – our health MATTERS.
I don’t care if you work in your home or out, have home births or hospital ones, breast-feed or bottle feed, vaccinate or opt-out, homeschool or send your kids to school, have television or don’t, vegan or not, or any other divisions that can separate us as moms. I. DON’T. CARE. ABOUT. ANY. OF. THAT.
But, I do care about you. If something feels wrong in the care and keeping of you, don’t hide what you are going through. It just might save your life. Tell your doctor, tell a friend who will look for answers with you, or at the very least contact an Ask A Nurse program in your community.
You are important.
Your health is important.
Take good care of you!
Your kids need you and so does the world.
When my boys were little, one of their favorite movies was a dinosaur classic. We’re Back was where the dinosaurs return from the dawn of time, through the miracle of time travel and some brain grain, to live in modern times. When the dinosaurs romp down the streets in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade singing, “Roll Back the Rock”, it didn’t matter what I was doing because Reed would beckon me to come and dance with him. I could be covered in flour or soap suds, but to him, it didn’t matter.
Getting our boogey on down, we would rock with the best of them. Holding his sweet little hand in mine, we would stomp and swirl, shimmy and giggle while a chubby cheeked toddler would laugh watching us. That, my friends, is pure joy – when you lose your adult inhibitions and get lost in your preschooler’s loving gaze – knowing at that moment you embody motherhood at its finest. You want to savor those moments forever.
Until the day, you don’t . . . which is exactly what happened to me this past year.
You lose your joy.
When you lose your happiness, you find quiet comforting. There I said it. I was sad. Heartachingly, gut-wrenchingly sad. Distraught. Overwhelmed. Frenetic. Chaotic. Heartbroken and sad.
It didn’t happen overnight. No, I would say it took about five years for it to crescendo into deafening silence.
There were many things that happened that literally ripped my heart in two. What feels like a never ending saga with the tragedy in our family played a familiar role, but so did a myriad of smaller things. Seasons in friendships changed, a health scare that frightened me, doors closed, dreams diverted, and quite simply the chaos of good intentions and overconsumption had brought a sense of darkness to our doors.
The hardest part about all of this was this was the first time that I wasn’t alone in my sadness. The floor opened up and swallowed us all. It is hard to be a cheerleader for a broken spirit of team.
In the fall of the year, I no longer felt like a cheerleader, let alone a candidate for Mother of the Year.
In the aftermath of our family’s darkest day, I had a conversation with someone who asked me some of the most unbelievable questions. I think she was blown away by my answers, but one such response summed up a large part of my sadness. When asked, “Other than the obvious things, what thing makes you the most heartbroken about your life right now?” My heartfelt reply was, “Being a red-shirted freshman.” I wanted to play in the game of life, and due to our circumstances, I simply could not.
Now here I was all these years later, and I had those same misgivings with a twist. With all the distractions and disruptions, I had forgotten how to be me. The authentic Kandy was tired. Worn-out. Exhausted. I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be, and that was breaking my heart. I had lost my joy, and I thought that at this juncture all these years later, we should be feeling better not worse.
But this is where the story starts to change. I retreated and clung as tight to God as I knew how. About the same time as my forced sabbatical, back into our lives came a friend who knew those days of dancing with little boys in the basement. Gently, she reminded me what joy looked like.
Poked and prodded by her love and the love of several others who picked up the cheerleading banner, I became encouragingly dogged in my pursuit to let go of expectations that were boxing me in, of old hurts that kept me a prisoner in my own doubts, and of chaos that didn’t fulfill us. I looked for the little things. Guess what? God showed me they were there the whole time. Making time for the little things, clinging to His promises, and reclaiming the things I enjoy were all beginning steps to understanding what I had allowed to steal my joy in the first place.
Just like catching my breath when encountering that first blast of arctic air, joy was something that I needed to clasp my hands and heart around as well.
During the bench-warming sad place, I communed with God to revisit the concept of joy. It was time well spent.
For this New Year, our family sat down and decided to follow through with the concept of a one word theme based off a devotional by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes organization. We had a family meeting where I offered that I thought “joy” might be a good word. One of our children enthusiastically concurred. What she said next spoken years of wisdom, belied by her actual age. “I agree with Mom. You know, sometimes because of our family’s story, we simply forget what joy is.” After a few murmuring assents, the vote was unanimous as we proclaimed three simple letters to be God’s cleansing tide for our souls for the next year.
We are going to search out and find joy in our lives, making it our battle cry. I don’t think Reed would want us to be perpetually sad, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that God never wanted us to lose sight of joy in our lives. It simply happened.
You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace Isaiah 55:12 (NIV)
Why family photo shoots go to new heights (or lows) with our family. Photos by Inspired Portraits
Just like that movie title – We’re back! And who knows?
You just might find us dancing in the basement somewhere along
that path.
Photo by Inspired Portrait Photography
This is the first family picture we have taken by a photographer who was not a close family friend because we struggle so much not having Reed in the picture. The empty chair melted our hearts. And if you know me at all, the photographer is now a friend.
I have finally found a few minutes to sit down and write our family’s newsletter. We have gone from one sports season to another, and it seems that we are never too far from the bleacher view of the world. It is a good thing that Santa gave us bleacher seats a few years ago. Recently, I have been teaching 2nd grade again at a local charter school which has certainly kept me busy. I loved every minute of it. Other than adjunct teaching at the university, I have kept busy with writing, gardening, crafting, and working in my new ministry, Sweet Grace – all things that I love. Following God’s will, my ministry took me all the way to Kentucky to meet new sisters in Christ. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I returned to a long lost love this year, as I took on the position of Cheer Coach for a football team Sawyer coaches. After sewing skirts and a huge breakaway banner, I discovered – once a cheerleader might have some merit.
Daniel is still with the Schwan Food Company, working as an analyst. He enjoys hunting, including the annual trip to Montana for mule deer. He has snuck in some motorcycling, fishing, and volunteering with the Hunter Safety classes. He enjoys a good project, and this year he finished the remodeling of our basement as well as the upstairs bathroom, laying new flooring for Cloie’s room, and building a new fence for the hot tub. However, if our kids are playing somewhere, all that goes on the backburner. Following our kids’ activities is his number one hobby – hands down.
We all loved attending the Nowatzki family reunion, going to the Brookings Children Museum, and our super fun Easter weekend day trip to Sioux Falls. For Reed’s birthday, we went hiking in his favorite state park and made cheetahs for his legacy program at the hospital where he passed. We made a special trip to the Ronald McDonald House to donate stuffed cheetahs and golden retrievers. It was an amazing day to remember and to count our blessings.
Sawyer and Rachel took Brayden (one of Reed’s friends) to the prom.
Sawyer is still our gentle giant. It is rare to meet a kid that isn’t instantly drawn to him. He is now a junior in high school, and he is so active that we seldom see him. He earned letters in Math League and Football this year. He wasn’t able to participate in golf this past spring. (More on that below) He enjoyed attending HOBY Leadership and “med school” camp this summer. He is president of our 4H club, FCA leader, Jazz Band Member, president of the Junior class, and a youth leader for his youth group. If you were to ask him, he would probably list two things as his greatest accomplishments this year. First, he is almost done with reading through the Bible in a year, and second, he led the Pumas (the Special Olympics football team he coaches) to an undefeated season, including a trip to play at the Minnesota Vikings Winter Park. All too soon, we will be making college visits, and he works very hard to stay up on his studies.
Erin is a freshman this year. Playing college basketball is her dream, and she has spent countless hours to work toward that goal. She played on her AAU team last spring in the Twin Cities, where she was nicknamed Super Star by her coach, and spent the summer trying to reach a goal of 20,000 made shots. She did it, and we are seeing all that hard work pay off as she currently plays one half of the B squad and both halves of the varsity game. Erin is a much sought after babysitter, and she has some neighborhood kids who adore her. Aside from basketball, Erin plays first base in softball, is a Student Council Member, Vice-President of the 4H club, and active in youth group & FCA. Daniel is not thrilled that boys have discovered her as more than one of the ball playing chums. Seriously, he doesn’t like it all.
Cloie turned 9 years old a week ago. Where did the time go? I think all of us big people are really struggling to see our baby grow up. Following her big sister’s footsteps, she played basketball last winter and is looking forward to that again in the New Year. She has been drug along to watch her siblings play sports since she was born, but we never realized how much she actually took in. During a game last year, she had her hand in the face of the girl she was guarding. The girl swatted her hand and told her to stop doing that. She responded with “You must not know a lot about basketball because this is how you defend someone.” Her biggest goal is to become a professional singer like her musical idol – Taylor Swift. Erin & I surprised her with a trip to Fargo to see Taylor in concert, which she loved every minute. Currently, she takes piano, ukulele, and voice lessons. Three times, she has sung the National Anthem at our school, and each time received uproarious applause. She is also active in 4H with the big kids, loves all things Lego, and writing her own songs. One of the highlights of her year was having both Grandmas at her house for a few days – at the same time.
I have struggled with writing this newsletter because our year has had some dark patches. Reed’s graduation was this year, and all of us were heartbroken. It was a sadness that loomed over us for months, both before and after the actual commencement. Additionally, Sawyer had surgeries 6, 7, and 8 that were a direct result of his injuries from the bus crash. http://www.ksfy.com/story/23281897/avera-medical-minute-am-using-surgery-to-move-past-tragedy The surgery featured in this news story was the one that kept him from golf. Over the summer, Sawyer contracted mono which led to a late start of the football season for him. Then after years of pursuing some issues Erin has had, we felt like we had been punched in the stomach when we were told that her nose had been broken on the bus which had caused all sorts of problems and exacerbated other ones. At times, it felt as if crisis was the only thing we knew how to do well.
I did the only thing I knew to do which was pray and try to cling as close to God as I knew how. For those who follow this blog, I am sorry that it has been unusually silent. I have spent the time rediscovering what joy really means. I promise I have a lot to share on what God has taught me during this writing sabbatical.
Today’s devotion reminded me of all that I have been working on with God. His gentle ways have shown me that the origin of my joy began on that first Christmas day.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them a light has shined. Isaiah 9:2
Yes, we have walked in dark places, but Christmas as foretold by Isaiah, provided an everlasting Light that shines so brightly in our darkness. And guess what? We may have to walk in other dark places, but we will never truly be in the dark alone. THAT is something for which to be truly JOYFUL!
We opened this newsletter with our portraits, but we will close with a couple pictures of the real Team Stevens – the ones who love Jesus and love a good laugh.
Oh yeah – the ones who are really fond of superheroes!
I recently shared that my oldest daughter had to undergo an extensive surgery due to injuries she received in our family’s darkest day. The part about this story that is so upsetting is that we had no idea that she had even hurt her nose. Sadly, my children are not the only ones who are continuing to find injuries that no one knew or even thought to check. These are the ones that can be seen on CT scans and X-rays, but there are a myriad of hurts that cannot be detected by modern technology.
This surgery which involved a septinoplasty and turbinoplasties (three of them) were to allow our girl to be able to breathe again – literally. For all these years, she had a non-functioning nose which was susceptible to sinus ailments and headaches. Erin’s dream is to play basketball for the glory of God above all else. As her momma (and one of her biggest fans), I was moved to tears this year when one of her specialty coaches told her that she believed that God gave you basketball as a platform, now go out there and shine your light for him.
Despite being a coach’s kid, I never played basketball. Tennis was my love, and I cannot for one minute, imagine playing that sport or any land sport without the ability to breathe through my nose. Honestly, I do not know how she has functioned all this time.
When the cause of her troubles was discovered, some things (aside from struggling for air in games) did start making sense. Food is just something she eats, not enjoys. She could never smell if there was an odd odor in our home. The icing of this ridiculous cake was when her baby sister explained that the different color candies tasted different, and she thought it was a joke.
Yesterday, she went for her first post-operative surgical appointment. I won’t divulge the gory details, but let’s just say for a squeamish girl, she was a little shell-shocked at the size of the stents removed by the surgeon. He asked if her expression was one of horror or disgust (as in if she wanted to kick him). Her one word answer, “Yeah”, quietly uttered, said it all.
The fact that her mother wanted to examine the stents (because she is after all a science teacher) probably pushed the envelope a little too far. Just one of the many things that will cause her embarrassment in her lifetime!
Her surgery, while definitely necessary, was somewhat radical for someone so young. This was her shot (pun intended) to get back to living and to experience life with some modicum of what everyone else does. In the back corners of my cerebral matter, I had to wonder if it was going to be worth it.
As we walked out of the hospital that day, I asked her if she could breathe better. She said that indeed she could, but she just had to get out of there. Thinking that she was still mad at the doctor, I joked that he could probably take it. She further explained that it was the hospital smells that were making her gag.
Did she just say what I think she said?
Later we walked into a store to pick a prescribed item, and her response was priceless. “Whoa! Smell overload!” I took a big inhale and realized she was right but I had just learned to tune that sensory overload out. But for her, it was like she had awoken from an olfactory coma.
Over the next few days, she has shared realizations about foods actually have tastes, smells that really bother her, and memories of how the hospital smell brought back memories of her brother’s stay in intensive care. Of course, her sister, who seems to have inherited my love of science, conducted an experiment by having her try each of the six flavors of Smarties, and yes, now she can discern a difference.
With each new discovery, we laugh, but a part of me wants to cry because of all she has missed. It has been over five years of having a deadened sense. From the early evidence, I would say that the surgery was more than worth it.
One day, while home playing nursemaid, I was reflecting on everything that has evolved from the firestorm our lives have been. To laugh or to cry played around in my head, partly because I felt that I had let her down. How could I not have known? During my devotion, God gave me a small glimmer into an analogy on this very concept.
He reminded me that sin (anything that keeps us separated from him) has the same effect on our spiritual senses. Whatever it is might start off rather benign. I have to believe that Erin could smell in the aftermath of the crash. But over time, our soul becomes desensitized to the effect it is having in our life. One day, we wake up and a myriad of other things have happened that simply do not make sense, and we are often left wondering where God is.
Wow! I was not expecting that answer when I was cuddled up, asking him to insulate my family and to help us get through this chapter of our story. Choosing joy. This seems to be a theme that time and again, God is pounding into my soul, and many times I AM my biggest stumbling block.
A little later, I had an overwhelming sense that laughter was indeed what he wanted from us. Not laughing at our circumstances, but laughing through them. And yes, that might mean, laughing at a budding scientist, using her big sister as a guinea pig. It may mean laughing when our girl realizes that not everyone smells pleasant following a grueling game.
The more we laugh, the more we are reminded that the Creator of laughter delights in our joy!
I am utterly and completely thankful that he does!
Psalm 30:5 Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (AMP)
One of my favorite things about Erin is her ability to laugh with her whole spirit. Captured at our family photo shoot, this picture explains what I mean perfectly. Portrait by Inspired Portrait Photography.
Things simply are not the way they used to be.
I realize that opening line could be used as evidence that I’m getting older. Hang with me, dear readers, because by the end of this blog, I think you will see that I am definitely still young in spirit. However, the Christmases of days gone by are no longer with me. (Wait a minute – don’t tune out yet. I am not a merchant who is putting up tinseled trees before the turkey is carved. In fact, my favorite part of Christmas now is holding candles with my family while hearing verses and singing hymns.) Yet, like a song from my elementary years, “Video Killed the Radio Star”, technology has intoned the death bell for my most nostalgic pastime of childhood Christmases.
The arrival of the Montgomery Ward Christmas catalog!
Oh, the hours I would dream! Perusing each and every page, often with my little brother at my side, we would wish and hope for all types of gems and treasures. Years ago I wrote about the Bye Lo Baby that I wished and waited for two years to receive. Looking at those glossy pages was something I remember fondly, but other than a few specialty ones, my children live in a world where they don’t know the jubilation of the arrival of the toy catalog.
Still a true kid at heart (and one who desires to be childlike in her faith daily), I have had to resort to dragging my children to toy stores for nefarious reasons – just to see what is new in the toy world. The experience is no catalog dream fest, but it is the closest thing I have found as a substitute. To be honest, we don’t need any toys; so, my trip is rarely about buying anything. No! Those aisles are portals back to innocent days of long ago where I can imagine playing with each item that brings a smile.
So it was on a particularly amazing weekend, I found myself and my curly-headed bundle of energy marching through the aisles of a Toys-R-Us. Just like her mom years ago, the Lego aisle was among our stops. She has found enjoyment with the new Lego Friends sets designed for girls. (As a science and math teacher, I will interject that they are just as awesome as the “boy” Legos, and I love how one set has a tiny blackboard emblazoned with a geometry problem. Yay!)
Looking to see what new sets were available for her visions of sugar plums, my eyes fell upon the new Heartlake High. What happened next probably stunned all shoppers in the vicinity as well as perhaps scarred my mini-me for life. Yep – right there in the store – I let out a yelp of exhilaration!
These Lego sets are built on the fundamental idea that girls are relational and as more sets are created, more characters to Heartlake City are added to the story. That’s my girl’s favorite part – checking to see if she has that character yet. Well, if you are going to build a high school, you need a teacher, and much to my delight, there she was – the high school teacher, Ms. Stevens, who looks an awful lot like me. Now, dancing for joy, I was prancing around singing, “Oh yeah, I am a Lego!” repetitively.
When I flipped the box over and saw that she appears to be a science teacher complete with telescope (I have one of those) and an owl in her classroom (Are you kidding me? For years I had a snowy owl in mine!). Tears flowed down my cheeks. At this point, imagine my husband’s shock, when I brought the box to him (still teary-eyed) saying, “My life is complete! I’m a Lego!” Normally, he is the giant kid in our household; so, I think my effusive gushing caught him off guard.
Hold your horses! Aren’t you married? Well, yes sirs and ma’ams, I am. During my first year of teaching at the junior high/high school level, much to the chagrin of one of my colleagues, the students started calling me, Ms. Stevens. I had several who struggled with speech issues, and Miz Stevens was much easier to pronounce than Missus Stevens. It just stuck. To this day, I am still greeted as Ms. Stevens all over in the community.
For the skeptics still among us, I want you to know about another set of Legos that sits upon my dresser. One Mother’s Day not that long ago, my sweet boy wrote to the company and told them the story about his brother, Reed. He asked if they would create a Reed figure for his mom for Mother’s Day, because she LOVES Legos. They contacted him and said that they don’t normally fill those types of requests, but asked nonetheless for a picture of him and his brother. A few weeks, later, these two boys arrived in the mail. One of the Best Mother’s Day’s presents ever.
Christmas has definitely changed, and I am going to have to accept that. At least dreaming remains the same – for kiddos and for mommas. Even though my catalog days have come and gone, I know one momma (I mean, sweet little girl) who will be dreaming of getting a Ms. Stevens for Christmas this year!
A few days ago, I sat waiting once again for one of my children to undergo another surgery that was a direct result of injuries sustained in the bus crash that often feels like the albatross around my neck. We have been doctoring for four of those years while she has dealt with debilitating migraines, out of control sinus issues, and difficulty breathing during sports. Knowing she has allergies, we sincerely thought allergies and asthma were the cause of all of this. Our allergist thought differently, and started doing some pretty extensive detective work. Searching through her past medical records and knowing that no allergen treatment had been effective, he ordered more scans and sent us to an ENT. I never once suspected what we were told the day we met with him.
Looking at this old CT scan, I don’t see anything amiss.
The radiologist report says the most recent one is good too, but three days after it was taken she had a major sinus infection.
Well, I don’t know that I agree with that report. See this . . . she has a deviated septum and these turbinates are completely engulfed in swollen tissues. It is no wonder you cannot breathe out of your nose! Did some sort of trauma happen to you when you were younger?
It was at that precise moment when I felt as if someone punched me in the gut. Shock!
Trauma
Disappointment
Dismay
As the room was swirling with sinking thoughts, I tried to hold it together to hear the doctor’s suggestions and plans.
How could we have not known that she couldn’t breathe? Shock!
How did we not know that she was injured there too? Shock!
When is this ever going to end? Shock!
The prayers began.
Ultimately, the decision was hers to make. The doctors believed having the surgery would increase her chances of chasing her dream – to play college basketball. Her only stipulation was the surgery could not interfere with this year’s basketball season! She was exhausted with living this way.
Bracing ourselves for another post-surgical patient in our home, we cleared our calendars, finished up projects, and generally tied up loose ends. In a household as busy as ours, preparations, lots of them, must be made when you need a parent at home at all times for seven days of recuperation.
As S-day approached, slowly, like a leaking pipe, fear began to ooze from my thoughts. There are very few friends with whom I choose to share this vulnerability. Despite my recent costume attire, I do not, even for one second, believe that I am Wonder Woman, impervious to fear and doubt. Being afraid for my children is a pastime that I would love to retire. Fear started to creep in, choking me, and I reached out looking for a lifeline.
God answered my prayers by calming my fears, and throughout the day, his reminders just kept billowing in.
Early in the morning:
Text from me:
Fear is consuming me. I just wish you lived closer.
Text from my friend:
What time is surgery? We’ve been praying.
10:00 AM
I will be there.
What? This cannot be! I wish I could put into words the gift that my friend gave. Let’s just say, her willingness to come from miles away, leave her children at home, and spend a day worried about me, more than my girl, was a priceless treasure. Awe!
Lunch at school:
Out of the blue, a fellow teacher and wonderful Christian woman shared a story with me about how God holds those who are in the darkest moments tightly to him. Tears streamed down my face in the cafeteria as I heard words, literally breathed from God. Awe!
Early afternoon:
An e-mail from the church secretary (and dear friend) alerted me that our pastor (and also dear friend) needed the time of the surgery. He, too, would be coming to spend the time (which ended up being a day) with us at the surgical center. His steadfast friendship since the day of the bus crash has amazed us. Awe!
Later in the evening:
After I shared on Facebook my prayer request for the surgery, e-mails, messages, and posts came pouring in. These were not your average messages either. They were heartfelt promises of prayer, practical suggestions from those who had also similar procedures done, and offers to help in any way we needed it. Humbly awed!
Overnight:
Clothed in those prayers, I slept peacefully – which I don’t normally do. Awe!
Walking into the surgical center:
In a way only God could orchestrate, he placed two mommas (along with my pastor and friend) at the same surgical center, the same day, with the same doctor. A little girl who my big girl mentors was having surgery immediately before her. Honestly, what are the odds? During her dark moments of waiting, she buoyed me by giving me the biggest hug of encouragement. Just another reminder my teacher friend was right!
God does hold tightly those he loves – especially when they need it the most.
Like a small child on Christmas morning, I will never lose a sense of wonder of how he provides everything that I need, even when my light is dimmed by fear, doubt and worry.
So thankful that my God is bigger than all of life’s shocks and fills my soul with awe!
Many, LORD my God, are the wonders you have done, the things you planned for us. None can compare with you; were I to speak and tell of your deeds, they would be too many to declare. Psalm 40:5 (NIV)
Post-surgery: Okay, so this is not my actual child. But this bear, her parting gift, gives you a good idea of what she looked like. They had matching gauze guards and Band-Aids. I will admit, biasedly, that my daughter is much cuter!
Over the weekend, my entire family had the honor to serve together at the Fall Games for the Unified Flag Football for Minnesota Special Olympics. Sadly, I had never experienced any Special Olympics events other than attending fundraisers. Boy – have I been missing out!
If you don’t know anything about Special Olympics, I really encourage you to visit www.specialolympics.org to learn more. For the speedy answers, the games are designed to encourage inclusion of athletes who have intellectual disabilities in the world of sports. These amazing kids and adults, in my opinion, have other-abilities. Those abilities include loving like no one else, brightening a room, reminding us relationships are more important than material things, and the ability to be comfortable in our own skin. There is nothing “dis” about them or their influence in this world. As a teacher, I have seen individuals soar in the classroom, but this weekend I was able to see them excel in the athletic world.
Faith – family – football
That is our family motto which aptly describes the order of our family’s priorities. It is the third one that landed us in West St. Paul, Minnesota over the weekend to cheer on two great flag football teams. Last year, a beloved “uncle and aunt” heard that the flag football program was expanding and was in need of an extra coach. Uncle Sheldon recommended our boy wonder, and from the first practice, he was hooked.
We weren’t able to attend last year due to exhaustion because the games were hosted the day following the final Reed’s Run. I remember the pride in my son’s face when he returned late that evening telling us of how they pulled together and earned second place. That sense of accomplishment and joy carried over into an essay he wrote detailing an example of leadership of which he was most proud. A lump caught in my throat reading his descriptive words.
As time will do, it marched on. With a blink of an eye, it was time again for the flag football practices to begin. Vaguely in the recesses of my memory, I recalled a message from our regional director that it would be great if we had cheerleaders this year.
Adding a new spring in my step, I helped organize our cheer team whose ages ranged from three to eight. We learned cheers and routines, and decided that no matter what the end product looked like, we would have fun. Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader! My rah-rah! spirit came back to the surface as I sewed glitter tutus, ordered t-shirts, sewed/constructed a banner for the team to run through, found a mascot costume and ordered pompoms. With those adorable cuties to cheer them on, any team would be successful!
A few members of the Puma Cheer Team!
From the moment we arrived until the final awards ceremony, I was awed by the spirit of these games. Our entourage of athletes, unified partners, coaches, tiny cheerleaders and family members was a merry band of sportsmanship and friendship. I can only imagine this was exactly what Eunice Shriver envisioned when she helped to create the Special Olympics.
From touchdown runs and “flag tackles” by childhood friends to amazing interceptions by new ones, the Pumas did our community proud. To hear adults tell my son that he was one of the classiest coaches in this league brought tears to my eyes. (The unsolicited comment was given because he refused to run up the score on a team they competed against.)
It was a spirit of camaraderie and revelry as the Pumas marched the “lane of champions” to receive their gold medals. They were humble and even had to be coaxed to give a “Number 1” signal for pictures.
Our family left the games with huge smiles on our faces and hearts filled with an awe of all we had witnessed. Special Olympics is the best of the best of athletic events. P-E-R-I-O-D! Everyone is encouraged and supported, and more importantly, around each corner was a potential new friend. We were honored to share in this year’s games. As we drove home, talk centered upon we could do next year.
It was at that moment I remembered something Reed had said the morning after playing in the 7th/8th grade Super Bowl game, the last football game of his life.
“Only 364 more days until I get to do that again!”
We couldn’t have said it any better!
For a few days in August, we had something akin to a miracle occur right at my dinner table. Most people would think that I am waxing poetically, but for me, it is a moment that I will treasure forever. While I was on my train trip with Mr. Jimmy, my parents arrived for a visit with my family. A few days after my return, we were also expecting the annual Grandma & Auntie Vacation visit from my other mom (Daniel’s mom) and sister.
We live in a humble-sized house, but like my husband’s ancestors, there is always room for one more in a bed, one more plate at the table, and one more chair for visiting at our home. The problem with this scenario, due to the craziness of travelling and raising a busy family, was we neglected to tell either mom they would be here at the same time. That task fell to my husband as I was soaking up every bit of wonder in a great place called Kentucky.
To most people, this wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but I will be honest, our moms would have never met had their children not fallen in love. By never, I mean like that scene in Mall Cop where Paul Blart says at the intersection of “Ne and ver”. That kind of never, as opposed to the never Hollywood uses when it tells us there is never going to be another sequel to a million dollar movie franchise. Yeah, right! (more on this thought on a later post)
It isn’t that our moms dislike each other; it simply is that they come from vastly different backgrounds and lifestyles. Each one has her own “thang”, and no one should apologize for being herself.
They have been at some events together (our wedding, one baby shower, Reed’s services, and the laying of his headstone). Other than when Reed died and one time during a Reed’s Run, our two moms have never stayed in the same house together. It just never happens. Even though they don’t normally hang out (which is geographically impossible with one being a native Floridian and the other being a North Dakotan), they do share one colossal common interest. Both adore their grandchildren.
During one of the days of the “Grandma Invasion”, our littlest one says, “Hey Grandmas! Let’s play a game!” Since the old standby preschool game, Ice Cream, a favorite of Grandma L, is soon to be outgrown by Cloie, we settled on a favorite of the big kids in our house. Although neither had ever heard of the game, both grandmas were willing, if may be a little reluctant, participants. There we were, seated around the table, two grandmas (well technically three grandmas as sister Rita had recently become one herself), one mom, and one spunky, little, eight-year-old girl.
It took a while to recall the directions for the game, but once we did, we settled into a routine of fun competition with a whole bunch of cooperation as we cheered each other on. At one point, I distinctly remember wanting to scoop up my little Clo, holding her freckled cheeks in hands to breathe these words into her soul.
“You are the luckiest little girl in the world! This moment – right here, right now – is one so many little girls never experience. You are blessed to have both of your grandmas play a game with you. Capture this moment! Cherish it forever because this will be one of the best days of your life!”
I am certain my far-away, captured-in-my-thoughts-look was not noticed by anyone present, but in my bottle of memories it will always be stored in the library of my heart. I have a few of those moments with my own grandmothers, and every once in a while, I dust off its jacket and pull it out to revisit. Every time I do, it is precious time well spent.
Someday, when Clo wants to revisit the amazing time she shared with Grandmas L and S, my heart library will always be open, and she is welcome to check this treasure out as many times as heart desires!
For this, I am so thankful!
kandynolesstevens 