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I have always known that the old rhyme about sticks and stones and words was not true. Remember saying that ditty as a child?

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.

Usually, this was recited after being called a name, maybe on the playground or on the walk home from school. The purpose, of course, was to attempt to take the power out of the words that were spoken toward you. If we were honest, though, we would all admit that while we recited the words, deep inside of us, the words from the offender really did sting. No, bones were not broken; a heart was broken.

I was called quite a few names growing up. As an elementary school child, I didn’t fit in with any of the girls. I was a natural athlete. I tended to be drawn towards what the boys my age were doing. I remember when I was in fifth grade. Our school had an end of year picnic on the evening of the last day of school. It was a family affair–not just students. I loved the annual picnic and always looked forward to it. That year, though, I had missed the last four days of school with a virus. My mom, one of the pillars of the school in terms of food, still needed to go to the picnic. I stayed home on the couch under a blanket watching television with my dad. When mom came home later that night, she told me that one of the boys in my class asked if I was coming to the picnic. She explained that I was still pretty sick and couldn’t come. This friend of mine, a boy, said to my mom, “Shoot. She’s the only girl I know who can throw and catch a baseball.” While I was accepted by the boys, the girls were not in the same camp. I was called names that ranged from tomboy to words I won’t repeat here.

As an adult, I have realized that, while words do hurt, they really are just that–words; words that come from someone else’s opinion. Whether or not I believe them or allow them to shape my thinking is up to me. For the most part, I am consciously aware of this. Sometimes, though, sometimes there are words said to me which I am unable to mentally file under the category of harmless words. These occasions typically occur when the hurtful words come from someone who I love and is supposed to love me. When I was young, those hurtful words were almost always audible. Oh, occasionally one would find a note with hurtful words written by a classmate. That was the exception, though. Now, we have texting and social media to carry the hateful messages. I am definitely guilty of hiding behind the anonymity of a keyboard. Sometimes there was no anonymity–it was clear the hurtful words came from me. These words, even though they could be traced back to me, were still easily spewed from fingers moving quickly over keys to be sent across the internet airwaves. I did not have to see the hurt in the eyes of the receiver. That made it so much easier to be mean.

Last week, I was once again reminded of how much words can and do really hurt. Eight words were typed to me that felt like a thousand daggers piercing my already fragile heart. I will not share the eight words that were sent to me in hate and anger. They are far too painful and personal. Suffice it to say that I need to retreat to tend to a very broken and pained heart before I say too much out of my own hatred and anger.

Posted in depression, Facebook, Tolerance | Leave a comment

Sowing and Reaping

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If you know me well, you know that one of my favorite genres of music is Southern Gospel, in particular, the Gaither Vocal Band. A few years ago the Gaithers included the Twin Cities on their tour. My husband, knowing how much I loved them, bought tickets for us to go to the concert. Not only did he buy tickets, he bought tickets four rows from the stage! It almost felt like I was up on stage as David Phelps sang! One song sung that night was new to me. I’m not sure who actually wrote it, but the verses were sung that night were performed by Mark Lowry. The song is titled, Sow Mercy. The last several days, the words to the song have been playing on repeat in my head. I’ll get to why in a minute. First, I want to include the lyrics:

“I can see her now, her weathered skin
Old straw hat and crooked grin
And she said child, let’s make this garden grow.
Let’s till the soil, and pull some weeds
And here’s your bag of precious seeds
‘Cause grandma’s got a secret you should know
You always reap exactly what you sow
Sow mercy
Sow grace
Sow kindness
Sow faith
Words are like water, sprinkled with love
You will harvest all your heart’s been dreaming of
Sow mercy
We knelt right there and she took my hand
That patch of dirt was Holy land
And she said child I learned this long ago
Oh, you can bless or curse
You can live or die
You choose the crop you want in life
That’s the greatest secret Grandma knows
You always reap exactly what you sow
Repeat Chorus
‘Cause one day God forbid, you act a fool
And fall down hard and fast, ’cause life is cruel
If you ever reached to help a friend
A hand you held might lift you up again
What goes around comes back around you know
You always reap exactly what you sow.”

The concept of sowing and reaping isn’t new. In fact, Jesus uses the illustration in the New Testament to help illustrate something to his disciples. Paul reminds both the Corinthians and Galatians of the concept. Every farmer understands this principle, as does every gardener. My dad enjoyed gardening. I remember being sent out to his backyard garden on summer mornings to pick the vegetables that were ripened. It isn’t rocket science, really. If you hold in your hand seeds from a packet displaying a picture of a tomato, when those seeds are planted, tended to, and eventually grow, one would expect a plant that produces tomatoes. Imagine how surprised the farmer or gardener would be if the plant growing next to the little wooden stake that says “tomato” did not hold tomatoes, but instead, produced green beans.

The lyrics to the song, of course, are not referring to an actual vegetable or fruit plant. Rather, the song is trying to warn us that we need to pay attention to what we sow, for whatever that may be will be what grows in our lives and, I would say, the lives of the people around us. How often do we hear someone say they were destined to be a smoker or a drinker or some other characteristic because it is what the person grew up seeing. We know that some sins can be generational sins. I believe abuse falls into this category. If a son sees his father hit his mom, the boy may, and statistics say more than likely will, grow up thinking that hitting his wife is acceptable behavior.

So why the sudden remembrance of this song?

There are some situations in my life right now that have left me wondering if maybe the difficult things are happening because I deserve them? Going back to the reap and sow principle–did I sow that which is being reaped in my life right now?

Did I sow lack of perseverance?

Did I sow disrespect?

Did I sow selfishness?

Did I sow anger?

As I think on some of these things, the guilt level is admittedly high. I know there were many times I chose to make myself happy over others in our home. I know there were numerous occasions where I threatened to quit. I didn’t, but the threat was sometimes there. I know there were many occasions where I lost control of my temper. Of course, I blamed it on something else–I was tired, I didn’t feel well, one of the kids, my husband, or even the dog pushed all the right buttons that made me fly off the handle.

If I could turn back the hands of time, I would be more careful about what I sow. Maybe, then, I wouldn’t be reaping such painful things in my life right now.

Posted in Children, Culture, faith, growth, Parenting, sin | Leave a comment

Sucker Punched

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I believe it’s fair to say that close to one hundred percent of adults have been blindsided by a sucker punch. You know, the words that spew like daggers at you from the mouth of someone you never thought would hurt you. Whether they were vehemently directed straight at you or slinked into your ears via gossip, it seems as though the wind is instantly knocked out of you as the floor seems to buckle under your shaky legs.

Sucker punched.

A sucker punch, by definition, involves a closed fist contacting the soft underbelly of a person (beneath the rib cage) at a high velocity, causing the ensuing force to press upward on the victim’s diaphragm, leading to a sudden expulsion of air from the victim’s mouth and lungs. This opening blow leaves the victim open to various other attacks because of the defenseless nature of the victim.

Imagine for a minute that you are comfortably settled into a large hammock. The hot July afternoon sun is blocked from scorching you by the two large maple trees to which the hammock is tied. The breeze is just strong enough to cause the hammock to sway back and forth, softly rocking you to a state of ultimate relaxation. You couldn’t ask for a better place or a better way to spend a summer afternoon. Now, put yourself in the same scenario, but with a different ending. Instead of being gently rocked to sleep, a sudden gust of wind causes your hammock to swing back and forth with such force that it does a complete one eighty. Before you have a chance to do anything, you are face down on the ground below. You certainly weren’t expecting that to happen.

That is similar to how one feels when dealt an unexpected blow. The force of the blow is sometimes enough to make your head spin and your eyes lose focus.

Most everyone knows someone they perhaps fantasize about dealing such a blow. Most people also have a mental list of people they know would never be on the giving end of such pain. A spouse, a parent, a best friend…these people are usually on the latter list. Of course there are exceptions. The word dysfunctional is not lost on people. Not everyone comes from a family that sits around the table every Sunday to enjoy a meal together. Have you ever watched the television show Blue Bloods? My husband and I have recently started watching this show. I used to belong to a family like that. It has been nearly twenty years, though, since my family all got along. I strived hard to be the mom of a family like that. When the last child moved out, I felt pretty confident that I had accomplished that goal.

Then came the sucker punch; a blindsided blow that knocked the wind out of me. I’m still trying to regain my footing. I believe that when someone you love hurts you deeply there is a grieving time that cannot be rushed. I am trudging through the yuck of such grief. More than once I have wanted to wave the white flag of surrender–just let the weight of the grief consume me, put me out of my misery. Sadly, that isn’t really an option. Instead, I wake each day to push through the emotional pain caused by a hard sucker punch. The tears often fall against my will as I remember what once was but may never be again. I find myself, once again, spending time in the book of Psalms. There are so many that I can, unfortunately, relate to.

Life certainly doesn’t get easier as I get older. In fact, I would say it’s gotten exponentially more difficult. In the difficult times, I am thankful that this is not all there is. Someday, when my earthly life is done, I will finally be free of tears, pain, and sucker punches from those I have loved so hard.

Posted in depression, famiy, love | Leave a comment

Agonizing Bones

Yesterday I made the trek out to the mailbox. We live in a townhome community, so all the mailboxes are in groups that line the street. It isn’t a long walk for me, but it is one I seldom make unless I have to be out anyway. My husband likes to get the mail, and, since he drives right by it when he comes home from work, I usually just leave it there for him to retrieve. There isn’t often anything in there that is worth going out to get anyway. Yesterday, though, I had to go to the garage to put out the garbage and recycling containers for today’s pickup. My husband has been out of town this week, so I figured I should probably get the mail. I stopped at the recycle bin on my way back to dispose of the unwanted and unneeded papers–real estate agencies wanting our business, roofing and siding companies offering a good deal to replace our roof, etc. I sorted the rest of the mail when I was back inside. The mail goes in three piles. One pile is for my husband. This pile includes conceal and carry magazines, weekly ads for a gun store, anything techie related, and bills I don’t want to look at–usually medical in nature. The second pile is a shred pile. Here goes the myriad of credit card offers we get for our two youngest kids. Why they still come to us we have no idea. One has been married for two years, and the other hasn’t lived with us for three years. Still, everyday we probably get four or five letters addressed to them, trying to entice them to open credit accounts. The third pile is my mail. This pile usually just holds cooking magazines and Kohls advertisements. Occasionally there will be a card from my mom in my pile or some other random letter I wish to read. Yesterday was a day that held one of those random letters.

Let me preface this to say, if you haven’t been super close to me over the last few months, then you have no idea where I am currently in my health journey. It has been a very bumpy road. The surgery I had in June to remove a tumor from my mouth set me back in terms of how I feel. The incision the doctor had to make was much larger and deeper than he had anticipated. It has only been in the last week or so that the wound closed. And, I use the word closed loosely. The nerves he had to cut through to get to the tumor may never regenerate. Essentially this means there is and may never be feeling on the left side inside my mouth. Chewing is difficult because of how the wound “healed”. There is also great risk of burning my mouth because I am unable to feel if something is too hot. Sometimes I will taste blood; it is only then that I am aware that I bit a hole in my cheek as I was eating but did not feel it. Also within the last few months, we have been dealt a plethora of family issues, most of which I Have no idea how to walk through. Whoever said parenting ends when your kid hits adulthood should be rounded up and tried by fire. I thought the preschool years were exhausting. Ha! That exhaustion doesn’t even come close to the exhaustion faced with issues of adult children. Preschool issues are pretty easy–share, eat your veggies, hold mommy’s hand in the store–you get the idea. The issues presented by adult kids are, obviously, adult in nature. So now as parents, we have our own adult issues (medical, work related, aging parents, etc) AND adult issues with our kids because they are now adults! Seriously. More than once I have wished I didn’t love so hard. I know there are parents out there who don’t help their adult kids with their problems. And, just to be clear, we don’t always help either. But when the issues they face are BIG issues, often they turn to us because they just don’t know what to do. Or, sometimes the opposite is true. We know something is wrong but cannot place our finger on what it is. Then, we ask them, and they say nothing is wrong when deep down inside my mom gut, I know they are lying. To round out the big problems of the last few months, my MS, which had been in partial remission for a while, decided to return with a vengeance. It has sent me into a relapse that few know about or understand. This relapse has greatly affected two areas of my daily life–my emotional health and my ability to fight the always present fatigue. In hope of finding SOME relief, I found a new doctor (wasn’t thrilled with my old one at all). After assessing the situation, she decided to change medications, reducing some, increasing others, and adding new ones. That sent my body into a state of waving the white flag in surrender. So many mornings I would wake up with my husband as normal. Then, after he left for work, I would find myself back in bed, unable to keep my head up or my eyes open. Work became a major chore instead of something I looked forward to. More than once I told my husband that my level of fatigue could only be described as bone tired. In other words, I was so exhausted, so spent, that the feeling of fatigue penetrated deep into the bones of my body. To make sure my point is made, this is NOT the kind of fatigue that normal people experience. That kind of tiredness is relieved with a good night’s sleep or a nap. MS fatigue is very different. It is debilitating fatigue. Because of this inability to really DO anything, my house is a mess. I see it; I just can’t do anything about it. One day I cleaned the bathroom sink. The output of energy that took wiped me out for the rest of the day. With that level of fatigue, my emotions are all over the place. Our body parts are all intertwined. When one is not working right, it automatically means something else has to be overworked to pick up the slack. My problem the last few months has been that there is no other body part that is able to compensate for the loss of others. Oh, and add summer to the list of factors that have driven me to this state. MS and heat do not play well together. Enough said about that.

Back to my letter in yesterday’s mail. One envelope had my name on it, and a too familiar looking symbol in orange. It was my new membership card from the MS society. You know how some credit cards list the year you became a cardholder? The MS Society membership cards list the year of enrolling. I looked at my new card, and in the bottom left side was written, “Member since 2013.” Four years. Four years of dealing with issues related to MS. This wasn’t exactly a club people were clammering to get into. People proudly display the number of years they have been at the same company, or their membership card to an elite country club. But the MS Society? To be a member of this club means one has a disease for which there is no cure. It means one has a disease that has the power to take a life. My qualification that allows me to hold a membership card to this club is not one I asked for. I didn’t pledge to be part of it so I could do all the fun things that come along with being a cardholder. No, instead I am a cardholder because I can relate to the debilitating fatigue, the painful muscle spasms, the nerve pain that feels like my hands and feet are always asleep, the vertigo that often makes me feel like I am on an amusement park ride that won’t stop, the inability to swallow, or, upon swallowing, choking on what just went down, and the lack of ability to come up with words. (I have been sitting here typing for an hour; my hands don’t want to cooperate, and when they do, my brain fog won’t let me find a word I am needing)

This morning I was reading in the book of Psalms. I have spent a great deal of time pouring over the Psalms. I find that I can relate to much of what the authors say. Their brutal honesty is refreshing in a way. Anyway, this morning I was reading random Psalms, and I came across this verse:

“Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony.”             (Ps. 6:2)

David wrote those words, a plea to his God, thousands of years before. My Bible doesn’t give the circumstances David was experiencing when he penned those words. Perhaps it was one of the many times he had to run from King Saul. Perhaps it was a time that David as King of Israel had lost a battle. Regardless, when I read those words I immediately thought, “David gets it.” If he were alive today, he would understand the deep fatigue that has overtaken my body. I recently explained my fatigue to someone using those same words–“It feels like my bones are tired.”

It doesn’t get easier by the year. Some months it is just more bearable. But easy? Never. It is difficult for me to always be positive. Depression does that to a person. This morning, though, I read something that spoke to me. It was a quote by Ann Voskamp that I came across on Twitter:

“Suffering can be a friend who drives you where you didn’t know you needed to go.”

Do I wish I didn’t have to suffer from this disease and all that goes with it? Yes. Do I hope there is someday a cure found? Yes. Do I often want to give up? Yes. But I haven’t yet. I find it intriguing that Ann Voskamp labeled suffering as a friend. When I think about it, though, it is often true. When one is really suffering, friends are hard to find. When the suffering is one that will most likely last a lifetime, it is the loneliest journey ever taken.

Posted in Children, death, depression, Facebook, faith, famiy, fear, loneliness, marriage, MS, Parenting, trust | Leave a comment

Reflections of an Old Person

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I am unfortunate enough to live in a place that was built in the 1980’s and has had little to no renovations done to it. For me, that means one entire wall of the dining room is mirrored. It also means the doors of the very wide closet in the master bedroom are also mirrored. Of course there are obligatory mirrors in all three bathrooms; the master bathroom has two. Needless to say, it seems there is nowhere in our home that I can escape reality. Reality hits twice as hard, though, in the summer. It’s so easy–and wonderful–to hide the weight gained from medications and illness underneath big, cozy sweatshirts. Sometimes, I forget just how much weight I’ve gained, as well as how old I now look. Sometimes my mind still feels like I am in my twenties. My body is quick to remind me, though, that I definitely am much older than that.

As we were driving home one morning this past week, we passed a plethora of young people on the trail that runs by our home. Some were on bicycles. Others were running, either alone or with a partner. Some of the partners were of the four legged species. If I allowed myself to go in an unintended direction with this post, I would now transition into how much I hate myself as I watch young women, clad in short shorts and a sports bra, turn the heads of every male driver passing them.

But that is not the direction I am intending right now.

Instead, my thoughts this morning are about how difficult it sometimes is to accept reality–the reality of the fact that I am old. Mirrors don’t lie. The gray hair and sagging skin and the wrinkles remind me every day that I am not the young person my mind sometimes think I am. It is this “oldness” that I find myself often dwelling as of late.

As I pass by people outside, the ones that catch my eye are those with children. Some of these are babies in strollers while others are preschoolers on little bikes. I often wonder about these young families. Do they do family activities regularly? What kind of home do they live in? What does the father do for a living? What does mom do? As I ponder those types of questions, I recall the years that our kids were little. If you know me, or if you’ve read much of what I have written, you know that I was a young bride and a young mom–at least by today’s standards. Our fourth child was born when our oldest was five years old. My husband worked hard so I could stay home, something I always dreamed of doing.  It wasn’t always easy; in fact, sometimes it was downright miserable. Looking back, though, I wouldn’t have changed that decision. There are, though, many other things I would love to go back and change. Of course, I would have to know what I know now in order to really make effective changes, and everyone knows that just cannot happen. The saying “Hindsight is twenty-twenty” haunts me as I think about the mom I was in those busy, stressful years. The poor decisions I made, the outright mistakes, the loss of patience, the quickness to scold, the hesitation to be a parent because I so wanted my kids to like me…all these and more swirl through every part of my brain much more often than I want to grant them access. Why is it that at night, my mind recalls all the ways I messed up as a mom? As I remember specific cases, I wonder do my kids remember them too? Did I not do a good enough job “Instructing them in the way they should go” as the Bible says? I want so badly to sit down with all of my now adult kids and tell them how to avoid all the mistakes I made as a marriage partner and a mom.

I don’t think they’d listen, though, no more than I would have if my mom sat me down and told me exactly how to avoid the mistakes I felt she made with me. I’m beginning to believe that mistakes are a very personal thing. I can’t steer my kids in a direction that I am 99% sure is the right one when I see them on a different course. They, like me, need to make their own mistakes. They need to learn from them. And, most sadly for me, they will need to look back when they reach the old age that I am and regret that they didn’t seek and heed the wisdom that comes from a parent who has been there, done that. I know because most of the time, I shrugged off advice given to me by my dad. He is now gone from this earth. I cannot pick up the phone and call him to beg for his wisdom in a situation. Oh, how I wish I could. How I wish I had listened to my mom and dad in those early years of parenting. They had already walked that path. They even had experience navigating the muddy waters of being a parent to adult kids. That, especially, makes me long to sit and talk with my dad once again.

I know I was far from the perfect parent. Right now, I feel like I was far from even a good parent. Perhaps I fall somewhere between the two–an adequate parent. I didn’t always do the best I could. I was selfish more than I should have been. I was angry more than I should have been. I was plagued with depression most of their childhoods. I didn’t respect my husband, their dad, like I should have. I didn’t seek wise counsel on how to deal with a special needs child or a difficult child or a colicky child or a gifted child. One thing I did, though, was always love them, perhaps to a fault.

Recently I was suffering greatly from a heartache over a situation. As I stood in the receiving area of work, I fought back tears as I shared just a little of what was hurting me. I said that I was growing quite weary of being hurt. My manager said to me, “You get hurt because you love. There are parents out there who do not–they don’t care what happens once their children become adults.” I knew she was right, but I can’t turn off the caring switch. I can’t turn off the overly-sensitive-so-seeing-a-dead-animal-in-the-street-makes-me-cry switch. To do so, I would have to harden my heart to everything around me, and as much as never being hurt again sounds like an ideal way to live, I don’t think it is how I am wired. That means I will continue to reflect on years past and feel like a failure. It means I will continue to hurt as a wife and as a mom. I tell myself that, thankfully, my life is more than half over, that someday all the hurt will stop. And on that day, God will wipe away every tear.

That is sometimes the only hope I have to cling to.

Posted in Change, Children, death, depression, empty nest, faith, famiy, love, marriage, Parenting | Leave a comment

Just a Mom

A little over 27 years ago, I gave birth to a 7lb. 10oz. baby boy. I was a young bride and a young new mommy. My husband and I loved that little boy so much. Over the course of the next five years, that little boy would welcome (kind of) 3 siblings into his life and would watch with confusion as his mommy and daddy mourned the loss of one that went straight to heaven. While I worked on and off through their growing up years, the majority of the time, with much sacrifice, I was just a mom.

Our little family, though not little by today’s standards, would face some very tough times. The little firstborn boy would be diagnosed with a speech disorder that necessitated putting him on a bus to attend a language development program 20 miles away. He was two. Back then, speech therapists and doctors were not as familiar with autism as they are today. It took 12 years to get a diagnosis as to why our beloved little boy struggled in so many areas. Meeting his needs was not always an easy task. His younger siblings often had to do something or didn’t get to do something because it would just not work with a child who has autism. One event that families look forward to doing together is attending fireworks. It only took one time doing that for us to realize that our son could just not tolerate the loud noise of fireworks. Vacuum cleaners and the Midway at the state fair brought the same reaction…his hands would fly up to his ears with hope that he could stifle the noise that actually physically hurt him.

So far, you may think this post is about my now grown son. It isn’t, but I will say one more thing about him. He has grown into a wonderful young man who is learning to find his way in a world that is loud and scary. I’m not sure he thinks that of the world, but this mom sure does. What this post is actually about is my reflections on being a stay at home mom for many years.

My husband worked, and still does, in corporate America. His job involved commuting to a downtown city, travel, and long hours, and days, away from home. I vividly recall one project he was assigned in a different state. That project was ten weeks. He would drive home and arrive late on Friday and leave either Sunday night or Monday morning. Our kids were in the busy elementary/middle school age at that time. I remember getting to about four o’clock and wondering how I would ever make it to their bedtime. I was homeschooling them too during this time. Let’s just say Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon were my best friends. Yes, I still feel guilty for the amount of screen time I allowed. Because my husband worked in a professional setting, he was obligated to attend company events. Some of these events weren’t too bad, especially the family ones. I remember a family picnic that was catered by an amazing BBQ company. There was also one at the city’s minor league baseball game, and one at Valleyfair, our area’s big amusement park. Not all of these obligatory events were fun, though. The hardest ones for me were the Christmas parties at the home of some wealthy colleague of his. This stay at home mom lived in jeans and Nikes. These get togethers weren’t exactly the kind that I could wear my normal clothes. I hate dressing up, but did so because my husband felt I should go. Dressing up, though, wasn’t the hardest part of these. By far, the hardest part for me was when someone, usually someone’s wife, would ask me what I did. I would sheepishly reply with, “I homeschool our kids,” or “I don’t work outside the home.”

I was just a mom.

Looking back, I wish I had said those words more proudly. Being “just a mom” is nothing to be ashamed of. I poured everything I had into the four kids that God blessed us with. Yes, there was sacrifice. We didn’t get vacations. I wish we could have done that for them. I didn’t even have a decent vehicle most of those years. I remember one time when my husband was out of town, the purple minivan I drove was parked in the driveway. It needed brakes so badly that, before my husband left for his trip, he asked me to please not drive it. Since he had rented a car to drive back to his clients, his little Kia was there. It was a tight squeeze getting 4 kids in it, but we did so. I dropped one off for something at the high school and the other 3 went with me to a 4H meeting. I left them there to go back to the high school to get our daughter. She finally came out. I turned the key only to have nothing happen. Nothing. Not even a “I might be able to start” turning over of the engine. I ended up calling a neighbor to come get us and driving the van with no brakes to get the other kids.

Our family never got to Disneyworld. We didn’t go to Florida or California to see the ocean. Being “just a mom” cost us financially. BUT, I have so many memories with our kids. Since I homeschooled, I was with them 24/7. We did lots of nature walks, science museum visits, and zoo field trips. We even went to a cave and mined for rocks. I look back at the pictures I took of those times and I see smiling kids.

Maybe being just a mom was a good thing after all. I got a front row seat to the best years of their childhood. It meant sacrifice of not only money but also time. I sometimes grumbled about it then…okay, I often grumbled about it then. But looking back, I wouldn’t trade those days with my kids for all the money in the world. IN fact, I wish I could go back and do it all again.

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Posted in Children, empty nest, famiy, Parenting | 3 Comments

The Verdict

I actually had another post dancing around in my brain, but after yesterday, I decided to put that post on the back burner. Instead, I am going to write about something that happened yesterday that really took me by surprise.

I live in Minnesota. Although I wasn’t born here, it has been my home almost as long as the previous state I resided in. For my kids, it has pretty much been the only home they have known. On July 6, 2016, a local police officer shot and killed a man in the passenger seat of the car the officer had just pulled over. The police officer, I believe, was of Hispanic race. The man he shot was an African American. The day before this incident, a police officer in Baton Rouge was murdered by a civilian. It was another shooting in what seemed was a vendetta against policemen. If you live in Minnesota, and read or listen to any form of news, you most certainly know the controversy surrounding the death of Philando Castile in St. Anthony that day. Philando’s fiancee and her little girl were in the car when the shooting took place. In fact, she used her cell phone to video the aftermath of the shooting. Citizens saw that video broadcasted on television news networks–not just local news either. This shooting made CNN news highlights that day.

Philando had no history of a violent past. He had been pulled over multiple times(over 50 times) by police officers for traffic or vehicle offenses. He was employed by the St. Paul school district. He worked in a school with 500 children, and, according to his mom, knew all of the children by name. Reports by both the police officer AND Philando’s fiancee say that Philando had a gun with him when he was stopped. That gun was legally owned by Philando Castile. Hennepin County records showed a current, legal, permit to carry permit issued to him. According to Mr. Castile’s fiancee, he informed the officer that he had his gun with him. The officer, upon hearing those words, instructed Mr. Castile to put his hands on the wheel where he could see them. Now, I’ve only been stopped by the police once–and I was 7 months pregnant. I had no firearm at the time, so the police asked me to do what I have seen hundreds of policemen on television do. The officer asked for my license and registration. I imagine, though, if I had told the police officer that I was carrying a gun, he wouldn’t let me go digging through my purse to find my license. The officer involved in the shooting maintains that he asked Mr. Castile to put his hands on the wheel and keep them there. Instead, according to the officer, Philando Castile reached into his pocket to retrieve his license. The officer, saying he saw the handle of the gun, shot Mr. Castile through the open car window. Castile’s fiancee’s account of the incident differs from that of the officer’s. She reported that Philando Castile was asked by the officer to present his ID, and Philando was simply trying to comply with the officer’s request. Hence why he was reaching in his pocket.

Now, this is where it gets kind of muddy.

Philando Castile’s fiancee grabs her cell phone and begins to video what ultimately will be the last few minutes of Philando Castile’s life. As in all officer involved shootings, an investigation revealed that the officer fired multiple times at Philando. After further investigation, the district attorney charged the police officer in November with second degree manslaughter, and two counts of dangerous discharge of a firearm. The trial for the police officer began about a month ago. Both sides presented final arguments this past weekend and the case was handed over to the jurors for a final verdict. I, along with probably most of the people in Minnesota was certain that the officer would be found guilty.

Shockingly, yesterday when the verdict came down, that was not the case. The officer was acquitted on all three charges filed against him.

According to the jury panel, for days the panel was stuck with 10 votes to acquit and 2 votes to convict. Eventually, the 2 dissenting jurors changed their mind to make a unanimous decision to acquit the officer.

I’m glad I was not part of that jury. One juror was interviewed. He said it was a very difficult decision to make. He also said that those in the courtroom, the jury included, saw evidence that was not released to the public. He also reported that the jury asked for the copy of the laws regarding second degree manslaughter. They picked apart that law–trying to translate it from legal speak into simpler language every juror could understand. He also said that the jury, being comprised of ten white people and two black people, was not racially divided. In other words, the 2 dissenting jurors were NOT both of the black jurors. He also noted that while the public may be screaming “Unfair”, they did not see the evidence that the jury saw, nor do they have a copy of the law from which to make their judgement.

My husband, who has a permit to carry so is not one of those people who think guns are the problem, and I have talked about this case. An argument can be made for the officer in that, having a fraction of a second to make a decision, and knowing that Castile had a gun, did what he did out of preservation for his own life. It seemed that it was open season on policemen, and the officer was acting in self defense as well as acting to protect those who may have been innocent bystanders. Also, if the officer did in fact instruct Mr. Castile to put his hands on the wheel, but instead moved his hands toward himself, the officer, believing he was going to be fired on, did the the right thing. Not following instructions, in this case, cost Mr. Castile his life. I am fully behind police officers. They put their lives on the line every single time they put on that uniform. Sometimes one is not given time to think before acting. In this case, if the officer did in fact see the gun, he had every right to shoot Mr. Castile. BUT, the investigation showed the officer had fired seven shots into the car. Seven. That’s a lot of shooting for someone who probably could have been stopped had he planned to shoot the officer. In addition, there was a four year old little girl in the back seat of that car. To fire seven shots into a car through an open window seems to be a reactionary response that was unwarranted. Of course, the public only knows what has been reported by others. None of us were in that car. None of us heard the dialogue exchange. Yes, Mr. Castile’s fiance was there and heard the exchange, but I highly doubt she could be impartial in her report.

Like I said, I am glad I was not sitting on that jury. While I can’t say how I would vote, I can say that this decision will most likely only cause the racial divide in our country to get worse. It also will only fuel more hatred by many toward police officers. I don’t think this is a problem that can be fixed with speeches and protests and the like. I believe it is a problem that only God can fix, for it is only God who can change a person’s heart. God created all men equal. It doesn’t matter our race or gender or financial status or anything else that separates us. This world is not an easy place to live. There is going to be death, injustice, pain, tears, poverty, illness, etc. as long as we are on this earth. I, for one, am pretty tired of all of the above. I can’t wait for the day that heaven becomes my home. I cannot even imagine a life of no tears or pain or loneliness, but when I try to imagine it, that only makes me long more for my eternal home.



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On Motherhood

Being a mom isn’t like anything I thought it would be. When, as a young girl, I dreamed of motherhood, I pictured a smiling mommy, tirelessly playing with her children, reading to them, teaching them, patiently answering their questions, and watching them fall asleep with angelic halos above their heads. Once the little darlings were asleep, I would sit with my husband on the couch, perhaps watching the television, or maybe talking together about our future.

Yeah. That didn’t happen.

Oh, there were times I played with my kids, but there were also many times I was just too tired to do so, causing me to send them away to play by themselves or watch a video. There were times I read to them. In fact, some books I read so often, I knew them by heart. There were times my poor little boy couldn’t find Hand Hand Fingers Thumb because mommy, entirely sick of those rhymes of Dr. Seuss, hid the book in the chair cushions, forcing my son to choose another book. There were times I taught them. In fact, I went one step farther and homeschooled them. I wish I could say I was a good homeschooling mom, but the truth is there were many days I just couldn’t find the energy to spend the day trying for the fiftieth time to help them understand how to solve a math word problem. As for those angelic halos–there were times they fell asleep and I would look at them and think they were the most perfect children on earth. Those times were not the norm. Most of the time I would put them to bed, wanting nothing more than to go climb into my own bed and collapse from exhaustion. I knew that most likely they were reading with a flashlight way past the time they should have been asleep. And I didn’t really care. I was too tired to argue with them about how early they had to get up the next morning. And while my husband and I often watched television after the kids were in bed, we didn’t sit on the couch together romantically like I had seen in movies. He sat in his chair, and I sat in mine. He was exhausted from his workday, and even though I was sure he didn’t understand it, I was exhausted from mine.

One other aspect of motherhood that I could not understand or anticipate was the gentle shift of its effects in my heart and everyday life. I used to dream of the day when all had grown into adulthood, moved out on their own, successful in the career they chose. I assumed once that happened, my mothering days would be over.

Yeah. That didn’t happen either.

One thing I could not prepare for was how the days sped up as each day passed. I remember when I was a child, how long the week before Christmas seemed. The days seemed to drag on forever! Once I reached adulthood, the days seemed to pick up speed. That speed increased ever more once I became a mom. Endless days of diapers, spit up, sleepless nights, and long, fussy days with a baby turned into endless days of chasing toddlers, picking up Cheerios, putting away toys for the hundredth time, and trying to reason with a two year old to eat the somewhat healthy food on the tray of the high chair. Those days turned into long days of getting kids up and out of bed, fed, dressed, with lunches and backpacks in hand out the door to school. Once gone, if I wasn’t working a job outside of the home, I faced mountains of laundry, some in hampers, but most scattered on bedroom floors. I faced bathrooms that needed to be cleaned, rugs that needed to be vacuumed, dishes that needed to be washed, floors that needed to be mopped, groceries that needed to be bought and put away, and I can’t forget the chore that most moms struggle with on a daily basis: what the heck am I going to serve for dinner tonight that someone won’t complain about. Those days turned into long nights, waiting for the newly licensed teenager to come home from a late night gathering at a friend’s house. That teen didn’t care that there was snow on the roads and the house he was going to was on an ice covered dirt road. There were late nights of worry when thirty minutes past curfew arrived and no teen was home, and no phone call had come asking for yet another curfew extension. Mothering was physically exhausting for all those years, and yet, I woke up one morning and it was the day of my baby’s high school graduation party. How did all those years pass so quickly? Where was the little boy who wanted to climb up on mommy’s lap to listen to a story? Where was the little girl who wanted mommy to sit on the floor so she could brush her hair and put makeup on her? I felt like I blinked and the years were gone.

I have now traded the physical exhaustion of motherhood for the emotional exhaustion. This was also something that blindsided me. I was not prepared for the change that would take place once my babies were all grown up on my nest was empty. Now, I have the time and peace to get the sleep I missed out on for many years. I have time to sit and relax, read a book or work on my newest Charles Wysocki puzzles. But the years spent mothering four children play like a never ending movie in my head. Sometimes I lie in my bed at night, tears threatening to force their way out of my eyes, and remember all the ways I screwed up as a mom. There are too many to list. They haunt me as demons that dance inside my head. I could not be prepared for the emotional toll having adult children would take on my heart. It used to be mom that they would come and talk to when they had a problem or needed advice. Now, that is seldom the case. In fact, much of the time, they don’t want me involved n their problems at all. Perhaps that is how God intended it, for I am no longer able to solve their problems. My babies are now adults, and adults have adult problems, much bigger than a problem of yesteryear such as forgetting their instrument on a day they had band. Still, it is hard. I cried many tears when my kids were little. When their heart was broken because they didn’t make the team they wanted or someone called them a bad name on the playground, my heart was broken as well. The truth, though, is I cry just as many, if not more, tears now that my kids are adults and have their own lives. It’s a different relationship, one that I am still trying to figure out how to navigate.

I can’t say that I always did my best. If I were to be honest, there were many times I selfishly redirected them (remember the whole hiding the book in the chair cushion thing?) so that I could do what I wanted to do, and even though sometimes what I wanted to do was really what I needed to do, I handled much of it all wrong. Too often I reacted in anger or impatience instead of staying calm and being the adult they needed at the moment.

In spite of the incredible failure I feel as a mom, I hope my kids know that I love them. I always have, and I always will.

Image result for failing as a mom  posters


Posted in Children, empty nest, famiy, love, Parenting | 3 Comments

This Meaningless Life

Four days ago a knife was held in the hands of a man I really do not know. I was not aware of when he made the first cut. I was off in the place one goes when in a deep sleep caused by a quick push of a needle syringe into an IV line that had been placed in my hand. I was assured by the nurse who placed the IV line that this man was very good at what he does…that I was in good hands. That man purposely cut a hole on the inside of my cheek, working around a breathing tube that ensured my lungs kept working, removed what could be a cancerous tumor, and then used thick white thread to sew the hole closed. Five hours later, I was home, resting in my own bed, high doses of pain medication keeping what would surely be intense, throbbing pain at bay.


I have had much time to think the last few days. After surgery this past Wednesday, I thought I’d be in a much better place by now than I am. Not much I can do about it. Wounds take time to heal, and no matter what I do, the process can’t really be rushed. The results of the “excisional biopsy” (the official medical term of what was done) should be known this coming week. As I’ve thought about what this doctor might say, I’ve also thought about how little control I have over the whole situation. Control is such an illusion. My life is pretty boring for the most part. There isn’t really anything that stands out about my day to day activities. Like most everyone else, I make plans from day to day. On days off, I plan what chores I might have the energy to get done at home. My evenings usually hold some type of cooking show to fill the hours before heading off the bed so I can wake up the next morning and do it all over again. Sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is.

Something I often think of is the second verse of the first chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes: “Meaningless! Meaningless! says the teacher. Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” (Ecclesiastes 1:2 NIV) Solomon wrote this. King Solomon who had been given everything a man could possibly want in life. His conclusion at the end of his life? It is all meaningless.

I am feeling that way right now. I have watched as dreams I carried for so long got shattered before my eyes. I remember the day a county sheriff came to our home. We knew it was coming, yet the foreclosure notice he held in his hand did more than break my heart; it shattered the dream I had of owning a home. It eliminated the possibility of ever having a hobby farm with a loft in a barn where I could sit and read, hearing only the sounds of the country around me. I remember the day our last all-grown-up-child moved out. Suddenly, a five bedroom rented house that was once filled with voices and Guitar Hero, was eerily quiet. The snoring of the dog and the television show being watched by my husband was all there was to break the noise. The downstairs refrigerator, once filled with Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper sat empty save for an extra gallon or two of milk. I remember the day my beautiful grandson was placed in his car seat, heading for a new life in North Dakota. As my daughter and son-in-law drove away, my heart shattered into so many pieces. All the love I poured into him, all the time spent with him, all the dreams I had for our future time together fell to pieces off the blue Avenger driving farther and farther away from me.

This week, I will walk into a doctor’s office–an office I’ve been in several times over the past 3 months. In his hand, the doctor will carry a folder that holds the results of this very painful surgery he performed. What will be my response if God calls me to walk down a road I didn’t plan nor ask for? I hate the phrase “God is good”. I’ve heard it said often when an accident turns out to not be as bad as it could have been or a parent is relieved to hear positive words from a specialist testing their child. But what about when the news is bad? What if the accident claims the life of someone you love? What if the doctor looks at you with sad eyes and tells you the test results show cancer? Is God still good? Yes, He is. I know that and I believe that. But, will I be able to live that? Will my kids be able to live that if they are told their mom has cancer? Today, there are tears constantly begging to be released. I am feeling very much that life is, as King Solomon wrote so many years ago, meaningless. I assume this feeling will pass, even if the news is not what we hope to hear. Like all the other times my heart has been broken, I will somehow learn to live with a new normal. I may not like the normal that forces its way into my path no more than I like the normal of not having my grandson living close by anymore, but regardless of whether I like it or not, I will have to get used to it. It is, after all, the way life seems to go. We just get used to one thing, and it is taken away.

King Solomon concluded his book exactly how he started it: “Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Everything is meaningless!” (Ecclesiastes 12:8 NIV) He did add one more thing, though:

Now all has been heard;
    here is the conclusion of the matter:
Fear God and keep his commandments,
    for this is the duty of all mankind.
For God will bring every deed into judgment,
    including every hidden thing,
    whether it is good or evil.” (Ecclesiastes 12:13-14 NIV)

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Summertime Blues

When our kids were little, we often used to go to a local buffet for dinner. I had four very picky eaters. Cooking at home usually meant two or three different meals. At times I felt like a short order cook. One child didn’t like red meat very much because it was hard to chew. A couple of them wouldn’t eat red sauce on pasta but would eat alfredo sauce. My husband didn’t like the only red sauce the kids would eat, so he would need something thicker. A simple meal of pasta used almost every sauce pan in my kitchen. At a buffet, though, someone else prepared a variety of foods from which to choose. The buffet always had chicken of some sort. That was one thing all the kids would eat. One could have the mashed potatoes and gravy she loved so much while the others could get french fries. Hubby could fill his plate with several kinds of meat that actually had flavor–something I couldn’t do because if meat had any type of seasoning or rub on it at home the kids would not touch it. Even dessert was easy at the buffet. One wouldn’t eat anything chocolate while another hated anything vanilla. Much of that pickiness has carried into their adulthoods. In hindsight, I realize that I did not do them any favors by catering to their pickiness. It denied them the chance to experience foods they assumed they wouldn’t like.

Hindsight. How easy it is to make better decisions when looking back at things.

The last month or so has found me in the hindsight mode quite often. I think part of that is just from getting older and realizing that life is, in all probability, more than half over for me. I also think part of that comes from the fact that I could be facing another serious medical diagnosis. One recurring theme of my hindsight is how often I have let others’ opinions of me shape how I think about myself. This is a way of thinking that is so easy to fall into, and if left unchecked, can wreak havoc on our lives. Often, the voices I hear contradict each other. One voice will insist that happiness can only be achieved by behaving/achieving/completing x, y, or z. Another voice will contradict the first. My most recent struggle in this arena has definitely been voices that tell me how I should feel about myself. Let me explain.

Having a chronic illness requires being on various medications. If you have ever watched those advertisements on television for various drugs, you know the side effects that can come with prescription medications. The announcer, after applauding the wonderful bonuses one will experience from said drug, moves into a faster, lower tone of voice rattling off of all the problems that same drug could cause. These problems range from simple things like headaches to very serious effects–“even death” usually ends the lengthy list. Personally, the side effects from my cocktail of medications range from minorly annoying to negatively life changing. One of the latter, unfortunately, has been unwanted weight gain. Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock, you know that society screams that being overweight makes one less attractive, possibly even less worthy of love, than those who are not overweight. I think this applies even more to women than it does to men (although men are not immune from this idea by any means). Television commercials for Nutrisystem, Weight Watchers, Slim Fast, and other weight loss programs show pictures of clients who once were very overweight holding up a large pair of pants they assumedly once wore and then dropping those to show a new and improved body–slimmer, toner, fitter. While I know the truth behind these companies–that being it works as long as you keep paying for the goods and service, and on the same token, will stop working once you stop paying for the goods and service–it is still heartbreaking for me to look at those new, slimmer bodies and hate myself even more. Maybe you have experienced the following scenario: You decide to start ________________ (insert the name of any weight loss product or company here). You also add exercise to your life because the paperwork says that the program should be combined with exercise. After a few weeks, people start acknowledging that you look different. “Wow! You look great! Have you lost weight?” or “You look amazing! What are you doing to lose weight?” Has anyone EVER said to you, “Wow! You look great after putting on 25 pounds! How did you do it?” It sounds absurd because we know no one would ever compliment someone for being overweight.

What is the point of all this?

One year ago, I ran a 5K. It was the first 5K I had ever done, and I ran it with a friend who runs regularly. While I know she could have easily smoked me in time, she ran with me, encouraging me. I finished with a time that I was very happy with. People commented on how much better I looked, on how thin I was, etc. Fast forward one year. One very difficult and trying year. Worsening symptoms necessitated the addition of another medication, without which I would struggle to walk or use my hands. The most difficult side effects of that medication turned out to be fatigue and weight gain. Every morning I open the orange prescription bottle, shake out two tiny, round, white pills, and down them with a glass of water, knowing that they will continue to undo all the hard work I did last year to get ready to run a 5K. Every morning I choose between being overweight and extremely fatigued but in bearable pain or being slim and still fatigued but in unbearable pain. It is, quite honestly, a lose-lose situation for me. I’ve heard people refer to those who are overweight as lazy, gluttonous, and/or not self disciplined. While I’m sure there are many to whom those adjectives apply, I have become much more sensitive to the fact that sometimes it really is out of one’s control.

Still, society probably isn’t going to change the emphasis it places on being skinny. In fact, summer only intensifies that as it becomes acceptable for some reason to dress in clothes that barely cover. I’m sure over the next few weeks, my self hatred will intensify as I try to find a balance between being as pain free as possible all while trying to get back to where I was weight-wise.

Winter can come back anytime now.

Posted in Change, Culture, MS, peace | Leave a comment