In nearly 28 years of marriage, Mr. Gorgeous and I have lived in four apartments, four houses, and two mobile homes.
When we were in our first apartment which had about 500 square feet and pink appliances, I bought John a plaque. It said something like: “On the outside it looks like a house, but inside it feels like a home.” In those tiny rooms, we made a decision — it was a good one. We determined that no matter where we lived, no matter its size or location, we would make it a home. And we have.
At times, making a place a home involved cans of paint, curtains, pictures, rugs, and furniture along with a hammer and nails. But most of the time, making our residence a home involved creating memories and sharing love. Those things are free. Yes, some memories involve spending money — games, videos, popcorn, etc., but those “things” are really on the fringe of the memories.
When our boys were young, we lived in a huge old farm house that had been moved into town in Iowa. It had a full basement and an upstairs. We loved it. Christmas stockings hung from the oak banister of the staircase in the entry hall while our Christmas tree sat in the front window in the living room. the front deck was comfortable and we spent hours on it. And for our sons, there were trees to climb and a trampoline in the back yard. One day Nathan asked if we were rich. John and I explained that we were rich in love and memories and family… things that mattered.
Honestly, aren’t those the things that make a house into a home? Isn’t it the people with whom we live under that roof? Don’t we treasure the warmth, caring, and love that we find within its walls? Aren’t we compelled to return again to that place of acceptance and warmth by the memories that were created in those rooms and with those people?
I become concerned when I see couples who work so hard to make a living that they forget there is a life to be lived. When I see children who have every “thing” imaginable, but have very little time with those who love them I feel sad — for all of them. There is a myth in the world that “quality” time is more important the “quantity” of time.
I beg to differ. Both matter.
Quality of time allowed our family to make up a game in a borrowed RV in the South Dakota Black Hills during a rain storm. Quality of time enabled us to plan and prepay for tickets that took us on a speed boat ride across Lake Michigan in Chicago — little did we know that trip would be taken in a rain and thunder storm! Quality of time allowed us to include each of the boys in planning for the family vacation we took the year he graduated from high school. Quality matters. However, just like with M&Ms, quantity matters too.
It was the quantity of time that enabled us to create many of the memories that we treasure: evenings playing football in the park across the street, time in the front yard on bikes, roller blades, and skateboards, watching FAMILY MATTERS and THE COSBY SHOW together, notes from the tooth fairy, bedtime prayers following Bible stories, and the laughter… so much laughter. One of my new favorite things has become listening to our boys share their memories of growing up together. This is not a task for the faint of heart, believe me. I have discovered some things about my sons and their antics when I wasn’t looking that… shock, terrify, annoy, and overwhelm me. Really though, I’ve discovered that they created their own memories and that they share different yet similar versions of ours. And that is a good thing.
While the “where” matters, it’s really the “who” and the “what” that makes a house a home.
An older pop song’s chorus says, “It feels like home to me… It feels like I’m all the way back where I belong.” (Performed by Chantal Kreviazuk.)
Those words are powerful: HOME. It’s more than a place — it’s a feeling.
Belonging. Safety. Love. Acceptance.
Shared history. Memories.
Hugs. Laughter.
Boisterous afternoons. Peaceful nights.
And, it’s the sights, the sounds, and the smells — all of them creating that feeling of home.
The gang’s all here! Charlotte, Gayla, Frank, and Marylouise
I have two sisters — had a brother. I am exceptionally proud of all of them. In many ways they are as different as night and day…in some ways, they are carbon copies of each other.
Charlotte is 7 years older than I am; Gayla is 6 years older, and Frank was 4 years older. I remember watching them and being jealous because they always seemed so close when we were growing up. They were close, in part, because they had the same mother, a different mother than I have. Their mother died when my brother was a baby. My mom was their stepmother. Also, considering that the girls were eleven months apart, it makes sense that the two of them would be close. It also makes sense that those two would fight…and they did.
Charlotte as the oldest naturally took charge. I think that Gayla thought they were close enough in age that she should be in charge too. I’m not sure, but I think that may have been an issue of contention in their teen years. Charlotte was the one who drove the tractor for Daddy, “babysat” the younger kids, was in drill team and journalism. She is a gifted artist. Her natural ability was developed through art training that she took as a correspondence program, and later in school. When she would babysit, she protected me from my brother. Out of high school, she went to Oklahoma to college for a year and after that, she joined the Army. She raised an amazing daughter and worked hard to complete her schooling. My impression of her when I was little kid was that she was tough as nails — and she was. She was also the artist who created many Halloween costumes for her baby sister.
Gayla was not the take charge type. She has done more “taking charge” in the last ten years than I really remember her doing before — circumstances change us. I remember several times as a kid hearing her say, “I’m second from the top and third from the bottom.” She was quieter than the rest of us. Her dimples are one of my favorite things about her. She is a peacemaker — many things that bothered me seemed to run off her like water off a duck’s back. I know now that even though she didn’t act bothered, she was. Gayla is the sweet one of us, and we all know it. If you grew up in my era, you know who the Champagne Lady on the Lawrence Welk Show was; I always thougth that Gayla sang better than she did. I was right. When she graduated, she too joined the Army. I love to travel with her, even though I MUST give her a hard time about stopping all the time to take pictures.
Frank was the only boy — surrounded by sisters. He did the outdoor chores, competed in athletics and was a member the Navy Junior ROTC in high school. He was artistic and he could sing well — but didn’t want ANYONE to know it. Even as a teen, he was a problem solver who took a cheap, broken calculator, disassembled it, located the problem, and fixed it. Then, he gave it to me; I used it several years. He served in the Army and worked as a mechanic. His delight was found in his son and daughter. Life took him to Alaska twenty years before he died and we only saw him a few times. Phone calls helped, but not enough.
Had I written this blog 12 1/2 years ago, I would have had less to say about family ties. After living in a community near Gayla for all these years, I’ve realized more than ever how deeply our family ties run — and how incredibly important they are. She and I have been blessed with time together to create new memories and share our hearts. The other ties in the family are strong and important as well — even though they are different. In fact, after our brother died, I realized even more how very different our relationships with each other are — they are separated and differentiated by time and experience and location.
As for my sisters, I love them both and admire each of them for very different reasons beyond the fact that we are family.
Charlotte has overcome immense hurts and obstacles. She has allowed God to have control of her heart and life, to lead her, to heal her, and to give her a point of ministry. She exhibits the spiritual gifts of helping and giving; in fact, at two different points in the life of our family we “took refuge” in her home.
On the other hand, Gayla is the mom. She cans, cooks incredibly delicious and nutritious meals, bakes bread, gardens, landscapes, sews, pans for gold, collects rocks, cares for her grandchildren and husband. She has always been available to any family member who lives close — and as much as possible, to those who live at a distance. When our preemie son was born, she came to Albuquerque from Colorado to help.
So this walk down memory lane is to remind us that although relationships take investment and time, the investment in loving, caring, and sharing with family is never lost. Byrlene left home when I was 11, Gayla when I was 12, and Frank when I was 14. My parents were divorced when I was 12. As a result, I was in and out of “our” home and in and out of their lives — just as they were in and out of mine. By the way, don’t get me started on the idea of “1/2 brothers and sisters” — it’s rubbish. We are family because we are family — by blood yes, but more than that, by love and commitment. I didn’t understand that we had different mothers until I was 11. Even then, we were family and that was all that mattered. Had it not been for years of proximity, we would not have had time to build the family ties — to develop our relationships.
The reality of life is that it takes us in many directions. Everyone knows that things change, but when things change and others aren’t near to go through the changes with us, it may be difficult to see and understand where the other is coming from. Communication is the key to understanding. Respectful communication that welcomes input from all parties. Conversations that involve listening as well as speaking. These take time and honestly, they can be scheduled, but I am not certain that forced discussions are truly beneficial unless all parties “buy in” to that time.
Telephones, Facebook, emails, and texting will tell only what we want others to know. Vulnerability is limited — emotions can be hidden, hurts can be buried. While this kind of communication is better than nothing, it has limitations that must be acknowledged.
Honestly, I love Facebook. It gives me the opportunity to stay connected with people who I would not otherwise. I have “friends” in Europe and Africa, the US and Mexico — and I love it. I “talk” with former students, people from churches we have pastored, high school classmates — even though I only attended school with them one year, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and friends who are important to me. We all know though, that most of these “conversations” are surface and do not truly delve deeply into the heart, the emotions, or the true relationship. They are better than no contact — but they should not be our only source for relationship development.
Relationships are a gift from God. Through them we see another side of Him. Families are where we learn to care for people, to invest in them, to know them. It is in the safe, welcoming relationships of family that we come to understand how to accept others. In addition, these kinds of relationships create the climate in which we discover that are able to forgive hurts — intentional or otherwise — and to minimize the impact that pain from these hurts can have in our lives.
I come from a “huggy” family. We see each other — we hug each other; we leave — we hug again. Yes, even if we are in Walmart. When I married Mr. Gorgeous, I took that “hugginess” with me into my new family where I got more than one strange look. A few years later, my Father-in-law thanked me for bringing hugs to the family. After one particular visit, he hugged me, thanked me for being a “huggy” person, and told me he wished they had done more hugging before I came along. A hug is that touch that says, “You are family and I love you,” it makes most situations bearable. And, it reminds us that we are home.
Whether our “ties” come through our family or through other relationships, the time invested is worthwhile and necessary. Family ties — relationships — precious, irreplaceable, valuable. Worth the effort and worth the time.
A Colorado rainbow seen from our front deck following a spring storm. Rainbows remind me of God’s goodness, His grace, and His promises.
A Time for Everything
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. -Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (NIV)
Thank you for being patient with me.
You see, I do not like being a person who is not “in control” of my emotions. Yet that is exactly what I am experiencing — a lack of control. People think I’m upset or angry. I’m not — I’m sad; I’m grieving. I’ve observed others grieve and have often wondered at the way they do so. Some people are strong — they are a rock solid. It turns out that I am nothing more than marshmallow cream when I grieve. Hugs make me cry. Funny stories make me cry. Sad stories make me cry. Pictures and memories — even good ones — make me cry. It doesn’t take much to make me cry these days.
Quite frankly, that annoys me! I am extremely independent and I’ve always been a “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” kind of person and I am helpless to be able to do that now. I so desperately want to go back to being able to function without this overwhelming sense of grief and loss. I know it will take time, but I’m impatient.
A dear friend taught me somethings about grief — thankfully. It was after our nephew died; she knew I was struggling and because of her experience working as a Hospice Chaplain, she was able to help me through that time. She taught me that it takes about two years to work through the grief of one loss. Each new loss is tacked on to the end of that two years — concurrent grieving is apparently not possible. I learned about grief bursts — a time of overwhelming, unexplainable, and uncontrollable grief. Grief bursts can happen without any perceived provocation and they must simply be endured. As pastors, my husband and I have often told those who grieve in our church that while the first year of grief is hard, the second year is often more difficult. It is in the second year that we realize the permanence of our loss — the second Christmas is when you realize that your loved one will never sit at the table with the family again.
In my brain, I know these things. In my heart, I want to fast forward through this time of loss and pain. I don’t like being treated like I’m breakable, but in some ways, I am very fragile. Kindness seems to be one of the worst responses I receive because it makes me feel weak — but I am weak. You see, no matter how much I hate feeling this way, right now I need kindness, gentleness and support. I am so grateful that God is in control, that family is loving, and that friends and coworkers are kind.
I will cope better…probably not tomorrow and maybe not even the next day, but soon. In the meantime I will try to remember that there is a time to mourn and this is that time. Thank you for walking this journey with me. For loving and caring, for praying. Soon, it will be time to dance. I can hardly wait.
Every morning for 53 years, 2 months, and 6 days I’ve awakened secure in the knowledge that my big brother was never farther away than a phone call. Tomorrow — if I manage to sleep — my world will be drastically different.
I’m one of four children. My two sisters and my only brother preceded me into the family in that order. That means that I was the youngest. While some folks think that being the youngest makes your life a piece of cake, others know the cold, hard facts. Having a big brother is both a blessing and a curse.
The curse of being the little sister…
Muscles — his not mine.
Catching him smoking behind the garage and me being stupid enough to try to use it as blackmail material.
Him telling me (and then Dad) that the crush I had on one of his friends WASN’T a good idea.
Doing dishes while he practiced his boxing…. on my right shoulder.
But honestly, the blessings far outnumbered the curse…
Building snowmen together.
Being mad at our older sisters together.
Being the most popular Indian Maid in the all school Thanksgiving Pageant in 1st grade. (Frank threatened all of his 4th grade friends that when the Indian Maids were drug to the front of the stage, I had better not be the only girl left at the back of the stage.)
Watching him wrestle; watching him box.
Calling him when I got on the bad side of a pretty tough bunch of kids at school — coming out of the junior high to see him standing by my bus that first day and then, finding him under the tree near the bus stop everyday after school for the rest of the year.
Learning early on that he could hit me but no one else had that same privilege.
Phone calls on birthdays.
The most amazing card in the whole wide world about me being his sister.
My big brother shaking my newly acquired husband’s hand after the wedding, tightening the grip just a fraction, and telling Mr. Gorgeous that he was to take care of me. Frank passed the reigns in that simple move…er, threat?
An amazing niece and two incredible nephews — yes, Michael was incredible even though I never got to meet him. After all, he was my brother’s son.
God designed families. He knows that in loving our family members our lives are richer. He knows that in losing our family members we are drawn closer to the source of love…Jesus Christ.
I have amazing memories of my big brother who always seemed somehow bigger than life. I know and understand that he was not perfect, but who on earth is? I know that the loss of a child and later a divorce nearly destroyed him. I know that God uses broken things — after He has mended them, and that He used my brother.
I prayed for my brother for years, asking God to bring Frank to a relationship with his Heavenly Father. While teaching in a private, Christian school in California, I asked my class of 5th graders to pray for Frank. I remember a young boy asked if he could pray for him right then. I thanked him and told him to go ahead. The boy prayed. In the arrogant way of adults, I just shook me head at what the boy prayed. He asked God to send someone from his hometown in Northern California to Alaska to tell my brother about Jesus. A year and a half to two years later my brother accepted Jesus as His Savior. I was thrilled. Later, my brother and I talked on the phone and he asked the name of the town I had taught in while living in California. I told him. He said something about how weird that was and I, of course, asked why. He told me about the church he was attending. It was fairly new and had been planted by a Baptist Minister from the very town where I had taught. I learned to stop being skeptical of the power in a child’s prayer.
I am thankful for my brother, for the bruises and the quarrels. I am thankful for the hugs and the protection and the rides here and there. I am grateful for my memories — I wish I had time to make more of them.
When he first left for Alaska, I bought a package of Forget Me Not seeds and I planted them in my yard so that I could feel close to him. I think it’s time to buy another package. One day, I will see him again, but until then I will Forget HIM not.
Beautiful leaves billow in the breeze and fall to the ground. Extra blankets have been added to the bed. And now, the battle is on.
In 27 years of marriage, I can honestly say that Mr. Gorgeous and I have had very few fights. Okay, we’ve disagreed about things, but we don’t fight very often. We share the same values and believe the same way, so when we struggle about something, those values and beliefs bring us together rather than pull us apart. There is one thing, however, about which we fight.
This fight is frustrating because it’s done in silence.
This silent battle is carried on in the midst of the night, in the darkness — in the cold. The winner is determined by the one who starts the season in the most determined fashion. For the winter of 2013-2014, I plan to be the winner. I started last year’s season off badly and never recovered.
This battle is for the blankets.
Yes, I know, it’s silly. But when you throw in the 10 pound, four legs and a tail that sleeps between us, controlling the blankets — and who has them is very important. You see, we turn the heat down at night. It’s energy efficient, it saves money, and it helps us to sleep better. The challenge with this fact is that we have two windows in our bedroom and the room is poorly insulated. As a result, there are some mornings when I fear that meat hanging in the room would NOT be in danger of spoiling.
The key, I’ve discovered, to winning the battle of the blankets is to hold on to the blankets all night long. John holds onto the sheet — this allows me to tug, pull, and “steal” the blankets to keep me warm. There are definitely times when I feel guilty, but then I stick my nose out from under the covers, shiver, and think….”oh well.” Actually, if Yoda didn’t hog 1/2 of the bed (he takes his half from the middle, by the way), we would both be able to have blankets and stay warm. But, as long as he’s laying on the bed, I’m going to keep holding on to those blankets and keep winning the battle; I don’t like waking up cold!
This picture of Jesus holding the baby has given me peace and has reminded me that Jessie is safe.
Three boys, who I wouldn’t trade for anything, call me mom. I am so grateful to have them, to love them, to have held them in my arms, and to hold them in my heart. Even with my boys, my heart breaks a bit every time I think about the one I never got know.
Tomorrow, October 15, is the day set aside to remember children who were lost due to pregnancy loss or death in early childhood. So today — and everyday — I remember Jessie. And even though we lost our Jessie on March 24, 2000, it is only recently that I have begun to truly grieve this loss.
I lost one child — some women have lost many. In some ways it felt wrong to grieve one small loss when dear people grieve loss after loss after loss. Some families experience numerous losses and never enjoy the privilege of parenting their children, but still they are parents.
In our family, my brother, a cousin, and a niece have all had children who were born and lived mere hours. When I measured their grief against the grief that we experienced from pregnancy loss, I felt guilty for even mentioning our baby. Yet, I felt the loss — deeply, inside, in my broken heart, and in my nightmares where I would hear the baby cry, but as I went to comfort her I could never find her. The grief I experienced at her loss was hidden away — I never told anyone about the nightmares. Only Mr. Gorgeous knows how hard it is for me to face March 24th.
After we lost the baby, John sent an email to our family members to tell them; he also shared the news with our church family when I wasn’t around. Responses to the news varied. Some people thought that having three children was enough and we really didn’t need another one. A few expressed their concern that if I was unable to carry her to term, she must have had a physical abnormality, so losing her was for the best. Very few responded with what I felt was a compassionate heart. Our boys cried with us over the loss of their sister. Nathan said we couldn’t always call her “the baby” and asked if we could call her Jessie. That became her name.
A dear friend sent me a letter that I read numerous times. She said simply, “I hurt with you and for you; and I love you.” I ached to hear that kind of a message. No, we didn’t have a funeral, but we lost a child. There wasn’t a casket or a tombstone, but there were broken hearts. To be honest, everyone seemed to ignore our loss, and as a result, I tried to do the same.
There is something about loss — something about grief — though that refuses to be ignored. Every time I held an infant I would struggle to keep from crying. Nightmares filled my sleep. And finally, two years ago, about the time that Jessie would have been on the volleyball team I coach, I realized it was time to grieve — for real this time.
I began a Bible study about losing a child. I read a book called SCANDALOUS GRACE that encouraged me to grasp God’s grace with both hands and use it overcome this emptiness that filled me every time I thought of Jessie. Finally, through prayer and tears and a willingness to begin talking about her, I have begun to be healed of the incapacitating grief that I’d locked away.
And then God used my beautiful niece to give me permission to speak freely about Jessie. Pam became involved with Unspoken Grief, an outreach on Facebook. She and they have helped me to move forward while reaching back to help others who grieve as I do. Last year, I participated in a photo project called, “Capture Your Grief.” It is sponsored by CarlyMarie on Facebook and encourages parents who’ve lost a child to take and post a picture each day during the month of October. Each day has a special theme for the photo. I did not submit a picture for each day of the month; I did participate on the days that had the most meaning to me. Through that project I remembered, mourned, grieved, celebrated, laughed, and let go.
I still grieve, but I’m moving on. Doing so has not been easy and to be honest, I was only able to do so when I gave myself permission. That meant ignoring people who didn’t or don’t understand that the loss of an infant is as devastating as the loss of anyone else that we love. Thankfully, by speaking up and sharing my loss, I’ve found others around me who’ve experienced their own losses. We encourage, strengthen, and bless each other. I am thankful for them and their willingness to share their heart with me.
So on this day, in memory of Jessie, I want to say a few things that I would have said to her:
Jessie, I love you. Your brothers would have made you crazy, just like Uncle Frank made your mommy crazy. I know, however, that they would have protected you. I am certain that boys who liked you would have looked at your brothers (especially Nate) and only the very worthy would have had the courage to date you. I always dreamed about you having dark curly hair, but red hair like your dad would have been beautiful. You would have laughed — a lot, like the rest of the family. I think you might have been a singer — maybe a piano player like Phillip and Ben. Or perhaps you would have inherited your great grandmother’s artistic ability. Whatever your interests or talents, I know that you would have been amazing. I wish I had known you. Jesus has taken care of you and I know you are safe — for that I am thankful.
Finally my friends, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you know of someone who has experienced pregnancy or infant loss? Would you reach out — would you let them grieve? Will you celebrate their child/children with them? Would you please speak their child’s name? It’s important… Jessie.
When asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, my answers went something like this:
A nurse
A pediatrician
Teacher
The first female Astronaut (Sally Ride flew with NASA when I was in first grade, so this came off my list.)
The first woman president of the USA
A lawyer
A travel agent
A stewardess
And then I stopped make a list. Because somewhere between being asked for the first time and age 10 or so, I knew what I really wanted to be. I wanted to be a wife. I wanted to be a mom.
Yes, I still wanted to be a teacher or a doctor or a nurse or a lawyer — but even more than these noble careers, I wanted the harder job too. I wanted to have a husband who loved me and who believed that I would make his life better, simply by being a part of it — just like he does mine. I wanted to be a mom — to have children and love them, make them feel safe and protected, and help them to become men (or women) of God.
Then life happened. I was 24 and had officially been called an old maid. After all, if your brother calls you that, it has to be official — doesn’t it? I decided it was time to start seriously looking for a handsome guy. So I looked and I looked and I looked. Finally, I did what I should have done in the first place and I talked to God about finding me a husband. His answer was simple, “Patience, daughter.” And so, I worked hard at waiting. That may seem like an oxymoron, but sometimes sitting and waiting is harder than working. I moved from Colorado back to New Mexico, started in a singles group at a new church and asked God to show me His will.
We had a camp out and I saw a really cute guy — reddish hair, beard, tall, great eyes, and he could sing. Several items on my list of desirable characteristics had just been checked. I flirted. He ignored me for seven months. Finally, I gave up on the cute guy. On Tuesday of the week I “gave up” on Mr. Gorgeous, he called and asked me on a date. He worked nights from 5 pm to 2 am and I worked days from 8 am to 5 pm. We “dated” on the phone during his dinner breaks at 10 pm and during my lunch break when he would bring me a picnic lunch. On the Saturdays that he was off, we went to tourist spots and got to know each other. Six weeks after our first date he asked me to marry him and six months later, I did.
Eleven months after the wedding, our oldest son, Nate, was born; seventeen months later, Phillip joined the family, and three years later we welcomed Ben.
I am exactly what I wanted to be — a wife and mom. I’ve been a wife for 27 years as of this week — and a mom for 26. It’s an amazing life; one for which I am truly grateful! I married the man of my dreams, our boys are men of character — and our daughter-in law is an amazing woman.
I am so incredibly blessed to have been given the desires of my heart.
My “boys” aren’t boys anymore — they are men. They range from 21 to 26 years of age.
I’ve always wanted our family to be close, and for the most part we are. Family is one of the things that I value highly. When we would leave the boys for a few hours — or a day or two, the last thing we would say was, “Remember, you love each other!” I know that my friends are precious and special and I am grateful for them. But family…they are my breath, my heart, they matter more than I can ever express.
One night last week I knew that one of our sons was struggling. Decisions needed to be made; provision needed to be found. As I went to bed, my heart was broken — I could barely breath because of my concern for the child I love. I began to pray. I prayed and prayed. This child, this man, was hurting and since I will always be the mom, I was hurting with him. I prayed some more. Suddenly, as if a light switch had been flipped to the on position, I was at peace. I prayed some more — this time thanking God for meeting the need in whatever way He chooses. I thanked Him for this young man and his brothers, for our daughter-in-love, for my amazing husband, and for our family.
Is my boy’s path clear? Are all of the questions answered? No. But I’m the mom and I will pray on.
After this amazing prayer time, a couple of days later we were at a restaurant — all six of us. Mr. Gorgeous and I, along with two of the kids, were having a grown-up, mature, adult-style conversation. Suddenly, my mom’s ears began to pick up the sound of discontent. (Moms — I know you get this!) I tuned out the adult conversation and began listening to the other end of the table. Really? Seriously? These young men were bickering and sniping. They sounded like they did when they were in elementary school! Since I’m the mom, I did the mom thing. I raised my hand in that classic “police officer traffic-must-stop” pose and using my best mom/teacher voice, I said, “That’s enough — we will not be doing this now!” I immediately turned away, back to the conversation I had originally been a part of. Our daughter looked at me, grinned, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. Yes, I’ll always be the mom.
From the highs to the lows — from birth to adulthood — that’s me. I’ll always be the mom. Honestly, next to being a child of the King and the wife of my best friend, being the mom is my favorite!
Back when we were writing letters to teachers…Phil, Nate, Ben.Teenagers…Nate, Ben, Phil at Adventure Land in Des Moines, IA.At Ben’s high school graduation…Nate, Ben, and Phil.
When our sons were in elementary school, John and I would sit down before school started every year and write a letter to each of their classroom teachers. The boys delivered the letters to their teachers during the first week of classes. It was our way of letting the teacher know that we were going to be involved parents. (Teachers probably thought we would be helicopter parents — I hope we weren’t that bad!) But more than that, it was an opportunity to introduce our children to their teachers. We knew that these handsome little boys would be faces in a crowd and we wanted to give them the best possible start to their school year.
Nate’s letter usually went something like this:
“Nathan is the oldest of three boys and is a very responsible young man. He hates school, but if he trusts you, he will follow you to the moon and back. He has traveled to many states, seen many amazing things, visited numerous museums, and as a result, is curious about how and why things work. Learning is hard for Nathan. He will ask for help — but only when he’s desperate. He’s hard on himself and thinks that things should come easier than they do. Please be patient with him.”
Phillip’s letter was different:
“Phillip taught himself to read when he was four. Learning comes easily to him. He has a photographic memory, is fascinated by WWII, and can explain how submarines work. When you tell him what you plan to teach, he will come to school the next day knowing more about it than you can imagine. He will challenge you — if you misquote a fact, he will correct you. Most of the time, he will be right. He is a perfectionist and is very hard on himself. We are trying to help him find balance. Your job will be a tough one, but we believe in you and will pray for you.”
Ben’s letter was different still:
“You will find that Benji is a kind, caring, and gentle young man. His goal in life is to make people around him laugh; and we apologize in advance. He knows how to behave, but may need a gentle reminder or two. When he gets “tickled” he will laugh until he cries — often slapping his leg in the process. He does imitations of adults, movie stars, and cartoon characters. Our favorite is when he imitates Timon from LION KING. He learns fairly easily, reads voraciously (mostly CALVIN AND HOBBES), and cares about the people around him. Honestly, for Benji, relationships are far more important than learning or grades.”
Like all parents, we knew that our boys were different. They still are. One of the fascinating challenges we faced was helping each of our boys to succeed in the areas where he had ability. While growing stronger in areas of strength is important, we also tried to stretch them and help them to challenge themselves — to find new areas of interest, and to determine new abilities. More than anything, however, we wanted our boys to see God as a loving Heavenly Father and to make the decision to love, follow, and serve Him. We still want that.
We are preparing to have family pictures taken again. Whenever we do that, I always look back at pictures from our yesterdays: baby pictures, school pictures, holidays, vacations, and everyday snap shots. I try to “paint a picture” in my mind of the growth of each of these young men. You see, sometimes I wonder if we did enough. Was there sufficient laughter and play balanced by times of hard work? Did we travel and create enough? Was family and time together valued? Did we spend enough time together learning about God and serving others? Naturally, we weren’t perfect, but the pictures remind me that maybe, just maybe, with God’s help we did okay. We see the men they are becoming and we are proud of the choices they are making. Are we disappointed sometimes? Of course, but they are good men — men of character and strength.
These men of character moved from the “little boy stage” to young boys in classrooms of twenty-five or thirty children. Were those letters to the teachers necessary? Maybe not, but they helped us to feel better about trusting someone else with these precious gifts.
Laughing - Loving - Praying 