Category Archives: healing

Late night closeness (and how I’m like a two year old boy)

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I’m in the thick of parenting a two year old son, with all the awful drama and willful tantrums that accompany it.

He regularly walks up to his sister and smacks her on the head with a smile and he often grins at me while he runs toward the road, I running toward him on the wet grass screaming.

He’s also quite “type A” and so the wrong cup, fork, shirt or seatbelt routine can set him off and result in two minutes of screaming and a trip to time out.

Over. A. Fork… for the love.

All that is difficult to bear but what really causes my momma heart to ache is the pulling away that goes along with this independent streak.  He wants nothing to do with me.

Every request for a kiss or hug is met with an emphatic “no way momma!  no way!”

 

If I pick him up to kiss his face he wiggles and whines: “get me down!  No!”

When we go out and attempt to walk holding hands he refuses right out. He will just sit down in protest until I drag him away by both arms out of pure desperation.

When I buckle him into the shopping cart he screams for a solid three minutes because he wants to sit in the “big basket” so he can “eat all the foods.”  Which is exactly what he would do given the choice.

I’m sure so much of this comes along with the typical “quest for autonomy” that every two year old embarks on, but for me?  It feel like I’ve already lost him forever.  The snuggly sweetness is almost gone and I wonder if it will ever return or if I’ve already lost him to the “all grown up” place.

A few days back we had a particularly rough day with him, complete with defiance, dragging and tantrums.  To get through the insanity I picked up an afternoon iced coffee.

This was a mistake.

By the time we got everyone cleaned off and tucked in, my body was exhausted but my mind was buzzing, wide awake.

Hours after everyone had drifted off I sat at my keyboard, writing and crying, because life just seemed hard and you guys?  I was really tired and really low on little boy snuggles.

So I did the only logical thing I could think to do at 12:15 AM, I snuck into his room and sat next to his bed, rubbing his back through the slats in his crib.

The cat followed me in and began to sing his obnoxious song and woke up my “not so baby” boy.

I can’t say that I was sad about this.

We moved over to the rocking chair and I held him close to me for the first time in what felt like years.

I cried into his little shoulder as he wiggled on my chest, trying to get sleepy comfortable.

Then, from somewhere completely other a voice blew through my mind

Caedmon Pic

“Yes, I do love you this much.” Continue reading →

Smaller, Weaker, Loved, Held.

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I never had any reservations about moving back to West Michigan, even though I knew that the ghosts of my life hover more prominently in the curbs and corners of this place.

As I drive the tree lined roads of my hometown, my mind flashes back to the days I when experienced these streets not from the driver’s seat but from the back seat of the mini van.

Back when I was the little one with small control and big questions.

Now I have big control, or at least big responsibility, and the questions have only grown and gained weight.  Losing both my parents so quickly stole all my rights to feel like a kid and left behind the awful realization that I can’t “go home again.”

I know that I’m the parent now and I know that the home I’m cultivating will become my own children’s childhood, with all it’s wonders and perhaps all it’s resentment… but still I want to be the kids sometimes, to go home.

Don’t we all?  Don’t you?

Most of the time I love my motherhood and I love being the woman of the house… but sometimes?  I want to curl up on my mom’s lap and feel her flannel nightgown against my tear-stained cheek.

I long to confess to her that there are moments when I don’t feel like I can do it.  And would she tell me it’s okay?  And would she please run her fingers through my hair, just a little while longer?

I want ask my Dad why our mini van sometimes shimmies when it’s changing gears, I want to know that he’s there with his dolly to check things out should they go awry.  I want to serve him a plate of balsamic pork tenderloin and listen to all the ways he loves his grandchildren.

I’ve moved back home and realized that this Orphaned adult thing is so much harder when you’re constantly driving past the spots where it all fell apart.  The house, the train tracks, the cemetery.

I ache for them as I begin to create some of the same memories we made with my own children.  I can’t bring myself to visit their graveside yet.  Not even on memorial day.  There are other spots where they are no longer alive that I must deal with first.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, sometimes in the middle of a task I fall onto our bed exhausted and pull my knees up to my chest and I feel way too big and not nearly brave enough.

nesting dolls

Continue reading →

A prayer for the aftermath

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Screen Shot 2013-05-21 at 3.13.12 PM

I don’t know about you, but today I find myself once more broken over the state of our world as I weather a day of heavy hearted tears for towns ripped apart by a wave of deadly Tornados.

Something about moments like these cause us to pray “Come Lord Jesus” and “Lord, don’t take us home yet” all in the same breath, wishing to return home and clinging hard to here.

Our heavy hearts find a deep sense of gratitude in the small things that only hours ago seemed so ordinary and everyday.

Dinner dishes in safe homes with hungry mouths still open wide and chattering loudly.

We go for seconds and thirds on bedtime hugs with our children, embraces that would last for hours if it wasn’t for the wills of clean and wriggly little ones.

We wonder why we still hold so much in our hands when others are going to bed wracked and empty.

With each tragedy it all makes less sense to me and I loosen my grip on the reigns realizing that we live in a gorgeous, broken place and serve a loving, gracious God who isn’t pulling the strings on these tragedies but reminding us that he will set it all right someday.

My tears are hot with grief and salty with hope.

I shake my fists at God a little less these days and spent much more time in prayer, 1 part grateful and 5 parts desperately asking for supplication.

We may sing “Where oh death is now your sting?” but in reality even the most faithful feel that sting like a persistent fog.

So I walk through the house, I flip the news on and then off again, I put my heart into basement play time realizing that as much as I think things will never change, they already have in an instant.

How dare I waste a day of this gift?  How do I remember this feeling in a few days when my life goes back to normal so unlike so many families in Moore.

I want to scribble this truth on my arms in sharpie: “You are blessed!  Grieve with those who grieve and delve deeply into your life!”

Because I have life, and I sustain life with the gift of momentary breath.

So Oklahoma, even though I’m newly removed from your soil, I will keep washing and wearing my crimson T-shirt to remind me who I am and what you gave me.

I will turn on News 9 and pray and cry for by the grace of God my Oklahoma children are still here, still making messes and asking for warm milk.

I pray yours are too.

Peace to you, the Peace of Christ to you

What Oklahoma Gave me: A Beginning

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HouseCollage1

Hello from a laundry basket in the middle of our mostly empty living room floor.

I have a grapefruit sized lump in my throat that makes basic function tricky.

I can see the sun coming up through the oval leaded glass window on our front door and it rises on my last moments in this home.  (and it’s all soundtracked by Jamey Johnson’s “In Color“)  

(If it looks like we were scared to death like a couple of kids just trying to save each other… you should have seen it in color)

And suddenly I’m watching a music montage of my own life happening all around me Continue reading →

He Messy, Bloody Loves Us

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If you spend much time in the church or around Christ followers you’ve heard these words a thousand times:

“God loves you.”

We’re conditioned to it, we see it on billboards and t-shirts, hear it in song lyrics and on the lips of people on the street corner.

“God loves you!”

Where does your mind go when you hear these words?  Do you think of something small like a latte or a car?

Have these words lost their power over your soul from overuse?  I’d like to go out on a limb and say that I think that for all of us, they have.

I have to confess that lately I’ve become keenly aware of where my mind goes when I think about the love God has for me.  And you know what I’ve found?  I focus on the small potatoes, the very temporary, the daily bread type of gifts, this isn’t bad but it’s certainly not all.

Yes God is good, we’ve sold our home and found a rental.
Yes God loves me, we have enough grocery money to for milk, eggs and bananas.
Yes God loves me, we have two beautiful children.
Yes, God loves me, I’ve found time to pray over a warm cup of coffee in the dimly lit morning of our living room near my favorite Target lampshade.  I am blessed.

Yes, these are good gifts, 1,000 gifts worth counting.

But, I have to confess that all too often I forget that it is ever so much bigger than my cup of coffee.  Not only has he given me bread, children and a new house in my home state but he has set me free.

Free.  Free.  Free.

Free from defining my life by these small things.
Free from the relentless dance of earning my salvation
Free from fear
Free from sin
Free from death.

messy bloody loves

Yes, coffee, Yes houses but guys…. freedom from sin and death?  Hope in the direst moments of grief?  A copy of the final chapter?

A knowledge that he is going to set every painful thing back to right and quench the thirst of a creation that cries for him?  I’m sorry but I need this so much more than I need bread.

Have we become desensitized to the true meaning behind the reminder that we are loved by the God of the universe?

Maybe I need a little less thanks for daily bread and a little more thanks for this freedom over death that, upon reflection makes me want to go in the backyard and dance like a fool in my pajamas, to hell with what the neighbors think.  (truthfully I think they expect crazy at this point)

We need both types of thankfulness, that of bread and of salvation but honestly? My thankfulness teeter-totter in uneven in favor of the small and temporary evidences of God’s love.

I see the small, the coffee and bread and I think that’s where it ends, I forget that it’s just the introduction to the book of love that God has written for me, for my life.

It’s Holy week, It’s Easter, and yes I am daily thankful for the small things, We are conditioned to pray for the daily bread.  It’s so good to do so.

But guys, he beat death, we win! I get to see my whole, restored redeemed parents again!

This pain and depression has an expiration date, the fighting the bickering, the death and suffering has already been licked.

God loves you, he forever beat death loves you, he messy, bloody loves you.

And all the people said…. Amen, Holy, Bloody, Beautiful Amen.x

Yes to now

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because the oil-rig Oklahoma sunsets aren't forever.

because the oil-rig Oklahoma sunsets aren’t forever.

This evening we gave the grill its annual test run.  As Kel came in to check on the sweet potato fries some leftover grease flamed up and filled the patio with billowy smoke.  This left us with crispy asparagus and hamburgers which were pink on the inside, but charred on the outside.

But we didn’t complain, we were too busy chewing in amazement that this spring day arrived and brought with it so much summer.

Crazy at it sounds for March, the kids spent the afternoon in the sprinkler simply because the lawn was freshly cut, the temps hit 80 and it seemed cruel to say no any longer.

Right now I find myself curled up on the couch with the final chapters of Shauna Niequist’s new book Bread and Wine.   I’ve been savoring like you do a regional food favorite you know you won’t get again for a while, you don’t want to swallow that last bite, even though you can’t stop eating.

That’s how Shauna’s books are to me.

As I lay here, the sun comes through the patio window, over the love seat and onto my face, just enough to be delightful and not so much that it’s blinding me.  I can hear the sounds of my children dancing around the backyard and when I look to check on them all I see are blossoming pear trees and sun haloed children.

Seriously, could right now be any lovelier?

To top it all off my son runs in buck naked and announces that he has put his diaper in the sink, then as I go to take care of it he commandeers my computer and sits on the couch, giggling and naked typing.

In a little while the kids will get a good wipe down and they will snuggle into their beds and Kel and I will pop a bottle of champagne because guess what?  Today we accepted an offer on our house here in Oklahoma.

Today the dream of moving home to Michigan took a great big step into reality.

I’ve spent all day looking up rental houses and estimating moving costs, a day defined by dollar signs and worry.  Will our savings get us by until we’re back on our feet again?

This comes on the heels of a week that was defined by the big house showing, we scrubbed, staged and planted Pansy borders.  I went through more homemade febreeze than any one person should in a lifetime.

But tonight?  It’s a sun warmed and obvious gift, tonight I say
yes to now
yes to burgers
yes to Oklahoma sunsets
yes to sticky naked babies (No to diapers in the sink)
and yes to reading a book on the couch in the midst of dishes and chaos.

Yes to Grace

This next season is bringing with it a thousand unknowns but tonight I can say yes to now.

This season is coming to a close and I want to savor it, like a bottle of good wine or a Shauna Niequist book.

She is incomplete

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This week I forego Mom Hacks because I would be phoning it in.  The mom who started that column seems to have packed a bag and left. 

March marks the 8th anniversary of my Father’s death, March 19th to be exact.  This a huge weight on my chest and when I think about it I can’t breathe.  It cannot, CANNOT have been 8 years since I last spoke to my Dad.

But it has. It’s been nearly 8 years since we chatted on old-school cell phones or shared a raspberry coffee cake after a long Sunday morning of delivering newspapers.

After his funeral I had no idea what grieving looked like for me so I focused on healing and survival. I napped a lot and threw all the funeral flowers off the balcony of my apartment to get rid of “that funeral home smell.”

I refused to drink alcohol, I didn’t want to rely on it to see me through, no matter what.  I feared dependency. I refused antidepressants and sleeping pills as well, there was something within me that needed to prove to myself that I could make it on blood sweat and tears alone, that God could heal even this au natural.

I talked about my loss, wrote about it and went to counseling for the first time in years, I knew I needed a guide for the grieving journey.

I distinctly remember a session of therapy a few months after my Father’s funeral that will forever haunt me. I sat across the room from my trusted therapist of 2 months and listened as she explained to me her opinion that I suffered from moderate bipolar disorder.  She suggested I see a psychiatrist and get on a lifelong med regimen to counteract my seasons of mania and depression. This come out of nowhere for me, I wasn’t even aware I was living in such a cycle, I thought I was just grieving.

I was beyond crushed, I was looking for help with grief, not a lifelong diagnosis.   Continue reading →

These are my people, and they’re tall.

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I love sharing our stories, and since it’s Thursday, not quite Friday, I thought I’d share a piece of mine to brighten your afternoon or evening… or morning really, any time of day will do.

So, my Dad was one of 5 children and I am one of 14 first cousins on that side of the family. 8 of us are married and have started a new generation of over a dozen gorgeous great-grandchildren.

When we get together, it’s a raucous party with all the trimmings including monkey bread and jello “salad.”

There are people everywhere you turn and I want to hug every one of them.  I usually do.

I love and adore my family, these cousins are some of my best friends and have been for as long as I can remember. We grew up in the same towns, went to the same schools, rode our bikes to each other’s houses and did nearly all our vacations together.

This close-knit bunch didn’t happen by happenstance, my Grandparents were intentional about it. They wanted their grandkids to be friends, they wanted a family who had their hands in each other’s lives, that played cards together and swapped stories over second helpings of blueberry buckle.

So they skipped fancy Christmas gifts in lieu of renting cottages to foster togetherness.

They planned simple camping trips where we took up 6 lots in a row and made tonka pizza pies.

They still send us all cards on every holiday, pray for each of us every day and know us all by heart.

I can’t write these words without tearing up.  These are my people, these souls are a huge part of the reason I became the woman I am today.

Because of them, life without parents is a lot less lonely than you’d think.

I fall in the middle of the pack of cousins, with all of the younger ones (besides my own siblings) coming from my Uncle Mike and Aunt Dawn’s family of four, three gorgeous blonde daughters and a sweet youngest son named Chad.

The three oldest girls are all in college (Calvin College) now, and playing basketball for the team, for the first and only time in their lives.  And their younger brother Chad is in the stands cheering them on, forever their number one fan.

You see, Chad was born with an undiagnosable mental handicap and it has shaped this family, for the better. He brings humility, joy and laughter to the table, his excitement for his sisters cannot be beat.

He’s one of Noelle’s favorite people and mine as well, every time we circle to pray as a family his enthusiasm is contagious.

He passed out the bubbles at our wedding, and instead of waiting until our sendoff he encouraged people to blow them right away.  This led to a whimsical, wonderful bubble-filled reception for Kel and I.

Today I want to share a video about this family and show you a bit of where I come from.  I hope it makes you grin as much as it does me.

Watch, smile… trust me.

Screen Shot 2013-02-21 at 1.58.32 PM

 

click the picture to watch a 3 minute video clip about an inspirational family.  

You guys, these are my people, aren’t they amazing?  Now you understand why I’m always a bit homesick.

Kuyper Coffee Dates- Friday (Grief Edition)

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KuyperCoffeeDates_zpse49f9fa2 

Another day, another coffee date.   I don’t know about you but I’m feeling pretty blessed on this end.

Today I want to cluster some of the grief-specific student questions and put them into one post so that those who need them can access them easily.  I know that this topic was peppered throughout the other questions, but I want to dig into this specifically.  

“I would ask her what the hardest thing for her was through the accident of her sister and the loss of her parents, and how did she make it through?  I know the answer is ultimately God, but there are everyday moments in which the strength seems to deplete … and that is where I want to hear what she has to say”

The hardest thing for me about death is the unwavering permanence of it. There is no bargaining that will change it, no medical staff that can un-do it.  We cannot go back in time and save those we have lost, they we are left with a brand new life, with a huge gaping hole.

I can tell you some of the little things that I did to make it through: I was worried about forgetting things, so I wrote down memories and collected pictures and items that were very important to me in my relationship with my parents. 

I took a lot of baths because the tub was the only place where I was still and alone with my deep and painful thoughts, naked before God in every way.  

After about a week I went back to a modified version of my usual routine whether it was work, school or my family schedule.  I found that it wasn’t helpful to sit and dwell on things, that the processing and healing would come in the midst of daily living.  When it did I stopped and gave it priority and I was blessed by others who gave me space for this.

I went to counseling, every time, because I wanted to be sure that I was moving through each season with as much mental health as I could muster.

I can sum it up by imploring you to be intentional about grieving.  Telling your story in trusted settings be open about your aching.  There is no quick fix, there will always be an empty chair, but there is a better place ahead, when the wound becomes a scar and the breathing comes easier.  Continue reading →

Caedmon’s Surgery or God be with the mommas at the Children’s Hospital

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I’m going to take a little break from the Kuyper Coffee Dates and tell you about our yesterday, do you mind?

photo copy 5 Yesterday our newly 2 year old son Caedmon had outpatient surgery to fix a hernia of sorts called a Communicating Hydrocele.  It was the first time I went through surgery with one of my children and let me tell you, there is no such thing as minor surgery when it’s your child on the table.

We went in at 7am and the first surgery in the pediatric urology department had been cancelled, so we were up first. They rushed us through pre-op so they could get a jump on their surgical schedule.  Caedmon was so angry with us and the staff because he was confused and so thirsty from being denied liquids that morning.

I remember crabby too when I couldn’t have water the morning of my C-section and unlike Caedmon, I understood what was going on.

After pre-op we met with the anesthesiologists and they asked one of us to come in for a few minutes and hold him while they held used the gas mask to sedate him pre-anesthesia.  So I donned the paper surgical gear and followed the wheeled crib to the operating room, we got him to breathe into the mask and I watched his eyes roll back as he relaxed on the table.  I was an emotional wreck inside, weak in the knees, although I kept my cool on the outside.

Diptic

I was quickly escorted out of the operating room and back to Kel where we exchanged “now what?” looks.  We decided to grab some breakfast and bring it back to the surgical waiting room, although I was racked with guilt the whole time.  What kind of Mother can just eat eggs while her son has surgery?

We sat there staring at the patient status screen waiting for Caedmon’s number to change from the green “Operating Room” status to the the pink that indicated he was in “Post-Op.”

Before we knew it my cell was ringing.  It was a member of the surgical staff informing us that they were finishing up with his surgery and needed to see us in the consultation room. Continue reading →