tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18607730895138844812024-03-05T22:17:33.455-05:00Through the ArdennesThe Ardennes: the forest surrounding Bastogne, Belgium and a critical battle location during World War II, wherein the endurance, perseverance, trust and sheer stubbornness of the Allies defeated a seemingly unbeatable enemy. For me, an allegory for the Christian life.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-42267370111205283692023-02-01T20:28:00.001-05:002023-02-01T20:28:07.847-05:00Good Enough<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having to actively fight the perfectionist side of myself while I take these three classes is a true battle. I want the A. Gosh darnit, I want the A+. More than that, I want to know without a shadow of a doubt that I have given something my absolute best effort. "Good enough" is a really hard phrase for me, it's always felt like a cop-out, a failure, an excuse. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-e59bf220-7fff-f38c-6334-664aaae94544"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, after spending five straight hours without a break on homework, I felt myself looking for a reason to justify taking a break. I honestly didn't want to because I wanted to accomplish more but I also felt this little niggling in my body telling me my brain was getting tired. I had just read a whole chapter of Anatomy & Physiology, listened to and taken notes from a lecture from that same course, completed two labs and a homework set, completed a chem lab and done a quiz for Medical Terminology. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But no…I needed more to justify stopping. To let myself breathe. I had taken a five minute break for lunch but had only noticed it was lunchtime because my hands started to shake with low sugar issues.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yikes. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought I had outgrown my need for everything to be complete and perfect, but clearly the old demons die hard. I texted my husband what was obviously a desperate plea to my inner voice to just let myself rest for a few and he, in his wisdom after 22 years of experiencing my special brand of insanity, came out of his office, looked me in the eye and said "I can tell you are trying to fight the guilt of taking a break. It's ok to rest." </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In that moment, I instantly had a flashback to high school me on the night before a math final. The phone rang and my mother picked it up. It was my math teacher, urging her to make me stop studying and take me out for ice cream because he knew I was ready but would probably spend the whole night buried in math equations if someone didn't force a little break on me. I remember arguing with her. I honestly don't remember who won. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These same demons that crop up in pretty much everything I try to accomplish tend to taint my spiritual life as well. The concepts of grace, of unconditional love, of sacrifice for me…they feel foreign, almost wrong somehow. Rules are easier. Measurable. Grace is unmerited, unearned, unfathomable. A clear 10 step plan to being a good Christian? Bring it on. Just resting in His love- HOW IN THE WORLD DO I DO THAT? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not alone in this struggle, I know other friends who tend in the same direction. To earn, to strive, to find their worth in what is attainable. But I also know that it is never enough. The A feels good, but it doesn’t truly fill that ache. It never can. That ache to be perfectly content in who the Lord has made me to be as I walk with Him. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I mentioned in a recent post that I have been leaning into new rhythms to try to open up that side of me that needs to be able to just rest, sit, learn, accept the love of God. <br /></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8a46p5wFRrRD_UwLuVwLf8Fh92vD2ZXNmUZHEbSS-9LbiIbvE9f-pru_Ot7Dmq4tzUCXANk5WULeL9VRLji3LSK0dhZrjRQT1nOtuMrN46dfsPNKjdDr9UWULZWaHoPAtaxTIJHP4wP5qDRMup-04NZuWTl83FIcBTS2frDsNf_5DU_-KTUP9QL8Y8g/s500/breath%20as%20prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="367" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8a46p5wFRrRD_UwLuVwLf8Fh92vD2ZXNmUZHEbSS-9LbiIbvE9f-pru_Ot7Dmq4tzUCXANk5WULeL9VRLji3LSK0dhZrjRQT1nOtuMrN46dfsPNKjdDr9UWULZWaHoPAtaxTIJHP4wP5qDRMup-04NZuWTl83FIcBTS2frDsNf_5DU_-KTUP9QL8Y8g/w147-h200/breath%20as%20prayer.jpg" width="147" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A book called “Breath As Prayer” by Jennifer Tucker has been a literal Godsend. The whole idea of the book is that our breath, our very being, is found in the Lord. So as we physically breathe, we use words straight from scripture to calm our minds even as the breathing calms our body. It’s rooted in both science and the Word (swoon!) and the author puts it like this: </span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Breath prayer can help calm your anxiety by connecting you to your Creator and aligning your breath to the rhythm of His grace. Anxiety makes us focus on ourselves and our feelings and the discomfort that those feelings and emotions are causing us. In breath prayer, we reorient our thoughts toward Christ and He becomes the center of our focus, not our feelings.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tomorrow, I’ll need to study again. I have a test coming up. I can already feel my body ramping up…flashcards to be created and studied, careful reading through my notes, working through the study sheets. It will be easy to overwhelm myself with the stress of striving for that A+. Old habits die hard, after all. It will be hard to shut off that inner voice that says "try harder, work longer, you are not doing enough". That voice is loud and powerful, after all. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, I’m heading into it with this prayer from the book in mind: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFSx_BbxHNhSNTtHvGsOLu1Vvtr1A2SX_cYcGF5-i3nadeezJTFbXzc0QbEPxiyMpFDsLWtUpMTlAYo5a2uGEyHtbibvUybX0AFLg73jyJrg7ebSXdyAD5OixnyFdXKk9HCsLVilQ1Drg1zmxI0cwT54heuslJgtVyan4W0cam-JB5Zk6L-GmrGIVTA/s2378/IMG_20230201_201339670.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2378" data-original-width="1628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFSx_BbxHNhSNTtHvGsOLu1Vvtr1A2SX_cYcGF5-i3nadeezJTFbXzc0QbEPxiyMpFDsLWtUpMTlAYo5a2uGEyHtbibvUybX0AFLg73jyJrg7ebSXdyAD5OixnyFdXKk9HCsLVilQ1Drg1zmxI0cwT54heuslJgtVyan4W0cam-JB5Zk6L-GmrGIVTA/s320/IMG_20230201_201339670.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's not magic and it's not perfect. But even taking tiny steps to learn to pause, to feel the heart racing with the need to achieve, to earn...and to then learn to pause, feel it and inhale and exhale truth and literal, life-giving oxygen, is huge. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not easy, but huge. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And maybe, in that breathing, I'll be able to realize that what I have accomplished is good enough. That the Lord is pleased. That I can stop. That I can rest. Because who I am is NOT rooted in what I was able to do that day. </span></span></div><div><br /></div></span>Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-37286881461431364252023-01-06T14:36:00.002-05:002023-01-06T14:36:33.086-05:00No Resolutions, Just Rhythms<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem;">It's easy this time of year to fall into the "dream big, make resolutions, change everything" trap, isn't it? American culture tells us we get a new beginning, to choose our happy, to put ourselves first and make this OUR year. And for many of us, the prospect of NEW is enchanting. Particularly after years of Covid and culture wars and the challenges of parenting and putting the time we need to into our marriages, our jobs, our friendships, our kids.</span></span></p><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It can be so tempting to try to warp the gospel to fit into that narrative that says if I make myself healthy, everything else will fit into place.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For a number of years I have LONGED for something to change. To not be so exhausted and chaotic and to stop operating in survival mode with our challenges.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But just this past year, I really sat down and asked the Lord why I was so tired. Why my scripture time was so empty. Why I didn't really want to pray. Why I felt exhausted and disheartened and, frankly, abandoned in our journey to help our two younger sons recover their own health.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And one day on a run, it came to me.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">God hadn't changed, but I had.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was trying to connect with the Lord the same way I did when I was 23. Before marriage. Before three children. Before a mortgage and the pressures of navigating medically complex kids, before my own struggle set in with PMDD, before miscarriage and infertility and two cross-country moves and family deaths....and...all the things that happen in 20 years of living life.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I had grown and changed and, with that, my needs and my rhythms for how and when to spend time with God had changed. I was so busy keeping to what I thought I knew to do that I ended up making God into my own image, an easy checklist, an empty to-do.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So I stepped back. It wasn't January. It wasn't when we are told to start new, dream big, change ourselves. It was a still, quiet morning when my body was tired and I just told God I missed Him. That I needed a new way, a new perspective, new habits and rhythms that match where I am as a 44 year-old mother, wife and coach pursuing a late-decided career in medicine. With all my wrinkles and scars and wounds and, yes, my resurrected places, too.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I can tell you confidently that God met me in that. I stopped trying to force a "quiet time" at an hour of the day that just didn't work with my family's rhythms. I leaned into new spiritual practices that I hadn't traditionally connected with, like breath prayers and stillness. I let the Lord into the grief in my life and learned how to breathe and process it and run less on rage and chaos and more on peace and hope and mindfulness.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That, my friends, is what a new year looks like. Not some big extravagant promise to change myself, but the quiet surrender to let God change me.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It's slow. It's up and down. But it's good. So when January hit six days ago, it wasn't much. Just another day that I woke up and tried to embrace that same new posture of surrender. The new rhythms, new breaths, new prayers, new hopes.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It's not easy to undo decades of perspective and practice, but it's sure worth it to try.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Blessings to each of you as we set off into 2023, full of whatever it will bring. Let us mark it with honesty, integrity and letting the Lord continue to mold us into who he has created us to be, not into what we can make ourselves apart from him.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px; text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div><div class="x1e56ztr" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 8px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" style="color: var(--primary-text); font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"></span></span></div>Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-58450093315389046132021-09-04T19:24:00.002-04:002021-09-04T19:24:24.907-04:00On Raising Special Needs Kids<p> One of the things I have learned most acutely through the last seven years is the importance, really, the absolute necessity, of having friends who are also raising kids with special challenges. Doing this alone is empirically impossible- the feelings of loneliness, confusion...the inability to relate to people with neurotypical kids. It's a lot. Consequently, I have been so grateful to have a close friend since we moved to Virginia who GETS it. Who has lived it. Whose son is a little further along than mine at this point and can empathize and insert hope into situations. Tonight, she sent me a text as we have been in the trenches helping our son recover from Covid reminding me that it's normal to be exhausted, that our lived experience is so different from so many others, that I need to hang on but it's ok to have feelings of being alone, overwhelmed and, yes, even hopeless sometimes. </p><p>I have her permission to share her words. My dear friend, Kim Rodgers, gives us a small, but very honest glimpse into the world of parenting kids who are outside the mold. I will warn you - these are really raw words. There is no happy, contented words to conclude. Just a glimpse into the challenge. I encourage you, especially if you are NOT a parent to a special needs kid, to read this and seek to empathize. We are a lonely bunch. </p><p>"We are in the shadows of life and the world. Just trying to make it through. </p><p>We are trying not to compare our now to our friends, family's or neighbor's now. Trying not to be jealous of the routine or lack of. Or the trips they take. Living life on a whim verses planned and rigid- because an unexpected change or shift ruins and hour, a day or even a week. The errands that can be run spontaneously. The "normalcy" of school days without IEPs, 504s and behavior issues.</p><p>The friends that a neurotypical family takes for granted the level of normalcy that brings to a child's life- friends that come to play and play for hours. Going to a friends house and playing for house. Snacks that don't have to be planned and monitored. Sleepovers, always having a friend in class, at lunch, in activities. </p><p>As opposed to the special needs family that prays every day for someone to just be nice and accept our child for that one day. That they don't get picked on. That they have a nice lunch- maybe even peers that talk to them or include them in whatever nonsense is happening during an elementary, middoe or high school lunch time. That they have ONE friend to play with at recess or that they get picked for a team. That they get an invite to the birthday party, the holiday party. </p><p>Our worlds are so different they rarely merge. And the hardest part is as a special needs parent we are so used to trying to hide in the shadows or stay in the shadows because the spotlights that get put on us are never the ones of the starts but the ones of shame, judgment and disgust. </p><p>So we bury ourselves. Deep. To protect. To survive. Because we aren't in the light as we try to hide. We are all of the tired. All of the hurt. All of the scared. All of the embarrassed. All of the pain. And all of the worry." </p><p>Thanks, Kim, for your honesty. And for always, always reminding me we are not alone. </p>Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-36165433458141238112021-01-20T21:08:00.009-05:002021-01-20T21:10:26.281-05:00Rumors of My Death<p>Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.</p><p>Ok, ok, I'm actually fairly certain that those rumors don't ACTUALLY exist, but I certainly have gotten a number of concerned emails and texts checking in if I am alright...all because I left Facebook. I did it with zero pomp and no circumstance. No pious letter goodbye or parting darts at what made 2020 so extra crazy. </p><p>One day I was there and the next day I deactivated.</p><p>Friends, I'm ok. I promise. </p><p>There comes a time in a woman's life where she just has to, if you will pardon the language, get past the bullshit. I don't say that to debase how everyone else chose to use Facebook. I say it to call out how I was using Facebook. As I tell my kids just about every day (erm, hour), "not you, not your business. You are only responsible for how you react to the situation."</p><p>Let's just say that it was increasingly clear that I wasn't reacting the best way that I could to what was swirling around me.</p><p>No, I didn't create an echo chamber. I didn't unfriend people with whom I disagreed. I got into hearty debates and I generally stayed out of the topics on which I have no business commenting. (For pretty much all of that second category, the number is significantly higher than we pretend it to be.) </p><p>The bottom line is that I let it consume me. Distract me. Inform me. Infuriate me. I set terrible limits. I allowed way too much anxiety in my life. I tried to keep up with way more than any one person should actually be able to do. </p><p>One day I said enough. (My husband, if you are wondering, was DEEPLY influential in this decision. He still barely has a Facebook profile.) </p><p>I realized about a week into leaving after a few frantic texts from our Swim Team President that there were some unforeseen consequences to my hasty departure- namely, that thousands of pictures I had uploaded to our site as the swim team photographer were now inaccessible. After a little back and forth, we figured out a new way to store and share pictures and I'm working on that in my spare (ha!) time. Crisis averted. </p><p>And as far as I can tell, what I am missing is a myriad of people's opinions on news articles from sources that may or may not be trustworthy. I am missing hateful speech and name calling and a remarkable lack of humility. I am missing lies being shared as truth. I am missing thinking up my next status or wondering what people will say. I am missing the false connection, albeit lovely in the moment, that disconnecting from the real life around me and logging into Facebook creates. I am missing making Facebook WAY more important than I should ever have given it the power to be and I am missing letting it compete with God for my attention, heart and mind. </p><p>In short, I am missing mothing at all, friends. </p><p>Nothing that I can't gain through phone calls and emails, texts and marco polos, and when covid allows, in person visits. Real life hoohah celebrations and grace sister reunions and actual family time face to face. Firepits in my backyard and a Christmas sing-a-long on my driveway around a firepit with my neighbors. </p><p>You remember. Life before Facebook. Before social media. When, as Phoebe once so elegantly put it, I spent more time with the three dimensional people in my life. When we didn't spend actual time with people thinking about how we will respond to the next jab or barb or how we will filter the story about it later. We just SPENT TIME with them. </p><p>So, I suppose if there are rumors of my death, after all, they aren't actually all that exaggerated. I have put to death, in a way, that part of myself that couldn't tear herself away. That looked for friendship and well-being and hope and peace in an app that was only ever meant to steal those things from me. The part that couldn't set healthy enough limits to keep myself from destruction. </p><p>I don't plan on coming back. I do plan on writing. If you've followed my blog via facebook, feel free to follow me here so you can continue the journey. I've cherished the feedback from my friends during this 10 year writing journey and I know that being off facebook and more mindful in my day is opening me up in new ways. I'm excited to explore them. I'm conquering old demons that have needed to be conquered for decades. I'm choosing life. In Person. I'm not running anymore from the parts of my story that build walls. </p><p>Hopefully never again. </p><p>Maybe this is my official Facebook goodbye, if it ever makes it there. I don't plan on going on to post it myself. </p><p>Instead, I'm about to go cuddle with some of my favorite three-dimensional people and then call it a night. </p>Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-52781937128250465782020-08-21T18:41:00.001-04:002020-08-21T18:42:33.722-04:00A Brighter Day<p> One of the perks of being a one on the enneagram scale is that when I decide to do something, I plan it out and it gets done. Lists are my friends, spreadsheets my loyal companions. I have been called a lot of things in life, but the word that tends to come up a LOT is the very unromantic descriptor "responsible." In movies, my character tends to throw off all inhibitions by the end and do something reckless that manages to transform her life for the better, but that's just Hollywood's spin on learning how to be yourself. In real life, I am definitely learning spontaneity in ways I never would have imagined before I turned 40, but not at the expense of my good traits - as a complement to them. </p><p>That said, I have had the song Brighter Day in my head for a few days now. If you don't know it, it's an old school Kirk Franklin song playing off an even older school Bill Withers song has a catchy refrain that goes "it's gonna be a brighter day, brighter day, brighter day, a bright-er day!" (Go ahead and take a little dance break if you need it, I'll love you even more for it.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OASpgmC-TsY" width="320" youtube-src-id="OASpgmC-TsY"></iframe></div><p><br /></p><p>And as it's been tooling around in my head, I have been pondering just how insane the last six months have been. So much uncertainty. So many unknowns. So MUCH togetherness in the family home. So many days that do not feel any brighter than the one before. It's been truly difficult for so many of us, adults and kids alike, to have so little of life be familiar or plannable. And for those of us with kids who may now be planning to guide them through at-home virtual learning and IEP's and homeschooling, it's so easy to be focused on what we are doing to keep the family functioning, to help our kids' mental health as we transition into yet another unknown, and for many, uninspiring, reality. </p><p>It is so very easy to feel like we are in the dark. To feel sad. To feel angry or hopeless. And it's so very easy to neglect ourselves when so many around us need so much to stay stable. </p><p>I've mentioned before my struggle with PMDD. After a few years of trying more conventional methods to treat it, I stumbled upon a book by Dr. Jolene Brighten called <a href="https://drbrighten.com/beyond-the-pill/">Beyond the Pill</a>. As the pill is the most commonly used way to treat it but as someone who does not enjoy its unhelpful side effects, I was eager to hear if there were alternatives. I read the book immediately (another thing us ones are good at), developed a plan of action and took it to my doctor. I refrained from boring her with a powerpoint presentation about why I should go off the pill and try it, but I was sorely tempted. Thankfully, she was on board with the protocol as it was rooted in nutrtion, exercise and rest (woohoo, science!) and the next day I was busy buying supplements and making schedules. </p><p>Oh the sweet joys of a freshly minted calendar and plan! Within a week, I was happily ensconced in the challenges of lifestyle changes that I knew could make a significant impact on my health. </p><p>One year later, I have seen amazing success when I have stuck to it. I have learned about my body in new and amazing ways. I have a deep and newfound respect for my adrenal gland in all it's glory and power. And as I sit on the cusp of all these changes for my family, I have been reminded anew that I need to get back on this protocol with a new focus. It fell to the wayside when all my kids ended up home from school in March. It was just too much to keep up with three super-energetic boys (one with significant challenges himself) AND the protocol. It was survival mode.</p><p>But I can't abide living in survival mode for too long. I want a brighter day. </p><p>I know, it feels like the last thing most of us need, to add something to our life, our schedule. But I know for some of us, this has been such a hard time of sacrifice that we are in danger of losing ourselves, our health, our sanity, to this pandemic. Stress deeply affects us as women. Our hormones respond in ways that make us feel absolutely insane sometimes. </p><p>So today, I picked the book back up while my littles swam at the pool. (and yes, I paused and issued a prayer of gratitude that at the ages of five and six, I can trust them to swim without me in the water, may God bless swim team and all the saints in heaven.) I turned to the chapter with the quiz that helps you isolate what's going on in your body. And lo and behold, my answers had changed after a year. What I had focused on over the past year was doing so well that it is time for me to move on to focus on a different area of health. Adrenal glands check, now we conquer the ovaries :) </p><p>Am I oversharing? Quite likely. </p><p>But I have learned as I hit my late 30's and now have moved into my 40's that we women need to talk about this stuff - hormones and sex drive and body image and reproductive health.That so much of how we grow up talking about these things and learning about them ends up steeped in shame and secrecy and that is NOT any way to be living our lives in connection to this beautiful vessel, our bodies, in which we travel through life. </p><p>So, if you have STUFF going on with your parts. If you don't love the way you feel, if you are struggling with body image or health issues or PMDD or PCOS or menopause (can I get a witness on how MANY fans I now need on in my room at night?), I'd like to issue you a friendly challenge. </p><p>THINK ABOUT YOU.</p><p>Seriously. Think. Do you want to feel better? Do you want to be a healthier version of the already beautiful you? Are you tired of people promising quick fixes and just want to make some lasting changes in your life that take a shot at it being a brighter day?</p><p>I may not be great at empathy or helping us figure out our emotions, but heck am I good at accountability and dreams! </p><p>So in a moment of spontaneity, BEFORE I have made any lists or plans on what it would look like, I'm diving in.</p><p>I'm going to reboot my journey with Brighten because I know it worked for me and I know I need to concentrate on my health as I move into a new phase of helping my kids learn at home. I am not selling anything, nor am I an expert. If no one wants to join me, I'm doing it anyway, because I'm also a raging introvert and perfectly happy to do something alone. </p><p>BUT, if this resonates with you at all, I'd love to invite and challenge you to join me. We can do it together. It's a plan written by a doctor and based on science that involves exercise, nutrition, rest, spiritual growth and joy. </p><p>Adding community to it can certainly only help. </p><p>Who is in? </p>Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-12071068474632647662020-08-07T10:12:00.003-04:002020-08-07T10:13:41.061-04:00Facebook, Friendship and the Trials of Seventh Grade<p>Her text came through at a moment that I wasn't ready to read it.</p><p>"You are isolating yourself again," it read. I glanced at it, ignored it, and moved on with my day. It's a pandemic, for goodness' sake. EVERYONE is isolating him or herself. There's no problem here.</p><p>Except, there was. There IS, really.</p><p>About two weeks ago, I decided to get the heck off facebook, for the most part. I found that watching people call each other names, watching bullying, watching the extreme ways in which we are willing to be keyboard warriors that shout and rant from the privacy and seclusion of our homes was taking a huge toll on me. Particularly on top of all the uncertainties with the pandemic. It was affecting the way I parent, how I do my job, which thoughts and voices I let set up shop in my head during the day. It was sucking time from my day and energy from my soul. It was distracting, disheartening and, most of all, paralyzing. </p><p>But why? </p><p>As I have slowly detoxed from that world, God has brought something sharply into focus for me: Seventh grade is still a big part of how I do life.</p><p>Seventh grade was 30 years ago. I really only remember small details of that period in my life. A lot of what I know about it is what my mom has told me. Apparently I cried. A lot. Probably more in that year than I have total in the 30 years since. I dreaded school. I isolated myself because the risk of friendship became too painful. I had very few friends and basically none at school.That was the only year of my life where that was true. I have mostly loved school, craved learning. I was mocked for being smart, left to sit alone at lunchtimes. In recent days, I've started to remember how closely I watched the clock on the wall in the cafeteria, begging for free time to finish. It's made me wonder if my inability to sit peacefully in the now, to practice mindfulness and presence, is rooted in that wish for time to hurry up and finish then. I started my struggle with insomnia, a struggle I deal with to this day. I started running to dissipate the anger and sadness, a practice that has served me well, but has also sometimes taken the place of the hard work of lament and healing. </p><p>Mostly, though, in this past week, it has become clear to me that the way I view female friendships, the way I retreat and isolate and keep to myself, is largely a product of that time. I don't trust women. I don't trust that they aren't gossiping. That they don't have nasty things to say behind my back or, honestly, straight to my face. Have I had some truly amazing friendships with women since 7th grade? Absolutely. However, do I assume those women are rare and unusual? I do. Do I avoid all women's ministry events at church? 100%. </p><p>As I think about how I feel after I spend time scrolling or commenting, I recognize that facebook doesn't bring out the best in me. Nor in many of us, if we are honest. It reinforces my assumptions. It tightens and defines the boxes I have built. It allows me to villify and "other" people and it drives me inward. Bottom line, it usually makes me worship and focus on what I can do or say or believe much more clearly than who God is or what He is doing or saying. </p><p>And that's a dangerous place for me to linger. </p><p>Seventh grade still has power. But I don't want it to. I have never really sat down and hashed it out. I've never truly asked God to heal me of those deep wounds. To show me the ways I have let the pain of that year drive my relationships for 30 years now. So while I am grateful to facebook for unearthing how clearly that period still has power, I also know that it's time for a real and true break so I can lot God do the deep work of healing that He is clearly in the business of doing.</p><p>If you have been a friend I have pushed away, I truly apologize. If you have been a friend I have othered or vilified, may God reveal that to me so I can ask for forgiveness. If you have been a woman who has pursued me and tried to love me and been met with rejection, please know that I am working on this. I truly am. Part of what God has been showing me during this pandemic is who I truly am, in all the areas that are good and beautiful but also all the areas that still need growth. </p><p>In the meantime, I'm going to sit back and breathe. Journal. Paint. Run. Speak with humans face to face. Stay pretty much off of social media. Garden. Try to find my laughter and smile. Love and serve the heck out of humans on my ambulance. Pursue my husband. Use my punching bag. Pull out the guitar. Have amazing conversations about justice and shalom and grace because those things give me life. And just ask God to heal. To reveal. To redeem. And to infuse my soul with hope that this pandemic WILL one day end and that I will come out of it stronger, kinder and a better friend. </p>Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-34633150376915419982020-04-01T15:27:00.005-04:002020-04-01T15:27:50.690-04:00End of an Era<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6MnwNFqy7E73kuM1OMWscKg5B3RxC_Zb961q2MBDs2dpRQFPIOjEdLSSscqsNbyjqU2IdxVkimhBxZAFuoX0qFGFefqCjf7Nl0V0nnmF6K0H1XQTWAbgnF0y2K_S2KRuUaSJm1TLcyns/s1600/IMG_20200310_160418835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6MnwNFqy7E73kuM1OMWscKg5B3RxC_Zb961q2MBDs2dpRQFPIOjEdLSSscqsNbyjqU2IdxVkimhBxZAFuoX0qFGFefqCjf7Nl0V0nnmF6K0H1XQTWAbgnF0y2K_S2KRuUaSJm1TLcyns/s200/IMG_20200310_160418835.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 2020</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Two weeks ago, I had my last conversation with my Granny. She had been talking about having dinners in her memory care facility and talking with the men there. I asked her if she had a boyfriend. She replied "I don't remember...most likely!"<br />
<br />
Sass until the end.<br />
<br />
I didn't know that would be our last conversation. She was doing relatively well at the time. She remembered who I was, but wasn't sure at all who the little four year old with me was.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVMrgYvbmSBVwK4SvWryDbmAutrucKPEHsnih9SkKKUVJq_3b9lrcLHVw1zAoC5D5RLwqNjIo2y7abwyB5Ke6yFEAuq1bm6bjk5qzjBnb6f_lxUpjaiJLFJHzoWvH9LnZDHpHO2jsYHgq/s1600/002.bmp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="872" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsVMrgYvbmSBVwK4SvWryDbmAutrucKPEHsnih9SkKKUVJq_3b9lrcLHVw1zAoC5D5RLwqNjIo2y7abwyB5Ke6yFEAuq1bm6bjk5qzjBnb6f_lxUpjaiJLFJHzoWvH9LnZDHpHO2jsYHgq/s200/002.bmp.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my grandparents, 1979</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Just a few days ago, it became clear that things were coming to a close. And in the midst of all that is going on in the world, we all knew that meant that she would be mostly alone when the time came. My mom, thankfully, lives close by and they lifted the Covid-19 visiting restrictions so she could move in with her for those final days.<br />
<br />
Since there is no real place to be alone right now, I spent an hour in my car yesterday morning. I recorded my granny's favorite hymns (How Great Thou Art and Holy, Holy, Holy) on marco polo and my mom played them for her. What a miracle technology is! My mom is certain she heard me singing. Afterwards, I told her I loved her and that it was ok to say goodbye if she was ready.<br />
<br />
But now.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEE4eJ-h2mHWWKkNcJvQa5tcB-Pd4-a1fKagoLc5tgz9CaEQsMMDiyGdqzxPQiil9WffdTV-7F2-x1EQ8f09vQVOsN5k9g3A_Ud-KK2dWHCNKNP2sPM3PG7xShUO_7khHu-C82wEyjIGx9/s1600/017-Bechtold+Family+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEE4eJ-h2mHWWKkNcJvQa5tcB-Pd4-a1fKagoLc5tgz9CaEQsMMDiyGdqzxPQiil9WffdTV-7F2-x1EQ8f09vQVOsN5k9g3A_Ud-KK2dWHCNKNP2sPM3PG7xShUO_7khHu-C82wEyjIGx9/s200/017-Bechtold+Family+020.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Granny and her whole crew, late 80's</td></tr>
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<br />
She's gone. 41 years of memories of an incredible woman are all that remain for me. Some of those memories are just captured in pictures but many others are clear to me...summers on the Cape with all the cousins and her digging for clams with our heels, the balcony view in her Florida condo. The hilarious interactions between her and her twin sister, Ann. She and my Gramps shouting back and forth when they both became hard of hearing. She was always up for a trip to the beach and she knew EVERYONE in her neighborhood. You could find her in the hot tub talking with anyone and everyone or on the golf course or taking classes just to enrich herself or at mass. Bringing my besties in high school down for spring break and then again my Hoohah friends down four short years late and Granny just fussing over all of us the whole time. My husband and I visited her the week after we got engaged and she insisted on taking us to the "club" for dinner and dancing. I will never forget she and my Gramps dancing to their song (Harbour Lights) and wishing us the best in our own upcoming nuptials.<br />
<br />
She was a one-in-million kind of lady.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Their family: 60's</td></tr>
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</div>
<br />
And now my family wrestles with how to say goodbye when we can't go travel. When there won't be a funeral anytime soon. When we have to grieve alone in our homes while the demands of everyday life continue around us.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure where to go from here. I'm not sure exactly what grief looks like during a time like this.<br />
<br />
I guess, just like real life right now, it's one day at a time.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-R0G0wn8j1FDTXnlVhPUXltsVgZB8ZKskCEXV705CYfN2fXqo8D88CFT3BwjXzfXghypH1AqSDrce8s64z6Jz6jjRfdRTiOaQnCoTXRaBczJV4xGoWsipNU1GVre6AYBfVV2OtnM49SY/s1600/ps_2010_09_21___20_06_06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="1600" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-R0G0wn8j1FDTXnlVhPUXltsVgZB8ZKskCEXV705CYfN2fXqo8D88CFT3BwjXzfXghypH1AqSDrce8s64z6Jz6jjRfdRTiOaQnCoTXRaBczJV4xGoWsipNU1GVre6AYBfVV2OtnM49SY/s200/ps_2010_09_21___20_06_06.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hank and Bea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got the news of her passing just as I was getting my littles down to rest. They didn't really understand why I was crying and why I couldn't really read them books or do all the normal things. After I had them settled, I sat on my bed and looked through pictures and just remembered. Remembered a woman who always made me feel safe and loved. Who always made me laugh and stuffed me to the brim with food. Who insisted I take pre-frozen bottles of water from her freezer to the pool anytime I ever went. Who wasn't afraid to call out bullshit when she saw it but always did it in love. Who loved God and her family fiercely and faithfully.<br />
<br />
Granny, words can't fully express how deeply you were loved and how much you will be missed. I can't wait for the day when all this current craziness passes and our family can give you the celebration you so truly deserve.<br />
<br />
Rest well, good and faithful servant, beloved mother and grandmother. The world is changed forever.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-53740666116896573842020-01-17T18:08:00.004-05:002020-01-17T18:08:51.940-05:00Seeing HimHe walks slowly through the hallway. No one can see his beautiful smile or know the depths of his heart because his eyes are cast down, hoping, praying, that today, they will leave him alone. He just wants to go to school like everyone else. To learn, to make friends, to get through the whole day, ONE DAY, without being pushed or insulted or mocked. Without someone focusing on his differences and using them against him.<br />
<br />
But he doesn't make it. Someone whispers "stupid" in his ear as he passes in the hall. Or "wouldn't it be better if you killed yourself?" They push him in gym class, to the point of injury. They interrupt his learning in class to the point where he has to ask to move chairs. Again. But the teacher warns him that the other side of the class may not actually be greener. Kids are mean. Seventh graders, in particular.<br />
<br />
His mother cries herself to sleep. She has tried everything. Talking to the other parents. Getting the administration's help - but they barely return her calls. Speaking to the teachers about a safety plan. She builds him up as much as she can. He has friends outside of school who love him, who support him.<br />
<br />
But none of this makes a difference. She can't protect him. He isn't like the other kids so they see him as expendable. To be forgotten or tortured or flat out ignored.<br />
<br />
So, every day, he comes home heavy. Exhausted by another day of just trying to keep it together.<br />
<br />
I was this boy. I remember. When you have no friends around you. When the people in your classes can only find terrible things to say. When people don't see you for who you truly are. And make you wish that morning alarm would never go off.<br />
<br />
I was this boy. I have not yet been this mom.<br />
<br />
Are you her? Do you know the terrified, exhausted pain of wondering if you are going to get a call that your child has been hurt by bullies? To take him to the doctor to get a concussion treated? Do you know what it feels like to watch him or her cry? To give up? To start to believe the things people are saying to them?<br />
<br />
You may be neither this boy or his parent.<br />
<br />
But are you human?<br />
<br />
Because this is happening. Every single day. Kids are being cruel and horrible. And while some parents react well and make it clear that there are consequences if their children are the bully, too many either ignorantly believe it couldn't possibly be THEIR child or else they say that kids just need to toughen up and get over it.<br />
<br />
I think we all know that our kids are capable of a lot we wouldn't necessarily be comfortable with. THAT'S why we teach them to be kind. THAT'S why we teach them to be anti-racist. THAT'S why we teach them about disabilities and inclusivity. They aren't going to be magically empathetic and loving. One look at a facebook thread on just about anything these days will show you just how cruel we humans can be.<br />
<br />
So, parents.<br />
<br />
This is happening. It's happening at the school down the street. Kids are killing themselves around the country because of relentless cruelty. We have a president who has normalized bullying and name-calling, so much so that I can't even let my children watch a presidential speech.<br />
<br />
But we shouldn't be ok with it. We cannot tell our kids to just get over it. Can they be brave? Of course. Can they keep waking up and going to school? SURE. But I refuse to believe that this is who we are. Cruel adults telling kids to grow up and handle it on their own have no place in our society.<br />
<br />
Discipline the heck out of your kids who do unkind things. Use those moments to teach them what it means to choose love and to speak up. Show them heroes who have done good, brave, kind things, who have fought for the rights of those who are in the margins. Teach them to see the kid sitting alone. To look around and notice those who are hurting. To sit with them, extend friendship, embrace awkwardness if it's a part of reaching out.<br />
<br />
But whatever you do, do something. Don't wait for it to be your child who comes home in tears. Don't wait until you are the one crying yourself to sleep in helpless, terrified frustration.<br />
<br />
Our kids lives depend on it.<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-48670350738787356392020-01-09T10:58:00.004-05:002020-01-09T10:58:41.979-05:00How You Do ItTime wound down towards the end of my therapy session. I hadn't had to cancel this one for an emergency, which was rare and lovely. As I began to pack up my things, he looked at me, took a deep breath and said "I'm going to refund your money for this session. I just can't charge you for it. I don't know how you do it."<br />
<br />
I don't know how you do it.<br />
<br />
Those seven words.<br />
<br />
How often have I heard them over the years? Daily? Weekly? Hourly? I guess it has depended upon the season, the level of relentless impossible parenting we are experiencing.<br />
<br />
The past two months have been the hourly type of stretch. I have heard those words from doctors, therapists, friends, parents.<br />
<br />
I have said them to myself, then taken a deep breath and kept going. Because here is the honest truth.<br />
<br />
The quick answer is that you don't. You don't really. There's no choice to do it or not. You just wake up and, to be honest and raw, get the shit kicked out of you for about 12 hours straight, try to reset as best as possible in the evening while worrying about all the things you couldn't accomplish that day, sleep too briefly and start over again.<br />
<br />
The only other options are committing a felony or leaving. I'm not exaggerating. That's what it's like.<br />
<br />
Normally, when people say those seven words, I just shrug and say "you would do it if it were your life." Which is the trut- most people would. While there are things we can pick and choose, decisions we can make to steer our life in a certain direction, there is also plenty that is out of our control. Some people want to get married and never do. Some people want a child and can't conceive. Some people envision family life the way it's portrayed in the movies and end up with a chronically ill child. Some people have dreams for a career and life and get stuck in a cycle of poverty because of medical bills or job situations or natural disasters.<br />
<br />
The illusion of our choices being completely our own - well, it's just that. An illusion. Our only real choice in life is how we react to what is happening and what choice we make in the aftermath. That is literally all I have control over. And, sometimes, I don't even have that. Sometimes I am just too tired, too done, too overwhelmed to choose a healthy reaction. We all have those moments.<br />
<br />
I don't write this to ask for sympathy or pity. The thing is that we all have something, at some time or another, that someone else cannot imagine handling. Loss, grief, addiction, illness, divorce...we could all list a time when we knew it was too much for any one person to handle, but in that moment, we did. A friend of mine recently shared the story of the stillbirth of her son and I could not imagine having gone through what she went through and having come through the other side. She did, though. Unscathed? Of course not. But she did it.<br />
<br />
I write this because we all "do it." We look at others and think they have it all and then find out they have "done it." The bible says that in this world we will have trouble but that we should "take heart" because Jesus has overcome the world. At its core foundation, the "doing it" is an act of audacious hope. That life might get better, that we are not alone in the hardest moments. That Jesus knows what it feels like and hasn't left us out to dry or told us we have to dry our tears or suck it up.<br />
<br />
Do I know if anything will change?<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
Do I go to bed dreading the morning a lot of the time? Wishing that I could sleep for 24 hours and see if I might feel better?<br />
<br />
Of course.<br />
<br />
But we wake up. We do it. We work. We play. We remind ourselves of the truth. We love, even in the most unbelievably exhausting circumstances.<br />
<br />
And we choose how to react to it all, when we can. We can choose honesty and rawness and even find gratitude in the days that seem to hold nothing for which to be thankful. And in that choosing, in the doing it, in the perspective, even when we cannot see what's happening, God is at work. Molding our story to encourage someone else. Slowly healing the places in ourselves and our families that we cannot or will not see.<br />
<br />
When I head back to my next therapy session in a week, I'm going to hand him this blog and tell him to keep his money. The refund only made me wonder how I possibly COULD keep doing it. And the reality is that I can't. Not alone, not really. That's why I am in therapy. That's why I have friends and family I ask for help. That's why I wake up in the morning before I have to parent, sip my coffee and find perspective for the day in prayer and writing and scripture and song.<br />
<br />
That's how you do it, friends. One minute, one step, one choice at a time of how to respond to life, even in its most vicious and relentless moments.<br />
<br />
We were never promised ease.<br />
<br />
We were just promised we aren't alone in the doing.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-19565404235997854732019-11-19T15:28:00.002-05:002019-11-19T15:28:18.318-05:00It's My PartyIt was almost a year ago that I found myself in the <a href="http://throughtheardennes.blogspot.com/2018/12/not-another-resolution.html" target="_blank">lowest place</a> I have ever been. Fighting for hope, suffering from PTSD and PMDD. Angry, sad, tired, hopeless...all the time.<br />
<br />
And since almost a year ago was the year I turned 40, I let it that milestone pass me by.<br />
<br />
No big celebrations, no parties...I even told my husband the best gift anyone could give me last year was NOT to pick up the phone and call me because I didn't have the energy to talk to people and pretend I was happy it was my big day.<br />
<br />
It felt pointless.<br />
<br />
And now, with only a few weeks left until I turn 41, I don't look back and regret that decision. I wasn't in a good place to celebrate. It would have felt disingenuous. I didn't know how to celebrate myself because I wasn't sure I liked who I was at that point.<br />
<br />
Since then, life hasn't necessarily gotten any easier. Currently, we are in the midst of a big health crisis with one of my kids that has him out of school and me unable to work much. It's been exhausting and hard and confusing and we still aren't close to answers.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine if this had happened last November.<br />
<br />
BUT, the fact that I have a job, the fact that I can look back on this year and see the huge risk I took in going back to school, in completely changing careers, makes me feel hopeful. And proud. And joyful. The new life I chose this past year is helping me tackle this newest challenge. Not perfectly, of course, but my foundation this year is so much sturdier.<br />
<br />
Dang it, I accomplished something this year, against all odds. When I announced I was going to become an EMT, a number of people in my life were like "But how? When? And...why?"<br />
<br />
They weren't wrong or unsupportive to ask it because they knew the complexities of our daily challenges.<br />
<br />
And the thing is, I didn't know how we would possibly make it happen. What I did know is that it was exactly what I needed to do to choose new life, to boldly declare something would change, that something good and new would happen.<br />
<br />
I had to dare to dream when it felt like there was nothing practical or possible about making the dream happen. Which meant that I had to risk failure. And for me, failure never seems like a reasonable option. In fact, it seems completely out of the question.<br />
<br />
But I had to risk it to be able to get better.<br />
<br />
And here's the thing. I didn't get perfect grades like I did so much in the past. I had to be satisfied with doing "fine". Not amazing, not poor, but fine.<br />
<br />
I passed my class, I passed my registry and I nailed down a job. It wasn't easy, it wasn't quick and it took a tremendous amount of sacrifice by my family.<br />
<br />
But when I am on that truck, I truly feel that I am exactly where I need to be. I feel like there is this moment of clarity...that the injustice and pain of the world that so consumes me enables me to focus in on this one person's crisis and I can be their person, just in that moment. I can offer grace. I can look in their eyes. I can treat them with dignity. I can hope for them when they are hopeless.<br />
<br />
And that has been life-giving in ways I honestly couldn't have imagined a year ago. Helping deliver a baby in the back of an ambulance, standing quietly with someone who has just lost their someone, sweating as you work to think critically and bring someone back from the dead, maneuvering the streets with an emergency strapped down in the back...all these things are chaotic and beautiful and terrifying but they are life.<br />
<br />
So as I stare at 41 coming so soon, I want to celebrate it. Not to replace turning 40. But to declare that turning 40 ended up being a really good thing. That as much as some things have been impossible this year, as much as we are in the thick of a really hard fight right now, God is with me. I have an amazing squad of humans who have cheered me on and made me laugh and loved my kids and brought us meals this last week of crisis. I have a husband who, quite honestly, could have done much better than me but sticks by me. I have an evolving faith that is growing deeper in its understanding of grace and love and sacrifice. I have so much to be grateful for.<br />
<br />
I don't know exactly when or how, but if you are local and you want a chance to laugh and dream and, quite likely, dance, you are invited. To a 41st birthday celebration. No gifts necessary, just your presence, your hope, your humanity in whatever messy form it might be in right now.<br />
<br />
I don't know what it will look like, but I'm confident that Jesus is ready to party with us.<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-3349141437585580052019-10-04T14:44:00.000-04:002019-10-04T14:44:01.866-04:00The TreasuringI have a little less than one year left before my youngest one heads off to kindergarten.<br />
<br />
Which means the number of Friday mornings we have left for just the two of us are numbered.<br />
<br />
I think he knows this, even though four year-olds aren't great at the concept of time. It's clear, though, that he wants to get every possible second of joy out of these mornings together.<br />
<br />
This morning we decided to just lay low with a lazy day. We made smoothies, we played basketball, soccer, football and legos. We snuggled and read books. It didn't hurt that the weather finally decided to act like fall and we could enjoy the outdoors without sweating the whole time.<br />
<br />
I was able to treasure it.<br />
<br />
Which is pretty huge for me.<br />
<br />
As a one on the enneagram, my brain tends to be going a mile a minute. I can simultaneously be writing an email in my head, lamenting the injustice of the world, planning the meals for the next week and reminding myself what I need to do to pack to be ready for my 4 am shift tomorrow and still be playing with my child. But when my mind is racing like that, I'm not fully there. I know that about myself. I have a tendency to feel urgently that I need to be accomplishing something. Checking things off lists. DOING. Making something better.<br />
<br />
So to be able to play with him all morning, to see the huge dimple grin on his face, to laugh alongside him when we both fell down trying to dribble around each other and to do it all without worrying about what I wasn't accomplishing...that is a rare gift.<br />
<br />
Just last week a friend of mine messaged me after a particularly impossible day with her daughter. Apparently it was some kind of national daughters day (and no, I cannot keep up with all the "holidays" these days) and she finished the drama of the day by turning on facebook and seeing post after post of people making loving and generous proclamations over their female offspring. And it was like salt in a wound, because she just couldn't do it right then. We lamented together. This parenting thing is the hardest role we've ever played.<br />
<br />
And just a few days later, when national sons day(really? is this new this year?) came along, I was in the thick of it with parenting a child who was having adverse reactions to a drug, being sent home early from school for behavior issues, another one who ate something requiring a long call with poison control and a number of other significantly challenging issues and well, I was done. There was no treasuring of parenthood. No smiling pictures of us to post. I felt, like my son so eloquently put recently when he couldn't be nice to his brother, that "I only had mean words in my mouth." I knew that to post anything that night would be disingenuous. Not that I don't love my kids. But some days, oh man, some days...this road with SPD, ADHD and ODD is LONG and HARD and TOO MUCH.<br />
<br />
The thing is, the longer and harder and "too much" things feel, the more I disengage. I let my brain race. I just get through the day accomplishing what I can to keep us all churning. The homework, the dinners, the job, the doctors appointments and therapies, the scheduling and sports. But I don't enjoy the parenting. When the hard moments vastly outweigh the good ones, sometimes I am so distracted by the recovering that needs to take place, I miss the actual sweet moments.<br />
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<br />
So, today I am grateful. Things aren't necessarily easy yet. But it was this moment of grace, where I was able to leave my lists to the side and just engage him. He loves quality time, he loves when his mom or dad just stops what we are doing and make him the center of the moment. Those moments are hard to come by when you are the youngest of three.<br />
<br />
So, we played. We played and laughed and chased and tickled and cuddled and read. And as he sleeps upstairs and we wait for his older brothers to come home, I feel thankful for the gift of it. And hopeful that we can have more Fridays where I make the choice to see him and to be the kind of carefree mom he needs me to be sometimes.<br />
<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-68290577879758609172019-09-05T13:33:00.001-04:002019-09-05T13:33:10.648-04:00Pressure<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There's something I need to confess. Two things really.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, this has been weighing heavily on me for awhile but it's time to publicly admit that I bought a running fanny pack and it's everything I thought it could be and more. I can only assume that at some point I will throw full caution to the wind and embrace it for all personal carrying needs. And that my 12 year-old will officially hide when he sees me in public.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Second, this kindergarten thing has got me feeling crazy, but not in the way I think many other mamas are feeling. I don't have any sappy or weepy needs to curl into a ball. I didn't stare out the window all morning or look at baby pictures or stalk the school playground to check in on him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went on a long, exhausting, exhilarating run, the kind of run that clears your head and brings things into perfect clarity. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">About 10 minutes into it, I realized that I have been a perfect mess for the last week and I realized why: these past two years since my son started to have really significant trouble in school, since we had to pull him before he got expelled from preschool, the specialists, the therapists, the prayers, the tears, the rage, all this has led up to the moment of truth. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Can he and will he be able to handle...scratch that, THRIVE, in Kindergarten? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No parent wants his or her child to just get by. To be tolerated and then talked about behind closed doors of teacher meetings. No parent wants that child to be labeled or to have low expectations put on him. I have seen the people who expect the best from him and I have seen those who have diagnosed him on their own (without credentials to do so) and basically made us feel like failures as parents. I've met doctors who believe me and others who question my honesty. Those who want to medicate and those who want to heal- and yes, I've learned there is a HUGE difference. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is only so much that I can control about what happens to him. We had spent weeks leading up to this day: we had prepped him for goodbye, prepped him for getting on the bus, tried to get him to go to an event for rising kindergarteners to practice getting on the bus to no avail and he had finally, excitedly, woke up ready to do it. He was out waiting for it 20 minutes before it should have come wearing his adorable little kindergarten label and a huge smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It never came. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When that bus didn't show up and my happy, excited, passionate child started to let disappointment and nerves creep in, I got angry. We had to change course. After ALL the prep and conversations, the bus wouldn't be taking him in after all. And for kids like my son, that one thing can literally be THE thing that undoes the day. That tanks the mood. That starts the tears or anxiety or defiance. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My husband explained the change in situation to my sad boy and he willingly, miraculously got in the car. I watched them drive off to school with my heart in my throat. Not because "my little boy was heading off to kindergarten and wasn't he just a baby yesterday" but because of all the what-ifs. All the ways I still don't know if he is ready, if his teacher will be able to handle his challenges and get the best out of him. If he will rise to it the way I know he can. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I watched the phone, waiting for it to ring. I paced. I snacked. I ran until I couldn't breathe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In truth, I put a ton of pressure on myself for his success today. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have I done everything I know to do? I think so. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Is it probably everything that can be done? Nope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have I failed him along the way? Absolutely. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have I likely been unwittingly rude or snappy with a medical professional? You bet your patootie. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Has the system been frustrating to navigate? Of course it has.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do I have any control over how this day goes? Not at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And there's the rub. I have done my part. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He made it to day one. We all did, with scars to show. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And right now, as I know he is heading into his last hour and a half at school, I can't help but wonder how long this feeling will last. When will I be able to breathe? To rejoice in having at least made it to day one? Will there be a moment the scars start to fade a little? Or will there be a fresh battle to fight yet again? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can't answer these questions and I also can't spend all day asking them. Putting that much pressure on oneself is utterly exhausting, but I often don't know how to do life any differently. I really am trying, despite what it looks like. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am hoping he will walk off that bus this afternoon with his gorgeous grin and chatter away about all the good that happened today. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I'm hoping by the time he does, I'm ready to greet him with a smile of joy and hope and help him get ready for day two. </span></div>
Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-35444283000364460872019-06-13T15:15:00.002-04:002019-06-13T15:15:07.635-04:00Why not?I've honestly never given anything less thought.<br />
<br />
One minute, I was dropping my youngest off to play with his grandparents, the next moment I was sipping coffee and knowing that something absolutely had to change.<br />
<br />
In December, I wrote about being at the <a href="http://throughtheardennes.blogspot.com/2018/12/not-another-resolution.html" target="_blank">edge of myself</a>. That years of extremely challenging parenting paired with a diagnosis of PMDD had left me a shell of myself. Sad. Exhausted. Purposeless. Isolated.<br />
<br />
This morning was during that period of feeling lost. And as I sipped my coffee, I stared at a wall. I didn't read, I didn't pray or write. I didn't scroll mindlessly on social media pretending it fulfills a deep ache. I just stared...and then asked God "what next?"<br />
<br />
I wish I could put the next few minutes into words...but I don't really know what happened. One minute I was on the verge of tears, of giving up and the next minute, I had pressed "submit" on an application to a college course to become an EMT.<br />
<br />
Before I had really thought about it. Before I had called my husband. Before I had looked carefully at our life to see if it was possible.<br />
<br />
I pressed submit.<br />
<br />
Because, friends, it was SO clear that I needed to press submit.<br />
<br />
A lot of people have asked me what led to me becoming an EMT at the age of 40.<br />
<br />
And to be honest? I don't really know.<br />
<br />
Something made me search EMT programs in that moment after I asked God that question. Something made me keep reading.<br />
Something sparked a deep interest, the tiniest flicker of a brand new dream.<br />
<br />
I knew literally nothing about emergency medicine.<br />
<br />
But, I pressed submit.<br />
<br />
I didn't call anyone, ask if I should go for it.<br />
<br />
I pressed submit.<br />
<br />
I am not generally rash or impulsive.<br />
<br />
I pressed submit.<br />
<br />
And when I did, something lifted. Some horrible, heavy weight of sadness shifted just the slightest bit.<br />
<br />
And because I have arguably the most genuine and generous husband on the earth, he greeted my impulsive decision with nothing less than clear delight and determined support. We would make it work no matter what.<br />
<br />
Seriously, he is the best one out there. No contest.<br />
<br />
Within a day, I had been accepted to the college. Within another few days, I had been accepted to the actual program. I was transferring transcripts and signing up for a medical physical and scouring amazon for textbook deals and ordering a stethoscope and cargo pants. (Which I have to admit, I truly love and wish were still fashionable like they were when I was in high school.)<br />
<br />
I was diving into hope.<br />
<br />
Friends, that was just six months ago. Six months that ended up being filled with hard work and new friendships and a new, budding dream of loving people well on what could be the scariest day of their lives.<br />
<br />
I truly loved it. Loved using my brain again. Loved learning something totally new and different. Loved it. Something I literally didn't think through for more than a few minutes.<br />
<br />
So here I am, certified in-state and nationally, a smile on my face, with two interviews lined up next week for local ambulance corps.<br />
<br />
Why did I become an EMT?<br />
<br />
Well, all I can honestly say is "why not?"Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-7568654525261032902019-05-11T20:30:00.000-04:002019-05-11T20:30:59.380-04:00'Twas the Night Before Mother's DayFour years ago I woke up to an email from the mother of two of my sons.<br />
<br />
I don't honestly know how she wrote it. I don't honestly know how she got out of bed that day.<br />
<br />
Less than 24 hours later she delivered her son. My youngest son.<br />
<br />
And as I read that email, the tears dripped down my face.<br />
<br />
I don't think it's possible for us adoptive parents to fully put into words the complicated emotions we deal with. The deep gratitude. The awe. The sadness over loss. The awareness of the fact that we actually can't possibly know what their first moms are feeling. Going through. Thinking on a day like Mother's Day.<br />
<br />
But that day, she wrote to me a message of gratitude. She thanked me for always sending her updates about her son. For using the name she gave him. For the decision to welcome his brother into our family, as well. For sending her pictures and gifts. For always, always assuring her that we talk about her every day. That her pictures are on our walls. That she is, and forever will be, family.<br />
<br />
But to be honest?<br />
<br />
I could barely read it. To think of the challenges she was going through to have to make the kind of choices she did. To even attempt to imagine the loss she feels every day. To admire her courage but know she will never see it that way.<br />
<br />
Well, Mother's Day has never quite been the same.<br />
<br />
It's bittersweet.<br />
<br />
Yes, my nuggets like to celebrate me. They make me sweet pictures at school with their handprints. They plant little flowers. They hug me and call me mama and let me smooch their sweet faces.<br />
<br />
And far away, another woman misses them. She doesn't get the kisses or the gifts tomorrow. And as my boys celebrate me, she is the one on my mind. Her pain. Her loss. Her sacrifice.<br />
<br />
As they grow older, they have more questions. More things I need to tell them that I can't quite put into words. Ways in which I will never be quite enough. (I am ok with that, by the way. I signed on for it. I know they will always be missing a piece of who they are. Adoption, at it's very foundation, starts with loss and trauma.)<br />
<br />
So, on Mother's Day, I tread lightly. I thank my boys for loving me. For letting me be their mama. But I get a little quieter. A little more introspective. We don't go in for large celebrations. For their sakes, we celebrate, but if it were up to me, I think I would let the complicated day pass by without much fanfare.<br />
<br />
Holding joy and despair tenderly, gratefully, tearfully together is no easy dance and us adoptive parents do it all year long.<br />
<br />
Mother's Day, for me, at least, just brings that dance into painful focus.<br />
<br />
To the woman who deserves more celebration than me but who will likely let the day pass her by as well, I love you. And I promise, although I do fail mightily, I am doing my very best to love these precious children we share.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-78884364435738136632019-05-08T13:58:00.001-04:002019-05-08T13:58:07.331-04:00Moment of GraceI was about twenty feet behind them, a string of boys on their bikes, following each other down the trail, my husband in the lead as I brought up the rear running as fast as my body would allow. Twelve, five and three...peddling away, smiles on their faces. No more training wheels. Moving faster than I could possibly keep up. <br />
<br />
The sun was dappling through the trees in that peaceful way it does in the hours before sunset. Irises in bloom, summer perennials peeking up, starting to bud, knockout roses dazzling in deep pink.<br />
<br />
Over it all, a light breeze, a calm.<br />
<br />
Something I could feel that went deeper than just the gorgeous weather and the moment in which no one in my house was arguing or struggling or crying or needing.<br />
<br />
A moment of grace.<br />
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<br />
It's that feeling when the world comes deeply, but peacefully and hopefully and joyfully, into focus.<br />
<br />
It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes my breath away. It's as if God is shouting "wait, listen, look, remember this moment."<br />
<br />
Remember it, because not all moments can be like this. Remember it, because so many moments are simply the ordinary. The mundane. Not necessarily ugly or lacking in beauty, but they pass us by because of that very ordinariness. They just ARE. Cooking dinner, watching that soccer game, dropping another kid at school, waving to the neighbors, mowing the lawn, riding our bikes together.<br />
<br />
We just go through most of our days and it's fine.<br />
<br />
But every once in awhile, we get that gift. That special warmth in a moment, that strange but clear urging to stop and drink in what's around us and be grateful. Those moments don't always come when something is going well and they don't necessarily stay away when things are challenging.<br />
<br />
But, oh how I love them.<br />
<br />
I am a doer. Not someone who easily stops and ponders. Not someone who spends hours gazing or dreaming. I appreciate people who do that well. But I am not one of them. Even when I try to sit in my backyard and admire the garden, I inevitably stand up and start weeding, because, well, it needs to be done. And the doing is part of the joy for me.<br />
<br />
But I feel like for those of us like me, we need these moments to stop us dead in our tracks. To remind us that there can be purpose to slowing down. Reason in stopping. Joy in simply being.<br />
<br />
And in that moment, even though I was sprinting and breathing hard and looking at the back end of my string of boys who were hurtling with full abandon down a bike trail, I felt like I was still. <br />
<br />
My soul stopped it's churning, for about 20 seconds.<br />
<br />
And I just drank in the deep beauty and privilege of a healthy family and a beautiful neighborhood and a generous husband and a glorious spring and a blooming garden and meals on the table and a newly accomplished goal.<br />
<br />
And oh, friends, I am so grateful. I never expect those moments and they come so infrequently.<br />
<br />
I am amazed at their staying power, at the ability God has to use them to shore up and encourage and remind us of the possibilities and joys we can wake up to every single day, no matter what challenges lie ahead.<br />
<br />
God, in all his grace and wisdom, knew I needed that. And I am so glad He did.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-54987406030598755102019-02-15T15:11:00.002-05:002019-02-15T15:11:11.626-05:00The Truth About MiraclesThere is a certain absence these days.<br />
<br />
It's one of those things that you don't notice at first.<br />
<br />
It's something that was so very present for so very long, that you can't actually imagine it not being a part of who you are.<br />
<br />
It's this feeling...the feeling that used to take over my body as I was driving to preschool pickup. It was a cross between dread and hopefulness and stress and utter exhaustion.<br />
<br />
If we had even made it all the way to pickup, I knew it couldn't have been a truly awful day, because those were the days I got a phone call. A request for early pickup. A warning.<br />
<br />
But it could still have been a day that required a report.<br />
<br />
With my first son, I didn't really know there was such a thing as a bad report from school. I think there was one time ever in his whole preschool experience where his teacher mentioned he might have done something that wasn't in perfect keeping with the rules.<br />
<br />
But he is a firstborn, perfectionistic, rule-follower who has always been harder on himself than we could ever be. We had no idea how rare that is.<br />
<br />
But those who get the daily reports know - they can have an affect on everything.<br />
<br />
And when we hit February last year and hit a new low of having to make the decision to pull one of our sons from school to try to avoid an expulsion and to try to get him functionally back on track, it was at the end of months of tough reports. And phone calls. And early pickups. Of tightening chests and dread and holding my breath when I would walk in and try to glance unconcernedly at the teacher's face to try to ascertain what she was about to tell me so I could brace myself and keep the tears from falling.<br />
<br />
BUT.<br />
<br />
After four months home, after behavioral therapy and OT and a therapist who helped him acclimate to a camp by showing up every morning for his toughest time of day, we started to see change.<br />
<br />
And then came a successful swim season. Full of smiles and races and newly earned independence and pride. Of ribbons on his wall and following around teenage heroes. Of joy.<br />
<br />
But that was the summer. Anyone can have a good summer.<br />
<br />
The school year started and I held my breath.<br />
<br />
I didn't even know I was doing it.<br />
<br />
Each day I would drive to pick him up. And my heart would start to pound. My stomach would clench.<br />
<br />
What kind of day did he have? Was school going to continue to be an option? Would we be home, again, doing hours of therapy a week and panicking about what options might be open to him for kindergarten?<br />
<br />
I think I've mentioned before the constant ticker tape that happens in the head of someone parenting a child with special challenges: Have I done enough? Is this the best med? Do we need a new kind of therapy? Is this teacher going to "get" him and stand by him? What about OT? Or CBT? Or ABA? Or diet changes? The list goes on. It's always there, scrolling through in a way that has never been true for my thoughts towards my other two kids.<br />
<br />
And it's utterly exhausting.<br />
<br />
But today.<br />
<br />
Today I was driving to pick him up. I had just finished a test for my class and NAILED IT and I was feeling good. And as I approached the school, it hit me. My body felt calm. Normal. Like I was just another mom heading to pick up a fully functioning child. I didn't assume the day had been hard. I didn't wonder all morning if the phone was going to ring. I took my test, threw in a load of laundry, packed up his lunch and hopped in the car.<br />
<br />
And when I walked in, he looked up and smiled and ran and gave me a hug. And his teacher, a substitute he hadn't planned on, came over and told me he had had a wonderful day.<br />
<br />
Guys.<br />
<br />
That was his fifth good report this week.<br />
<br />
Five out of five.<br />
<br />
To some people, that's normal life.<br />
<br />
To us, to him, that's a miracle. And it's a miracle that we have worked hard for.<br />
<br />
You see, that's the truth about miracles. They take time and investment. They take hope and joy and failure. They take giving up and trying again. They take prayers and tears and hours upon hours of research and risk-taking. They take more than just a mom or a dad caring, they take friends and neighbors and church and teachers and swim coaches and family.<br />
<br />
They take believing that someone has been made to be in the image of God and claiming it to be truth against all odds, against all evidence, against all experience and then gut-wrenchingly loving that truth into being.<br />
<br />
And you know what the coolest thing is about this?<br />
<br />
It's not just that I can be a full time student. It's not just that our house is a little calmer (and let's be honest, it's never going to be CALM, and that's ok). It's not just that my mental health is improving or that his brothers are seeing good in him or that we are all smiling more.<br />
<br />
It's that he is proud of himself. He is happy. He is making choices that show us we can trust him and he LOVES that feeling. He is writing his name and making people drawings and notes. He is apologizing for tough days and asking God to help him grow.<br />
<br />
Have we arrived at some perfect place that will always be good? Doubtful. Kids change. People change. There will be new challenges. He starts kindergarten this fall - the chances of that being a perfectly smooth transition are slim. But the fact that he<i> can</i> start kindergarten is huge. And don't even get me started on what I KNOW will be true when puberty hits for him.<br />
<br />
But, friends, today I rejoice. I am ever so grateful for all who have come beside us as we have charted such unknown and challenging waters.<br />
<br />
And I know some of you reading this are deep in the hard days. The days we had last winter and spring. Of hours of meltdowns and tantrums or unknowns with medical issues. Of despair and exhaustion and hopelessness.<br />
<br />
I DO know what that feels like. Please reach out. Even to vent. Truly. I can't solve it. But I can walk it beside you.<br />
<br />
I know our life won't stay this way forever...but I also know it feels good to be grateful and hopeful TODAY.<br />
<br />
To rejoice in the sweet miracles we are seeing right now. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-46331591965192907192019-02-11T14:21:00.002-05:002019-02-11T14:21:21.593-05:00Top 10 Signs You Might Be At a Preschool Sporting EventAny human who has ever sat through, watched, coached or even glanced at children aged five and under attempting the mechanics and self-control of organized sports knows one fundamental truth:<br />
<br />
It sure as heck ain't real sports, but it sure as heck is entertaining.<br />
<br />
As I covertly giggled my way through my son's gymnastics class this past weekend, it occurred to me that, aside from that core truth, there are several things that are almost always happening when you get tiny humans together and force them to work collaboratively and reasonably.<br />
<br />
This is, primarily, because tiny humans have no discernible reason and lack the ability to collaborate.<br />
<br />
So, without further ado, here are the top ten signs you might be at a preschool sporting event:<br />
<br />
10. Someone is in his mother's lap, sobbing as though he has actually had an appendage amputated. (The true grievance is likely snack related or because aforementioned child has been asked to do something. Anything, really. Breathe. Not hit someone. Actually participate. Parents can be very unreasonable at these events, you know.)<br />
<br />
9. If there are any live animals within sight, there are a minimum of two children who have (a) noticed this fact, (b) diverted their attention and body away from the pursuit of sport and towards said animals and (c) may or may not actually now be in the process of being chased by an angry goose.<br />
<br />
8. There is one kid who talks the entire time. Most of what he or she shares is completely irrelevant to soccer, basketball or gymastics, but instead is a steady stream of non-sequitors, anatomical or physiological inquiries, "did you know" questions or urgent interruptions that are, again, irrelevent but said with such earnestness that the coach can't help but answer.<br />
<br />
7. A parent who is red-faced. Facial flushing caused by one of the following phenomena: anger at child who has attacked other child, anger at child who will not participate but who begged to come, anger at ancillary child on the sideline who won't sit still for older sibling "sport" participation and has sat on neighboring friend's child and/or deep, deep embarrassment due to all of the aforementioned situations happening simultaneously.<br />
<br />
6. A parent on the sideline is unashamedly and loudly bribing his or her child to do something, anything, to show he or she gives a rip out on the field. One might hear "I'll give you a pony if you just KICK the ball" or "you're up to $1, keep running!" Judgment of said parent may or may not be happening by other sideline parents.<br />
<br />
5. There are one or two coaches involved in what is going on. At any given moment, they have a look that suggests they thought signing up for coaching youth sports would be full of adorable moments during which their kids would overcome deep and profound struggles and they would receive hugs and accolades for their patient and courageous coaching of the tiny angels but in reality they have been kicked in the shins at least three times, that one kid won't stop talking, those other two kids are chasing geese again and little Susie just wants to carry her purple purse around and flinches anytime someone attempts to kick the ball in her direction.<br />
<br />
4. Snack is provided at the end. We know this because most of the children ask on their way into the gym, several times while the sport is being played and immediately afterwards. There is always at least one kid who can't have the snack due to allergies so the parent who brought the snack apologizes but is secretly irritated that food allergies exist and the parent whose child has the allergy already anticipated the drama and brought a special celebratory snack for the excluded child.<br />
<br />
3. There is at least one parent taking the whole thing way too seriously. Calm down, Derek. He's three. He doesn't need to learn to slide tackle yet.<br />
<br />
2. One kid on the field has literally no idea what she is doing, but she will happily run back and forth with a big smile on her face, occasionally stopping to pick a dandelion, which she will excitedly give to the coach or her mother, upon which the coach or mother has to act delighted that she has been given a flower but is secretly wondering why the child thinks it is appropriate to pick flowers in the middle of rugby.<br />
<br />
And the top sign you might be at a preschool sporting event is:<br />
<br />
1. You are the coach. You don't know how you became the coach. You hadn't actually even heard of this sport until your spouse signed your child up. But here you are. In charge of 12-17 hyper-energetic tiny humans who now want to know how to play pickleball and whether or not pickles will be the actual snack at the end of pickleball. You consistently have to ask other parents what the rules are, you have no prior cat herding abilities, you kind of want to quit halfway through each practice but, at the end of the day, you stick with it because you like your kid enough that you don't want him telling his therapist some day that his mom stopped coaching him and he could never play pickleball again because of the emotional trauma of her sports abandonment when he was 4.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-58729330074575999702018-12-31T15:33:00.002-05:002018-12-31T15:33:26.398-05:00Not Another ResolutionI haven't really been one for New Year's Resolutions in awhile. Possibly, that's because I tend to be a doer- so setting up a list of things to do doesn't actually seem that daunting. Or perhaps it's because I have learned that when you have young children, it's really best to just take things one day at a time. And because I am that aforementioned doer, I set myself up for disappointment if I set some big goals or changes that I can't meet because of, well, how life might unexpectedly shake out with those tiny humans.<br />
<br />
But some time during the last five years, the five years, incidentally, that I have stayed home with my kids, I have morphed into a doer without purpose. It's one thing to make a list, check it, complete it and wake up the next day to do it again. It's fine, it keeps things moving, helps a family function. But it's quite another to wake up on purpose- to look forward to what the day brings, for one's first thought to go deeper than looking forward to when she can next lay back down.<br />
<br />
Friends, that's pretty much where I am, here at the end of 2018.<br />
<br />
Exhausted. When my alarm goes off in the morning, my first thought is not what is coming that day, it's almost always of how soon I can get back in my bed.<br />
<br />
One step, the next step...and all day long just dreaming of the moment I can lay down again. Be alone. Make the worry go away, stop being anxious and wondering what I've missed in my quest to help my son, to pray that maybe this will be the night after which I wake up rested and hopeful and ready. For something. Anything.<br />
<br />
This is about to get raw. But it needs to be said.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIle3McOaZgrr2cww7hXvV2zr5uoP_oYyhuOFW6hjk9IPICeRSLwcBN7Ka_S9aHzZNfALrcIK6q54XJK826hyphenhyphenxRQYRreo50_206QqmUthxRR8hK3EaJ8_1t0V6Nc3cmYx-RNMl0q_y8MZG/s1600/pmddribbon_240_x_400_pmddawareness.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="998" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIle3McOaZgrr2cww7hXvV2zr5uoP_oYyhuOFW6hjk9IPICeRSLwcBN7Ka_S9aHzZNfALrcIK6q54XJK826hyphenhyphenxRQYRreo50_206QqmUthxRR8hK3EaJ8_1t0V6Nc3cmYx-RNMl0q_y8MZG/s200/pmddribbon_240_x_400_pmddawareness.png" width="123" /></a>Staying home with my children for the past five years has been the absolute hardest thing I have ever done. It has brought me to the very edge of myself. I have developed PTSD from parenting a special needs child (gasp) but you CANNOT say that out loud in polite company. And on top of my PMDD, my friends, that pretty much means I am always one step away from falling apart.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, it caught up with me. I woke up one day and I thought, "I can't do this. I don't know who I have become. What has happened to me?"<br />
<br />
To be honest, it was probably the scariest moment of my life.<br />
<br />
But because I have an awesome husband and some amazing friends who stepped in when I couldn't stop crying, I managed to get to the doctor for a checkup. That day. And to the counselor for a session. That day. And came home with a new "routine" and some medicine for my PMDD and the teensiest bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change with some really hard work and the ability to ask for help.<br />
<br />
For two weeks now, we have tried our best to stick to my prescription. I was told to get a two hour break from parenting every single day. To get at least 30 minutes of exercise every day. To practice mindfulness and prayer when I start to panic. To breathe deeply multiple times a day. Never to skip my medicine.<br />
<br />
I might have scoffed at this a month ago. Thought it wasn't possible with our chaotic life and our "divide and conquer" style parenting.<br />
<br />
But when you are as low as you ever remember getting, even lower than the miscarriage and the ensuing years of infertility and the adoptions that fell through, you are willing to do whatever someone tells you to do. Or at least, I am. That rule-following thing. It was honestly nice to be looked straight in the eye and told in no uncertain terms that something had to change and that it was OK that I needed it to change. That there is no actual way to carry the burden of this parenting challenge alone day after day. And that it was acceptable that being a stay at home parent just wasn't really enough right now.<br />
<br />
There. I said it out loud.<br />
<br />
Being a stay at home parent isn't enough for me.<br />
<br />
I need more. And I've always known I needed more. When I chose to stay home five years ago, I imagined it to be temporary. But no one plans on a kid with special needs. No one plans on pulling him from school or spending hours of your life researching treatments and options and fighting with insurance companies. You just do it.<br />
<br />
But somewhere along the way, I lost my purpose. My joy. My hope.<br />
<br />
And friends, I really miss those things.<br />
<br />
So, as 2019 approaches, I am not filling it up with resolutions. I am not making a huge to-do list.<br />
<br />
I am focusing on one phrase: "new life."<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNRAQZm52YGMQd-8GpdxGER6qJxksyw3ZaFw53u-KBPs2BeLdjXKux-XgKCkQO3mfekbSv29omqBY6VZqm8Vq7N1DevOLYENY8T0Kt4O-MBzpbGslDkl_KTCBPZjQSSEwZt8ZZpXiiqVm/s1600/37623950_10156515301283890_1305600350664785920_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNRAQZm52YGMQd-8GpdxGER6qJxksyw3ZaFw53u-KBPs2BeLdjXKux-XgKCkQO3mfekbSv29omqBY6VZqm8Vq7N1DevOLYENY8T0Kt4O-MBzpbGslDkl_KTCBPZjQSSEwZt8ZZpXiiqVm/s200/37623950_10156515301283890_1305600350664785920_o.jpg" width="96" /></a></div>
A sweet friend of mine gave me a bracelet this summer after her trip to Hawaii. It's gorgeous. And the symbol on it means "new life." When she gave it to me, I knew it meant something, but I wasn't there yet. I couldn't see through the bog yet.<br />
<br />
But as I have slowly emerged over the past two weeks that have been full of exercise, parenting breaks, enjoying my new calming corner, lots of deep breaths and long runs and an unexpectedly joyful Christmas, I feel like it's time.<br />
<br />
With my new classes starting in less than two weeks, with some new boundaries in place, I am going to focus in on that.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcUmqV8qk7Rh5_bzlBkMsEjjILXUnn7OJn-4t5ZIfpwijst5uVOGGQ3tqBQdoLK4CEZewWJQfVqeH3cxOH1X8WSJcQf9AMyzyXHZ0Qp0Bk4bV-Dh4CclcKL3CTe5Z_v6zrFWXR7nqz3Wp/s1600/2_cor5.17_esv_border_wallpaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1280" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcUmqV8qk7Rh5_bzlBkMsEjjILXUnn7OJn-4t5ZIfpwijst5uVOGGQ3tqBQdoLK4CEZewWJQfVqeH3cxOH1X8WSJcQf9AMyzyXHZ0Qp0Bk4bV-Dh4CclcKL3CTe5Z_v6zrFWXR7nqz3Wp/s320/2_cor5.17_esv_border_wallpaper.jpg" width="320" /></a>New life.<br />
<br />
It's something promised to us by God. It's something offered, no questions asked. Second chances. New beginnings. No matter how low we have sunk, how far we have strayed, how much we have despaired. We can always claim this hope.<br />
<br />
Anyone else with me?<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-82093186644873082442018-10-17T11:12:00.000-04:002018-10-17T11:12:11.927-04:00On Infertility and the ChurchJust last year a friend asked me if it was alright for her to talk about her pregnancy. My youngest was about a year and a half at the time. Presumably the pain of infertility is enough in the past that I should be able to have these conversations without holding myself back.<br />
<br />
I appreciated the question.<br />
<br />
Was it time? Could I do it?<br />
<br />
Or would it, like so many conversations that happened during our years of infertility, throw me into emotional chaos?<br />
<br />
It only took a few seconds for me to take stock and realize I was ready. This was a friend who had prayed for me, cared for me, loved me, who was now on her third pregnancy and hadn't really felt free to talk about the first two with me because we were still waiting and hoping and experiencing the pain of loss over and over and over again. And she knew it was too much.<br />
<br />
It's funny, you know. Looking back on the years of that struggle, there are a few very stark memories that define it for me.<br />
<br />
Sitting in a pew at church while pregnant woman after pregnant woman walked by, bellies right at my eye level, and fighting ever so hard to be happy for them, to pray for their unborn children and, honestly, fighting hard not to flee down the aisle and sob in the car.<br />
<br />
I didn't always win that fight.<br />
<br />
Listening to sermon after sermon wherein the person shared a similar struggle and how God eventually "blessed" him or her with that long-awaited biological child. Because (a) they finally stopped asking or (b) they let God teach them something they were stubbornly unwilling to learn and so God answered them or (c) they prayed without doubt or (d) they prayed in tongues or (e) they chose holiness in their life and so God rewarded them. It really goes on and on. And not one time did I hear a sermon in which God didn't answer that prayer in exactly the way the person wanted. And yet I know couple after couple for whom a biological child was not "the answer."<br />
<br />
Being told that to "be fruitful and multiply" was still God's mandate for how I should family plan. Just trust him, if children are indeed a blessing, then you will have more.<br />
<br />
There was no language for what we were going through. There were only stories of victory. Hang in there, I know someone who waited 10 years! Oh, well, you are going to adopt? You know the second you do, you'll get pregnant. That's how God works. Stop asking. Once you don't want it, he'll give it to you.<br />
<br />
Friends, come on.<br />
<br />
Really?<br />
<br />
Can we not do better for one another, here? Can we stop misrepresenting God as a capricious, malicious being who only gives kids to those who pray the right way? Are we really going to tell people there is a way to earn kids? What is that?<br />
<br />
I realize that there is no comfortable way for us to talk about infertility. It DOESN'T make sense. In our case, the medical community called it "unexplained." There was no biological reason for it. There was nothing we could "fix." Maybe that's why all the spiritual fixes felt even more unhelpful. Even though we knew we disagreed with the theology of so many of them, we would latch onto the hope they offered. Ok, maybe I am NOT praying hard enough. OK, maybe I AM really being disobedient in some way. What can I change? What can I do so God will stop punishing me?<br />
<br />
Maybe it's my fault. I caused it, I perpetuate it, I am guilty, somehow.<br />
<br />
Rather than sitting with each other, lamenting the losses, the miscarriages, the unwanted periods...we struggle to find an explanation. And inadvertently heap guilt on one another when we do.<br />
<br />
Look, I don't have any answers here. I don't know why it happens. I don't know exactly what God is up to in anyone's journey of infertility. I know the literature says that it can be as emotionally painful as a cancer diagnosis and I know that felt true. It was literally debilitating at times. And it sure as heck was isolating.<br />
<br />
And I know the church, where babies are celebrated, longed for, baptized, dedicated and cherished can be the hardest place in the world for an infertile woman to thrive. Sometimes the way motherhood is communicated, the way pregnancy is communicated, can even threaten the very woman-ness of someone going through this. She feels less than. Like who she was created to be cannot fully be.<br />
<br />
Can I be honest?<br />
<br />
This is nonsense. Utter, damaging nonsense.<br />
<br />
I was created to be a daughter of a loving God. That's it. Whether I can produce a baby or not doesn't change who I am or my status before God. Let's cut this out now. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbYKjpO842ZJOilDMXmXtlYxrKl_xNtSewVj6PjU92fnNRv3bS6b6rurJy4czYyTtpCiHNNYvpQ9Ae9R2a5soAf1g3ovYWlHLWffKgEVZYP_wOe0c4S27KZizT5hYsuVcF3PdzTYZWemV/s1600/3-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="828" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbYKjpO842ZJOilDMXmXtlYxrKl_xNtSewVj6PjU92fnNRv3bS6b6rurJy4czYyTtpCiHNNYvpQ9Ae9R2a5soAf1g3ovYWlHLWffKgEVZYP_wOe0c4S27KZizT5hYsuVcF3PdzTYZWemV/s320/3-1.png" width="320" /></a>It's Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.<br />
<br />
What if we talked about that IN THE CHURCH?<br />
<br />
What if we started to have a language for women to understand that it isn't about their spiritual effort?<br />
<br />
What if we mourned with those who mourn in this particular area?<br />
<br />
What if we shared stories from the pulpit that DIDN'T result in a biological child?<br />
<br />
What if we talked about adoption not just as the "solution to abortion" in our churches but as a complex and traumatic choice and not the simplistic, unicorns and rainbows, way that we currently do?<br />
<br />
What if we didn't talk about adoption as the "backup" plan?<br />
<br />
What if we could truly be the church and embrace those couples who feel alienated from a culture that equates blessing with family size?<br />
<br />
What if, like Jesus did, we could just sit with a woman in pain and offer her love?<br />
<br />
Man, that would be a beautiful thing.<br />
<br />
Friend, if you are going through this silent pain, please know that I'm safe. I would be happy to listen, to cry, to lament, to yell.<br />
<br />
And I promise not to offer you any solutions. Just love.<br />
<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-75777724086697479592018-08-31T20:21:00.002-04:002018-08-31T20:21:55.966-04:00Cue the BalloonsI don't know if it's one person's job or whether it's some kind of magical, automated thing, but you know that moment after a huge victory? When people are cheering and balloons drop from the sky as if from heaven and everyone is smiling and laughing and existing in a sea of delighted chaos?<br />
<br />
How fun would it be to be the person who makes that happen?<br />
<br />
Who waits for the cue and releases celebration into the world.<br />
<br />
Today was my middle son's last day of camp. It started 3 days into summer and ended 3 days before the new school year.<br />
<br />
Camp, my friends, was a risk. Last year came with a lot of curveballs. A lot of failures. New diagnoses. New therapists. New medicines and supplements. LOTS of new grey hairs. And heading into the summer, my son hadn't had a lot of successes to tuck into his belt. It had been a very hard spring.<br />
<br />
His therapist, however, had insisted he was ready for camp. That he could DO this. And not just do or survive it, but love it.<br />
<br />
And friends?<br />
<br />
Today, I am seizing that job that sounds oh-so-fun and releasing a storm of metaphorical balloons into our lives.<br />
<br />
Today, he celebrated the last day of camp with a party. He brought in his own safe cake and special chips and lime juice so he could partake of the kona ice truck fun. He smiled. He laughed. He said goodbye at the door to his dad without screaming or panicking.<br />
<br />
And when I picked him up three hours later, he ran into my arms and told me all about the party. He hugged his teacher goodbye and thanked her. And she told me he had been a delight. A DELIGHT. In fact, we had not one phone call home the whole summer. Not only did he survive, he thrived.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmAV64zTAs3vPFRi3l2ci_W634WpAYJOTT43I-Bzl67IKUGBPTpANWTCjBqLhK0nRdldVWgXWdCl45TgBZUgXJV3fsc6GaetXQ4EdAVq9_hyphenhyphen5XQEhVxjPXgUU-l5vWLBW7p0M4wvI5zuW/s1600/IMG_20180831_155817725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmAV64zTAs3vPFRi3l2ci_W634WpAYJOTT43I-Bzl67IKUGBPTpANWTCjBqLhK0nRdldVWgXWdCl45TgBZUgXJV3fsc6GaetXQ4EdAVq9_hyphenhyphen5XQEhVxjPXgUU-l5vWLBW7p0M4wvI5zuW/s200/IMG_20180831_155817725.jpg" width="150" /></a>I handed him a little gift to celebrate - a pack of water balloons - and we talked the whole way home about how much fun he had had. About the friends he had made. And the beautiful women who had taught him and laughed with him and sang and danced with him. Who had helped him have success after success.<br />
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And later on, he filled every one of those balloons and had his own little party.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Wr-OnTRgdCWlsx2d2LiYqnf0TjL8LyjY2ZnR2LHm46K8ZHCzdQ616Xit3QPMT5a_iALa43RFRhrP996wPhiqkbzY4rxOZOAYTIlPTOCo3veOXuk6xfujJvW0YneceyUOQ5qSjkVIumVz/s1600/IMG_20180831_160008240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Wr-OnTRgdCWlsx2d2LiYqnf0TjL8LyjY2ZnR2LHm46K8ZHCzdQ616Xit3QPMT5a_iALa43RFRhrP996wPhiqkbzY4rxOZOAYTIlPTOCo3veOXuk6xfujJvW0YneceyUOQ5qSjkVIumVz/s200/IMG_20180831_160008240.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCLb1f5p2_uHyYp_IJWbgBvdcnpbD_mDaQBlGF18q8kbApbnkcI3epC-mOlJV0tmDzexXX-Pig0MKXYSJe0sDWBSyrIS74uRdV4OjhOdhV6D5FBfA-twoEJkDb6W6gY9ExCLuoOKcwbYG2/s1600/IMG_20180831_131559139_BURST000_COVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCLb1f5p2_uHyYp_IJWbgBvdcnpbD_mDaQBlGF18q8kbApbnkcI3epC-mOlJV0tmDzexXX-Pig0MKXYSJe0sDWBSyrIS74uRdV4OjhOdhV6D5FBfA-twoEJkDb6W6gY9ExCLuoOKcwbYG2/s200/IMG_20180831_131559139_BURST000_COVER.jpg" width="200" /></a>And it wasn't just camp. As a sweet little four year old, he joined the swim team again this season and worked up to racing. He earned ribbons. His amazing coaches pushed him and loved on him. He had the large majority of the team and not a few parents waiting at the end of the lane in his very first 25 meter freestyle race cheering their heads off to make sure he made it. He felt like he was a part of something bigger and it made him so very happy. We even made him a swim team corkboard just like his big brother and he is so very proud of it and can't wait to fill it with more next season. He loves for me to read him his little awards that his coaches wrote for him and we laugh together about how true they are.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6SBTky8yrloRC574mnvCXpLUqx5yCXrlTykhnZHmCZ5ROPoFa1tAELAXy6hBZpnkH9nQ8LyCfzJsN7HLZ0d2-8HQm84eJwvhlRxsyTJLVq_nIZUq-IqfR_ZGJxTtR2-aSFWuckQ8s3kCw/s1600/IMG_20180831_131617162_LL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6SBTky8yrloRC574mnvCXpLUqx5yCXrlTykhnZHmCZ5ROPoFa1tAELAXy6hBZpnkH9nQ8LyCfzJsN7HLZ0d2-8HQm84eJwvhlRxsyTJLVq_nIZUq-IqfR_ZGJxTtR2-aSFWuckQ8s3kCw/s200/IMG_20180831_131617162_LL.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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Cue the balloons.<br />
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We fight hard for victories around here. They don't always come often and they don't ever come easy. But my beautiful boy who had one of the hardest years of his life had his best summer yet.<br />
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I am so stinking proud of him.<br />
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He has worked his little patootie off with his therapists. And he is ready and excited for school next week. Turns out his amazing teacher this summer will be his teacher this fall so his transition (and MAN are transitions rough for him) is almost nonexistent this Tuesday. Look at God, friends.<br />
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We don't know how this fall will go. We have a lot of hope that his successes will continue. We know there will be good days and really hard ones.<br />
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But today, as his mama, I get to be the one who releases the celebration. And what a joy it is!Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-90723827650434018212018-07-06T10:21:00.003-04:002018-07-06T10:21:46.216-04:00Sanity Savers #2: The Routine Checklists<div>
About a month ago, I wrote a very well-intentioned post about my intentions to write a series on some Sanity Savers around here. </div>
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Then, you know, life. End of school. More appointments. Etc. </div>
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I did manage to get that first one written about <a href="http://throughtheardennes.blogspot.com/2018/05/sanity-savers-1-visual-timer.html" target="_blank">the visual timer</a> but my hope is that now we are setting into a (so far) successful summer rhythm, I can finish the job I started.</div>
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In that spirit, here is entry two: the Routine Checklists.</div>
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When you have a bunch of kids and one of them has a LOT to keep track of, you need a way to make sure you don't forget any part of the routine. I am sure there are amazing apps or programs that can do it- but I am a visual person and I love paper and am addicted to my laminater- so I make lists. And display them prominently. </div>
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It seems so silly and simple. But it honestly works for us.</div>
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I write a checklist with boxes to check, print it, laminate it and display it on the side of our refrigerator because the kitchen is most definitely the hub of our family activity.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XtUWqlev4He183W7uyo-Hr869qdOPI6H9ULyfwOJIXa1oqJRb_3UaC1iU5-k5BKOq5osqaQ0zWfbH-fDxW5wxt9oj48OhOv9Ai_NwDaqdUsfATpJH2SV5wA7xa_xm3zygOhX5a2zxLLp/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XtUWqlev4He183W7uyo-Hr869qdOPI6H9ULyfwOJIXa1oqJRb_3UaC1iU5-k5BKOq5osqaQ0zWfbH-fDxW5wxt9oj48OhOv9Ai_NwDaqdUsfATpJH2SV5wA7xa_xm3zygOhX5a2zxLLp/s320/DSC_0036.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Refrigerator </td></tr>
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My oldest son is 11 and has increasing levels of responsibility around here. We believe strongly in kids having a sense of ownership in their home and family - a deep sense that they are supposed to joyfully contribute to the functionality of the household. He will be ready for college when the time comes, we hope, because he has learned he has a role in keeping not just himself functioning, but his family, too. (And yes, he wants to go to college and he's working towards that. That is not just his crazy mom assuming that future for him.) </div>
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This is his morning list (and he has a separate evening list) and he can handle it:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbZYne-uRc0YJM7QLFc_WAvPGaIw6IZqezLNFuzfJsYHYT_GE1RuvIhyphenhyphenQC8guOsxOfUBAF4g37L9vkNbfiDchDJczSPJT2GwsBdRtpKGnmYbHLve_he_aC6ipWxvDx1vpYRxAvmYOwwSh/s1600/DSC_0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbZYne-uRc0YJM7QLFc_WAvPGaIw6IZqezLNFuzfJsYHYT_GE1RuvIhyphenhyphenQC8guOsxOfUBAF4g37L9vkNbfiDchDJczSPJT2GwsBdRtpKGnmYbHLve_he_aC6ipWxvDx1vpYRxAvmYOwwSh/s320/DSC_0041.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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My middle son needs a number of things to happen in the first hour of his awake time in the day to give him the best shot at a successful morning. And yes, his list includes chores, too. Giving kids responsibility is a positive thing and for my incredibly independent four year-old, it is a way for us to give him trust, independence and a positive sense of accomplishment. </div>
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Here's his list:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOAAFmDJLHTclSrAafjkBVyJ5-WtDFRby2sj0V7uUNjCp5r8JartsAUeQGsrIAt7YZYcx15Nd7oMzZoaiWUQeAe6dMzHHo9UjJlyo0477OVUBtD_KvRC_VvReKFLdZCaRFbrGrGgTkpJE/s1600/DSC_0936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOAAFmDJLHTclSrAafjkBVyJ5-WtDFRby2sj0V7uUNjCp5r8JartsAUeQGsrIAt7YZYcx15Nd7oMzZoaiWUQeAe6dMzHHo9UjJlyo0477OVUBtD_KvRC_VvReKFLdZCaRFbrGrGgTkpJE/s320/DSC_0936.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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I also just enjoy having a to-do list that I can erase and start over each day. Saves paper and again, I know I could do this on a phone, but I LOVE using markers to make those satisfying check marks. Call me a nerd. I embrace it. </div>
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Looks like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCfD3eLv1_Z7K0e3DJ3RMbX9QcpdW4jgUFewopCRT9DzYC5O7wr7I5764enu6ocjGw8_R1qtYe3wdKBNsSrlTrjPDyTP21D680GbKfHzyloliYvupvAZgvWBWn2a2boPsJofDjqcBeecs/s1600/DSC_0042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCfD3eLv1_Z7K0e3DJ3RMbX9QcpdW4jgUFewopCRT9DzYC5O7wr7I5764enu6ocjGw8_R1qtYe3wdKBNsSrlTrjPDyTP21D680GbKfHzyloliYvupvAZgvWBWn2a2boPsJofDjqcBeecs/s320/DSC_0042.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Does this save my sanity? Yep. Saves the time of wondering if I have done everything I needed to do for my boys in the morning. Gives them a clear expectation of what needs to happen before they leave the house for school or camp. Do we tweak the lists in different seasons? Of course! Does the laminater get used all the time? Happily! </div>
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It's a simple system but it works for us. </div>
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What kind of system could help YOU stay on top of that morning routine?</div>
Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-8094339801966679392018-06-08T15:25:00.001-04:002018-06-08T15:26:20.451-04:00The Full Time Job At some point this spring, I remember a moment when my husband looked me dead in the eye and told me "you have a full time job right now, you know that?"<br />
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He wasn't referring to motherhood.<br />
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He was referring to advocacy.<br />
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To the hours upon hours of research and phone calls and office visits and emails and texts and thoughts and strategies and desperate prayers that go into trying to find answers for a special needs child.<br />
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And as my son sleeps upstairs right now, I have spent the entirety of his naptime, yet again, on the phone fighting with doctors. Cursing insurance companies and how little they give a rip about kids like mine. Trying not to lose hope that someone, anyone might be able to actually help us.<br />
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I am just trying to get him from one day to the next knowing that there is no hotline to call when your child is destroying his room. When he's been screaming for five hours straight. Again. When your husband can't even go to work because you have more than one child and your other kids need to be parented while the other child needs one-on-one parenting every waking hour. And the other kids need not just to be supervised but reassured of your love, that this will get better somehow. To be given quiet and peace and fun opportunities that the other child simple cannot handle.<br />
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Friends, the life of a special needs parent is completely exhausting. We can't just "call a babysitter" and take a break. Self care? Really? The next person who tells me to take care of myself needs to offer to figure out a way to watch my son so I can actually do it. So my husband can actually do it. Right now the only way we can is after he's in bed at night. And by 8 pm, WE HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO CARE FOR. Really, it's just bedtime. But oh wait...there is the house to clean and the laundry to do and the bills to pay because nothing else can get done during the day.<br />
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Friends, I don't write this to ask for sympathy or advice or answers. I am literally turning over every stone I can imagine to get answers and help and I have fellow warrior mamas cheering me on. Our mental health system is deeply broken. Our insurance system is deeply broken. I honestly don't know if we'll ever find the right answers but I also can't stop fighting.<br />
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I <i>am</i> writing this because there is probably a parent in your life who is drowning. Who spends all day, every day searching, praying, pleading for answers and help and ending the day exhausted and alone again. And, most likely, consumed by guilt for what they can't give their other children.<br />
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Can you help? Can you drop off a meal for them? Can you take the other kids somewhere fun? Or figure out a way to watch their struggling child, even if it means it might be incredibly unpleasant and risky for you?<br />
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I had literally no idea how hard parenting could be until I had a child who didn't fit the "norms." I had no idea how all-consuming it could be, the strain it could put on a marriage, the ways it could reduce you to hopeless despair. I wish I had done more for my friends who were IN IT before I was but I just didn't know what or how to do it and I didn't fully understand how exhausted they were.<br />
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Friends, will you take a risk this week and ask a mom who is crying in her car what you can do to help? Or just surprise that dad who is totally overwhelmed with his favorite treat to eat once those kids are finally in bed? <br />
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This is a deeply lonely struggle, and every little reminder that someone sees, cares and isn't judging us is an extra heartbeat for our day.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-5703408347657520242018-05-07T19:21:00.002-04:002018-05-07T19:22:00.381-04:00Sanity Savers #1: The Visual TimerTwo days ago I <a href="http://throughtheardennes.blogspot.com/2018/05/routine-for-life-intro-to-sanity-savers.html" target="_blank">posted</a> about why we stick to routine around here and that we have several sanity savers that help us stick to that routine.<br />
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Today: The Visual Timer<br />
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Transitions can make it look like my child is about to singlehandedly bring on the apocalypse. We learned this at a very young age - we learned it trying to leave public places, trying to come inside, and finishing, well, anything really. We also learned that developmentally, kids can't really understand the passage of time. When he was just two years old a therapist put us onto this visual timer. It's old school, you just wind it up to the amount of time you want to pass and kids can watch the red area shrink in size until it's gone and the clock beeps. It's AMAZING for helping him wait for something, for letting him know when we are going to change activities or move upstairs for bedtime. It also helps us be consistent as parents in following through. Rather than saying "five more minutes" roughly 20 times and escalating into a frustrated rage over why our kids don't understand us, we set it and stick to it.<br />
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Which is good for everyone, really.<br />
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Recently, bedtimes have gotten really hard again. We started using this timer to prevent the endless stalling and "one mores" that can leave a parent completely frazzled at a time of day when we often don't have much physical or emotional energy left. We set the timer and do all the things we love - read books, pray, sing, snuggle...but when that timer goes off, that's it. Bedtime is done. Kiss, hug and out the door. It hasn't solved everything, but it helps him know there is a limit and an end to that time together. (He is a MASTER staller. I promise we aren't cruel. But bedtime HAS to have an end or it gets ugly.)<br />
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Incidentally, if you need a laugh about putting little kids to bed, here's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwwbtSZl_jI" target="_blank">Jim Gaffigan</a>. You're welcome.<br />
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The timer here is the one we have. It's lasted 3 years in a house where we play rough. It's called the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Time-Timer-Original-Optional-Management/dp/B002GTZZ6M/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1525735168&sr=8-3&keywords=time+timer&dpID=51qY8cgABjL&preST=_SY300_QL70_&dpSrc=srch" target="_blank">Time Timer</a> and I can't recommend it highly enough.<br />
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Stay tuned over the next week for more Sanity Savers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWQQ3OroPh2j1Ir2Ytjp3PcQo4nrOoKa2A0oZ0iszZk5EBqqMUwxEz9C92w-2m6RyC1dSBzyoUSnfntI-VJqZXH2ogNYmLUTKQWA5VEZM7ZhQh2v1kbj1ZaFK7lw1vGU1eEJ-ksBunGJX/s1600/81zHmyFz2FL._SX522_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="522" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWQQ3OroPh2j1Ir2Ytjp3PcQo4nrOoKa2A0oZ0iszZk5EBqqMUwxEz9C92w-2m6RyC1dSBzyoUSnfntI-VJqZXH2ogNYmLUTKQWA5VEZM7ZhQh2v1kbj1ZaFK7lw1vGU1eEJ-ksBunGJX/s320/81zHmyFz2FL._SX522_.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Time Timer </td></tr>
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<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-4516135560741681972018-05-05T15:29:00.003-04:002018-05-07T19:21:33.556-04:00Routine for Life: Intro to Sanity SaversI know there are people in my life who find me too rigid, too controlled in how we do things around here. The never-mess-with-the-schedule, the strict bedtimes, the timers, the visual calendars, the social stories, the rigid diets.<br />
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And sometimes I believe them. That I'm too serious about all this or maybe if I just went with the flow, things would be fine.<br />
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They wouldn't, though. I know that.<br />
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And true confession right now: I love all the lists. The schedules. The clarity and boundaries in our day. I have always loved routine and order. Laminators and bins. Spreadsheets. Yes, I get tired sometimes and wish we <i>COULD</i> just stay in our jammies all day on a Saturday and just lay around and see what happens. But I know what would happen. We'd all pay for it dearly with a dysregulated, unhappy child.<br />
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It's just not worth it.<br />
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As we delve deeper into the diagnoses and the plans for how to best help our middle child thrive in a world that will soon see him as a threat, I am beginning to see that the significant quirks in my own crazy personality - the determination and stubbornness, the organization, the driving forces of passion and energy- are uniquely suited to what we are faced with. And while I continue to be my own worst critic, I have been working hard to see the good in myself. The ways that God has created me to be this mom to this child in this place and time.<br />
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This is pretty big for me, friends. I almost always only see the things I am doing wrong.<br />
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Right now, friends, our routine is life. And I am REALLY good at routine. At self-control. At doing what I'll say I do and following through with what my kids need.<br />
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And I know that I am not alone out there in fighting hard for my boy. In staying up late reading articles. In devouring books and talking to therapists and browsing the fun and function <a href="https://funandfunction.com/" target="_blank">website</a> and coming up with ALL THE PLANS.<br />
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Sometimes it's nice to come across a place where someone has already made some discoveries that might work for us, too, rather than starting from scratch.<br />
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So, while I'm no expert, we've been working hard for three years and if you have a child who might need a little extra help in life, I know sometimes you don't know about something until someone mentions it. And I firmly believe that the things we learn in life - the practical, the spiritual, the emotional, the physical - well, we're meant not to keep it to ourselves.<br />
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In that spirit, over the coming week, I thought I'd share our most favorite of sensory and routine supports in the hope that someone out there might need to know about it to support his or her little one in even the teensiest improved way.<br />
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Each day, I'll share one thing we do that I consider a Sanity Saver. And I will give credit where credit is do in how we found it.<br />
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And if it helps even one family, I'll consider it a win. Hope you enjoy!<br />
<br />Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1860773089513884481.post-71355216031440689272018-04-29T14:39:00.004-04:002018-04-29T14:39:47.738-04:00In the Immortal Words of ChumbawumbaThere are a lot of songs that instantly remind me of late high school and early college. They come on the radio and I find myself with an instant urge to put on hiking boots, loose jeans, a plaid shirt and a tight belt. (Oh wait, I actually still dress like that 20+ years later.)<br />
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Anyway.<br />
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The words to one of those songs came into my head yesterday as I was pondering this beautiful moment of which I had been a part. Every six months my son is involved in a drum recital. And every six months he dreads said drum recital. He is not a big fan, to say the least, of being the center of attention or of performing in front of people. (Something already tells me this will be a non-issue with my middle child but I digress...)<br />
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Yesterday, we roll up to the recital, my son pale and quiet. I have done the mom thing. Given the pep talks. Prayed for him. Reminded him that messing up in a recital is OK. That recitals at this age aren't about perfection. Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, mom, I know, mom.<br />
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"But what if I FAIL? I can't fail!"<br />
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And my own inner voice was coming out of my 11 year-old. Because that is the constant, marauding question that underlies everything I do. What if I fail? What if this isn't perfect? What if it's not good enough? What if I cannot literally solve every single problem that comes my way with deep finesse and joy and wisdom and all the things I cannot possibly have at once? WHAT IF? You can see that my mind goes down a pretty chaotic rabbit trail, there. It's not pretty friends.<br />
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And I know my boy. I know his inner voice says a lot of the same junk to him. About perfection and grace and failure.<br />
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And so every time I have to say the words "it's ok if you fail" I feel like a big, fat, hypocritical failure for telling my son something I cannot myself believe. You can see how much progress I am making here.<br />
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So, here we are, two people who are emotionally confused by the thought of failing even the teensiest bit, attempting to enjoy the hour and a half that will go by while we watch other children perform. Because, of course, he was slated to go last. 13 other kids would be performing first. Anticipation is good, right?<br />
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So, he took his place with his fellow drummers and I took my place with my fellow nervous parents and waited.<br />
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And the second boy, a boy whose family we happen to know, got up to perform for his very first time.<br />
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He looked terrified.<br />
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And sick to his stomach.<br />
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And he got about halfway through his song and froze. And then panicked. And then left the stage in tears.<br />
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And there were three things that could have happened right then.<br />
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(1) The room could have remained totally silent and awkward and moved with unspoken agreement on to the next drummer.<br />
(2) We all could have stared at his parents and judged them for their son's failure. (Maybe we would not have done it verbally since, let's be honest, we're in the south, kingdom of passive aggressive confrontation, but we would have thought it.)<br />
(3) Someone could have addressed it and risked saying the wrong thing (or the right thing) in a tough moment.<br />
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And friends, what happened next is stuck in my head.<br />
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As that boy was walking out with his head sunk in shame and embarrassment, one woman called out his name in encouragement and we all started clapping and cheering. That drum teacher got up onstage and reminded every single one of us that failure happens. That this boy had got up and he had tried. And that it's not easy after only a few months of lessons to get up in front of a bunch of people you don't know on a set with which you are unfamiliar and just play a song to perfection. The teacher chose option three and, I believe, changed the trajectory of the conversation.<br />
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We nodded, we agreed. The next two kids got up and did their thing. And if anyone is like me, we were wondering if that sweet boy was ok. If he would recover. Most importantly, how would this moment sit in his head and heart for the rest of his life?<br />
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He walked back in his with dad after a little bit and sat back down to watch the other kids.<br />
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After a few more performances their teacher got back up, looked him in the eye and said "Do you want a second chance?"<br />
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And friends, oh my word.<br />
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That courageous boy didn't even hesitate. He said yes, stood up and walked right back up on that stage. In front of people who had seen him fail. Who had seen him cry. Who had watched him leave in embarrassment.<br />
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Then, there was this moment of utter silence as we waited and the music started. And this kid, he just drummed his heart out. He played that thing into the ground.<br />
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The place erupted in cheers.<br />
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And, I'm gonna get southern here for a moment because I know no other way to put it, but I like to cried my eyes out, friends.<br />
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His teacher made him stand up and looked every kid in that place in the eye. And drove home a lesson I won't soon forget.<br />
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He said to them:<br />
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(1) We are all going to fail but we have to get back up again. (Enter Tubthumping by Chumbawumba into loop in my brain because of this wording. Thank you, 90's.)<br />
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(2) We can't let that failure keep us so low that we can't try again.<br />
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Guys, I don't know if I would have gotten back on that stage. Just after it was done and I had congratulated him and hugged my own kid and took all the required pictures, I asked my son about it. And he said the same thing. "Mom, I don't know if I could have tried again like he did." I asked him if watching the courage this boy had had and the way their teacher had responded had helped him to play his piece with less fear.<br />
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And it had, of course it had. He had seen in that moment that failure wasn't the end of his friend's story. That that kid had been embarrassed and ashamed. But those paralyzing emotions hadn't dictated his next moves. I don't know what he and his dad talked about out in the hall. I don't know if they prayed or cried or if he gave him a pep talk or just hugged him. You better believe I'm going to ask the next chance I have. But they walked back in together when it would have been easier to disappear. And that drum teacher in his wisdom offered him what we most often do actually get - a second chance. He took it, unwaveringly. Maybe because he knew it didn't matter since he'd already messed up or maybe he just zoned in to what he was doing or maybe he screwed up the most courage he ever has had to have in his life and just held his breath, but he made a room full of grown people cry because he played his heart out.<br />
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And THAT is the story he's going to remember some day. The whole thing. The failing and what it felt like. The conquering and what it felt like. Friends, the conquering didn't negate or erase the failure. That's still a part of the story.<br />
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But the failure gave that victory a much deeper hold.<br />
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The beautiful thing is that it won't just be his story. His whole family was there. I was there, my son was there. 13 other kids were able to see what it looks like to do something that looks unrecoverable and then to take the biggest risk of your life and do it again. They got to see a teacher choose deep encouragement and truth over disappointment and shame. They got to see adults cheer for a kid and weep over his victory.<br />
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That is a lesson, I hope, that will hold.<br />
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The next time that pesky inner voice starts screaming at me or my son, we're going to remember this boy. We're going to remember that failure isn't the end of the story. That it can, in fact, be a beautiful piece of the story. And we're going to sing a few words of Chumbawumba because they sang the dang truth: "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down." Seriously, it's on repeat in my head in only a semi-helpful way at this point. <br />
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So to our friend and his family, let me just say this final thing: We love you guys. What you did yesterday was nothing short of miraculous. We are grateful for a lesson that might stick better than so many that have come before. And we are grateful for the beautiful courage of a boy who got back up and tried again.Carolynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04208733393383959278noreply@blogger.com1