TC Larson

Stories and Mischief

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Road Construction, Dread and Oshkosh

30
Jul

There’s road construction by our house. This shouldn’t be a big surprise. The saying in Minnesota is that there are two seasons here: winter and road construction. They’re making a new two-lane road, finishing a bridge, adding a roundabout (a word which is best pronounced using an exaggerated Scottish brogue: “Rooond-abooot!”) and fixing another on-ramp/exit situation. There’s a lot of activity over there, many different machines and vehicles, numerous projects going on simultaneously. Engines running, materials being delivered, dump trucks dropping loads of rocks, metal rattling against metal — a near-constant whir of noise.  Most of the time I don’t hear it, or don’t notice that I hear it.

But it’s always there.

http://mrg.bz/wE2mlC

http://mrg.bz/wE2mlC

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Every summer, my dad made a pilgrimage. Even though he was a pastor, this pilgrimage wasn’t to a denominational meeting or a special cathedral, although he did his fair share of those kinds of things as well.

This pilgrimage was to the Oshkosh Airshow in Wisconsin.

…I know.

It’s like a whole different subculture kind of thing. It’s like an ex-military, amateur aeronautic scientist hotspot, complete with billowing flags and Americana.

He loved it, and he and my mom made yearly arrangements to stay at a place within driving distance, but on the few occasions that didn’t work out, my dad loved it enough to tent out in a field for a few days. That’s dedication if you ask me.

In the weeks before he died, Dad talked about hoping to go to Oshkosh. He hoped some of our family would join him out there. He tried to keep it open and flexible, but I think he was also trying to set himself a goal to aim for, an event to look forward to in order to keep himself going. Maybe it was an illusion he was weaving for those around him. He loved going and the idea of having some of us share that experience with him was a pleasant daydream, for all of us.

The arrangements had all been made many months in advance, but now they will not include the one who wanted to be there the most.

The place we’ll stay has plenty of space. It has a pool and mini-golf. The only thing that remains is to drive out there.

The problem is that road construction thing.

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The dull rumble of loss goes on behind everything I do. Every conversation is tempered by it, every interaction is laced with it. Almost every minute, it is there.

There are times when it’s more noticeable, times when it is so loud I can hardly hear over it, and then there are lulls when the racket quiets down and it becomes possible to pay a little more attention to other things going on around me.

I’m afraid of how loud it’s going to be if we go to Wisconsin. Even though I want to go, I also dread it. I’m scared of how empty it will feel, how much his presence will be missed, how his absence will permeate every activity we choose to do. It’s one thing to make it through Wisconsin, it’s another to attend the airshow. There are exhibits he loved, certain planes he was drawn to, and by the end of the day he seemed like a kid who’d been taken to the county fair by his favorite uncle. It was enjoyable to just watch him take so much pleasure from being there.

http://mrg.bz/lK9tof

http://mrg.bz/lK9tof

I’m worried the memories will be overwhelming as we walk the grounds. Will it feel like a wallowing in grief and mourning, an allowing of it to soak into every pore? That seems like a twisted form of self-indulgence, one that doesn’t seem to have any useful outcome or point to it. If the memories and sorrow are overwhelming, how can you do that in a public space without becoming a spectacle? How do you possibly wring yourself out afterwards?

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe next year will be better. Maybe it’s for someone else to do, not me.

I don’t know how healthy it is to frame each decision related to Dad in the context of what he would have wanted, but in this instance I know it brought him joy to share this with the ones he loved. My husband and I took our boys out one year (my husband went out a few different years with just my dad) and it was a great time of building memories. I think Dad would be bummed out — but gracious about it — if none of us wanted to keep making the pilgrimage to Oshkosh.  Maybe it won’t be my thing, but it might be for someone else in the family. And that will be okay.

The noise of my sadness, my distant road construction, with its changes in pitch and volume, continues in the background, but I have a feeling it will get pretty loud in Wisconsin and no protective ear-wear will be able to keep me from hearing it.

How do you approach situations that are thick with memories that still cause you sadness? Is it better, in your opinion, to face into it  as soon as possible or does it help to allow some time to pass?  

Discussion: Comments {5} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Family, Uncategorized

A More Complete Expanded Obituary

9
Jul

Beg pardon, but does anyone know who mans the obituary desk at the newspaper? Is it generally known as an entry level job for new graduates or people in a journalism program nearby? I ask because as grouchy as it may seem, and while I ought to feel appreciative of the Minneapolis newspaper’s choice to run an expanded article on my dad in the obituary section, I take issue with the quality of the article.

You should go see the article for yourself, formulate your own opinions and only then, come back here to have your viewpoint tainted by my observations. Here’s the link: Click to see the published expanded obituary article

http://mrg.bz/IZWTUj

http://mrg.bz/IZWTUj

There are probably certain things the writers are required to include, and probably a framework for every article they print. This ain’t the front page or even the main section, so creativity or hard-hitting think-pieces are probably discouraged. Trying to take that into consideration, here are some of my problems with the article:

1. My dad was 67 years old, not 65. In my opinion, getting that fact wrong does not start things off with a good impression.

2. Unless you are very familiar with Christian lingo, when you use the term “breaking down the Bible to the community” it implies that he spent decades disproving the Bible and trying to show others how it was somehow misleading or unreliable.

The journalist may have interviewed someone who used that term, but it’s unclear here and definitely the antithesis of what Dad did for decades in the pulpit, not to mention in para-church organizations. He knew the Bible inside and out, read Greek and Hebrew, had a mind-boggling memory for details. He was excellent at making difficult Biblical concepts accessible to people who hadn’t studied them in depth as he had and helping them see how those concepts applied to their own lives — that was the intended meaning of “breaking down the Bible” but that meaning was not conveyed.

3. While I understand that column space is often limited, in the hard-copy, printed version there was at least 1 1/2 inches of empty space. Empty space!  They didn’t have enough material to fill the allotted print space? The article goes from his time spent in Young Life and jumps straight into church ministry. It doesn’t even mention important years spent at Youth Leadership or as an adjust professor at Bethel, teaching and discipling people to come alongside high school and college students? Or what about mentioning his dedication to Israel, leading multiple group pilgrimages there? Maybe mention the time he spent as World Servants’ Director of US Operations, commuting to Florida half time because he believed in their commitment to come into an underserved community as servant leaders, rather than the great white hope. Come on! There’s a treasure trove of inspirational gleanings from even a couple years of this man’s life, and instead there is white space. What a wasted opportunity to dig deeper.

And finally, number 4. There is a very unfortunate sentence that may have been a quote (it’s presented as such) but definitely does NOT convey the meaning behind the statement. The quote says something about him being a very bright man, but “he never acted like a very bright man.”

Oh. My. Word.

This sounds like he came across as a dingbat.

Or maybe he made foolish  decisions.

It implies that by his behavior, language or demeanor, he portrayed himself as an unintelligent person.

This really ruffles my feathers because a). my dad was not foolish in any way and b). I know the intended message of this quote.

My dad never talked down to people. He never acted superior. He didn’t put on displays of intellectual acrobatics to show off his academic prowess. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone and rarely put on display the full breadth of his knowledge, which was wide and varied. He was a life-long learner and enjoyed analysis and learning new concepts. Biblical exegesis came easily to him. but he didn’t use these skills to elevate himself or diminish others. He had the ability to make people feel heard, make them feel seen and valued. That was his focus. His schooling and intellect gave him tools to approach the world of study, speaking and navigating the intricacies of business; Jesus gave him his purpose.

The writer got one thing right: Dad’s life mission was to be a friend maker for God. He wanted to help others discover how they could be made friends with God, be adopted into God’s family and discover the freedom that is living fully in Christ. This mission to be a friend maker was woven into the fabric of Dad’s life, and if they’d missed that, they’d really have gotten it wrong.

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Ultimately, the expanded obituary article doesn’t matter. I know that. It doesn’t matter how many people read it or if they now have different information about my dad. The people who actually knew him know so much more than any newspaper article could ever communicate.

Is it possible to capture with ink the joyfulness of a person’s spirit?

You can’t convey the full range of exuberance or positivity that comes across from a person’s smile.

There’s no way to offer more than a glimpse of him being fully engaged in a conversation or how he listened with his whole body.

A “hopeless romantic”, he and my mom whimsically named the various places they called home — how would an unconnected newspaper writer be expected to ask the questions that would draw out this information?

That writer can’t be expected to know the specific questions to ask.

But we know, don’t we? We know the things that made him special, the things that made him stand out in a crowd of people.

And what a privilege it is to be on the inside of that large cloud of people who knew him and were impacted by him. We all have our stories, and in our minds, we can fill in the blanks of a flat obituary article with the true prism of colors that represent my dad’s life and his heart.

http://mrg.bz/u2mvnx

http://mrg.bz/u2mvnx

P.S. If you are interested in contributing monetarily, you can click here for more info.

Discussion: Comments {2} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Family, Uncategorized

A New, Rotten Normal

2
Jul

He’s not on vacation. He’s not at a meeting. He’s not going to arrive late and we won’t see him next time we’re together.

There’s no getting around this. He’s gone. We have to go through this. We have no other option, even though our spirits screams within, revolting against reality.

There was a man in a parking lot who looked like him from afar and my whole body tensed up as I prepared to call out to him. Then I remembered. There’s no calling out to him anymore. There’s no giant arm held high above everyone else in a greeting from across the way. There’s no corny tag-lines left on answering machines and no requests to address a quick item of business in the middle of a conversation.

He’s gone and he’s not coming back.

This thought crushes me.

This truth sits on my chest pressing the air out of me until I can hardly breathe.

How did the sun come up this morning? How can bills need to be paid, errands be run, appointments kept when everyone and everything ought to be taking a year of mourning (at least) to absorb the loss of him. To carry on as if nothing has changed is asking too much.

But even in that, even if people ask about him or share their condolences, it’s too little. It’s not their fault that it’s too little; it’s that there can never be enough. They already know this. Societal conventions do help guide us through these interaction. Flowers, cards, phone calls, meals — these things are beautiful expressions of support and demonstrations of love. The point isn’t to equal who he was, or somehow replace him with a generous check that won’t bounce. The point is to acknowledge that he played a significant role in your life, OR a person from his family played a significant role in your life and you are also impacted by his death either directly or by association. I’ve been on the other side, wanting to offer support or help and feeling my attempts are flimsy, tinny notes that squeak from my horn into the dark, yawning chasm of the person’s grief. It’s a terrible feeling of powerlessness and inadequacy.

Then there are the people you don’t know but with whom you must interact. For example, how do you tell the library that your 75 books are two weeks overdue because you were too busy attending to the unraveling of your family’s life? Even if they would make allowances for you, how could you get through the conversation without crying and putting everyone, your children, the librarian, the library staff and any patrons within earshot, in an awkward spot? Is that even possible to expect from yourself? I’m a bad liar, and I’ve learned that the expression I thought was my poker face actually comes across as being more like indigestion or intense irritation, so that’s not very effective. I don’t know yet how to not spill all the details of what’s been happening.

Part of this is the process of getting comfortable with a new vocabulary. New phrases must become shorthand for what happened, a few simple words loaded thick with the final months of his story.

“My dad passed away” is used to sum up his dignity in the midst of suffering, his undiminished positivity and bright eyes that were attentive to the small miracles that unfolded for him each day.

“He had cancer” is supposed to cover the enormity of cellular betrayal from a strong, healthy body to one riddled with internal tumors. It’s supposed to imply the weakness, fatigue, weight loss and brain fog he experienced. People can’t know these details unless they’ve lived through this, but the broad spectrum of cancer can also include a small mole on an earlobe, easily removed by a dermatologist.  Obviously his was a more aggressive type of cancer, but how much detail do people really need to know?

“Thank you” is somehow enough to convey gratitude for people remembering, for people appreciating the significance of this loss, for their words of comfort or sharing their stories of life moments with him. It’s intended to convey gratitude for the care shown in choosing a greeting card that encapsulates the person’s sentiments. It’s only two words but they’re charged with communicating gratitude for so many small details right now.

Even here, I’ve kept it pretty navel-gaze-y and self-centered, in part because the details of the illness and its progression weren’t fully mine to share. Much of that was also because Dad didn’t share much about how it felt to be sick, how he felt about the crappy news he kept getting, or about the slim odds of getting better. He wasn’t willing to take much stock in statistics, because they were so general and didn’t take into account a person’s healthy up to that point nor did they take into account a supernatural Healer who could change the entire scenery with a twitch of His finger.

That didn’t happen.

That doesn’t mean other miracles didn’t happen, and I hope to share some of those here in the future.

For now, it’s enough to stop at the store for cereal which we may or may not eat for supper (don’t worry about us, people have been SO generous and brought many meals for us — my refrigerator and freezer are stuffed) and get toilet paper. Everything feels like it takes monumental effort so the fact that we’ve got clean clothes and the dog’s been fed, well that’s enough for now.

We’re okay enough for today. That’s all we can look for as we adjust to this new rotten normal for quite some time to come.

Gary Downing, full robes, full laughter, 1999

Gary Downing, full robes, full laughter

Discussion: Comments {9} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Family, Uncategorized

Seesaws and Pendulum Swings

19
Jun

Things hold very little hope for getting better.

This is a truth that I seem unable to hold in my head for very long. I keep thinking that I understand it, that I’ve accepted it. Soon the “understanding it” subsides. I experience some kind of convenient amnesia and go back to not really getting it, not being able to accept the grim reality my dad faces, and us along with him.

There’s a possibility that I’m in some stage of denial, but that sounds so cliché I have a hard time thinking it could be real. And yet all of a sudden something pops for no particular reason and it all floods the tubes at once. My boat begins to sink in powerlessness and sadness, holding all at once the emotions I’d kept at bay without even trying.

I’m starting to realize I may not be equipped to handle this on my own.

While I’ve never received any counseling past the pre-marital counseling my husband and I did before our wedding (and does that really count? I’m not sure), I’m not at all opposed to it. I have a feeling there are coping strategies that could be helpful when dealing with loss and grief. For a while now, my reaction to things seems to either go from an emotional flat-line to all feelings at once as if I’m trying to drink from a proverbial fire hose. There ought to be some middle ground in this, some balanced space of holding the possibility of permanent separation alongside an appreciation of the time we all still have together.

http://mrg.bz/ptSqzA

http://mrg.bz/ptSqzA

Ought to, schm-ought to. The bare truth is that my dad’s not getting better, and there’s a very real possibility — a very strong probability — that he’s going to leave us. See? Even now I can’t speak the harsh truth because it’s too much to admit.  It’s too big, too scary, too terrible. It’s something I only admit in the dark, when no one else is listening, when I can’t convince my brain to focus on anything else. Is this what it’s like for everyone? Would it make me feel better or worse to know it isn’t like this for other people?

Does it make it worse that I’m here to witness the slow ebbing away of him? Or would it be worse to experience the jarring juxtaposition of him healthy one visit, and then a few months later discover him weak, thin and slow? Who freaking cares which is worse? This is what the situation is. This is the one I’m a part of, and contrasting it with anything else doesn’t make it any less or any more. It just is.

Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

But it isn’t just. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

(I’ll have more on that idea soon, on the shitty deal and non-nepotism of God instead of playing favorites. That’s good news if you’re the one on the outs, but it’s a lot harder to bear if you’ve been the diligent, dedicated son all these years and not the prodigal. A little party on your behalf would be nice, a little cut to the front of the line, so to speak, a little preferential treatment.)

For now, the irritating pendulum swings between being numb and being overcome, with a possibly unhealthy emphasis on numbness, are in my line of sight, and I figure I should try to have some idea of how to handle what may come. Even if I don’t really want to know what’s going to come. Even if I am dreading it even as I approach the subject with robotic matter-of-factness. That right there should be my indicator of a need for facing the thing head on, but I can really only look at it with my peripheral vision as I charge ahead, busily avoiding people and topics that could lead to an uncorking of the anger, fear and sorrow that licks at my heels.

Have I mentioned cancer sucks?

If you’ve got resources that have helped you through grief or loss, don’t keep ’em to yourself. I don’t really know where to start,  and could use some recommendations.

Discussion: Comments {9} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Faith, Family, Uncategorized

Dissonance and Significant Moments

27
May

My daughter had her kindergarten performance last week.

She was excellent, of course. She sang the crap out of “My Hat and Gloves” and when she acted surprised during the line at the end, you really believed that she had no idea her hat and gloves were already on her hands and on her head. Perfection.

She sat pouty when they first took their places, because she couldn’t find me in the audience. That was because some toddler with less-than-attentive parents was standing on his chair directly in my daughter’s line of sight. I leaned from one side to the other, trying to make eye contact but that squirmy toddler was all over the place. Finally I moved one chair over, which meant that I was right next to a stranger but now my daughter could see me and all was well with the world…besides the fact that there were two empty chairs to my left and I was rubbing shoulders with someone I did not know. I was outside the boundaries of normal Midwestern space allowances. Here, the unspoken rule goes, you keep at least one chair between you and a member of the next party. This makes for challenges at any even with assigned seats, because on the one hand, you want to obey the dictates of your ticket, but on the other hand, the one seat buffer rule runs strong.

Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

I sat there and listened to song after song, all with special actions and costumes. The kids’ practices in the months leading up to the event made it go very smoothly, and no one panicked or went off script. They did a great job all around.

As they exited and the audience filed out of the auditorium (which was really just a gym), it finally struck me that this is the end of my last child’s last year of less-than-all-day school. My daughter only does half-day kindergarten, and she’s my youngest. That means that next year my three kids will all be in school all day long. This is a milestone for our family, a very significant moment for her, for my kids as siblings, and for all parents of young-ish children everywhere — we thought we wouldn’t make it! We thought the napping schedule, the potty training, and the endless snacks would undo us! But we have triumphed! 

It felt like a passing, as well, like the end of an era. It is the end of those youngest years and the beginning of official school-age-dom. She’ll do great, she’s ready, it will be fine. But it is also something worth marking as a significant transition, both for her and for our whole family. It was sweet but tinged with nostalgia for the safety, innocence and dependence of those first years.

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Later that evening, my husband Pete and I left the kids with a sitter. We drove across town and joined the rest of my family at my parents’ house in Minneapolis. We had received some terrible news that morning, and it was one of those times when it is helpful to be together in order to shore up one another, to distribute the weight of the burden over all our shoulders. It is a crushing weight even for ten people, so for the only one or two people most affected by it to be forced to bear it — it would lay them out flat.

We sat outside under the fushia colored crabapple tree in full bloom, its scent filling the air and wrapping around us.  My dad was physically with us, but his disease made him slow and confused. He sat quietly as we talked around him, taking it all in. These are the people he loves most, these are the ones he raised, these are the ones he wants most to protect from the pain of his illness. He cannot protect us now. He never needed to, but it’s built in to his habits, the habits of being the father.

The dissonance of my day, the way the planet continues to rotate even when your own world feels at a standstill, the pride and excitement of my daughter’s kindergarten performance at the beginning of her life and my dad’s diminishing health at what may be close to the end of his, the significance of the events of my day — these things left me filled with incongruent emotions.

Those conflicted emotions may be the new normal for us. We may be in a new chapter when we must savor the beauty of the moments we have, even as we jam every important moment into an abbreviated timeframe.

(It feels disloyal to even admit the possibility that my dad might not recover. That’s not how we function as a family. We always find the positive and focus on that.)

Those moments, while being meaningful and sweet, are also nauseating and laced with sorrow because they are unlikely to be repeated again. Can you fully enjoy something when you know it is probably the last time you’ll have that experience? How can the present warmth be coated with the frost of the future? Somehow they coexist, mingling and informing everything I come in contact with.

It’s exhausting. I don’t know how to do this. I especially don’t know how to do this with grace, patience, acceptance, all while being dignified. I feel small, powerless, numb and shrunken. Maybe I’ll figure it out. Or maybe this is just how it will be for me. Either way, however I manage to approach it, it will continue. I’ll have to just follow along and figure it out as it comes. There’s no individualized guidebook for this. We all just handle it the way we’re able, and that’s good enough. That has to be good enough.

Frost door window porch

Frost

 

 

Discussion: Comments {5} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Family, Motherhood, Parenting, Uncategorized

Not Yer Typical Grateful Mother’s Day Post

11
May

Breaking all the rules today: it’s Sunday, this will take more than five minutes, and I’m rolling two posts into one. Oh yeah – I’m also using improper grammar/vocabulary because I’m pretty sure “yer” isn’t an accepted dictionary word. Let it slide today my friends, will you?

I know I’m feeling contrary but I want to ask why mothers must feel bad for the fact there’s a day that celebrates them, why they must feel bad for the fact they were able to become mothers in one way or another, why in recent years we’ve started to feel we must celebrate in hushed tones rather than accept one specific day of appreciation?

It’s so typical Martyr Mom, isn’t it? “Oh no, no, sweetheart, I wouldn’t want to do anything for Mother’s Day. I might make someone feel bad if they weren’t a mother.” It’s a tricky spot to be in.

It’s a little bit like the way my sons feel when I compliment one of them. I tell Rex, “I really like the comic book you’re making.” Bobo hears that and comments, “You don’t like the thing I’m making.” Over and over, I assure them that if I compliment one of them, it has nothing to do with the other. Just because I say one of them is good at something, it doesn’t follow that the other is BAD at it, less than, or anything relating to them at all. It is just me calling out something about one individual. It isn’t a finite substance — as if there’s only so much talent available.

It may stem from some twisted old-timey notion that full womanhood is realized in motherhood, or that somehow women are redeemed through childbirth. We don’t have time to dig into the origins of that now, nor can we dwell on how that informs our current attitudes, but if a person is seen as forever less-than if they’re not a mother, then it’s no wonder there are some significant hang-ups surrounding it.

If you ask me, people would be smart to create their own personal Mother’s Days. Think of the brunch pandemonium we could avoid. Imagine the pick-me-up moms could get in northern regions where winter can drag on for way too long. Pop your own personal Mother’s Day in the middle of that, and break up the monotony. And does anyone save any money by purchasing flower baskets or earrings marketed around Mother’s Day? Not likely. Plus, I’ve got to say, I don’t really desire to hear “Happy Mother’s Day” from a pulpit or a person who is not somehow related to my mothering or somehow being my mother. There’s something about seeing Mother’s Day doggie leashes (Now Mom can walk the dog in style!) or Mother’s Day paperclips (Help keep Mom organized!) that detracts from the sincerity of the occasion anyways. However, Mother’s Day is firmly established now, and if the baseline is a Mother’s Day card that costs $5, you know that corporate America isn’t going be quick to give up Mother’s Day. It’s too big of a money maker.

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Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

As I write this, I’m sitting at a restaurant, waiting for my mom. She’s supposed to meet me, but she’s lost. She gets lost a lot. She is more of an instinctual, landmark-reliant driver rather than a direction-following driver. Even if you write out directions for her, she doesn’t generally get there the way you map it out for her.

That sums up her approach to a lot of life. She doesn’t set out to challenge the status quo; it’s her inherent BS sniffer and her inquisitive mind that prompt her to ask the question on everyone’s minds, to say what no one else is willing to, or to proclaim that the Emperor isn’t wearing any clothes. Before they retired, she was a pastor’s wife (although, do you ever really stop being a pastor or a pastor’s wife, even after you retire? It’s kind of hardwired by that point.). She never did fit that stereotype, and that was a constant source of both pride and struggle for her. When people don’t know how to categorize you, it’s easier to just dismiss you as an anomaly rather than find a new spot for you in their minds.

Mom is opinionated, curious, adventurous, spontaneous, restless, loyal, and sensitive. She thinks non-linearly, which can make the linear people around her a little crazy. And let’s admit it, she is a little nuts. She’s random, resourceful, freakin’ hilarious, and sometimes doesn’t know when to quit. She’s one of those who underestimates the power of her words because she underestimates her significance. That underestimation can lead to misunderstandings, and coupled with a zinger or two, it can be a dangerous combination. On the one hand, she’s surprised that anything she’d have to say would actually mean something important to anyone, and on the other hand she’s hurt when it isn’t heard. She’s contradictory that way. Oh crap. Didn’t I say at the beginning of this that I was feeling contrary? I AM becoming my mother!

I’m grateful for her. She’s an unceasing cheerleader, and sees the potential for good things for all her kids. She believes in you, even when you don’t have the courage to believe in yourself.

I’m grateful there’s a special day created that helps people take time to acknowledge the mothers in their lives. On top of that, I’m grateful for the many people who have been mother-types to me throughout my life, for the women who modeled serving behind the scenes, and those who modeled leading from up front. I’m grateful for the people who helped me when things were hard, the people who teamed with me to try something new, who fed my hair-brained schemes and picked me up after epic failures. These may not have all been women, but in many senses these people played a mother role in my life.

From the objections I raised about feeling bad about being a mother on Mother’s Day, I know you’re questioning my sensitivity to those for whom this is a difficult day. It’s not that we shouldn’t have Mother’s Day, nor should we exalt motherhood. A woman is more than her ovaries, and a woman need not have a child to be fully actualized. Not every woman wants to be a mother. I know there are women out there who long to be mothers and cannot, those who have become mothers and could not raise that child, adoptions that have fallen through, heartache that seems bottomless. These things don’t stop being a part of us when this day passes. I hope we can all be kind to the varied circumstances of others, and not assume that our story is the story of every person we meet, easy story or difficult story.

We can all be mothers to one another. We can be tender, we can be tough, we can be supportive, we can be stern. Even if we didn’t have those loving mothers in our lives, we can find them. They are out there. You may already have one in your life and just never viewed him/her as such. You might have an opportunity to mother someone (you don’t have to call it that) and help them find their footing, their voice, or their stride. That is an important role. Do not diminish it just because it doesn’t involve an infant.

Let’s all become the best people we can be, and inspire one another to take those leaps of faith that are done so much more easily with the support of others.

You can do it. I can do it.

We are better together.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Discussion: Comments {2} Filed Under: Church Life, Family, Five Minute Friday, Motherhood, Uncategorized, Women

Reliving an Embarrassing Moment

30
Apr

 

There would be other embarrassing moments in my future.

 I’d say the wrong thing.

I’d stumble over the heel of my stacked loafers more than five times before I’d realize it was the shoes and not me and my klutzy tendencies. 

I’d sneeze the wrong way and stuff would come out of my nose in public. 

A kid would ask why my hair was black where it connected to my head but blond the rest of the way. 

:::

Today I’m sharing over at The Story Sessions — yay!

Unfortunately, I’m sharing about an embarrassing moment — bleh.

It’s okay — I’ve gotten over it, which is good because it happened so long ago. I’ve got plenty of new embarrassing moment stories now, but we don’t need to dwell on those.

If you’d like to read about my humiliation, click and be magically transported —>

An Embarrassing Moment

And as always, thanks for stopping by. Mwah!

Discussion: Comments {0} Filed Under: Family, Guest Posts, Little Things Big Things, Story

Not All Gloom and Doom

2
Apr

I come from a long line of jokesters. Not so much on my dad’s side, but my mom’s side of the family is thick with smart alecks, tricksters, goofballs and what Grandma used to call “turkeys”.

When I was probably ten or so, I was in my room and my mom called to me in a frightened voice from the bathroom. She said there was a squirrel in there and I should bring her something from my room so she could defend herself.

I didn’t bite.

First off, there was no way I was going anywhere near the bathroom if there was a squirrel in there.

Second, she’d messed me with one too many times, so now any claim of something unusual was suspicious.

She used to pop out at us from behind doorways. She’d short-sheet our beds. I’m not sure but I think she swapped out the sugar in the sugar dish (which we rarely got to use so it added to the impact of the joke) with salt.

Beyond pranks, though, my mom is known for being FUNNY.  Funny with an edge sometimes, but funny.

Because of all this, poor Mom was left to handle the fake squirrel on her own, and she had to admit defeat when she came into my room and admitted there was no squirrel. You might think this was the end of her pranks on me, but all this really did was up the ante on the jokes she used in the future, taking the whole thing up a level.

*end backstory*

All of this to say, I recognize that it was gotten pretty heavy around here, and I don’t want you thinking that it’s all gloom and doom all the time. Because it was April Fool’s Day yesterday, I thought I’d list for you the pranks my family pulled. I can’t (and won’t – some of these are so lame I don’t want them to soil my good reputation) take credit for all of these; my kids got really into pranks this year around. *sigh* They’ll learn some good ones eventually.

Here we go:

  • Spray water on someone’s bed.
  • Put the toothpaste cap on really tight.
  • Fall down in the hallway.
  • Water down someone’s coffee (or try to and get caught in the attempt).
  • Fall down in the kitchen.
  • Put on a silly dress and funny hat and tromp through the house.
  • Fall down in the bedroom.
  • Tell everyone there’s a deer at the front door.
  • Put a turkey decoy in the front yard and tell everyone there’s something in the front yard they have to see.
  • Slip a book into someone’s pillowcase.
  • Balance a wad of play dough on the top edge of a door that’s partially open. Get people to open the door so it falls on them.
  • Ding dong ditch (or as the case may be, knock knock ditch) your family, the more doors and the more times, the better.

A Bigger Trick

This was something I did to a group of friends probably five years ago, and since it had been long enough, I thought it was safe to use again but just on my family. It’s the old trick-’em-into-eating-something prank, but unless you don’t like bananas, it isn’t a gross trick.

First, take some graham crackers and crush them into crumbs (using a plastic baggie works best). Set aside.

Slice a banana into segments and then slice those down the middle.

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 1

Next. cover the banana segments in peanut butter. Getting the peanut butter to stick on the slippery side of the banana can be hard, but sometimes you have to commit if you want a prank to work.

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 2

 

You will now put the peanut butter covered banana mess into the plastic baggie that holds your graham cracker crumbs. Shake it around to cover the banana. You may have to press the graham crackers in so they stick and form a nice, believable coating.

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 3

 

And so now once you get enough of these put together, you’ve got a pan full of fake chicken nuggets. We don’t eat nuggets much at our house, so they are a treat (eww — why???). I had some real nuggets in the oven, so I told the kids these were homemade but I hadn’t had enough chicken so I had to supplement with store-bought nuggets. As he was coming to the table my oldest son, “Rex”, said that I should make those bananas with the peanut butter and graham crackers sometime. Mwahahahaha.

They don’t look exactly like chicken nuggets, but when you pretend the pan is hot, use a spatula to serve them onto the kids’ plates, and they smell real nuggets cooking in the oven, it makes it more convincing. You may have to sell it a little, but that’s part of pranking someone and being committed to your craft. Here’s the end result:

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 4

Lest you think no joke is off limits, I do set parameters around what can be used as a joke. Here’s what I tell the kids:

  1. It can’t hurt anyone.
  2. It can’t ruin anything.
  3. It shouldn’t make the person embarrassed or feel bad.

These guidelines will change as they get older (or maybe not), but at this stage they need some guidance about how to pull a prank without humiliating someone or destroying our house.

Overall, it was a fun day without too many obnoxious moments…but we did have to put the kibosh on jokes after supper so we could get our homework done. And so far this morning, my coffee has tasted just fine.

Did you make it through April Fool’s Day without any serious mishaps? Do you have any good pranks you’d like to share?

 

Discussion: Comments {3} Filed Under: Family, Mischief, Parenting, Uncategorized

Young does not mean “Small”

20
Feb

There’s nothing small about their feelings, even if they’re unjustified or disproportionate.

There’s no smallness to their generosity or their unconditional offer of love, heedless of a person’s otherwise social awkwardness or prickly first impression.

You can’t tell me their gestures of gratitude feel small, the smallness of their chubby arms, or that place between elbow and wrist where the skin plumps up as if by the presence of a rubber band. Those arms, wrapped caution-to-the-wind around your neck will dispel any idea of smallness in the grandness of their embrace.

Though they be small, the force of their innocence will fell the loftiest person to the ground, brought low from their presumed place of importance or stature. They care not for etiquette or fancy graces.

They care for you,

and in all your imperfections,

that is no small thing.

This post is part of a link-up through Lisa-Jo Baker’s website: http://lisa-jobaker.com . A welcoming band of women write for five minutes, no self-critique, no self-editing, no perfectionism. We write for the joy of writing. It is open to anyone who wishes to participate, and you’ll find all kinds of fun blogs you may not have previously known about. It’s an amazing group of people.

Discussion: Comments {3} Filed Under: Family, Five Minute Friday, Little Things Big Things, Motherhood, Parenting

Fragile and Sturdy

29
Jan

This month I found a fierce group of women who spur on one another, who support one another, who express themselves creatively. This post comes out of a prompt they offered. Here’s the link if you’d like to find out more: http://www.thestorysessions.com/subscribe/

Unfold

tissue paper

butterfly wings

poppy petals

pie crust rolled thin

Bible pages

confidence

risk

vulnerability

heart

desolation

////

PoppyFlowers

http://mrg.bz/CTbZGX

////

I’m tempted to retreat from the day, close in on myself,

crawl back in bed,

detach my brain from my heart,

put a screen in front of my face to dull my mind.

Bad news on top of our new norm pushes me back

away from the resignation, the adaptation I thought I had achieved.

I would rather —

but we don’t get to ‘rather’ and we don’t get to escape, not really.

It comes back to us,

in waves,

in song,

in tear-filled eyes at the grocery store for no. apparent. reason.

////

Even though it is scary and unwieldy,

I try to spread my arms wide,

unfold from my place crouched in fear and self-protection,

where I duck from embarrassment and weakness.

I stand up, stiff and tingling, vertigo around my edges, heart pounding in my ears.

This is real.

This is life.

Life contains in it death.

That I have avoided much of this type of pain is a miracle unto itself.

That I have good men in my life who modeled to me love, commitment and joy, this is a gift.

So I unfold and stand straight to absorb the full weight that could descend with their loss,

until I have to bend beneath the heaviness of the burden, though I willingly bear it

because

it is the weight of love.

Discussion: Comments {2} Filed Under: Faith, Family, Uncategorized

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