One Year Later

On January 29, 2021, I woke up, stood up from my bed, and a real-life nightmare had begun.  The most intense, searing pain I had ever felt in my life started shooting, non-stop, from my foot through my spine, and I could not tolerate walking without crying out or shrieking in pain.  My children were terrified as they watched me battle six steps from my bed to my door frame, where I clutched on with all my might, not certain how I was going to continue any further.  I quite honestly thought I was going to die that morning.

God gave me the strength to walk the short distance across our apartment, where I tried my best to sit in a chair, but was splayed out as straight as I could be, crying and trying not to slip out.  Nothing was making the situation better. My mortified children got ready for school as quickly as they could, and I battled again as I made my way down the stairs and into our van, crying continually as I felt I was being stabbed, electrocuted, and tortured from the inside out during the school drop-off drive.  It was unsafe to drive that way, I know, but I was in a panic and did not know what else to do.

As my scared children got out of the van at the school, I couldn’t turn to face them as I told them I loved them, and my oldest son simply said, “You’re going to the doctor today, right?”  

He knows I’m stubborn. Even after having gone through covid twice by that point, and having had been to countless doctor and specialist visits as we tried to tackle the issues that lingered from that sickness, I hated the idea of going to the doctor unless it was absolutely necessary.  

“I’m going there next,” I said, realizing it was necessary.  I decided in that moment to go to the emergency room, because I was quite afraid that if I went home and called to make an appointment somewhere, I may not make it up and down the stairs again.  

I pulled up to the ER, forced myself out of the van and walked through the torture, tears running down my face, trying not to scream.  After quite a long visit where the doctor told me over and over she didn’t know what the issue was, serving me multiple strong pain killers and muscle relaxants and telling me it was probably just sciatica, she advised me to find someone to give me a ride home, and come back if it got worse- otherwise, just try to rest.

I went home and unable to function, I slept again.  I woke up many hours later, mustered the strength to try to stand up from my bed, and as I moved into standing motion, it was WORSE. In no way had I ever imagined it could be worse, but it was.  It was then, crying and shaking, I realized also that I could hardly feel my left foot.  

Panicking, I messaged a friend or two who advised me that yes, that was considered worse, and one of them offered to give me a ride back to the emergency room after work.  I agreed and tried my best to survive laying in bed again as I waited. I was terrified.  I had no idea what was going on and if it was going to be something we could fix.  I thought back to the morning and how the doctor figured it wasn’t really a big deal and told me over and over it just didn’t make sense.  I did not want to go back, but I also could not imagine staying home and living through the pain any longer.

I have a high tolerance for pain. I’ve had fractured ribs and worked through them the best I could, broken nose, daily intense pain in one foot, intense neuropathy in my legs for almost a year, natural childbirth, and other things… and I know that I am strong. I know I have a high tolerance, usually.

I thought maybe I was being ridiculous, but I really, truly, was afraid I might die.  It was that bad.

I returned to the ER to the same doctor as the morning, because it had not been even twelve hours.  I did not want my friend to see me in pain, so I said I would just go in on my own.  When I entered the door, they all were so shocked to see me back. I explained through gasping breaths and full-body shudders that it was in fact worse, and that I was losing feeling in my foot.

Still, that doctor insisted on pain killers and that it was probably sciatica.  She offered that I wait so she could consult the next doctor on shift change.

He was much more helpful. I could tell he believed me. As I laid flat in bed the pain was tolerable, but any time I would move, or try to sit up, I just could not any longer. He told me that he did not know what it was, but he was certain it was serious, and he suggested I be admitted to the hospital.

I came up with an abundance of reasons not to go.  I consulted family and friends, who all urged me it was the right choice, and I reluctantly agreed.  The ER doctor told me that in the hospital at least they would likely give me steroids (which was his suggestion) and do imaging to get to the bottom of it.  He did not feel it was in my best interest to refuse, and after another long wait and a visit from my friend, I took the ambulance to the hospital and was admitted.

The entire time, I felt so foolish.  While I was strapped flat to the stretcher, I was okay.  Getting me from the bed to the stretcher, I sobbed uncontrollably.  When we got to the hospital, it was the same.  I was not even moving my body on my own, but it was completely intolerable- unless I was laying flat and not moving.

It was a long, terrifying night, as I waited until the early morning hours to receive and MRI.  I was so exhausted, and at this time again on strong meds, that I slept through it.  The nurses and doctors and physical therapists throughout the day assured me I was not crazy, calling it a spinal injury, and assuring me they are insanely painful.  My nurse insisted I was incredible as she helped me to sit upright on my bed, lifted me to standing, and walked the 10 feet with me to the bathroom.  I was using a walker and I was being held up by that strap they fasten around your chest. I couldn’t stand straight, and I every time I would put any weight on my left foot, which I still could barely feel, it was that searing, incredible pain.  It took many minutes to get there, as I cried, and shuddered, and screamed, and grappled for air, yelling “I can’t do this anymore!  I don’t think I can make it!”  

It took a very long day and a half, doing multiple physical therapy sessions for suspected sciatica, before I had any results of the MRI were finally revealed.  My spinal injury was a ruptured, bulging disc, spinal stenosis, bone spurs and deterioration of some discs.  I had multiple doctors advise me that the only course of treatment that would likely be effective was spinal surgery. While I waited, we were trying physical therapy moves lying in prone position, as well as ice and a nearly constant TENS unit, to help with pain and the constant twitching in my buttocks and thighs. None of these did much to help.

The idea of spinal surgery terrified me as well. My thoughts swirled to the morning prior, and how it could have possibly been the very last time I saw my children face-to-face, because there was a risk of death with surgery, of course.  I couldn’t even hug them… all I had done was scream and cry.  I prayed, and asked for prayer from as many people as I could think of, scared to even share the news.  I had one visitor (because that was all I was allowed), my dear friend again, who brought me some clothing and a few things to do.

I agreed to surgery.  I had to covid test first.  I had told my nurse earlier in the day that I had already been sick with covid twice in 2020, so there’s no way it could come back positive.

An hour or so after the test was given, I had a notification in my phone that my results were posted.  

I was covid positive.  Again.

I broke down emotionally.   I could not fathom this result.  I called the nurse back in, and now that I was covid positive it took a long time for her to arrive in my room.  

Everything had shifted.  I had gone from having surgery in the morning so that I could hopefully function on my own again, to having no idea if and when I would be treated.  They thought that due to the severity, they would still likely do surgery- initially anyway.  I was told not to worry, as they transferred me to the covid wing of the hospital for isolation and development of a new plan.

I will be completely honest in saying that the moment I entered the covid room, I lost any shred of emotional strength I had left at that point, and sobbed for hours.  I cried all night long. The staff had hooked me up to all the necessary wires and then booked it out of there so quickly, leaving me alone, late at night, in a bright, loud room with the TV blaring, no remote near me, and the bed call button not functioning… and I bawled hysterically.  I was so exhausted. I felt so defeated.  I was completely and utterly overwhelmed and it was the only thing I could do.

Sometime the next morning, I had calmed down enough to speak with the new morning nurses who were not only much kinder, but so compassionate and understanding.  The news broke that I couldn’t have surgery and would have to isolate for ten days until I was cleared.  They held my hand as I cried.

Throughout the day we realized not only had I lost feeling in my foot and leg, but I could no longer feel my bladder or bowels and was at risk for rupture or other complications.  I was on multiple pain killers and steroids so I was able to sit up to about 25-30 degrees in the bed for short periods of time. I pushed my way through the new PT moves, still barely able to tolerate the pain enough to function.  Even on all those pain meds, it was still so incredibly severe.

Without God and the prayerful love of family and friends and the nursing staff, I do not think I would have emotionally or mentally survived.   I could have no visitors.  The staff rarely came in, because I wasn’t actively sick, so I didn’t need anything except meds, food, and to be helped to the bathroom.  I fought with infectious disease and made phone calls to the CDC and DOH to try to get another covid test and cleared for surgery.  I was allowed another covid test after begging, and that came back negative.  The CDC told me it was DOH’s prerogative how to handle it, and DOH said that if I had two negatives I could be considered clear.  They wouldn’t test me a third time, even after I argued with infectious disease.  I was defeated.  I was on so many painkillers.  I gave up on myself making decisions and allowed my sister to be the one to do so.  She also fought long and hard for me, for days, trying to get me cleared for surgery. We did not win.  They offered that I could go home and isolate if I didn’t want to stay in the hospital, but we argued that I could not do that as I could not complete any simple daily tasks on my own, and if I had covid and they didn’t want to be exposed to me, I shouldn’t be “forced upon” others who could catch it from me either.  They offered to send me to a nursing home. Thank goodness my sister was in charge, because in my defeated haze, I agreed.

It was my darkest point in years, if not maybe ever.  It was such a dark, somber room, surrounded by noises from other covid patient rooms and the talk of nurses outside.  It was incredibly lonely.  I tried my best to remain positive and joked with staff that would come and go, and tried not to complain or make their days harder.  They all seemed surprised by my faith and my smile and laughter, and I quite frankly told them that if they ever came in and I could not do either of those things they needed to be seriously concerned for my mental health.  They did so good on holding to that promise, making sure I was hanging on in every facet possible, as best as I could.  I felt like the hospital system was failing me, but my nurses most certainly weren’t.  God had definitely placed them there.

God gave me my church family to help me through as well. There were many prayers and messages from them and one particular night, my pastor, Brent, sang a song to me that was a message from God. I listened to it over and over for the remaining days, and even in the weeks after I was released from the hospital.  My friends and family provided the same support.  I received some flowers and gifts dropped off to help me pass the time, as well as a few good lattes.  I had perfectly timed messages of worship songs sent to me multiple times, and I listened and let those be prayers over me repeatedly.  There was not a lot that anyone could do, but these things were huge.

Some of the nurses even commented that God had placed me there for them as well.  It was one of the things I held dearly in my heart as I continued to live the nightmare for days on end.

Finally, on February 10, I was cleared of isolation and prepped for surgery.  Another of my best friends came that day to be with me and pray while the procedure was going on, and to keep my dear ones informed.  She was the first familiar face I had seen in almost two weeks, and it was a huge breath of fresh, promising air.

I told her how scared I was that I wouldn’t see my children again.  I did not really believe I was going to die, I admitted, but that fear was there, knowing it was a possibility.  I was anxious about potential complications, or that it wouldn’t solve the issues anyway.  She prayed over me in the hallway outside the operating room, and then I closed my eyes and it seems to be the last thing I remember.

While I was in between surgery and being awake afterward, in an anesthesia haze, I had this vision.  It was a spinal column, and the lamina were in rainbow formation.  I felt that God was telling me I would one day walk on my own again, without pain.  It was His promise- just like the rainbow centuries ago was His promise.  I woke up with hope.

I do not remember much of anything else that day, except seeing my friend’s face again, and being so thankful and relieved.

The next day, I sat in a chair, upright, for breakfast.  It was only a few minutes, but it was the first time in over two weeks I was able to sit up past 30 degrees without crying or yelling or trembling in pain.  I knew God would fulfill His promise.  I had another of my dearest friends visit me that night, and seeing her lit up the hope inside of me even further. I broke into tears as she told me she had seen my kiddos at the daycare where we worked and they were smiling and happy that I was okay.  

The next day, my sister, who had fought so valiantly on my behalf came.  She stayed for such a long time, watching me as I learned to walk all over again.

When I was finally discharged a day or two later, I went to her home to heal.  I stayed there for weeks as I continued physical therapy and learning to walk, do stairs, sit, and other things, all over again.

I was so incredibly blessed during the nightmare I was living through, by so many people.  I know there are even more people praying over me than I consciously know about, and so many other ways we were blessed- people caring for my children, getting them to and from school and daycare, praying over me, sending me flowers, and so much more.  I knew the entire time, that even though I felt lonelier than I ever had before, we were most definitely not alone.

It’s a year later.  I have regained a little sensation back in my left foot and slightly more in the inside of my calf. I have not noticed any progress in that area in many months, but I believe it can still happen.  If it doesn’t I have went through months of physical therapy and can do everything I could before, even if it’s a little clumsy, or I can’t do as well or as long as I used to.  I still have pain during some tasks or body positions, but it is in no way like the pain I had during the ordeal.  During surgery, they not only removed lamina from l4/L5, bone spurs, part of disc and ligament, but they also found calcification that was pressing on my spinal cord internally in addition to the spinal stenosis, and it was speculated that the inflammation from six weeks of fighting off covid fevers the first time could have dislodged that calcification, which could have been the cause for the neuropathy I had suffered from since having covid that first time.   That pain has not returned since surgery!  So, while I am not pain free, I still believe God is fulfilling that promise that I will walk on my own (which I am again) pain free.  It took me months, but I was finally able to return part time and with some restriction to the job I have loved for seven years. I know I'll continue to gain the strength and stamina to be there full time again.  

A few months after this nightmare took place, knowing I was going to find a counselor to help me process through the countless layers of trauma, I decided to get a tattoo to commemorate my journey.  I went with this design.  The rainbow symbolizes God’s promise to me.  The guitar is symbolic of worship and praise carrying me through.  

For the most part, I’m doing really well, having processed through most of the trauma.  Sometimes, things still trigger me or catch me off guard.  I have cried about the journey multiple times since coming home, and I know I will continue to heal physically, emotionally, and mentally for quite some time. I have bad days where I’m frustrated by physical limitations or restrictions, but I have become much better at reminding myself of how far I’ve come.  I tell myself I had to learn to sit again, walk again, and so many other things… again.  I did those hard things.  God walked alongside me and carried me through when there was nothing I could do but cry.  

So, one year later, I can again say, even through this, God is good.

Relating to the Christmas Story

 A couple of weeks ago, my pastor asked me if I would be willing to light the Christ candle at Christmas Eve church, read a verse, and maybe even read something that I might write.  I said yes before I could talk myself out of it, which I knew I would do in a short amount of time if I was given the opportunity.  You see, I am not really fond of speaking in front of groups of people, and even though I know almost everyone in my church family, standing up front and talking in front of all of them… is unappealing.  I would much rather write something and just leave it for others to read on their own.

So, naturally (haha), I said yes.

I decided my best approach was to pray about what to write, which I did, and then (im)patiently waited for an idea to flow.  A few days passed before late one night, when I couldn’t sleep due to pain, an idea sparked into sentences and I text myself the very beginning of a rough draft.

I worked on it a bit the next day, and then got distracted.

So, I waited a few more days, and then let the remaining words flow through my fingers, onto the keyboard, to be printed onto my screen.

It was a bit lengthy, but the idea behind it was genuine, and it seemed to be the only thing I could think of to write about.

Fast forward to this afternoon, I was preparing for church, and trying to print out the two pages I had developed, and for the first time since buying it, my printer decided it was going to give me issues.  First, it was low on ink.  Then, I couldn’t get the ink cartridge area open.  So, I googled the issue, switched the ink out, and then wouldn’t you know it… there was a paper jam.  I couldn’t find a paper inside the printer ANYWHERE, so I decided to try and print again.  I printed, but it looked like someone had taken the top half of all the letters and slid them to the left about a centimeter, and it was incredibly difficult to decipher, even though I knew what it said.  I tried again, and it printed a little more clearly, but still not in a way I was comfortable trying to read from.  Suddenly, the jammed piece of paper popped out, so I figured I was good to go.  I was wrong. I wasted 12 more pages of printed text that looked like I was trying to read through someone else’s glasses, or those drunk goggles you used in high school learning about drinking and driving.  It was terrible!  It was also a half an hour until church started.  I tried one more time, and finally, a version that was mostly legible popped out, and I gave up so we could go.

Tonight, I stood in front of our church, recorded and broadcasted live over the internet (so nerve-wracking), lit the Christ candle after only two clicks of the silly lighter (I hate those things), read Luke 1:14, and then my 3 minute piece.  I’m sure my voice trembled and my daughter said I looked nervous, but I was nervous, so I’m not surprised.  My children all said I did a good job, and the message was good.

After I left church tonight, I decided that maybe I should share the rough, unedited, longer version on my blog, in case there is someone out there who needs to read it, for whatever reason.  So, without further adieu, here is the long, first draft of how the Christmas Story spoke to me this year, and became more relatable than ever before.

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In the hustle and bustle, mingle and jingle of the holiday season, I find myself captivated by the sounds, the sights, the flavors and scents that evoke emotions and memories of Christmases past, and rejuvenate anticipation of Christmases coming. I can be overtaken by the sparkle and the joy in the atmosphere, the smiles and friendly warmth of many you come across, but also the very real truth of heartache for others, activating my empathy and compassion just a little bit more.

It’s easy to get caught up in the here and now of the Christmas season, or to reminisce on both good and bad memories of the Christmases we have already been through.  It’s so easy to buy the gifts, to sing the songs, watch those movies, to decorate the trees and homes, send the cards, fill those red buckets, recreate your family traditions, and say “Merry Christmas” to those who cross your path.

It’s so easy to forget to see the days blitz by without reflecting deeply on the true meaning of Christmas, until Christmas Eve church, a lot of times.  We know both in our hearts and our minds what the real meaning of Christmas is, but it’s just so easy to get caught up in the festivity of it all.

For many, myself included at times, even knowing the meaning of Christmas, the Christmas story seems like it’s so far removed from our modern day life, that it’s just a beautiful, true story that reminds us that Jesus is the reason for the season, and that God so loved us that he gave Jesus to us as the best Christmas gift ever. 

This year, life circumstances have slowed me down, yet again, and I have had ample time to sit and reflect just a little bit more on what Christmas means. 

This year, I have spent hours creating decorations with scenes from the Christmas story, the manger, the angels, the wise men, the shepherds, and as I’ve sat with Christmas in my heart, I’ve come to find that the Christmas story is much more relatable than I ever realized before.

As I sat in silence, painting the starry night sky, I began to see the myself in the parts of the Christmas story.  I wonder if you can see yourselves scattered throughout the story, too.

In a way, I feel like we are all a little bit like Mary, believing in God, waiting for him to speak to us- to give us a sign, a word, a plan.  Sometimes, he surprises us, and shows up in a way we never imagined, asking us to things we never saw ourselves doing.  And like Mary, we sometimes say yes.  We invite him within us to fulfill this plan he has spoken over us, and in doing so, we birth Light and Love into this world to change it for the better.  We may not always know what we have gotten ourselves into, but we trust that he will guide us, just like he guided her all those centuries ago.

In a way, we are all a little bit like Joseph.  Sometimes, we make plans, and we end up blindsided by the way things end up panning out.  We occasionally get thrown a curveball that sends us well out of our comfort zones, and on a long, arduous journey where we feel out of control.  Sometimes, there’s panic and frustrating urgency, trying to get everything lined up according to our own plan, searching for comfort and security and a place we see fit for whatever is coming next, all while trying to meet a deadline.  We run into doors being shut right in front of us and other obstacles on our journey.  We find that we must relinquish control and just let God lead us on our way.  He has a destination and an outcome in mind and it may be beyond anything we’ve ever seen coming.  

We are all like the shepherds.  The shepherds, who at the time of the Savior’s birth, were minding their own business, off in the hillside, on a quiet, peaceful night.  They were undoubtedly disheveled, likely smelly, and probably socially awkward outcasts, just doing the one thing they did best to provide in this world.  There they were, just doing their own thing.  And suddenly an angel appeared to them.  While we may not have knowingly seen angels in our lifetimes, we, like the shepherds, have heard joyous heavenly messages that have completely shattered the mundane moments we find ourselves in, and change the course of our lives.  Or, at least, I hope that we have, or will, at some point.  This is also a clear demonstration that God doesn’t see us for our rank or notoriety, and he is willing, able, and excited to bring his message to even the outcasts, the lower society, the “nobodies” of the world.  I believe at some point, we have probably all seen ourselves as a nobody, but how amazing is it that when we peer into the Christmas story, we can see that even THEN, God is excited to speak to us.  Like the shepherds, those words from Abba spark joy inside of us, and should lead us to shout from the mountains, the valleys, or plateaus of our lives the good news of Jesus in our world.

We are like the angels as well, in some ways.  It is in our love and admiration for our Father in heaven that we sing, we exhale, we praise Him.  Our worship and praise rings out to those around us, breaking up the darkness with a divine splendor, echoing in hearts all around.  Like the angels, we live to spread the news, share the promises of heaven, and inspire the lives of those around us. In some instances, we may even be like Gabriel, in that we have heard a specific message from the Father, and through his voice and urging, we are able to tell others that God has something unique and wonderful in store for them if they choose to say yes!  Yes, like the angels, we can hear our Father’s voice.

We are all like the wise men, (and even that fictitious little drummer boy).  While we all come from different backgrounds, upbringings, families, and economic standpoints, just like these people, because we love and revere Jesus, we long to bring gifts.  We shower him with these gifts, whatever they may be.  For some, their gift is song, like the legend of the drummer boy.  For others, their gift is more tangible, like that of the wise men.  Each of us has our own unique giftings, and Jesus loves when we use those gifts to honor Him.  In honoring Jesus with our gifts, we are also blessing others. If you think about it, in the Christmas story, the gifts that were brought were for baby Jesus, but he was not the only person there who could benefit or be impacted by them.  The scents and splendor of spices would carry through the air to anyone in the babe’s vicinity.  The sparkle of gold would bring beauty to the atmosphere.  A song of love and worship catches in the hearts of others and brings radiance and joy to their spirits as well.    

Perhaps most importantly, God calls us to be like Jesus, who entered the world, hungered, grew, and learned as we do.  He entered the world the same way we all did, hungered as we do, grew, learned, walked, and lived alongside others, just as we do.  His miraculous entrance to the world as a mere human baby led showed us how to live and love as God calls us to.  We are one with the Father, just like Jesus.  We were born at the perfect time, for a perfect plan, just as Jesus. 

Each of these characters is integral to the Christmas story. I hope, like me, with a bit of pause, you can see the Christmas story is not only one of the first Christmas, but a relatable representation of where we’ve been with Jesus, where we are now, and the places we will continue to go on our journey with Papa God.

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Merry Christmas, everyone!

Elevensies

 Dearest Boy of Mine,

Tomorrow is my anniversary.  It’s my anniversary of motherhood.  I joked with you tonight about how I should get a present every year on November 1, because it’s my big day- the day I became a mom.  You and your siblings laughed and told me “NO!”

The joke in it is the reality that I don’t need a gift- my gift is you.  You were the child I prayed so fervently for, the baby I dreamed of, the baby I longed for from the depths of my soul from the time I was a teenager, at least. You were the baby I fought against my own body to create and grow, and you were the miracle that God gave me back in 2010.

Spencer, you are becoming such a wonderful young man.  It baffles my mind that you have been in my physical presence for eleven years now, because it does not seem possible that we have had that many days together on this earth.  It sounds like such a long, long time, but it feels like a fraction of a second simultaneously. 

I think you’ve grown six inches in the last year, because when you stand beside me, it feels like you’re almost my height.  I know there’s only six more inches to go before you surpass me, and I’m a little afraid that will happen by the time your birthday rolls back around next year.  One thing I love about you is that even though you’ve grown so much, your bright blue eyes have remained the same.  I always thought they would fade away into some other color, but they’ve stayed the same eyes as they were when you were a baby, which means when I look into them, it feels like home and it’s possibly the most familiar and constant love I have ever found on this earth.

As is often the case during the pre-teen years, I know you’re still searching to figure out who you are deep inside and to see your place in this great big world.  I know all too well the ways you may feel awkward or peculiar, or an outsider in your own surroundings.  I promise you it will not always feel that way.  I also promise you that you are so much stronger, smarter, braver, kinder, wiser, and compassionate that you give yourself credit for. 

 I wish you could see yourself through the eyes of the many people who love you dearly and strive to build you up.  The way your teacher proclaims your brilliant intellect, creativity, wit, and skills brings me such pride and joy.  Your musical abilities are magnificent, as you continue to learn two different instruments, while having great vocal capabilities in both singing, and even more surprising and new- beat boxing. Watching you freestyle beat box with our pastor was one of the highlights in this year’s memory lane reel, that’s for sure.  I love your sharp sense of humor and hearing you laugh hysterically when something hits you just right.  Your collection of trivial knowledge is astounding and interesting to me all at the same time, and I surely see myself in you when you drop a random fact about a random subject at a random time.

I find an overwhelming sense of pride when you will drop whatever you are doing to help someone in need, whether it is running across the blacktop at school when you notice some random student drops their papers in the wind, or the way your hand flew up in the air at the call to sponsor a child overseas at the concert we went to a week ago.  You offer a helping had, an extra dollar, a hug, a snack, and so many more things when you see a need and know you can meet a need.  It’s one of the most beautiful things about your soul.

I know we’ve had our share of struggles again this year, as we do any year, but I love that it doesn’t keep us from having a great relationship overall.  Sometimes, let’s be honest, you’re a little moody with me or I’m a little too uncool for you, but that’s okay.  It’s all part of the journey.  Sometimes, I’m also a little too crabby for you, and it’s understandable that there’s friction sometimes.  It’s normal that we disagree on things like technology usage or privileges, and I know you think I’m too strict when I adhere to rules and consequences, but it all resolves back down to the fact that no matter what, we know we have each other, and our love is strong.  Some days it’s hard. Other days it’s so easy and carefree.  I’m thankful for each day, no matter what it brings, tears or laughter, no matter what.  Do not forget it, and do not let me forget it, either.

I am so sorry that there are things that have happened this year that have caused you fear, anxiety, worry, or pain, especially at the beginning of the year on that day you begged me to see a doctor because I couldn’t stand or walk without crying or screaming out in pain.  Then I was just gone, and you didn’t know if or when you’d see me at home again, and it was another way you were afraid that I would die, like Covid the year before.  I know that it was a trying time for everyone in our lives, but that as the oldest child in the family, you felt a unique and special burden, while I was gone, and again while we were reunited at home and I was (and still am) healing.  I know.  I promise you, I understand, and I’m sorry that in some ways you may have felt cheated out of the carefree joy and freedom of childhood.  I CAN promise you that even through it all, good things have come and will continue to blossom within you because of the unique circumstances and trials you have faced in your life.  I can guarantee more and new trials will find their way into your life, but I pray that you’ll always have your firm foundation in faith, followed by family and love, to see you through.  

I pray continually that you’ll always know you are treasured, loved, and wanted, not only by your Abba God, but by your mother, father, siblings, family, and friends.  I know that you perceive your value to be less than some days, but I promise you, you’re worth more than all the gold in the world to many in this life. I pray that you are able to hear God’s voice and feel the Spirit guiding you toward goodness and truth, and your are able to grasp his mercy and grace and to share those things with your own self like you do to others.  I pray that you are able to begin to clearly see your intellectual and creative magnificence, and that you embrace those aspects about yourself.  There are so many great things ahead for you, and while I would love for you to stay this young just a little bit longer, I am quite excited to see your story continuing to unfold.

Thank you for being such a loving son and brother to your siblings, grandson, nephew, cousin, and friend to those around you. You really, truly, are a treasure to us all.

Happy 11th Birthday, Spencer.  Thank you for being my gift, for making me a mommy, and for helping me figure out how to continue growing as I go down the road of motherhood, one day at a time.  

Love you always,

Mom (not Bruh)

One Shy of a Decade

 

Dearest Collin,

Today, you learned what a decade is. You love learning random facts, and were very excited to know that it means ten years, and that after tomorrow, you only have one more year until you are a decade old. 

Only one. 

That sounds so long to you. To me, it's such a brief moment. 

Tomorrow morning, in the early hours, you will become nine years old. 

I do not know where the time has gone. 

This has been yet another whirlwind of a year, filled with many trials and obstacles, as a family and individually for you as well. I feel like I've been living in a weird, timeless daze for 18 months, and my mind just cannot comprehend that another year of your life has passed us by. Quite honestly, I feel a little bit robbed, but I will try hard not to dwell on that. 

 While in this timeless bubble I seem to have found myself in, I was blessed to have extra time with you and your siblings. Our world had to drastically slow down for quite some time, and although we spent a lot of time doing little, we invested a great amount of time being with one another. Sometimes, especially when feeling robbed of years together, that is a great blessing even when it's frustrating. I know that you all spent many days tripping over each other, lacking enough personal space, and being bored at home, but somehow, we all came out of it happier and stronger.  It had been years since I had seen you and your brother play together as long and as well as you did this year. It had been years since you and your sister played so harmoniously, laughed so hard, and made so many messes together. It had been quite a while since I had received so many snuggles. So, even amongst all of the pain and loss that occurs with stressful times, I am so grateful. 

The end of last year in school was difficult, you were overwhelmed, and I wasn't sure how to help you. One day, something just clicked, and God lined up miracles to get everything lined up for you to have a more successful year this year.  It's only been four days, but in those four days, the school staff and I have seen such a beautiful flourishing of your academic spirit, patience, persistence, and joy. 

I am so proud of you for pressing onward, even when it's hard and you are so very down on yourself, and growing stronger in the process. I am very excited to see the potential for the year ahead to be one of the best ever. 

Ollie Bear, I am so grateful for you- for your constant, undeniable (even when you're mad) love, your hugs, your snuggles, your goofy jokes and beautiful laugh. I find delight in the twinkle of your "Van Gogh Hazel" eyes that look like a glorious painting.  I love that I have found myself understanding the complexity of your mind even more deeply, and loving you even more fiercely in the process.  The world is a better place with a mind like yours in it, I promise. 

I am proud of the protector spirit inside of you, you, sometimes to a fault, will stand up against those who try to bring down those you cherish. I love that you care about the littlest ones and the "least of these" in this life. Your spirit is so fierce sometimes that I have to temper you down, but the passion and love that drives you is incredible and it's something I hope you never lose.

I love watching your imagination fire in your play. I love that you still love dinosaurs and know so much about them. I love that you love to share knowledge.

This year, I pray that your confidence grows. I pray that you realize you hear Jesus, maybe not audibly, but in your heart, and even over the noise in the "race car brain" that's always running inside of you. I pray you continue to find restrain and self control, patience, and resilience.  I pray that you are able to hold fast to the truths and good things that make you who you are, and let negativity and lies crumble to the floor. I pray you never lose your curiosity and find exciting ways to keep learning things. I pray for another year of your snuggles and we can hold onto your "little big" side just a little bit longer. I pray that your relationships with others blossom and form strong roots. I pray that this is your best year yet. 

I hope that you forget about that "wasssuuuuuup" commerical we saw at the baseball game with your grandpa, and stop scaring me with that greeting when it's quiet and I'm focused. 

I love you, little bird. I'm so glad that you're mine. 

Always,

Momm-o

Little Miss Seven

 Darling Norah,

You told me this morning that you can’t believe tomorrow is your birthday.  Honestly, I’m finding it hard to believe it as well.  This past year certainly pulled us all through the wringer, and while we’ve joked about it not “counting,” it most certainly does.

A year ago, as you reminisced today, I was “so super sick” and we “were stuck all by ourselves,” but it was also such a blessed birthday.  Countless people sent or dropped off treats, balloons, and gifts, and your eyes sparkled with such joy.

This past year has helped sculpt us all, and one of the ways it affected you was helping you to be even more cognizant of the little joys and small victories in long, trying, isolating days.  There have been so many times you have pointed out to me the ways that things are good or better, and it’s such a refreshing lens to look through.  I love seeing those moments through the lens of your vision.

This year has also brought out some of the most generous and caring attributes of your personality and really let those facets shine.  I remember the excitement at Christmas as we walked through a store where you chose gifts for a little girl across town that we didn’t know, with such a twinkle in your eye.  You could not wait to surprise her with blessings to help make “her Christmas amazing.”  You secretly mailed money to some of your favorite people, “just to be nice” and “to do a good thing.”  When I told you about the groceries we were planning to bless someone with, you came up with an entire additional list of things that they needed, because kids need treats sometimes, even if it includes six flavors of Jell-O.  You make me so proud.  When we made tie blankets with the women’s group at church last fall, you loved it so much  and were so inspired that you asked if we could “make a bunch” to donate ourselves.  With the help of family and friends supplying so fleece, we ended up making a stack of blankets that was taller than you.  You blow me away.

You’ve made sure to remind me through the year how great it is that I’m here.  I know you and your brothers spent a long time worrying about me during various scary health struggles, and you are always cognizant of the fact that things could have turned out very differently.  You admit that the times made you sad, but you are more aware of the fact that things are okay, and that you’re just happy that things turned around.  Your optimism is inspiring on days I struggle to be that way myself.  You’ve stepped up and been so incredibly helpful during my recovery, even though I know it occasionally irritates you to “have to be helping,” and I am incredibly grateful for you and your brothers during this challenge, because I know it’s hard on all of us, but you have all been quite gracious and patient in the situation.

Sure, over the year you’ve also gained a little extra sass, spice and spunk, and maybe a few decibels in your volume register, but you’ve also gained such resilience and intelligent along the way. I’ve loved watching you really blossom in reading, and seeing you bounce back up quickly and determined when things don’t quite go your way.  

There’s been a lot of inconsistencies and change through the year, and you, my dear little lady, have shown such strength. I know that your strength will continue to grow, and that you have such amazing things in store for you. I cannot wait to see you take on the world, although, I wouldn’t mind if you slowed down just a little bit, and we can enjoy these younger years before they vanish with the wind.  You and your brothers are all growing up way more quickly than I would like, and my heart aches a little bit looking at how the years have gone by so swiftly.  The days may be long, but the years are short- or something like that.  I’ve been told that so many times, and this year, it’s proven more accurate than almost any year before it.

I have loved watching your creativity bloom as well.  Sure, you make a lot of little messes (and some giant ones, but who am I to judge because I make crafting messes too) and I feel like I’ll forever be finding scraps of paper, sequins, clumps of yarn, or bits of vinyl everywhere, but it excites me to no end to know that you seem to follow in my footsteps creatively, and although I will likely never run out of tiny little “notebooks,” it is absolutely wonderful to see the things made by your pretty little hands.

I love hearing you worship.  More often than not, the songs that come through your voice while we are sitting at home or driving in the van are worship songs, and it makes my heart soar.  It makes me giggle when the boys want to listen to Kids Bop, and you beg to change it to a worship station.  When I look over and see you singing in church, it nearly takes my breath away.  One of the most powerful moments that helped get me through my hospital stay was watching you sing and dance to worship songs in your dad’s basement.  It lifted my spirits so greatly and brought me enough peace to rest a while.  It was such a great gift that you didn’t even know you were giving me.

Another thing I’ve absolutely loved watching bloom is your relationships with your little girl cousins.  They all have such joy in their eyes when they see you, and you are so patient and understanding with them, but also so incredibly excited when spending time with them.  It’s so beautiful to me to watch those relationships form, because my cousins were also some of my very first and closest friends going up, and although there’s a few years in between me and my cousins, and a few years in between you and your cousins, I see the foundation for those lifelong friendships forming, and it blesses my heart immeasurably to watch you all flourish as you do.

The past year was filled with a lot of “missing out on” and “missing people” and I’m so sorry that life played out that way, but I am thankful for the many hours and days we all were able to spend together, even if sometimes it stressed us out.  I am also so grateful that things are turning around this year, and more typical things are beginning to occur, and we can get back to some of the old traditions and joys that we have longed for over the months.  

I am so thankful that this year, you can walk outside our doors and be greeted by many who love and care for you.  I’ll miss seeing your delight all day long as you are celebrated and cherished at school, but I’m so very happy that I get to share you with the world again.   You are a ray of sunshine in many people’s cloudy days.

Norah, I pray that this year you continue to flourish outside these walls, but also within them.  I know God is moving in your heart, and I pray that you can continue to overflow to those around you, and it magnifies greatly.  I pray you continue to have courage and tenacity in all situations, and that you really can feel how invaluable you are in this world.  I pray you always not only feel beautiful, but know in your mind that you’re beautiful inside and out.  I pray that you have confidence in who you are in all situations.  I pray that you always take the honest road, and keep truth at the forefront- I know that is something that is hard in a world like ours, but I know you have the strength to do so.  I pray that you touch the hearts of others and continue to show kindness and compassion.  I pray your heart never hardens toward those around you.  I pray you know how very loved you are.  I pray that you can continue to change the world around you, and that the world around you does not change who you are inside.

I am so proud of you, little lady.  

I can’t believe you’re going to be seven in the morning.

You think you love me most, but it just can’t be true.  No one on (other than God, as you point out frequently) can love any one more than I love the three of you.  I know, we debate this at least once a night.  I love that about you, too.

Love, Mom