Tag: life

Parent/Child Circle

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Being both daughter and mom of a daughter creates a constant cycle of emotions and challenges.  As a daughter, I did not truly appreciate the actions of my mom until becoming a mom myself.  As a mom, I continually struggle with whether or not my parenting decisions were best for my children.  It’s an unending, mixed up, beautiful circle.

There were times I certainly drove my mom crazy and surely caused her many sleepless nights.  Thankfully she did not give up on me during my young adult years despite some poor choices on my part.  Somehow we both survived.  Although my children may not have supplied the same grief,  I have experienced the worry and sleepless nights.  Part of the job, I suppose.

In a recent conversation, my mom expressed some regret over some of her parenting choices-wishing she had talked more openly about certain subjects.  You know the ones-uncomfortable ones we tend to avoid.  Almost as if she thought my mistakes were her fault.  Naturally, I reassured her that she was a great mom and that I made my own choices.

Truthfully, there comes a time when each of us is responsible for our own actions.  My young adult choices were mine-good or bad, and I had to deal with their consequences. The older I become the more I understand how even those mistakes helped form this person I see in the mirror.  Yes, they brought guilt and sorrow, but also allowed me to encounter life-changing forgiveness and grace.  And that affects how I relate to the people in my life.

At first, I didn’t understand why my mom felt the way she did.  How could she possibly think my mistakes were her fault?  Then I began to reflect on my own parenting.  From that perspective, I began to understand.  Our children are part of us.  One of our greatest responsibilities.  And in some ways, part of our reflection.  We want to see the best parts of ourselves in those reflections.

As parents, we love, worry, pray, and provide-but still feel like we’re falling short.  Did we encourage enough?  Or too much?  Was our opinion expressed too strongly?  Or not strongly enough? Did we efficiently equip our children to make good decisions?  On the one hand feeling responsible for our children’s mistakes, on the other acknowledging our parents are not responsible for ours.  Certainly a contradiction of ideas.

Logical or not, this crazy cycle goes on and on.  Is this cause for concern?  Something we need to change?  I would argue no.  This is the parent/child circle.  You can’t be a parent without first being a child.  You can’t be a child without first having a parent.  Sounds simple, but it is beautifully complicated.  As a parent I would say it is worth the worry and sleepless nights.  And maybe if I stop to remember what it was like to be a child, I won’t be quite so hard on myself as a parent.

Going Home

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Growing up, giving directions to my house was always interesting.  It went something like this…”Drive past the Natural Steps sign and Moreland’s Grocery Store, go around a sharp curve, over a hill, then you’ll see a straight stretch of road.  Right at the end of the straight stretch, turn left onto Mahar Road.”  Mahar is my mom’s maiden name, hence the name of the road.

My husband likes to tell people that I grew up in a commune, but that is not the case. The quarter of a mile road,  lined with trees on both sides, dead ends into a wide-open valley.  My grandparent’s house was in the center, surrounded by several homes belonging to my aunts, uncles, and my parents.  Huge oaks, towering pines, and grassy fields provided plenty of room for kids to run and play.

That’s where I spent my childhood-riding bikes, digging in the dirt, playing kickball and basketball with my cousins.  And since my mom had six sisters and two brothers, there were always cousins around.  They say I made them listen to me practice piano and violin…well, maybe a few times.  But most of the time, we were outside.  Distinct memories include singing at the top of my lungs while riding bicycles, trying to fool my uncle with mud pies, and playing “King of the Mountain” on Grandma’s front porch.

Almost thirty-three years have passed since I lived on Mahar Road.  Even while typing I think surely that can’t be correct! Oh, but it is…despite the years gone by and having a family of my own, I still refer to this special place as home.  I’m thankful to have grown up there-carefree, no worries about safety, room to let our imaginations run wild.

Of course, things have changed since I was a child.  My grandparents are no longer living, cousins are all grown and many, just like me, have moved away.  That doesn’t matter.  Simply driving the route that leads to home causes any anxiety to melt away.  My brain slows down, my body relaxes, and while there I truly rest.  Sometimes I even feel like a kid again.

Thinking about my childhood reminds me that home is so much more than a house.  It’s the people, the places, the memories.  And sometimes…you just need to go home.

 

Life’s Roles

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Daughter first

Sister second

Years later wife

Mom times three

Cousin, niece, aunt

Friend and teacher between

 

Each role gives purpose

Brings responsibility

Delivers sorrow 

Causes growth

Provides joy

Creates life

 

 I look ahead

The future unseen

New roles yet to come

Hopeful to embrace each one

Through smiles, laughter, or tears

And continue down this path to becoming me

When My Opinion Doesn’t Matter

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Music has the ability to both unify and separate.  Think about it-how many times has one single song been used to represent and bring unity to a social movement?  “We Shall Overcome” & “We are the World” immediately come to mind. The opposite is also true.  History tells us of music such as Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” causing rioting in the streets of Paris during its debut.

What causes these polar opposite occurrences? Opinions!  We all have plenty of those.  What we like and don’t like.  What we think sounds good or sounds bad.  Oh, how we love to share, myself included. The problems occur when respect is absent from the sharing of said opinions.

At the beginning of the school year, I have discussions with my students concerning music and respect.  After listing many different styles of music, students have the opportunity to share their favorite.  I remind them that we always show respect for our friends opinions. We also talk about how boring it would be to hear the same music all the time, and the importance of giving something new a chance.

As I considered this respectful sharing of opinions, my thoughts moved from the classroom to the church.  There is definitely a wide variety of styles and opinions concerning music in this realm. Having played piano in church since I was a little girl, I have experienced these styles and opinions on many occasions.

Hymns such as “Amazing Grace” and “What a Friend We have in Jesus” immediately take me back to my childhood.  They provided a strong foundation for expressing my faith.  As a teen I remember playing and singing the chorus “Pass it On” and listening to Keith Green’s “Songs for the Shepherd.” There was truth and power in this new style of song.  Although different from the hymns, their meanings were the same.  As an adult, songs such as “I Can Only Imagine” by Mercy Me and “Praise You in this Storm” by Casting Crowns provided comfort and reassurance during difficult times of grief when I questioned my faith.

Sadly, I have also witnessed the polarizing effect music can have in the church.  As some choose to dig their heels in for tradition, unwilling to consider anything new, the result is often a weakened message.  On the opposite side, others become so engulfed with constantly seeking something new, the message doesn’t have time to sink in or provide the intended encouragement.

So what’s my conclusion?  Personally, I find security and strength in the old, while experiencing comfort and renewed energy in the new.  I believe there’s room for both.  But those are my opinions.  If I lose focus, forgetting the reason for the music, then my opinions really don’t matter.  Truthfully, in this situation I’m not sure they really matter anyway.

“Sing to the Lord a new song; sing to the Lord, all the earth.”  Psalm 96:1

“…speak to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit.  Sing and make music from your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God…”  Ephesians 5:19-20

 

Layers

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Clouds are fascinating.  Since I was a little girl, they always captured my attention.  Maybe it’s the sky in general.  After all, blue is my favorite color, especially when in contrast with white, fluffy clouds.  When I was younger, a variety of images would easily appear in the clouds.  Now finding the pictures is more of a challenge to my imagination.  Oh, I still look, but there is a certain amount of effort required.

These days I tend to notice the many different types and combinations of clouds.  I love how they paint the sky in layers, with contrasting colors and motion, sometimes allowing small patches of blue to appear in the background.  These paintings don’t last long, morphing with the blowing  wind.  Photos rarely capture their true beauty.  Paintings may come close, but part of the beauty is in the movement, the gradual changes.

In many ways, life can be like those layers of clouds.  Sometimes it’s the grey, swirly ones that get our attention.  How will we face the coming storm?  Those sheets of rain off in the distance? Then we see the still, almost motionless layers underneath providing calm.  The storm is not erased, but the ability to get through becomes visible.  If we continue watching, witnessing the continuous changes, that patch of blue or ray of sunlight will soon appear.

Hopefully we also experience those fluffy cloud days, light and ordinary.  Nothing unexpected, time to rest in moments of shade. Or the wispy, almost laughing clouds, reminding us of a funny story or memory.  That kind of memory that makes us smile. Those are the days that revive us, giving strength for when the storm clouds reappear.  We know they will return, that is life.

Although I may never be able to capture the beauty of those clouds blanketing the sky, I will keep looking.  Watching for those moments of light and color to break through.  Reminded that life continues, moving with the swirls, through the storms, to the calm.

Layers upon layers upon layers… 

clouds

Champion

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What is a champion?  The word often brings thoughts of athletes, winning the ultimate game.  Webster’s definition includes warrior, fighter, defender, one fighting for the rights of others, and lastly the winner of a competition.  Although I like the order of those descriptions, there is much more to this idea of being a champion.  Or at least there should be…

Do I think of myself as being a champion in my role as wife? Mom? Teacher? Friend?   Truthfully, no.  But what if I did?  After all, each role is important and has the power to influence and encourage my family, friends, students, and community.  What if I consistently worked hard at improving my skills in each role?

The official music video for Carrie Underwood’s song “The Champion” (feat. Ludacris) does a beautiful job of expressing the broadness of this word.  Included in the lyrics are invincible, unstoppable, unshakable-mixed with images of hard work, honesty, integrity, and sacrifice.  People from all walks of life, facing every kind of challenge imaginable, working hard,  persevering.

I love watching my students’ reactions to this video.  Of course, the song is energetic and exciting.  They love to sing along.  When I ask what people they notice, the answers are all over the place-football player, swimmer, surfer, soldier, someone with cancer, a person with prosthetic legs-you get the idea.

What they don’t usually notice, however, are the students, teachers, parents-doing everyday things.  They are students.  As I like to remind them, doing school is their job.  But do they consider themselves champions in that role of being a student?  This is not a naturally occurring thought for them-or for us as parents and teachers either I’m afraid…

It’s never too late for a new mindset, right?

So where to begin?  The answer will be different for each of us.  For me personally, maintaining motivation is a constant struggle.  Lack of sleep, feeling tired, possibly getting sick-anxiety levels begin to rise leading quickly to negative thoughts-I don’t think I can keep doing this, am I a good teacher, have I been a good mom-a rapid, downward spiral pulls me away from the much-needed motivation.

Sometimes the spiral slows with a prayer, a deep breath, a confession of feelings to a trusted friend. Other times it requires tears, and possibly a nap.  Thoughts begin to refocus. A successful lesson, an encouraging word from a colleague, and a reminder that what I do has value, and therefore requires hard work.

Eventually, the search for motivation begins all over again, and I look for ways to make changes and improvements in my chosen roles. And who knows? Maybe there will be that moment where I feel like a champion.

Even better–maybe someone who crosses my path will feel like a champion.

 

House to Home

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Our family has lived in our current home for fifteen years.  Kids were nine, seven, and three when we moved in.  Prior to that move we had lived in four different houses in three different cities, and two different states.  I remember feeling so relieved to be settled.

As someone who spent the first seventeen years of my life (until I left for college) in the same house, all of our moves were challenging.  I worried about how the kids would handle each new place.  Would they make friends easily?  Would I?  Of course, we all adjusted in our own way.

This house has truly become home.  It’s where our kids grew up.  So many memories.  For example, my concern that Ryan would fall down the stairs.  He was so little when we moved in, and the kids bedrooms were all upstairs.  As it turned out, the concern should have been for me!  I was the first one to bounce down the stairs on my bottom.

Although there was the time Robert tumbled down the stairs.  Apparently Robert, Rachel, and Ryan were playing the game “follow your siblings directions while wearing a sleeping bag over your head.”  I’m sure you’ve all played that one before!  Some friendly advice; make sure the sibling giving directions knows their right from their left…

Many of the memories involve celebrations-and food.  Saturday morning pancakes, Sunday night Chinese take-out, Dad’s burgers on the grill, my chocolate chip cookies, yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Birthday parties, holiday dinners with extended family, graduation parties-so many things to celebrate.

Well…things are about to change.  We currently have a high school senior and a college senior, and an already moved out and employed teacher.  We know from experience these next few months will fly by.  And though our nest won’t be immediately empty, that is the direction we are rapidly heading.

Gart and I have talked many times about preparing for this next stage in life.  He would even joke and tell the kids we were going to buy a tiny house or move to a loft apartment downtown.  Neither of those is going to happen, but we are preparing to buy another house and sell this one.

Right now my thoughts are mostly in the details-time frame, moving boxes, etc.  But they  unexpectedly drift and I find my eyes welling with tears.  This happened while driving away from the home we eventually decided to buy.  It’s a beautiful home, warm and cozy.  I am excited.  So why was I crying?

Change is like that.  Even when the change is positive, it still comes with growing pains.  Right now my growing pains involve how my role as a parent is changing.  Since the majority of my parenting years took place in this house, leaving it will be emotional.

Sometimes when I’m at home alone, our once busy house feels like an empty shell.  I’m thankful for the flood of memories that fills the empty spaces.  Just as our family established traditions and made memories here, I must trust we will do the same in our new house.  And as old memories travel with us and mix together with the new,  a transformation will take place-one that will turn house to home.

Songs and Faces

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I love the way one single song can bring a flood of memories to my mind.  I experience this phenomenon quite often.  The memory may be an event, a feeling, a person…today it was a specific group of people.

These particular individuals happen to be talented musicians. It was my privilege, playing music with them at many a Sunday service in times past.  Circumstances have changed, taking some of us in different directions, to different places. But there was something special about the time we worked together, rehearsing hours each week preparing for Sunday services.

I’ve been playing piano in church since I was a little girl.  We won’t do the math-trust me, that’s a long time! Having taken some time away to rest and refocus, I recently began playing again.  Though the rest was much needed, the return feels like a visit with an old friend.

That brings us to today.  Currently I participate in a traditional service-piano, organ, choir, orchestra.  However, this particular service was different, a beautiful combination of modern and traditional. One of the modern songs was “Great I Am.”

I was excited to see it on the set list. Hearing it at rehearsal last week was like a breath of fresh air and an encouraging memory all wrapped into one.

”I want to be near, near to your heart.  Loving the world and hating the dark.”

This morning as we sang those words, the memories flooding my mind were faces. How I miss those faces.  Although things are not the same, those experiences stay with me wherever the journey leads.  And I continue to discover just how much moments spent with this amazing group of people made a lasting impact on my life.

The Rest of the Story

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I have already shared events surrounding the birth of our first child, Robert, in two separate blog posts-Thankful and The Struggle for Control.  You would certainly think those events provided enough excitement for one pregnancy…but that was before he actually arrived.

One month had passed since our car accident.  My cracked ribs were beginning to heal, and I was ready to meet our baby boy.  Despite reassurances from the doctors that he was fine, my worry would not completely disappear until we actually saw him.  So a date to induce labor was set.

Gart and I arrived at the hospital early on December 1, 1994.  All checked in, the process began.  Doctors, nurses, monitors, IV…contractions. He would most likely arrive sometime before midnight.  That’s what they thought-but they thought wrong. Midnight came and went.  I was in active labor, but something wasn’t right.  Of course, this was our first baby, so what did we know?!

At some point during the late night/early morning, the doctor came in and things changed quickly.  Apparently, she should have been called much earlier.  Once she arrived, the whole room transformed. Suddenly it was full of additional medical personnel-a neonatology team, nurses.  Lighting in the room was adjusted, and the mood became extremely serious.

My mom and mother-n-law had been with us through the entire labor process.  But as the room began to transform, they were asked to wait out in the hall.  So they did.

We often see childbirth portrayed as an intense experience followed by this beautiful first moment.   A pink, crying baby is handed to the new mom.  She’s crying and the strong, supportive dad is leaning over-everyone is smiling and eternally happy.  Photos capture the moment, assuring it will never be forgotten.

When Robert was finally born, I can remember waiting…waiting to hear him cry.   Doctors and nurses were busy doing their jobs and there was nothing we could do but wait.  There was a flurry of activity and none of it sounded good. It felt like an eternity.  Then finally, a cry.  The sweetest, tiniest little cry.

A nurse brought him over so we could see him-not hold him-only for a few seconds.  He was pale, almost translucent, but that sweet face.  I can close my eyes right now and still see that face.  There are no pictures from that moment. Time and the seriousness of the situation did not allow for pictures.  Just as quickly as we’d seen him, he was whisked out of the room.  Gart followed.

Our moms, still waiting in the hall,  did not know what was happening. They’d witnessed the influx of medical personnel and their quick exit with the baby, Gart following close behind.  He was stopped at the nursery.  The blinds were closed.  Now he had no idea what was happening with our sweet boy.

Returning to the delivery room to check on me, he was once again stopped at the door.  I had suffered third-degree trauma, and the doctor was with me.  Poor Gart, it’s a miracle we ended up having two more children.

Finally, I was in a room.  Family there.  Waiting to see Robert.  Four hours later, we held him for the first time.  An IV had been placed in the top of his little head.  He had lost a lot of fluid during the trauma of his birth but was going to be ok.  Once again, we were thankful.

There were birthday gifts and cake later that day in the hospital room.  Because not only was December 2, 1994, the birthdate of our son, Robert, it was also my twenty-seventh birthday.  A birthday I will never forget!

I think I can safely say that is the rest of the story.  At least for today!

 

Instant Friends

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Have you ever experienced an instantaneous friendship?  You meet someone for the first time, yet it seems as if you’ve always known them?  That’s exactly what happened when I met Shannon.  Both of our husbands had new jobs which brought us to Liberal, KS.  She was the wife of a pastor and me the wife of a high school assistant principal.  We both had young children and were navigating a new place, far away from old friends and family.

If you’ve never been to Liberal, well…there is an actual edge of town. You can see nothing but fields for miles and miles in all directions. The town had a Walmart, a few restaurants, and a small shopping center.  We would drive an hour and a half to Garden City, KS just to eat at Applebees.  Needless to say, it was quite an adjustment for both families.

Our move to Liberal was the second big move we’d made in nine years of marriage.  Memories from previous moves brought images of tear-filled goodbyes with many dear friends.  Some of those goodbyes turned into lifelong friendships, but in that actual moment of leaving it felt like our world was falling apart.  As for me, the tears often continued as I adjusted and searched to figure out my place in a new location.  Looking back now I understand that those lonely times strengthened our marriage and brought our family closer together, but oh were they hard.

Soon after we settled in our new home, I heard an advertisement on the radio for a MOPs (Moms of Preschoolers) group meeting.  I’d never been to one of these before but was excited at the prospect of meeting other moms with small children.  There was also a weekly storytime at the library.  My two oldest would be starting school soon, so that would give Ryan (my youngest) and I a fun outing.

It’s funny looking back now, I can’t remember if I first met Shannon at the library or MOPs.  I definitely noticed her at both events with her young kids.  She had such a welcoming smile, maybe we would become friends!  We introduced ourselves, and it wasn’t long before we had traded phone numbers.  At least now there would be a familiar face at storytime and our MOPs meetings.

Not long after school started, Shannon asked if I’d like to go for a walk after we dropped our older kids off at school.  Our youngest kids were the same age, and still enjoyed short stroller rides.  That first walk remains etched in my memory.  We chatted about our families, what had brought us to Liberal, our future plans.  And then Shannon shared the most amazing thing.  From the time they knew they would be moving, she had been praying that God would send her a friend.  I will never forget her words, “I think you just might be the answer to my prayers.”

From that point on, we were inseparable.  Playdates, family dinners, babysitting for eachother…things all young moms desperately need. I’m not sure how I would have survived that year without her.  It felt like we had known each other our entire lives.  She would even laugh and say she must have named her daughter Kelli after me before she even knew me.  And to make the year even more exciting, she soon discovered they were expecting their third child!  So much to plan and celebrate!

Telling Shannon that we would be moving back to Oklahoma for the following school year was not easy.  I dreaded making that phone call.  We were in Oklahoma for the interview and she was in Kansas, having just given birth to their sweet baby.  Terrible timing, but I knew it couldn’t wait.  Always gracious, she understood.  Moving would eventually be part of their future as well.  There were tears and promises to keep in touch.  Despite having experienced this kind of goodbye with friends before-it was not any easier.

Although Shannon and I had become close friends in such a short time, I had no idea the lasting impact she would have on my life. After our move, there were regular phone calls in those first months and even a visit despite the distance between us.  But our communications quickly took a different tone as Shannon was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer.

How could this be possible?  A young mom of three, healthy, no family history…the wife of a pastor.  She fought so hard.  Surgery, treatments, more surgery…and so many prayers.  I witnessed the outpouring of support from their family and friends past and present.  There were also a few misguided individuals who thought if her faith was just strong enough, she would be healed.  Most certainly they did not truly know Shannon.

If ever there was a time in life where I questioned my own faith, this was it.

I had the privilege of spending a week with Shannon and her family shortly before she died.  Oh, my sweet friend-fighting with courage and grace I had never witnessed before. Her cancer had spread once again causing tremendous pain and weakness.  But she was determined we would go shopping, and we did.  She had also planned an outing for us at a lovely tea room, and we went.  I watched as she pushed through, insisting on serving dinner and giving attention to her family-she loved them so much.

Shannon’s kindness as a friend, patience as a mom, and her unwavering faith in the face of terrible tragedy continues to impact my life. We may have only lived in the same town for one year, fifteen years ago, but I miss her.  The grief that she is not here with her family remains.  I keep a picture of the two of us on a shelf in my closet.  When I look at this sweet photo, I think about the power and importance of friends.  And remembering our instantaneous friendship, I am grateful.

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