Becoming Refined

I’ve been watching my daughter nurse a broken heart over the last few weeks that has left her feeling abandoned, rejected, confused and depressed. And it has left me feeling helpless, worried, concerned and prayerful. It’s not a boy that has broken her heart, but her close knit group of friends, which in some ways I think can be even more painful. I had a very similar experience in Jr High myself and I can still remember how my spirit and my joy was crushed by an insensitive ‘friend’, so I understand the pain my girl is going through.

My mama’s heart wants to fix everything, but I can’t. So I listen to her, love her, hug her, wipe her tears and mourn with her as she deals with the pain of her loss. And I encourage her, pray for her and remind her that her worth is greater than rubies, that she is chosen, holy and dearly loved, that she is above and not beneath, the head and not the tail, blessed and not cursed, remembered and not forgotten.

We’ve had many talks over the last few weeks since she was ostracized by this group of ‘friends’ and I’m so proud of my daughter. She is strong and brave, she takes constructive criticism well, she continually strives to become a better version of herself, and she holds her head up high even when she is feeling overwhelmed and alone. And so I really want to say a sincere thank you to her former friends. (No sarcasm, sincerely sincere.)

Thank you for teaching my daughter to choose her friends more wisely and more carefully. Thank you for helping her learn how to be a better friend to others, to be forgiving, loving, and accepting and how to build up a friend instead of tearing them down. And thank you for presenting a challenge that is refining my daughter and making her a stronger person. Because of you, she is growing into an even more amazing young lady than she already was. It’s sad you’ve chosen to miss out on that.

And to my daughter, I want to remind you that you are gorgeous inside and out and it is always more than okay to be a continual work in progress. It is a good thing to be under construction, to make your foundation stronger and to work on the things in yourself that need refinement. You are growing into a phenomenal young woman and I couldn’t be any prouder of you!

Four Years Later, Our Family of Three.

Today, I am a widow of four years and my children have grown four years older without their father. We are no longer broken, but some days we are still learning how to live without him. 

I still have some sleepless, lonely nights. My daughter sometimes come to me in tears because she misses how her daddy adored her. My son still keeps a photo of he and his daddy on his dresser and after months of introspective silence, will talk with me about him for hours.

In those moments, my children listen with rapt attention to my stories of our fun dates and silly fights and the life lessons he and I learned together and they retell their favorite, funniest and saddest moments of their dad that fill their memories. Kellan can't remember the day after Donnie passed, it's a complete blur to him. Emmi can recall almost every detail. I try not to remember the day before or the night we lost him and yet I can't help but think about where I was, what I was doing and how I had no idea what was coming. 

Losing your love, your loved one, or your dear friend can be sudden, world shaking and hurt as if you've lost a limb. It takes time to regrow the nerves that were severed, to realize there will be phantom pain, to understand you must work hard to move forward or even re-map your entire life plan. It's a painstaking process that is full of missteps and hesitations, tentatively placing your foot forward and finding yourself falling over and over again until you are finally able to pick yourself up without assistance and start moving forward with a hard fought confidence in each careful step.

I still dream about Donnie sometimes, even as recent as last night, but my dreams aren't as dark as they used to be. ~ In my dream we were planning a wedding vow renewal on a vast lawn under the stars, with lanterns hanging from trees and laughter floating on crisp fall air. ~ Life feels different now versus the last few years; still unknown, but brighter, hopeful and full of new beginnings. 

Today we will decorate our house for Christmas, tomorrow I will start cooking for Thanksgiving and our family of three that used to be four, will see a new year begin in just a few more weeks. We will miss him at each milestone and in the quiet nights. Every birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas we will experience somber moments. But we will also laugh together, love each other and live each day with the intention of joy. And we will have new stories to tell in the years to come; our family of three. 

Meeting Pop-pop.

My children and I just returned from a trip to North Carolina where I spent the greater part of my younger years growing up. From the second grade into my mid twenties I lived where the grass is greener, literally. The trees are abundant, the highways are beautiful, the mountains linger majestically in the background and the autumns are vibrantly full of breathtaking colors. I've missed the rich natural beauty of that southern state even if I have enjoyed living other places.

We spent hours this past week visiting with my family, a little time with a few of my friends, took a day to drive through my small hometown to show my children the houses we grew up in, the churches we worshiped in and the schools we attended. And most importantly, we visited my father whom I hadn't seen in fifteen years. My children at ages 10 and 12 were so eager to meet their "Pop-pop" in person for the first time ever. They've exchanged a few letters, phone calls and done a little face timing over the years, but this was a significant moment for my kids. 

The first twenty minutes after we arrived at my dad's place, my daughter who was seated near him just stared at him with a quizzical 'I'm trying to figure you out' look on her face. She studied him so astutely. This man who she had heard stories about, not all good and not all bad; with his swollen-red ankles, large belly and semi-lame arms very quickly stole her heart. After meeting him she thinks he's funny, she loves the way he chews and she gets a dreamy smile on her face when she thinks or talks about him. 

My son in his usual reserved way stayed mostly quiet, stood when my dad told him to stand so he could see how tall he was going to grow, laughed at his jokes, checked his mail, readily helped to wash the dishes and grinned ear to ear when it was time to take a family picture with his Pop-pop. My eyes get blurry over the pure joy resident on my kids' faces in those photos.

Last night after we brought all our luggage in, changed into our PJ's, had a bite to eat and said our good-nights, my daughter and son both drifted back into my bedroom with somber looks on their faces. I asked them what was wrong and my daughter replied softly 'I miss my Pop-pop' while her brother nodded his head and said 'Mom, this was the best trip ever'. So sometime this week some letters will be written, an envelope addressed and a stamp applied to it's top right corner to be mailed to North Carolina where we left a piece of our hearts behind. It was a good trip.

And the Crazy Mom of the Year Award Goes to...

FYI: This blog is written in a wholly sincere tone. Please don't read it in a sarcasm filled, defiant, sassy tone. I can see how it might be perceived that way, but it's definitely not written that way. Thanks... :)

Dear Nice Lady at My Kids' School:

Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm pretty sure I saw the look of judgement that passed over your face when I dropped my kids off late for their last day of school and they were marked absent for the day since it was past the official tardy cut-off time. I want you to know I get it. I know I'm not mom of the year. I know they've missed more than their fair share of days from school this school year because there were some times I just did not wake up when my alarm went off and I let them stay home to save them and myself the embarrassment of facing school staff in a situation like today's. 

I can understand your raised eyebrow at my hair thrown up in a sloppy attempt at appearing human with my beloved giant hair clip that has saved my life on more than one occasion. I know I'm not the mom who appears at every school function with a batch of homemade cupcakes in  a proper Tupperware poised on my hip. And I realize with a shake of my head that I forgot to run by the store and buy the chips that my son was told to bring for their last day of school spread which I didn't find out about until bedtime 2 nights ago.

I know you're the one who called me twice this year when I didn't show to pick my kids up after school because I slept through my alarm at 3:00 in the afternoon. You know I work nights but I agree it still doesn't make sense that I seem to have selective hearing loss when it comes to my 3 or more alarms I set to get myself up in time to take my kids' to and from school. I don't get it either.

What you might not know is that even though it's one and a half years later, I am still in mourning for the husband that I lost at the far too young age of 42. That although I am doing much better, I still have days that I am unable to function on a normal level because the night before I was struggling to breathe between and during phone calls about passengers' seating misfortunes. That in those moments of sheer terror filled panic I am chanting a mantra of sorts in my head to get myself through each second: "I'm okay. I'm going to be fine. God, please help me. I can do this. Jesus, I need you! Breathe in, breathe out. I'm not dying. Lord, help me. I'm okay. I'm going to be fine."

You may not realize that even though I was able to give away a little time last night and was off work an hour early and went straight to bed because I knew I was exhausted and needed to sleep so I could get the kids up for their last day of school, that when my head hit my pillow, my heart started racing in anxiety yet again and the prickly grasp of panic clawed at my chest and it was all I could do not to scream and wake up my children in the next room at 4:13 in the morning. You don't know that I lied in bed for the next I don't know how long praying, crying, begging God and texting friends 'Are you up yet?' before 5:00 in the morning just so I could hear a human voice and talk myself down from the insanity ledge I found myself dangling from so suddenly.

You and I both have no idea what time I finally cried and prayed myself to sleep. And you don't know the dread and disappoint that filled me when I woke up in a sad sleepy stupor to see it was two hours past the time my children should have been at school for their last day. You didn't see my son crying in the doorway when I told him we were late and he only had an hour or so left with his friends at school if we hurried to get ready and know the reason he was crying is because you failed, again.

You shook your head a little when you asked if I was staying at the school for the awards program and I half laughed to myself and said "No". You don't realize that I've only slept for a few hours and the crazy woman hasn't quite left me yet and sitting through an assembly with other teachers or moms that might look at me the same way you have, terrifies me and my imagination is out of control in one of those thankfully now rare moments of reliving my husband's death and I might end up running out screaming and embarrass my children even further.

Although it has been a whole year and a half since my world turned upside down and you would think I'd be drawing near to the end of my grieving and mourning season, I'm not. I still have these days that overwhelm me and cause me to wonder how I will ever grow beyond the onslaught of emotions that stop me in my tracks and turn me into an inner lunatic that I do my best to push down into a dark little crevice in my heart.  

You see, the truth is there are days that mad woman walks with me everywhere I go. It disturbs me that I can't seem to break away from her. She whispers in my ear when I am laughing with my children. She points at happy couples in ridicule and disgust when she sees them. She pushes against my chest with all her strength until I am gasping for breath and doesn't give me any relief. She rocks herself during songs at church that I led with Donnie and causes me to sometimes clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from loudly wailing in the middle of a worship service. So to take the chance of unleashing her during a school program is for me, absolutely a laughable, 'NO'.

You don't know that this week I've begun two HUGE steps in my recovery. That just last night I met with some people who I am working with to help put on a Night of Worship and that this is one of THE BIGGEST and hardest things I've done to begin to bring myself back to who I am or who I was or who I might be or who I might become or that I'm still iffy about what my future holds and I'm still testing the waters on what God wants for me and trying to learn to trust Him again. 

You don't know that I've had to learn how to worship again when it was second nature to me before. That part of me has been severed and it's like learning how to walk again. That the future I had envisioned was a shared one with dreams that I thought could only be fulfilled with the inclusion of my husband. That I'm terrified of doing this without him because we were such an amazing and powerful team and it's all I have ever known and that leading up to last night's meeting I was such a nervous wreck. Or that sitting there hashing out songs with people I've never worked with felt strange but good and I realized I CAN DO THIS. Or that as I drove home from the rehearsal I realized that I can do this, WITHOUT DONNIE, and that realization hit me with a devastating blow of sadness that I am moving forward without him. WITHOUT HIM. And it feels as if I'm leaving part of him behind instead of him leaving me and that hurts.

You don't know that in just 2 days we are driving back to the area we lived in happily together for five years to the last places I saw him, to go sit in a congregation and look again at a platform without him and hear someone other than him singing and leading worship in that sanctuary where we had experienced such total freedom and liberty as we had never known before. You don't know how nervous I am about seeing people I haven't seen since the few weeks following his funeral. Or that my daughter, who has been so excited about returning there, broke down in my arms the night before last and told me momentarily that she didn't want to go now because daddy won't be there. Or how important it is that we actually return to replace the memories we left with on a sad note, so we can leave on a good note instead, full of fond memories and moments with people we love and who love us.

And you don't understand what it's like to hold your child in your arms not more than a week ago, as waves of grief overwhelm him and he clings to you as tightly as possible pulling back only to stare at you and cry "Mommy!" in desperation and say "It feels like you're not here!" and understand that feeling of void inside of him as the sobs rack his body and he wails and moans and weeps and continues crying "Mommy! ... Mommy!" and you feel helpless as you hold him tighter and closer and repeat over and over "I'm here, mommy's here, I'm right here with you baby, mommy's here.", for hours.

You don't know that after we leave our last home-place together, we'll be driving to Louisiana and the one thing on my mind is through all the fun and enjoyment we will have while we are there, we will also be going to visit his tomb in the quiet sanctuary of the cemetery where his ashes remain. We will somberly stand in front of his tomb reading over his mis-spelled name that they still haven't corrected on the hard marble door that will separate us from him. You don't know how tempted I am to bring a camping chair and just park it and hang out there with him for a while, just to feel close to him again and hear the birds singing while I'm smelling the thick bayou-scented air and watching my kids run their fingertips over his engraved name as I look over all the chalky-white painted tombs.

So I'm not angry with you. Not at all. And maybe I'd judge the same way if our roles were reversed. Maybe I wouldn't understand either how some moms just can't seem to get it together. But the funny part is 'this IS together' for me. I am doing so much better than I was a year ago. I have come so much farther. I am taking huge steps that tend to knock me off balance and push me backwards but the important thing is that I get up and keep pushing myself and keep moving forward, even when it hurts, even when it's painful or becomes tormentive. 

Even when I have to watch my children endure the stages of grief and continue to gently push them forward. Even when people look at me like you looked at me with reasonable disapproval and judgment, I have to keep moving forward. Because even if it doesn't look like it from the outside looking in, we're making progress. So I'll take that Crazy Mom of the Year award or the looks of disapproval like a badge of honor. I've earned it. And I'm proud of it. 

Oh, and I forgot to tell you when I left because I was still wiping the sleep out of my eyes and also being a bit self-obsessive, but I really do hope you have a great summer. ;)

Happy Birthday Dear Donnie...

Dear Donnie, 

It's your birthday. Today you would have been 44 years old. I would have teased you about being only 6 years away from 50. And I would have told you with all sincerity how thankful I am that you were born. For your last 8 birthdays on this earth you and I truly celebrated your life because of your brush with death in 2004 from Necrotizing Fasciitis. Every moment became special and sacred.

I'm so glad I purposed to give you a party for your 40th birthday. I still think over the time I spent preparing for your surprise birthday roast on the bayou with happy smiles and of how much I enjoyed every moment of planning and then seeing it come into fruition. And even though you knew something was up we still got you with the roast and all those awful pictures. I'm so happy we celebrated that day with your family and friends.

Tonight the kids and I will spend the evening celebrating you again. I've been veklempt since Sunday night thinking about this day and the significance it holds. About how Emelia told me just a few months after you left us for heaven that she wanted to celebrate having you as her daddy on your birthdays every year. And the extra hugs the kids have been seeking from me the last few days with moist eyes along with whispered words of "I miss daddy" in my ears have made me weak and nostalgic.

I miss you. I miss your voice and how its deep timbre brought me comfort and warmed me. I miss your laugh and how it would make your eyes disappear and your dimples deepen. I miss the warmth of your hand covering mine and hearing you say 'Thank you honey' for the small things I did for you throughout the day. I miss the silly irreverent videos that you would text me to make me shake my head in laughter or shock and after watching them, I would have to delete them in case the kids came across them in my phone. And of course I miss your mad chef skills, especially when I murder a steak in my awkward attempts at cooking.

But I will celebrate you today. Even though I will be teary and a bit somber in moments, I am happy to have this day to honor you. I will watch old videos with the kids and we will laugh together. Emmi will tell the IHOP sausage story for the thousandth time and giggle over your crazy antics. Kellan will quietly listen and laugh and cry. We will dine at a restaurant you loved and we will wave at you and hope you see us as we gaze into the starry sky before going into our apartment and getting ready for bed. And we will love you, love you, love you always and no matter what. 

Happy birthday honey.

Verbal Vomit.

I so did not want to go to our grief counseling this week. We hadn't been to the past two meetings because four weeks ago I was sick with the flu and two weeks ago I received news just before we were getting ready to leave that our former Pastor's father was about to pass away and it hit me and threw me into a basket case-crying, I can't breathe and I sure can't drive and sit in a room full of grieving people and hold my composure overwhelming hot mess mode.

So this Wednesday, after missing a couple of sessions, I felt anti-social and was just not in the mood to sit in that room with the other adults. But the kids wanted to go. It means so much to them to be able to sit in a room full of other kids their age and hear them expressing the same feelings they have about losing their parent and being able to talk about their daddy. They had missed going and looked at me with those pitiful, pleading eyes as they asked me "Mommy, are we going to The Warm Place tonight?" I told them "Yes, we'll go but only because I love you so much."

I have a serious love/hate relationship with our grief counseling. I hate introducing myself every other week and telling everyone who I lost, when I lost him and how I lost him. It pisses me off when half the adults there were already separated or divorced or whatever and so they don't feel the loss as deep as I do or at least that's the way I feel. It makes my heart beat fast before I have to speak and I feel like I can't breathe and like I need to run out of the room screaming. I hate feeling like that.

I put off speaking until I absolutely have to when it's my time to share because I am such a mess. Then I open my mouth and verbally vomit all my feelings. I choke up and pause and everyone is staring at me, listening to the un-edited, non-eloquent words as they pour out of my mouth, revealing my weakness, my anger, my fear, my horror, my loss, my frustration, my annoyance, my bitterness, my desperation, my hopelessness, my angst, my rage, my anxiety and my loneliness.

I stop and I say I'm done and they look at me with understanding and nod their heads and wipe their eyes after crying with me. And I realize this is why I still need to go. As much as I hate it. As much as I detest sitting in that room and hearing everyone's pain and feeling their anguish as we go one by one around the room describing our loss or our feelings, I need to be there. In that room, I feel abnormal and normal at the same time. Awkward and accepted. Angry and forgiven. 

I love going there. I hate going there. I have to keep going there. 

Living With An Empty Chair

Doing something as simple as eating out quickly became one of the hardest things to do after losing Donnie. When it's just the kids and I eating at a restaurant, they always place us at a table for four and his absence becomes immediately much more visible with an empty chair at the table. So when we eat out now, I tend to make plans ahead of time to eat with someone else. And if the sudden whim hits me to go out, I find myself desperately texting friends to try to fill the empty space.

You know how it is at any given dining place. There are a few tables suited for larger groups, the intimate tables set for two, and then there are the tables arranged for the perfectly sized family of four. When we're shown our table we choose our seats, sit down and although I do my best not to look at the empty chair beside me, I can't help but sneak in a glance. 

That vacant chair changes everything. It's obvious when we sit at a table for four that he is missing. And at some point during our three-person dining experience, our faces grow a little sadder, our shoulders become a little heavier and our conversation slows. It's just not the same, because he's not sitting in that chair.

He always tried new and interesting dishes and I would stick with a boring meal of chicken something or the other. He would work a puzzle or color a picture with the kids on their children's menus. He would tease them and laugh with me. He would lean over and talk confidentially with me while the kids were distracted. And when the kids and I couldn't finish our dinner, he would take his fork and enjoy the meat that was left behind. Now we always have leftovers to take home.

Who would have ever thought that an empty chair could carry so much significance? That a glance at the chair beside me could fill me with sorrow and place a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. Or that the absence of his reassuring arm behind me on the back of my chair could make my food taste like warmed up cardboard. 

This Friday night I didn't feel like cooking. I wanted to go out and do some laughing and celebrate the beginning of the weekend with a meal made by someone else. I started texting my friends, put a feeler out on FB to try to find someone to meet us and just when I was about to head out to meet some friends, I had a check in my spirit. Or to whoever may not believe like I do, I'll just say something made me stop and think for a minute before rushing off to meet friends for dinner.

I know there's nothing wrong with eating with friends and honestly some times for me, it's absolutely necessary. Sometimes I just cannot be alone, even when the kids are with me. But Friday night I took a moment to stop and dwell on my decision and I decided I needed to give the kids more. Not a night where we were tagging along with other people just so we wouldn't have to be alone, but an evening where it was just the three of us, where it was 'about' just the three of us and sharing that moment together.

I texted my apologies to my friend and jumped in the car with the kids on a quest for a mini-adventure. 'Where are we going mom?' and 'Who are we going to eat with?' were the questions that met me as we left our parking lot. 'I don't know Kellan. We're not meeting anyone Emmi, it's just going to be us.' And a collective, disappointed 'Oooohhhhh.' met my ears and my eyes winced the threatening tears away. 

We ended up going to a German restaurant that I had been wanting to go to for months, but never did because I knew it was a place Donnie would have loved to try and I thought it would be too awkward without him. The kids were skeptical and their mouths were twitching in fear at the thought of eating strange food before we even walked inside. And as we walked through the doors of the restaurant our senses were immediately assaulted. 

Festive, rich and raucous notes from a live accordion player shocked our ears. Young ladies in authentic German dirndls met our eyes. We were seated by a girl wearing gingham at a four-chaired table and our waiter, a young man in his twenties, was wearing lederhosen. We breathed in the thick aroma of bratwurst, schnitzel, sauerkraut and fried potatoes. The kids' eyebrows were raised in surprise and smiles started framing their faces.

I talked the kids into trying bierwurst and kaiserwurst with a side of fries and I tried the schaferschnitzel. Emelia danced a polka that sounded just like the chicken dance with the waitresses and Kellan went to steal a peek at the accordion player and came back to the table miming as if he were playing one himself. Their attitudes had changed from disappointment and fear to fun and adventure. And my perspective changed a little as well.

I still noted the empty chair that held my purse instead of my husband's laughing, teasing, food critiquing, bold personality. I saw that it was void and barren but instead of feeling like it was the giant sized novelty chair bearing the burden of his absence, this time it shrunk to a normal sized dining chair that just happened to be at our table. 

We rode home with full bellies, leftovers in our laps and smiles on our faces. The kids and I talked about how even though they were scared to go in, they ended up having more fun than they could have imagined having in a restaurant. I reminded them we only have one life and we need to be open to new experiences. We talked about taking risks and chances and enjoying each moment instead of hesitating in fear and missing out on something special and unforgettable. 

And even though Donnie wasn't there, it was almost as if he was, because he would have enjoyed every moment of the assault of our senses. He would have been hamming it up, trying new foods and he may have even borrowed the accordion to play a tune for us to dance to. He would have lived that moment out to its fullness with laughter and satisfaction. 

There will still be glaringly vacant chairs at our table. His presence will still be unavoidably missing and we will still have somber moments when we dine together, just the three of us, alone and without him. But I will do my best to teach my children to live exuberantly. To take chances and risk replacing their fear with excitement and to take advantage of life's many opportunities. I want them to live their lives passionately and without any regrets. Which I happen to know is exactly what their daddy would want them to do.

Why I Am a Christmas Crackhead

I'm a Christmas nut. It's true. I'm your worst nightmare when it comes to trying to avoid the Christmas holidays until they are right upon you jingling at your door. Why? Because I let you know far too often and way too early how many days it is until Christmas. I'm known to remind those I care about as early as June that Christmas is only 6 months away. 

I've been witnessed singing Christmas carols in 100+ degree temperatures. I watch Christmas movies year-round. I fantasize about how to decorate my house for Christmas months in advance. I have a Christmas tree for every room in my house and the decorations to go along with them. I can tell you what you should get on the 9th day of Christmas for your true love. 

I even have an app folder on my phone titled 'Christmas' that stays there year round so I can play Christmas games, decorate a Christmas tree virtually, cut up a snowflake and check how many days, hours, minutes and seconds it is until Christmas at any given moment the Christmas notion strikes me. And it does. Often.

Some people say I'm sick. Twisted. Insane. And I drive my friend Karen crazy. (Wait, if I'm driving you crazy, maybe that means I'm not really the crazy one Karen, you are! Heehehee!) I can't help it though. It beats like The Little Drummer Boy's drum inside my heart. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Fa-la. Fa-la. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaa! Hey. You were singing with me just now, weren't you? WEREN'T YOU??? Come on, admit it.

I haven't always been this way. I mean, I've always loved Christmas of course. But it's been a progression since I married Donnie, so really I could blame a lot of it on him. Because before I warped into the Christmas freak, he flew the freak flag first. He decorated every square inch of his living space with Christmas whats-its when I met him. The man went all out. Garlands and bows, ribbons and ornaments, mistletoe and kisses. Hmmmm, I'm gonna miss that one. He was so festive that it was contagious. And over the years, I became infested with festivity. 

Several years ago on Christmas night, we were playing 'Santa', wrapping the big gifts and stuffing stockings, making pies and preparing portions of our holiday meal when the funniest thing happened. We had been checking the 'Santa Radar' all evening for the kids to know where Santa was so we could get them to bed on time. All night long the kids would ask, "Where's Santa now?!" to which we would check and answer "Zimbabwe!",  "Finland!" or wherever else Santa was trekking off to next.

We had already tucked the kids in bed at least an hour prior and Donnie was standing at the stove stirring a huge pot of something Cajun and delicious when he turned to me suddenly with his spoon poised in his hand and eager excitement edging in his voice as he asked me, "WHERE'S SANTA NOW?!?" I stopped my stuffing of the stockings to turn and look at him and asked him incredulously, 'Really??' and we both busted out laughing! He had literally forgotten for a moment that Santa wasn't real! It still makes me laugh. 

So yeah, it's gotta be mostly his fault. But I am what I am: a corrupted Christmas crackhead. And I know, I KNOW I have fallen to the commercialism of Christmas. There are plenty of Christians who boycott how sold out some people are to Santa and the wares of the holiday season. And I'll confess, I was one of those people who said I would never let my kids believe in Santa Claus. 

I knew Santa wasn't real when I was a kid. I knew Kris Kringle was just a bunch of bunk. And yes, my brothers and I were 'those kids' who spoiled Christmas for the young believers because my parents respected us enough to tell us the truth. Yeah, it was us that made the other kids cry because we told them it was OUR dad in the Santa suit and Santa was NOT real. And yes, we did feel superior to other children because we had adult knowledge of the facts of life about Christmas. 

But my husband wasn't having it. He wanted his kids to experience Christmas the way he had: nervous anticipation balled up in the pit of his stomach, aching for the swift moment Santa would swoop in as soon as he submitted to slumber so he could tear open his presents on Christmas morning and bask in giddy euphoria of the thought that Santa somehow brought him exactly what he wanted. So I did it. I gave in. And man am I glad I did. Christmas has been so exciting every year looking at it through my kids' eyes. 

OF COURSE Christmas is not all about Santa with us. Please. It's not all about the decor' and the eggnog, watching The Christmas Story movie or It's A Wonderful Life. It's not all about reading The Night Before Christmas or The Elf on the Shelf. If you've known us, then you know Christ has always been our priority and my kids clearly know the TRUE truth behind why we celebrate Christmas. We have read Luke 2 from the Bible to the kids every year and had discussions and celebrations to make sure that clarity remains. But come on y'all, they're kids. And it's Christmas. And we're just having some merriment and fun. Well, a lot of it actually. 

Besides, Kellan knows. He figured it out 2 years ago and asked Donnie and I a few weeks after Christmas whether Santa was real or not. We told him the truth, revealing our deception and I gulped guiltily as I wondered if my son would be damaged goods now that he knew we had duped him. But he just smiled knowingly and shrugged and said he knew it. I could tell he felt wiser and more grown up at the knowledge he had gained and it satisfied me that he could now enjoy the heady feeling of superiority over other children like I had. (Haha!)

I think this will probably be Emelia's last year to believe. But I'm holding it out as long as I can. Because I'm not looking forward to how the suspense of the holiday will lose a little of its luster once she realizes Santa isn't real. She'll know it's me busting my butt to get her gifts and the magic of Christmas Eve will diminish a bit for her and for me too once she becomes one of the superior knowledged children. But at least for one more Christmas she'll have trouble falling asleep and be straining her ears for jingle bells and reindeer hooves. And me? I'll be nibbling on Santa's cookies so she'll think he ate her sweet little offering.

By the way, however you want to look at it, as I'm writing this there are only 68 days OR 1,642 hours OR 98,534 minutes OR 5,912,040 seconds left until Christmas arrives. It's time to get ready people! HO HO HO!!!

Here's some helpful links for your Christmas preparation that a pro like me has been known to use during the holiday season!

Christmas countdown website

Santa Radar Tracking

FREE Personalized Santa Video/Christmas Letter for Kids

The Aftermath, Part 4: Crazy Little Thing Called Grief.

I mentioned in my last post that grieving is a process and that is exactly what I've learned and am still learning as I go through my grief over the loss of Donnie. When I lost my mom, I grieved for her. When I lost my brother Gerald, I grieved for him. But they were both entirely different than what I've experienced in grieving for Donnie. 

With my mother, I miss many things about her and I've expressed some of that in past blogs. I still miss her often and think of her daily, but in the wake of grieving Donnie, my grief for her has surprisingly become somewhat renewed and at times more intense than what I went through when I initially grieved for her. I think partly because of 2 reasons. 

1. I think Donnie was kind of a buffer for me. I grieved for my mom and it was difficult, but I had him here to comfort me and hold me and help absorb a portion of my grief and bear part of my burden.
2. Without Donnie here, I naturally long for my mother's comfort in my grief. When I ache for Donnie, I ache for my mom to comfort me, talk with and run to when I have difficult days. So in a way, without Donnie here it's almost as if my grieving for my mom has begun anew. 

I was watching a marathon of Tabatha's Salon Takeovers a few months ago and wailed and cried over my mom through two or three episodes. It reminded me so much of my mother and my involvement in her world when she did hair and worked as manager at Regis Hairstylists in the Mall back home. I realized how special those memories were and how much I took her for granted. 

With my brother, I grieved losing him, but even more so, I grieved for the loss that Amy, Alana and Ian had to endure. I knew I couldn't comprehend it and yet, dealing with Donnie's illnesses over the years and facing uncertainty more than once over his life and health I could only imagine what she must have been going through. And really, I had no idea. Losing Donnie, has devastated my world. In so many ways. I feel as if I have been crippled, like I have lost my legs and I'm learning to walk again. When I lost him, I lost so much.

In the 12 and 1/2 years we were married or 13 years we were together, my whole life changed. I stepped into full-time ministry and I learned how to sing all over again because let's face it, I had a full time vocal coach hounding me every moment. (Those of you who have worked with Donnie will understand that, haha! "Open your mouth! Pronounce the words! Swoop that note! Put some groove in your voice! You sing like a white girl!" LOL) We worked in various churches over the years and went through so much and learned so much together and refined one another. 

What was at first a semi-uncomfortable task for me to take on the role of being a Pastor's wife and being considered a Worship Leader instantly, over the years became second nature. We learned each other. I could feel where he was going in a worship set beyond the list we had prepared, he could tell when God wanted me to lead and it became such a natural exchange, an intimate dance before God of worshiping together. It was crazy, it was powerful, it was rich and it was an extravagant pleasure to worship and to lead worship with him. When I lost him, I felt I had lost that opportunity. Every time I heard worship or tried to worship, I grieved for him, because I knew I may never have that kind of intimacy with someone again. 

I didn't know who I was anymore. Who was I? I was no longer a wife. I was no longer a worship leader. I was no longer a caretaker. I just, was. I was lost. How could I even consider a future? Without him? My way of life for 13 years was gone. Who was I without him? My entire world revolved around him. I couldn't figure out my purpose. 

In many ways, I felt like my life was over. I literally felt as if my life had ended with his. I had no hope and I lived in gloom. After we settled in DFW and I had unpacked everything, I walked around in a Zombie-like stupor from room to room, not knowing what to do with myself. I took the kids to school and would come home in between and feel like I was going crazy. 

For the last several years, my days and nights had been filled with caring for him. I was so busy taking care of him and the kids that even in my relaxed moments, my mind was always filled with pre-meditations of what I needed to do next: fix his medicine, cook dinner, drive to dialysis, make a doctor's appointment, pick up his medicine, bring him something to eat, get his clothes ready for church, plan to leave early enough that if I have to stop for him to vomit on the way there we still wouldn't be late for rehearsal or church, make sure the kids homework was done, drive to church, prepare for rehearsal, enlarge the charts to fonts about 

10 TIMES the size of this because he couldn't see it otherwise. 

And so on and so on. It sounds boring and mundane to type it out, but my life  was full of non-stop activities that kept me extremely busy and focused on him, because he needed me and I didn't mind being needed. Most of the time. Oh I had my moments when I would get in the car to drive to the store and scream and cry and yell at God and wonder why my life had reduced me to a nurse. But I loved Donnie through all that and given the chance to go back, I wouldn't change anything that I did for him, not a second. I loved that man, no matter what.

But without him, I truly felt as if my life was over. For months I asked God what to do. And the answer I received was to simply, grieve. So I poured my time into grieving. I did whatever I felt like I needed to do in whatever given moment I was in. Whatever emotion came over me I let it out, I cried it out, I sang it out, I screamed it out, I cleaned it out, I prayed it out, I freaked out. I hid in my room under my covers. I watched Andy Griffith on Netflix all night long. (Sometimes that was the only thing that made me feel better.) 

I ate chocolate. I drank green smoothies. I worshiped. I sung Bon Jovi. I jumped in the shower. I wouldn't wash my hair. I gave the kids cereal for dinner. I made them steak and baked potatoes. I went out for lunch with my aunt or my friend. I stayed inside for a week like a recluse. I read books and  books and books. I watched TV and Netflix for hours. I talked about getting a job. I didn't look for a job. I did a little retail therapy. I watched my pennies and held them tight. I wrote a blog. I didn't write again for months. I journaled 3 days in a row. I ignored my computer for 2 weeks. 

I would go for a few days of feeling okay and then the world would crash down on me again and immobilize me for a week. I would have a week of feeling pretty good and then I would suffer through a weekend of severe anxiety wondering how I could ever live life again. I would be having a good day and then someone would ask me how I was and I would fall apart. I didn't want to talk to anybody about anything. I told the cashier at Aldi my husband died. I called and texted people in the middle of the night just to feel human and not alone. I still call and text people in the middle of the night just to feel human and not alone. 

I was crazy. I am crazy. I lost my husband. 

I lost my husband. 

I. Lost. My. Husband. 

I take the kids to The Warm Place (a grief recovery center for kids who have lost someone they love) and they go to their separate classes geared towards their age bracket. I attend the group with the adults who have brought the kids. We go around the room one by one introducing ourselves at every meeting, kind of like they do at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I can never make it through my introduction without crying. "Hi, my name is Sharon. I bring with me my son Kellan who is 10 and my daughter Emelia who is 8. We lost their father, my husband Donnie on November 22, 2012, Thanksgiving Day to 'cardiac arrest' after a long illness, a quick fall and an unexpected blood clot to the heart." 

We talk about our children. We talk about ourselves. We talk about our lost loved ones. Half the people are in tears and sometimes we laugh together over the absurdity of a shared moment, but we are all grieving. Grief is a process. It's like an ocean. The waves roll and crash, they rush and they recede, the tide comes in and the tide goes out, but it always comes back again. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few weeks, but it always comes back in big waves or in little waves. And it hurts every time,  whether the waters crash over you and make you lose your balance or whether you're just wading through ankle deep water. It still hurts. I'm still grieving. It's getting better. But I'm still grieving. 

Tomorrow's Blog: A Love Story - A break from The Aftermath series to share my love story. Get ready to laugh.

The Aftermath, Part 3: My Grieving Children

The next few weeks of February found us settling into our new apartment. During our Christmas week in DFW with family, I had found a little 2 bed, 1 bath apartment in the same complex my mom used to live in and decided to move there. I unpacked boxes and found places for everything, started decorating and by the end of February had everything pretty much where I wanted it.

The kids settled into their new school, which is a great school by the way and they made new friends, fell in love with their new teachers and were doing well adjusting and maintaining their good grades. The first few weeks in DFW were somewhat exciting for them because of all the newness. But by the end of February after we fell into a daily routine and everything was just about done and set up in the apartment, it hit us all about the same time that this was our new life. Their daddy was gone and wouldn't be joining us here. It was just us and we were on our own.

Emmi started having a hard time at night again. Going to bed was difficult because that's when everything seems to come into a sharper focus for her. She always cuddled with her daddy before bed and gave him goodnight hugs and   kisses. Sometimes he would even go lay down with her in her bed to help her  fall asleep on restless nights. That comfort was gone now and her hero, her love, her protector and her cuddle-master was missing. She began drawing, journaling and writing songs and stories about Donnie. She tends to naturally channel her grief in healthy ways.

Kellan, who would rarely talk about Donnie unless Emmi or I started a conversation about him, began speaking out in some unexpected ways about his daddy. He brought up questions or comments about his death at very inappropriate times. He sang a silly yet disturbing song at the dinner table one evening about the night Donnie died. He told me when I kissed him goodnight  and tucked him in that he didn't want me to die. It took me a a few seconds to  gather myself and comfort him in those moments.

I am very open with them at all times and encourage them to talk as much as they want to about their daddy and share any memories, ask any questions and say anything they want to say. I've assured them that it's okay to cry when they need to and anytime they feel like doing so. I've held them in their tears and they've held me during some of mine and then we've discussed how it's good to feel your feelings and not keep them inside. 

We laugh together about funny moments we had with Donnie. One of Emmi's favorites to recount is one night when we were out to dinner after church. We  had eaten at IHOP and were about to leave, when Donnie saw an untouched sausage link on Emmi's plate. Emmi LOVES meat, just like Donnie did. It is rare she leaves any morsel of meat on her plate, but this particular time she did because she had dropped the sausage on the floor when Donnie had gone to the restroom with Kellan. So when he saw it, he grabbed it for himself in a teasing way from Emmi's plate. Emmi and I said 'Wait! NO! Don't!' ... but he had already placed the sausage in his mouth in a funny, possessive way and chewed it vindictively while staring at Emmi with an evil grin on his face! Then we told him what happened and we laughed and laughed and laughed. We all laughed and giggled the whole way home; it was so, so funny. 

We talk about the night of his death and I answer the same questions over and over for them. We discuss our sadness at losing him and our love for him and how we can't wait to one day see him again in Heaven, where we believe we will be reunited. We watch the funny videos he made on his phone, we listen to his voice singing and worshiping, we look at pictures and sometimes we just hold  each other because we need to.  

And we've started going to a wonderful grief recovery center for kids (and the adults who bring them) called The Warm Place. It's the same place Amy took Alana and Ian for 2 years after Gerald passed away. Kellan, who still finds it difficult to share his feelings about missing his daddy at times, has really taken to the atmosphere they have there. He will tell me several times a week he wishes it was time to go back to The Warm Place (we meet every other week on Wednesdays), so it's encouraging to me that he is able to talk and share there in a safe place with other kids who have been through the same thing.

Our emotions have evolved and processed somewhat and it's easier now to talk in some ways but grieving is such a process and for every person, it is remarkably different. Emmi is open and ready to share or ask for help if she needs it. Kellan is guarded and limited in what he chooses to say and only reaches out for help when he is absolutely overwhelmed or afraid. And I have had my own ways and difficulties of dealing with my grief which I'll share later, but the important thing is that we are making progress, little by little, which actually adds up to a lot.

Tomorrow's Blog: The Aftermath, Part 4: Crazy Little Thing Called Grief - An honest portrayal of my grief as it unfolds.

Questions & Resiliency

So without my husband here, everything changes. Seriously, everything. Support is given, support is lost. Decisions have to be made. Questions have to be answered. Explanations need to be given. It's overwhelming and I'm not sure where to start.

What I do know is what I'd like to plan out over the next few months looks like it will have to be fast forwarded into the next few weeks. Major decisions, major changes and major transitions are being heaped on top of our major loss. 

I worry about my children. I've been told countless times by numerous people over the last few weeks that 'children are resilient' and I shouldn't worry too much about them. I know they mean well when they say that, but honestly, I find it a little difficult to so easily label them.

These resilient children of mine are my only inheritance from my husband. They will be his (and my) lasting legacy of who we are, what we believe and what we have together invested (and what I will continue to invest) into their lives, bodies, minds and spirits. Maybe children are somewhat resilient and go with the flow, but these are MY babies.

And they have so many questions: Are you a widow? Do we have to move? Are you going to get married again? Who will walk me down the aisle when I get married? Can daddy see me? Is Santa Clause real? Why did daddy die? Will you die? Can I sleep with you again tonight? Who will walk me down the aisle? Can I open a Christmas present? Why were you pushing on daddy's chest with your hands? Why did he look like that? Who will walk me down the aisle? Can I have a candy cane?

Resilient:
a : capable of withstanding shock without permanent deformation or rupture

b : tending to recover from or adjust easily to misfortune or change

Hmmmm. Am I resilient enough? Will I recover and adjust easily to this misfortune/change in my life? Time moves forward. Life goes on. I tell myself I need to buck up and get my act straight and figure out a way to provide for my kids and find a home and fix the car and take them to school and cook them dinner and do the laundry and get into a new routine so I won't notice the HUGE HOLE that is in my life. Carry on! March forward! Get it done! It's only been 3 and a half weeks since he died, but be resilient!

...A couple of sweet families I know from several years ago recently had a wedding joining 2 beautiful young people in marriage. They posted pictures from the wedding for everyone to view and oh was it gorgeous! I still wish we could have been there. But as I poured over the photos, trying to virtually experience the event, seeing the joy on the faces of the family members, imagining their laughter, seeing the side-whispers and noting the sun shining on the beautiful churchyard... I wept.

Because all that was echoing in my head was her little voice: 'Who will walk me down the aisle?' 

You just don't understand. One of Donnie's greatest joys was to dream about  and imagine Emmi's wedding with her. They would sit and cuddle and talk about that special day and she would giggle as they would discuss their first dance together at her wedding. And she would gaze up at him with complete adoration when he would tell her how he would walk her down the aisle and give her away to her husband. She built up this magical moment in her mind and now she has to re-imagine it in a completely different way. 

I know it is what it is. He's gone. We will adjust. We will move forward. We will learn to be resilient. But we just lost him. He's gone. And now... we have to learn to be resilient.

It Happened On a Saturday Morning.

Someone recently reminded me of something pretty amazing. Something unforgettable. Something breath-taking. Something that I can't believe I'd forgotten about, momentarily. And something that really needs to be recorded here for eternity.

I am speaking of my daughter's morning hair! I don't know quite how she does it. How do these miraculous monstrosities happen during her slumber?

Nearly every Saturday when she stumbles out of bed, her hair is so artfully arranged and I find myself dumbfounded. And sometimes, I just have to capture it on camera. 

I think I may have leverage for future blackmailing! What do you think?

Ages

Ages have passed since my last words here. 

Milestones? 

There are a few.  It's been one year since Donnie started dialysis and in some ways he's better, and in others, he's just not. Kellan has started taking meds for ADD. Emmi is outgrowing her clothes almost as quickly as I buy them. And I cannot find a job to fit around my varying schedules of the kids' school hours, Donnie's dialysis hours and our church hours. It seems my inflexibility is quite understandably not very attractive to any potential employer in this region.

Plans? 

I'm thinking of going back to school and finishing out my degree. I'd probably have to go online to work around our schedule and obligations and I'm not quite sure what I would major in... maybe journalism? I'm also toying with the idea of seriously blogging to the point that perhaps it could generate an income, or attempting to freelance write, but so far I've felt a little too inferior and unknowledgeable to take any of these ideas on. But it's time to stomp out fear and move forward, somehow, some way.

Issues? 

Still dealing with Emmi's eczema and although we've found some things that really work well for her, the last few months I've been trying to step back and give her a little more responsibility in learning how to take care of herself since she will likely have to deal with this for possibly her lifetime. The result has not been so great, her skin is bordering out of control and my attempts to reassert taking care of her body in the proper way have been quite laughable. Just picture me pinning her down to put meds and lotions on her or me chasing her down the hall with vaseline all over my hands instead of on her dry, ashy, patchy, inflamed skin. Sigh... We saw her doctor this week and they added another 3 medications to the 3 she's already taking (not including her lotions) and I just don't know how I feel about that. I detest loading my child on meds that she may not really need when there is something natural that can work for her. But when her skin becomes this bad, I feel desperate enough to give in to meds for a temporary fix. Even though it is only temporary.

Kellan has been doing great on his ADD meds as far as school goes but it puts him in an ill temper (ai yai yai!) and he doesn't eat enough and sometimes has problems falling asleep. Which of course they want to give him a med to make him eat more and a med to help him fall asleep.  I don't know if I will use them though. I'm one who doesn't really believe in using meds unless they're absolutely necessary.

Don't get me wrong, I am not against modern medicine. But have you ever listened to those drug commercials on TV? They make a solution to-whatever-your-ailment-is sound so amazingly wonderful and then list all the side effects in a rushed/hushed voice. Side effects scare me, my friends. I believe my poor sweet mommy was a victim of said side effects. One medicine caused cholesterol build up. Cholesterol build up caused heart attacks. Meds for heart issues caused diabetes. More meds caused pulmonary fibrosis. Pulmonary fibrosis caused death. So me no likey meds if there is another healthier alternative available.

And my poor sweet hubby. I can't even tell you how many meds he's on these days. So many, for so, so many reasons... it's not just the kidney failure he deals with or the diabetes, or the hypothyroidism. There's restless legs and high blood pressure and sinus and tummy and-and-and-and-and... should I keep going? Let's leave a little mystery, shall we?

So there we are and here I go. Time to wake up my sleeping husband so I can put him to bed. :/  Goodnight my non-readers, figments of my imagination! Tomorrow another dialysis day awaits and my mind is already gearing up for it: What shall I read tomorrow? What deals will Kroger have on their meat? Will Walgreens have the kids meds ready? Will Donnie's clinic ever call in his thyroid medicine refill? Can I pass the kitchen table without staring at the Easter candy? Stay tuned for the intriguing answers!

School's In!

Today ends week 1 of back to school for my kiddos. Kellan has entered 3rd grade and Emelia is in 1st. Here is a snapshot of their first week of school.

The first day of school when I picked Kellan up I was there 15 minutes early and had to wait about 30 minutes altogether before he was in the car. He was red, hot and grumpy. I was asking him questions about his first day and all I got were angry one word answers! I started laughing and asked him why he was so grumpy with me? It was because he had to sit out in the heat for SO LONG and thought I was late in picking him up. Then I showed him the line of cars STILL waiting to get their kids from school as we drove down the road and he chuckled and said ummmm Sorry!

Kellan really likes his teacher and thinks she is funny. He's very glad some of his friends are in his class and he's already making new friends too. He still is a little shy at recess and kind of sticks to being on his own there. He wants me to make him a lunch kit sometimes instead of going through the cafeteria line and he loved that he didn't have any homework the first week. I kind of liked that too!

When Emmi got in the car the first day after school, she immediately told me how pretty her teacher was, detailing the black and white blouse she had on, her black high heels and the way her hair was held back in a partial pony tail and then flowed down her back with the rest of her hair and its really, REALLY long. She talked NON-STOP from the moment she got in the car until we were tucking her in bed and I am not exaggerating. Apparently, returning back to school agrees with her.

Except for the mornings that is. Hello Meltdown City. Screams, tears, cries, snot and stomping were heard throughout the house on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday due to her OCD sensory issues. Her shoes don't feel right and her jeans are too tight. I was TRYING to wait until it got cooler to buy her more jeans and THOUGHT her last 3 pairs would make it until then (she just tried them on 2 weeks ago and they still fit then!). But it looks like we have to go shopping which my account will not like but SHE will LOVE. 

 

OH! And she informed me last night that a young man in her class by the name of "Wade" put his arm around her at the car ramp on Wednesday afternoon. WHAT??? She giggled and said she told him to stop twice before he moved his arm. I looked at Donnie and said ummm, aren't 1st graders too young to be making moves? And then I had a flashback of myself in kindergarten chasing the boys in the playground trying to make them kiss me. And I guess, well, maybe it's not.

 And last but not least, THIS is the kids first day of school pic. I forgot to take one that morning so I made them pose by the door when they got in from school, trying to make them smile and be happy for the camera. Perfect! I think I'm in love.

Because Inquiring Minds Want to Know!

Recently my inquisitive kiddos have been firing off alot of questions.  Some of their inquiries have made me laugh, some have caused me to reflect and generate questions of my own and others have totally confused me!  I thought I'd share a few of them with you for today's entertainment.  Enjoy!

Am I supposed to be at school right now?  

(Kellan, leaning over my bed at 9:30 a.m. one day)

Will you smell my finger? 
(Emmi, to Donnie while I was at work)

Is THAT your chin? 

(Kellan, pointing to my neck as I was looking down at him)

Why did God make us?  

(Emmi, while she was in the hospital)

Will that dress look good on her boobs? 

(Kellan, to Emmi as they were playing with Emmi's barbies) 

Can I have a mayonnaise and jelly sandwich? 

(Emmi, waking up for one of her midnight snacks)

When I grow up to be a daddy, can I still live with you? 

(Kellan, planning his future)

Can I just eat this string? 

(Emmi, after finding a string on a table)

Agreeing to Disagree

It was only 6 years ago that I sat anxiously waiting to hear the results of my husband's first, of many, life changing surgeries.  I was 4 months pregnant at the time with my little girl.  My husband, who was only 35 years old at the time, had been sick for 5 weeks, misdiagnosed 4 times and was literally near death before we finally saw a surgeon who realized that his body was being ravaged by the flesh eating disease, Necrotizing Fasciitis. 

Of course my emotions were all over the place since I was expecting my daughter Emelia.  I had been nursing my husband for the last several weeks, seeing him deteriorate and not getting any answers from multiple appointments with varying Doctors and at the same time taking care of my 2 year old son and filling in for my husband in his position at our church.  I was a wreck.  And I was angry.  I was SO MAD at God that my husband was so ill and that I might lose him and be left alone to raise my son & my soon to be born daughter.  I was livid with Him that He would give me a gift (my baby girl to be born) & be taking away my husband at the same time.  It was devastating to even think of it.

But over the next 2 months and multiple surgeries, my husband began to slowly recover.  His life was preserved; he was able to come home and build his strength back up and become a father to our little girl.  In the years since, he has had several additional infections including MRSA, a total of 16 surgeries (including the amputation of both his great toes), and multiple complications that have become a normal part of our daily lives. 

My little girl is now 5 1/2 going on 32 years old.  She is full of sass and has a hilarious sense of humor and perfect timing for her witty remarks.  She is full of energy, high maintenance, and exhausting.  She also has eczema and asthma and we cannot seem to control her scratching or itching no matter what prescription lotions or treatments we try (please don't suggest anything, we've literally seen, heard & done IT ALL).  And just a few weeks ago, we were in the hospital, anxiously waiting at 4:30 a.m. in the Family Holding room for her Dr to let us know how the surgery went.

In those moments I found my mind back in that first consult room 6 years earlier, waiting for my husband's surgeon to come out and tell me if we had waited any longer my husband would have been dead and that he wasn't out of the woods yet.  I was terrified when he told me that.  But it didn’t even BEGIN to compare with the horror I felt inside at the thought of my daughter having to endure surgeries comparative to what my husband had gone through.  After that moment of flashing back, I informed God that if He took me through all of that back then just to lose my daughter now, I was going to be SO MAD at Him!

Of course, she is fine.  Of course, it was just one finger infected, not an entire limb.  Of course, I WAS overreacting to the situation.  Of course, the Doctor is the best hand surgeon in the area and absolutely knows what he is doing.  Of course, the anesthesiologist has had years of experience dealing with people that have eaten only a few short hours before an emergency surgery.  And yet as the time crept by I became more anxious.  Maybe it’s because I know what can happen; I’ve seen ugly infection and ugly results. 

And I know, I KNOW that anyone can analytically reason things out that we came to the hospital at the perfect hour to have the perfect Doctor operate at the pivotal time for my daughter.  Anyone can mock my faith and my beliefs and my practices and my values.  Anyone can say whatever they want to, but I know what truth is.  And truth is that God prepared us for that moment.  We knew what signs to look for: the swelling, discoloration and streaking.  We knew because we had been through that with my husband’s infections numerous times.  He prepared us by giving us the knowledge through my husband’s experiences.  He designated that Doctor to be available to operate on my daughter. And now, her finger is fine, her hand is fine and the scars are barely visible.

There are people out there that will attribute my daughter’s recovery to the Doctor’s aggressive response to infection.  There are people that will say it’s due to the Doctor’s training, our wisdom and coincidences of time/place/convenience.  But I know that my sovereign God intervened on our behalf.  And although I am thankful for the Doctor and the education he received to enable him to give my daughter the appropriate care, I am more so thankful to my God for keeping His hand on my daughter’s life, for ordaining each moment and each step of our lives.  I am thankful for great medical care and we followed through (as always) on the Doctor’s advice, but ultimately it is to God I give the glory of keeping my precious baby girl safe and sound and healed.

And to those that disagree, I respect your opinion and I value your input, but in times like these we will just have to agree to disagree.

Whodunit Take 2!

Here's another game of Whodunit to boggle your mind and sharpen your detective skills! (See the last Whodunit here!)

Saturday: The life-sized Barbie was given a permanent marker beauty treatment of eyeshadow, lip gloss & finger nails all in goth-black.

Sunday: Cotton was plucked from the tops of Q-tips just for their scalps to be brazenly thrown all over the floor.  Then the Q-tips were maliciously tortured by being sliced in half and collected in a wallet-photo-sized black mesh-fabric bag.

This Morning: A fleur de lis was inked on a small left arm to mimic daddy's new tattoo.

This Afternoon: Bandaids were found lovingly applied to the living room lamps.

Tonight: Orange juice was squirted all over the kitchen floor, just to 'make it shiny'.