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“Hey, come here a minute,” I motioned to my 19-year-old son, Caleb. “I have a question for you.”

“What?”

He reluctantly shuffled to the couch where I was sitting and sat on the other end.
It had been an emotional couple of months after his graduation from high school, and now, preparing to go to college as we, his family, prepared for a move back to my home state where we would receive more resources and support for our disabled son, Lucas, Caleb’s brother.

I looked at my son, sitting across from me, and thought it seemed like only years ago I was rocking him to sleep as a baby boy, and now here he was, a grown man.

“I was just wondering, now that you’ve graduated and are about to go to college, what did you think about your childhood?”

My insecurities as a mother were in full bloom with the question I had just posed.

“What do you mean?” he warily asked.

I continued, “Did you feel like you had a good childhood? With everything that occurred in your life? You know, anything you would change?”

His life flashed before my eyes as I spoke these words.

My baby boy, born in 2002, a hard birth without drugs, and two years later his brother Lucas arrived; his brother who had a stroke in utero and would have profound disabilities that would rob Caleb of so much of his mother as she dealt with Lucas’s never-ending needs.

My boy, at 6 years old, feeding his father when he no longer had the energy, and lifting his father back into bed after he fell as cancer ravaged his brain.

My boy, months later, while saying goodnight, found his father had quietly passed from this life to the next.

My boy, who would shortly thereafter be adopted by a new father and welcome three new siblings into his life and share his bedroom for the first time in his life.

My boy, who would move numerous times as we chased resources for his brother with special needs.

My boy, who was excited by the birth of his baby sister, our eighth child, in 2015.

My boy, now sitting beside me as the silence grew thick as he contemplated his answer.

“My childhood was good. I wouldn’t change a thing because I know you did the best you could.”

My boy, full of grace, my wonderful son who, in spite of everything life had thrown at him, focused on the blessings rather than the injustice of the hand he had been dealt. My boy, my son, I’m so incredibly proud to be your mom.

If you enjoyed this and want to read more, check out my books, Sunlight Burning at Midnight, Blended with Grit & Grace, and  Lovin with Grit & Grace

       

 

The other night, after the dishes were washed and put away, Ryan and I sat in our big soaking tub, catching up after a long day of work, chaotic schedules, and managing a bunch of children. By the way, if you find it difficult to enjoy alone time with your spouse, draw a bath.  Seriously, there is not a child alive who wants to acknowledge anything about that situation or be anywhere nearby when it’s occurring. 

I exhaled and sighed, “I wish there was a way we could see a glimpse of what life would have looked like if our former spouses had lived. I’d just be curious.” And I paused for a second to really think through what that might look like. One or two of my children would most likely be all-stars in tennis and/or golf because their father was extremely talented in both sports. They probably would have grown up in the same hometown and attended the same school most of their lives. I assume Jason and I would still be married, and Mabel would have been the only daughter so her life would be drastically different without three sisters (at least our wedding budget would have been significantly lower!)

So many possible scenarios swirling about in my mind.  

I continued, “And it’s funny, but I assume things would be great like it was “’supposed to be.’”  

Ryan paused and then offered a different perspective, a very black-and-white perspective outside of his normal thought process that tends to see every single perspective from every single angle, yes, his gifts have to do with adaptability and peacemaking 😉 

“No,” he replied, “this is how it’s supposed to be. They were always meant to be our children at this stage. God didn’t make a mistake.”  

I suppose there’s a reason they say curiosity killed the cat. 

After Jason died, I was given A Grief Observed, a book written by C.S. Lewis. I highly recommend it to anyone going through a period of deep grief and mourning.  Lewis wrote that after his wife had passed away, he understood that their time together “had reached its proper perfection.”  

That quote continues to resonate with me. 

In my recent book, Lovin’ with Grit and Grace, I mention how I have moved numerous times in life; in fact, it’s been 11 times since I married Jason in 2000, and I have never returned to a home after I’ve moved away.  Never driven by to see what the new owners might have done, never pulled it up on google maps, and never even been tempted to return or inquire about it. When I leave a place, I’m done.  There are no “what ifs” and no looking back because when it’s time to say goodbye, I do believe that whatever the situation may be has reached its proper point of perfection in my life.  Referencing back to last week’s post, the sap has reached 219 degrees – the point of completion. 

It’s been a bit more difficult to practice this philosophy as my children age and carve out paths of their own. I’ve found that my grief has felt weightier (not more or less) just heavier like a dusty stable blanket dropped hard on my weary back. I so desperately want my children’s biological mother or father to see a glimpse of what wonderful people they have become in spite of having such difficult paths to navigate: a path full of disabilities, death, and grief. I want them to be able to experience the same pride and admiration that I do. 

I like the idea that Jason might have a front-row seat to everything going on in his children’s lives, but I don’t know that I really think that’s how it works.  I have a hard time believing that he would be allowed to witness the pain that often accompanies this journey we call life. The Bible tells us that in the eternal space where he resides, “there are no tears, no grief, and all our sorrow shall be wiped away” so, I’m not sure that he’s privy to what occurs here on earth. 

But who knows, I could be very wrong in this area.   

I accept that our life together had reached its proper perfection, but as it is with all good things that end, there is a deep scar.  A scar I will carry throughout my time here on earth, a “what if” scar or maybe it’s simply a longing for all to be made whole again as we’ve been promised.  

Our hearts yearn for eternity because that’s what we were made for.  Jason is in the light and God willing, my children will join him in that light someday, but not too soon, not too soon. 

Just keep livin. 

Revelation 21: 3-5 

And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God.  And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away. Then He who sat on the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.

If you enjoyed this and want to read more, check out my books, Sunlight Burning at Midnight, Blended with Grit & Grace, and  Lovin with Grit & Grace.

       

As the early morning sun peeked through the curtains, I poured 5 gallons of sap into a large cast iron pot, turned the igniter to high, and eagerly anticipated the maple syrup I’d enjoy later that afternoon. Ryan and I recently discovered that we have about 15 maple trees on our property at Hope Farm, Luke’s future home, and our friends taught us how to tap them.  We had heard that making syrup was a long, tedious process and while “long” is an appropriate description, I haven’t found it tedious at all! Most days, I’m giddy about “checking my trees” and leaving with 10+ gallons of sap to cook down into syrup the following day. 

I finished my kitchen duties, poured myself a steaming cup of coffee & sat down to read my devotions. I opened the Bible and settled in before the house came alive with chaos & noise from 6 children who needed to get ready for school. I was reading through Daniel, Daniel 3 to be exact, a familiar story and one I’ve heard numerous times throughout my childhood in a Sunday school classroom or around the dinner table.  A story of three brave men: Shadrach, Mesach, and Abednego. 

Then Nebuchadnezzar was furious with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, and his attitude toward them changed. He ordered the furnace heated seven times hotter than usual  and commanded some of the strongest soldiers in his army to tie up Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego and throw them into the blazing furnace. So these men, wearing their robes, trousers, turbans and other clothes, were bound and thrown into the blazing furnace. The king’s command was so urgent and the furnace so hot that the flames of the fire killed the soldiers who took up Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego,  and these three men, firmly tied, fell into the blazing furnace. Then King Nebuchadnezzar leaped to his feet in amazement and asked his advisers, “Weren’t there three men that we tied up and threw into the fire?” They replied, “Certainly, Your Majesty.” He said, “Look! I see four men walking around in the fire, unbound and unharmed, and the fourth looks like a son of the gods.” Nebuchadnezzar then approached the opening of the blazing furnace and shouted, “Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, servants of the Most High God, come out! Come here!” So Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego came out of the fire, 27 and the satraps, prefects, governors and royal advisers crowded around them. They saw that the fire had not harmed their bodies, nor was a hair of their heads singed; their robes were not scorched, and there was no smell of fire on them.

I paused and underlined seven times. 

How often had I felt the heat increase at least 7 times before there was a breakthrough? When my son was diagnosed with a stroke in utero or my husband battled brain cancer for three years. Or when I found myself unexpectedly pregnant in the middle of chemo and radiation, or my current husband admitted a struggle with a lifelong addiction or as Lucas went through years of aggression due to puberty. 

I’ve learned that the number 7 has an immense amount of significance in the Bible and in my life. In Biblical history, the number is drenched in meaning and represented completion, rest, and victory. There are numerous accounts related to these themes including: the completion of the seven major divisions of the Bible, the completion of creation which culminated in rest on the 7th day; every 7th year was set aside for God’s chosen people as a year of rest and jubilee, Joshua’s march around Jericho which resulted in victory on the 7th day, and, of course, King Neb increasing the heat seven times before deliverance arrived for his boys Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

My peaceful contemplation was interrupted as my children began to emerge from their rooms, looking for nourishment before their day began. I set my Bible aside, handed each a breakfast burrito, and hurried them out the door for school. Before I sat down at my desk to begin the day, I grabbed the thermometer and set the alarm to sound when the sap reached 212 degrees. 

It would take about 6 hours to reach this number, and then, during the 7th hour, once it hit 212 it quickly began to increase – 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 – seven degrees to 219; the magic number of completion for maple syrup.  It would reach 219 within a matter of moments, and if I wasn’t watching the progress very closely, the sap would burn, and I wouldn’t be able to pour the deliciously warm syrup into jars. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the fruit of my labor. 

Sometimes the heat must increase 7 times before something reaches completion.  

Or before our rescue arrives.

And we must be patient because the fruit of our labor is enjoyed after completion.  

It’s 2023.

 2+2+3 = 7. 

The heat has increased significantly since Lucas reached the age of 12, and it’s become difficult to be his primary caregiver now at 18 years old. His needs have, at times, surpassed my capacity, but the Lord has been faithful. He’s provided manna for the moment. Lucas will turn 19 this August, and I do believe that deliverance has arrived via the gift of Hope Farm which we are creating as his forever home, Lord willing 

If you’re going through something unbelievably difficult and life-draining, hear me with this truth. Hold on with every ounce of your being, hold on to Him who is greater than he who is in the world, hold on to that last shred of faith in your soul no matter how unraveled or mangled or beat to crap it may seem, HOLD ON for goodness sake and for every other sake for you have absolutely no idea what’s around the bend.  You have no idea what happens after the heat increases seven times and when you finally reach completion. You have no idea how the Lord will bless your life when the rescue arrives. 

Just keep livin. 

If you enjoyed this and want to read more, check out my books, Sunlight Burning at Midnight, Blended with Grit & Grace, and  Lovin with Grit & Grace

               

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Excerpt from Blended with Grit & Grace. 

The measure of obstacles we overcome is often a sign of the greatness waiting for us on the other side. When I reach my breaking point, I think of you and the obstacles you have overcome in your life, and it gives me strength. —Ryan, 2012

When Ryan and I met in 2010, we were in a season of death, with the passing of our spouses Jason and Kaci, and this loss included a burial of lifelong dreams. Dreams of a nuclear, intact family. Expectations that we would grow old with our spouse. A dream of biological parents raising the children they chose to bring into this world, and the assumption that the biological father would walk his daughter down the aisle one day. Buckets of grief and despair and unmet opportunities filled our hearts.

The next few years, we enjoyed a resurrection as our lives merged and birthed new realities: our marriage and blended family; a simple life in rural Tennessee, where we learned to work the hard clay earth with our bare hands, where the sun wrinkled our brows, and we slept deeply at night after a day’s labor tending to children, chickens, housework, and gardens. A good life. A difficult life. A life where every moment was a teacher in some capacity. A life where I birthed a book, a teaching career, a nonprofit dream, and another child. Buckets of hope and growth and beauty.

As I grapple with these words, I once again find myself in a season of decay and confusion, with our family enduring broken bodies over the past year: Ryan’s shoulder surgery; my fractured foot, which continues to hinder my participation in favorite activities like walking, tennis, and yoga; and Lucas’s brain surgeries, which resulted in his month-long admission in PICU in December 2019. As I write these words, my children have just reentered the craziest school year of their life after a five-month hiatus, where every part of me was broken as a pandemic swept across the world: my control, my plans, and my pride—nothing working out like I thought it would. And I still grapple with numerous unanswered questions and concerns about how the future is going to play out. Will they stay in school? Is school good for them? Will they get sick? Broken ideals and realities surround our family as we restructure and determine how we’ll proceed from here. And through these trials, we’ve buried systems that used to work when the world was one way, and now they no longer serve us emotionally or spiritually, and we wait because we know.

I know because I’ve been here before. I remember August of 2010, the most difficult month of my life, as a tumultuous month full of overwhelming obligations and demands—work, Lucas’s birthday, family pictures, doctor’s appointments, four children farmed out on a daily basis to anyone, and everyone, the arrival of hospice equipment, nursing staff in and out, important phone calls determining life-or-death decisions, and ultimately good-byes whispered and a funeral prepared for a young husband and father. I wait and I remember. I recall that this is familiar soil, deep and dark and rich soil where perhaps I’ve not been buried but have instead been planted, and now I await my reemergence into the light.

I wait for a resurrection.

And I am confident that growth will occur in due time because that’s how the gig works. It’s how our lives are rigged.

Everything remains in motion: a continuous movement of death and resurrection, waves upon waves washing away the brokenness and grief and moving what remains to the shore— natural disasters and despair and divorce and special needs and bereavement not excluded, a blending of grit and grace. It’s all involved, collectively and individually; ashes to beauty and back to ashes again; circular movements until the maestro sweeps his baton for the last time and bows his head in holy reverence; that moment when his beloved creation leans into the finality and releases a labored breath—bursting through the birth canal into an everlasting resurrection.

And until then?

We rise up out of the boat and walk toward the land; we walk toward the Rock of Ages from whence there is no shifting sand. We move toward a purpose higher than ourselves. We pursue life and do our darndest to live in the present and practice thankfulness. Loss has a way of bringing a newfound appreciation and respect for the present. There are lessons in despair that are incredibly painful, but these lessons are also remarkably life-giving as we navigate forward into a new reality where pain bequeaths joy.

Gratefulness has the ability to carry a family forward as they navigate the numerous roadblocks encountered to get to a healthy place of peace and fulfillment. I should preface— there’s no set arrival date to this place of peace. The process will be ongoing until the day we die. Ryan would love it if I could just give him a future time when we will no longer struggle with anything and instead live in peace and harmony until the end of our days, but that’s not how life works—not in a traditional family nor in a blended one. But we keep lifting ourselves up out of despair. Keep willing ourselves to rise out of the muck and put one foot in front of the other. We keep moving forward, one step at a time with determination, grit, and grace.

We Just keep livin.

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