You didn't know I was a star

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It's Time For Healing

This was the first week in a long time that I felt functional in society. It was the first week where I didn't cry at all. It was the first week that I didn't pretend to be smiling when I was. It was going great until I started picking out the pictures of Grandma for this post. Dangit. Well, 6 of 7 days minus tears is pretty good.
I find myself feeling guilty for my feelings, for still feeling broken inside. There is a part of me that has been secretly grieving for some time. Most people in my life expect me to be over this death by now, but I am finding that it was harder than I ever could have planned for - which is why I made a point NOT to plan for it.

I almost called her the other day to tell her some good news. My phone was in my hand before I realized. We were each other's "default plans." Any time we didn't have anything to do, I'd call her and she'd say "I was just thinking I should call you guys!" We spent many days together, many meals together, many conversations. She was young for her age and I think I'm old for mine.

But, it's more than the loss of someone I love so much. It's the whole process of watching someone die, too. I was thinking about when Nick taught in L.A. and there was a shooting, all the kids would get mandatory counseling for the trauma they experienced, heard, felt, saw. Why is it when we know someone will die are we made to feel like it is less trauma? Like it still doesn't feel just as unexpected?

I still go back quite often and reread the post I wrote as I was watching Grandma die. (You can read it here. ) I don't take back anything that I said about the beauty and grace I saw in those days. The praise and forgiveness given in those times were some of the most wonderful moments of my life. It would have wounded me deeply to have not been there, to have been living in CA still and not have said goodbye in person. But, I didn't think those images of her struggling to breathe and crying out in pain would haunt the deepest places in my mind for so long. And those moments after she officially died, where life left instantly and she looked as if she'd been gone for days. For weeks I slept on the couch, slowly falling asleep to the sound of some movie or show, just so I could ignore the images and rememberances of my mind.
I ate dinner with Papa 2 weeks ago. We small talked and tried not to stare at the open chair at the table where she used to always be. I finally asked how he was and to my surprise, he really told me.

He told me about how painful the nights are when he goes to bed all alone after 50 years of having her by his side. He told me about how he's working himself into exhaustion trying to be not home in order to fall right asleep. He told me about how he finds himself talking to her at night-almost forgetting she is gone and how he still plays all her favorite songs on the piano, just like he did when she would sit and listen. He told me about the conversations they had in those last months and years where their love went to "new depths." It was moving and refreshing and it didn't take long before I couldn't hold it in any longer. Weeks of tears burst out and my pretending was done. It was embarassing and snotty and felt so good! I went on to have 3 more REAL conversations about Grandma the next day, with Brooke on the phone, Sam over email and with Nick on the couch--all 3 of them recovering from their own loss like this. After a full day of processing it all, I started to feel a little relief.

I always forget how talking is healing. Why do we hide our feelings and our brokeness from others so often? And how do we get so good at it?

I read on a website about grief that it usually takes a year to get over the death of someone you were close to. There are 365 days that you have to experience without them. There are birthdays and holidays and celebrations that have to be charged through with an empty seat in the room. And then the next year it's not as bad because you've already lived through that specific day without them.

And so, once again, I try and to pick up the pieces--some of the old ones and some new ones--to try and reassemble some sort of "normal" life where death isn't always on my mind. I think of all the life changing events I've gone through in my short adult life and know I wouldn't be standing without God's great grace. He can take some of the shittiest situations and turn them in to the most glorious masterpieces. Beauty from ashes. Grace from disaster. Life from death.

Cardboard Testimonies - YOU'VE GOTTA SEE THIS!

Cheers!

I generally make it a rule to not drink during the day. Mind you, I stay hydrated with lots of coffee and chugs of water throughout my life. However, I don't find it appropriate to drink at home during daylight hours or if my kids are awake or by myself.

Today I break all the rules.

After a great morning then a high stress afternoon of Owen telling me how he doesn't want me to be his Mom anymore and he only wants his Lola (my Mom). And Ella quietly crumbled a piece of bread into a million little pieces, chewed them, spit them into a bowl and then dumped it on the couch and smooshed it in rather nice.

They are both sleeping - or possibly getting in to silent trouble in their rooms. So, I have taken it upon myself to bust open the wine cube and try it out. It's white Sangria and it has blueberries and pineapples floating in it. It is oh-so-delicious. Nick is laughing at me and the kids are asleep. There is peace and quiet here and....

I typed to soon. I hear a girly voice saying "Mama?"

I've learned my lesson with drinking during the day: Next time, drink faster!

Do you forgive me? Yes.

***Click this video and listen to it in the background while you are reading. I was listening to this song while I wrote this.***



I've been liking Sunday mornings a lot lately. The scene plays with Nick waking up with the kids, making coffee, cleaning kitchen and living room and I roll out of bed when when I'm awake enough to be bored. It's a nice break for me on his only day to sleep in. What a guy.

I'm feeling sentimental this morning. Nothing particular has set if off, but it may be the combination with warm coffee, new pajamas and the kids are in the bath. If it wasn't for the dishwasher and Pandora, it would almost be quiet. I'd probably be freaked out if it was quiet in here. Unless your kids are sleeping, you know that silence = coloring on the walls or washing the bathroom mirror with hand soap.

Raising kids is probably the craziest thing I've ever done. When we were dreaming of having babies and thinking of names, I didn't know that I'd have a little guy who would wake up every night and sleep with me at 3 yrs old. I didn't know that on the lowest of days, I'd be wearing vomit more than once. I must have skipped the chapter on feeding tubes and therapy sessions until I can't see straight. It's been quite the journey.

Mom's are so hard on each other and on ourselves.

With Owen, I didn't produce breast milk. Now, hear me out before you think anything. I tried everything and had a lactation consultant coming to my house to help me and no matter what I took or did, I still couldn't get more than an ounce out on a good day. We stuck it out for 3 months, but eventually the well ran dry. And so on top of being a new Mom, I had failed at breast feeding.

Of course, after the initial grief, there were some perks. Like going out sans baby once in a while and letting other people carry the burden of feeding an always hungry baby. I loved making a bottle and letting my Dad help. It helped him bond with Owen and it helped Owen trust him. They are still buddies today.

Over time and many tests and doctors later, we found that it was my stupid little thyroid that messed with my hormones that messed with my milk. My body thought I was still pregnant hormone wise, so why produce any milk?

And then Ella came. I had talked to every breastfeeding resource I could and no one saw any reason why this baby wouldn't have milk. But, I had skipped over the chapter on cleft palates and breastfeeding a "special" baby. There was milk this time, but a baby who had no ability to suck. We tried it all, again. I appreciated all the nurses in the NICU who never said that it was impossible and let me try. After 2 weeks of trying and 3 "blue spells" later, I confidently retired as a breastfeeding mother.

Thanks to a persistent Lactation Consultant and the "coincidence" of a famous breastfeeding advocate as the on-call pediatrician, we made a case for breast milk and won.

I wish I could hug her and thank her with gifts and take her to dinner and tell her she can order whatever she wants. But unfortunately, I never got her name, just her donor number. She is a mother to someone else, but for 2 weeks she helped mother my sick baby with breast milk that was donated in little clear bottles. For a sick baby, that is a gift that is invaluable.

And I wonder if you ever feel guilty parenting your children, too. Like there was too much PBS today or not enough green things on their plates. Or you didn't use cloth diapers and think you should have, or forgot to take your prenatal vitamins for what seems like most of the time. I don't know if you're like me, but doesn't it sometimes seem hard to get this thing right? I mean, these are little people we are talking about here and I know that none of us want to be the cause of lots of therapy later on, right?

I was thinking that I needed to forgive myself for being a basket case of a parent. Spring is here and it's all about new life and starting over and I thought, "What the hell, why not try for round #246 and see how it goes?"

Ella and I haven't gotten along for some time. I know what you are thinking: she is 2. She may be 2 and small, but she is a force to be reckoned with! We fight about eating and drinking all day long. I cry daily as she throws partially chewed food on the floor and I yell, "That was 7 calories!" Ella cries daily as I put her in time out. She is a toddler in every sense of the word and we are both strong-willed to the core. I was seeing no end in sight.

But, yesterday something amazing happened: she snuggled up next to me on the couch. I thought it was sweet and a fluke, but later she did it again. And throughout the day, I found us laughing on the couch-together- with no tears. Today it happened again. Instead of watching Sesame Street from her Dora chair, she crawled on the couch and snuggled with me. She points at herself and says "Ella," and then points at me and says "Mama." Such a simple communication, but it warmed my heart. It was as if she had decided to forgive me too. And for a moment, I didn't feel that it was my fault for her small size and her still needing a feeding tube to live. It was just a few seconds, but it was one of those moments where you connect with another human being in a way that is beautiful and uncomfortable and her delayed speech and purple glasses and crooked teeth and high shoulder blades were all gone. It was just a mama and a baby: the way it was always supposed to be.

I got excited tonight because I imagined Ella becoming my permanent sidekick. My shopping buddy. My paint-our-toenails-blue-together buddy. I liked the idea and I think it's worth working towards. I think there is still time for us to make up for the bonding that we missed so painfully and needed so desperately.

So, tonight as I wipe away healing tears from my eyes and listen to Jon Foreman, I hope you give yourself a break from all that you think you've done wrong and let the 63 degree weather tomorrow warm your soul. Run crazily with your children outside and get dirt under your fingernails and let your hair frizz out. Screw up and ask them to forgive you- they will. Be brave and wear shorts (!!!!) and let the March sun burn your face (it's easier to hide the tears!!!).

How can I keep from sneezing?

Ella just got time-out for biting Owen's arm. Instead of setting the timer for 2 minutes (her age appropriate time), I set it for 4. I felt a little guilty, but no, not really. I'm sure there was a pretty good bite in there I missed, so it was accumulating anyway.

I've been sick for 10 days now. I usually get sick once a year and it's a few days of inconvenience, but nothing more. This time, I can't shake it. Neither can my kids. So, the three shorter Liskey's have been stuck in the house for a week. We've got rolls of toilet paper at every turn and an entire trash can filled with "snot rags." So you see, I needed that extra 2 minutes.

Being held hostage by germs is an obnoxious and humbling experience. Obnoxious in that I haven't tasted or smelled in 6 days. Obnoxious in that I couldn't leave if I wanted to because walking to the car makes me need a nap. Humbling in that I have to ask for help. Humbling in that I'm not able to get anything at all done. Probably the most humbling thing is that while I was laying on the couch, shaking, with a fever, my dear friend, Sam, was having emergency surgery on an appendix that had already served it's purpose. I'm sick and miserable, but thank God I'm not losing organs (even if they are completely useless).

And then I think of my sweet Grandma, who moaned in pain as the cancer took over every cell in her body. She downplayed the pain every time I saw her. I would watch her sometimes and when she thought all eyes were off of her, she would wince and sometimes cry. She was always thinking of everyone else, even down to her last days.

I talked to my Mom a couple weeks ago about what had happened at that last doctors appointment when they knew there was nothing they could do. The PET Scan revealed that the cancer was in her neck and lungs and to the nerves in her shoulder. The cancer that was discovered in her pancreas over 2 years ago, took it's time, but eventually made its way to her liver. It seems that everyone knows what that means, when it finally makes home in this vital organ. People would say "it's not in her liver yet, is it?" And so the day she found out it was, she came home and took a five hour nap, while my Mom and aunt frantically tried to arrange for Hospice, Med-Alert bracelets and dinner that evening. We were asked to come to dinner to help cheer her up. No one said what was going through their mind, but we all knew.

Grandma was in the the best mood she was in for months. She walked around and smiled and laughed. She ate at the table and wanted to watch a movie. Of course, I was on the verge of tears all night and watcher her in awe. I wanted so bad to know why she was happy and peaceful and how I could have that too. I never asked her.

And so as I sat with my mom in the Chocolate Cafe, we talked about Grandma and her life and that entire strange day. Maybe Grandma felt peace that day because she knew that she didn't have to fight anymore. That it was time to rest- with a five hour nap to start, but forever, to rest. Or maybe it's my other theory-the theory that would be just the kind of thing that she would do. Maybe this is what she already knew, that it was nearing the end and she had to just be strong for us to help us get through. And after Dr. Jin told her that they'd done everything under the sun, she thanked him and hugged him and walked away. The nurses who have taken care of her all this time were sobbing and hugging her. She was strong for them, like a Grandma always is, and left in good spirits. It was like she already knew and she was just waiting for everyone else to know, too.

Her sleep that afternoon was sound. And when she awoke, she didn't have to be scared anymore. She still had actual death to face, but the part of the journey she had just endured, that was the hard part. So, that night, she didn't pretend that she didn't know the cancer had spread to all those aching body parts. How freeing it felt, as we saw in her that night.

Five days later she started her first radiation treatment and never had another. Seven days later she died. It still pains me how fast this all happened. I needed more time. It's been a month that's felt like a year and it could have all been a dream. On the other hand, would more time have been better? Would months of suffering broken us all beyond immediate repair? Probably.

And life goes on, kind of, in this new altered weird state. We still have to sleep and work and buy groceries and call friends. But there is this piece missing from my day, and my Papa's day, I'm sure. A month has gone by, but I feel like everyone needs me to be past it. And so I don't cry until I write or Owen says "Did Grandma die?" like he did about 10 minutes ago. "Is she in Heaven with Grandma Betty's cat?" Yes Owen, I think she is. "Are they friends?" Yes, of course they are friends. (I don't have the heart to tell him that my Grandma HATED cats. If cats go to Heaven, you can be sure that Grandma's got rules about cats their, too!)

No doubt, germs are too blame for this mess of sickness we find ourselves in. But, I wouldn't doubt a connection between my weakened immune system and a broken heart. Just seems like the germs knew the right time to strike. And I'm sure that as the sun comes out for good and the snow stays away, our bodies will start to recover slowly, along with our hearts. And as the grass grows and flowers start to escape from their bulbs, we will too see new life spring up in our lives. If you didn't already know, my brother and Elisa will become parents in July as a beautiful little boy will come in to our lives. They think they are just having a baby, but I know what babies do: they help us heal in all our broken places.

There is so much joy in my life and so many miracles that we have seen, how can I keep from singing? But until then, I'll leave the toilet paper within reach.

Everything rides on hope, now

I have been wanting to write. I have been needing to write, as well. I have a lot to say and find this to be my "free therapy" without the awkward silences. But, my heart has been so heavy and full of so many things that I've been finding the idea of facing it all quite painful.

Grandma's funeral was 4 weeks ago , I think. Seems like a million years ago, but in the same muffled breathe, only moments have passed. I miss her terribly. I almost called her on my way home from the doctor last week to tell her the new news about Ella's seemingly never-ending health problems. But, before I pressed "send", I remembered. And this morning, as I called to ask my Grandpa, whom we all call "Papa," over for dinner, I just couldn't hang up and listened to her voice on the message.

And right now, as I sit at my cluttered desk, with pictures and papers and lots of "to-do later" types of things, I am looking at her car out of my window. Technically it is my car now, but it is still her car and I want her driving it, not me.

When I went to retrieve the keys to my newly bequeathed car, it was the first time I was in her house since the mass exodus of family members the week after she died. I'd seen Papa a few times, but it was always at an alternate location. His note had said that the keys were on the counter. They were there. They were her keys on her key chain. Her wallet and purse sat just across the way, just like she wasn't gone at all. Her house smelled the way it always had, but it felt different because she wasn't in it.

My Dad and I had a good talk on the way home from the hospital one night. It was one of those chats where you can't look at the other person out of fear of hysterical, loud, snotty sobs on impact. He said that we are supposed to learn about death from our Grandparents, it's the circle of life, basically, in a lot less "Lion Kingy" type of way. And in a lot of ways, there is so much truth to that.

But my life was different. I grew up knowing my grandparents intimately, as they helped raise me. I grew up seeing them weekly, if not daily. I know stories of their lives and their siblings and the high schools they went to in Utah. My experience with my grandparents was more equivalent to that of parents. How lucky am I to have so many people that loved me.

When we were back at the hospital all those weeks ago, we were just sitting around waiting for her to die. It sounds morbid and terrible, I know, but it was reality at that point. It was what I was praying for, to be honest. To be set free from pain and medications and have a new body and peace overflowing; it was time for her to go. I thought I had processed through all that had happened to that point, until my Aunt Kathy reminded me of something I had forgotten. She said that this must be extra hard for me because I'm not losing my Grandma, I'm losing my "Bama Sharon," which was my name for her for the years my Mom and I lived with her. Years that I didn't remember or realize mattered until I heard the name my 2-year old mouth could only say.

I believe that loss is processed on many different levels. I first learned that when my high school/college boyfriend and I split up, for the last time. He was an ass, for sure, but still I had to grieve the death of that relationship many times, on many different days.

And in a much more tragic and heartbreaking way, I am seeing the different levels that are showing up these days and trying to appropriately acknowledge them. Like Valentines Day. My Grandma celebrated every holiday with her favorite medicine: all things sweet. And without fail, every year I received a sugar-filled package of goodies and a card stuffed with money. In the married years, Grandma would give Nick and I $50 to go out to dinner. I loved that she cared about our marriage enough to do that and throw in some free babysitting. Anyway, this Valentine's Day felt a little lonelier, a little less sweet.

And Ella's 2nd birthday, which was celebrated at her house yesterday, we ate a meal she would have made (not as tasty, but edible) and I even sat where she sat, but she was not there. That day last year she made spaghetti and laughed and hugged her grand children. I missed her at Ella's party. I could smell her and hear her laugh, but she wasn't there.

Owen is asking about her less and less. He's not worried anymore because this summer he is going to build a flying car and go get her. Jesus should have fixed her by then, he says, and we'll just bring her home. My heart bleeds tears when he says those words. There is nothing to be said. I can't help but hold him and cry.

We spent the last week on the beach in the Bahamas. Owen became an excellent collector of shells while we were there. On the day we arrived home my Mom came over to welcome us back to the land of ice and snow. Owen gave my Mom all the shells we had collected and told her she needed all of them. They were magic shells, apparently, and to have them meant that you could not die. And so my Owen, was trying to prevent the loss of another Grandma.

I love children and the raw hope that is just a part of their being. I hope he never loses that hope. I hope that on our worst days, Owen's sweet stories of flying cars and magical shells will be enough to bring us smiles and laughter for the next moment.

I love every rotten last one of you.

The smell of burnt coffee and instant hand sanitizer is on my hands. I don't remember what day it is or what I'm supposed to be doing tonight. We've been at the hospital for days and I might have an ulcer. Maybe not, but lots of coffee and no sleep = not good. Singin' in The Rain is on right now and I'm remembering watching this movie as a child, with my Grandma. She's watching it with me now, but in and out every few minutes. I see her feet twitching and I'm imagining her trying to keep pace with the music. She's been holding on all week, waiting for something, to just let go. I imagine her first day in Heaven, greeted by her Aunt Beth and Mother, with chocolate cake and mashed potatoes and gravy in hand. "My aunt Beth made the best chocolate cake," she said to me a couple weeks ago. So good, I hear, that she woke up in the middle of the night dreaming that Aunt Beth made her a delicious treat and went and made brownies. By the time they were done, she was too exhausted to eat them, but took one to bed with her anyway. When she woke up hours later, a nicely cut little brownie was perched upon a plate on her chest. She laughed and ate it. Days later, as she finished off the last of the brownies, she dropped it on the floor in the middle of the night. Damn, she thought. But, with the sass and will that has got her this far said "I will get that brownie if it's the last thing that I do." Thankfully, it was not the last thing she did.

I've never watched someone die. I've never even thought about watching someone die. And before last week, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to.

But, as we've sat here all these days, these long and wearing days, I'm seeing a side of death that I'd never seen before. A side of death that is peaceful and forgiving where hope is present and love is near. I am not sure what happens first: your body telling your mind it's time, or your mind being made up and waiting for your body to follow suit. Whichever way is happening here, it's almost beautiful.

Now, to know myself and watch myself type the words, I am in utter disbelief. I have historically been terrified of death and it's processes that I've only experienced via email from friends or movies found in "Drama" section of the video store. But even with the hope of Heaven, I thought that I'd want to hold on to the bitter end, at all costs, with every intervention and only give up when my body could go no farther. But as I watched my Grandma fight while it was time to fight and surrender when medicine could do no more, I saw grace pour in.

My aunt Mary calls the pain medication "truth serum." Yes, it's as wonderful and scary as it sounds. Grandma is being awful truthful, as she asks my cousin Dante and his wonderful girlfriend, Rachel, "How do you guys do this when you live so far away?" (referring to the fact that Rachel is in graduate school in Illinois and Dante is in graduate school in Oregon). Obviously a question that has been on her mind, but was too polite to ask. We were told today to "not name our children dumb names," and that Papa would be enforcing this law. But other, less laughable things were said, like "I love you and I'm proud of you." I'm sure you could imagine the earth shattering tears that accompanied that comment. She held out her hand and said "We are either going to have this conversation now or in the next 6 months (referring to the 6 month or less Hospice involvement rule), so let's have it now." My stomach was in knots and turned and as she said the words that everyone needs to hear. I grabbed her face with my hands and I kissed her all over and tried to memorize the way her face felt and her skin smelled. She told me how proud she was of Nick and I for the way we dealt with the Ella situation. She knew it wasn't easy and thought we had handled it with grace. No one has ever said that before. I regret many decisions I made and many that were made for me. I feel like we were and still are a complete and utter mess. But, Grandma doesn't.

One of the things I will painfully miss is our weekly lunches. For the last 3 years, we've been going out to lunch together, with the micros (Grandma and Papa's name for my kids). We talk and laugh and usually go get fancy coffee afterwards. I get double tall soy lattes and she gets a small cranberry orange tea. We usually get a large cookie that we have no room for and chase the kids around Barnes & Noble until we all need a nap. Of course, in the last few months, the nap times have come quicker and quicker. Anyway, when Grandma had her "reducing everyone to tears moment," as she so wittingly named it, with me, I told her I loved and would greatly miss our lunches. They were something I really looked forward to every week, as did my children. I told her that I felt like she was the only person who understood what I was going through with Ella. Not because of the diagnosis, but because she knew what it was like to be poked all the time and to feel scared in a way that could never be explained. She had a special understanding of Ella, as we saw was reciprocated when Ella discovered Grandma's port and touched her own G-tube as to say "You understand!"

Not to sound too much like a Tom Cruise movie, but I will miss our conversations.

Right now, I'm watching Grandma sleep and listening to Singing In The Rain, again. Something about dying makes you remember what you love, like musicals. And lemon donuts. And chocolate cake.

We can't tell what is going on here, but know it is close to the end. She's said goodbye half a dozen times, but keeps coming back. We've heard everything from "Sweet dreams, I'm going home" to "Bon voyage!" (my personal favorite)

I am surprisingly calm as I watch her labored breathing. I believe I'll see her again, in another place where we can be together uninterruptedly. I picture Grandma in Heaven doing all the things she always wanted to do, like roller skate and bike ride. Her body will be new and strong, she'll wear her old cat frame glasses. She'll play cards with her mother and aunts. There may even be some dancing and- hold on to your hats - cussing. I won't know for a while, but I think that the people we love are waiting with signs and a party when we come home. All the things we love most in life are there, and Jesus. Lots of Jesus. There is peace and grace and fun. I don't often hear people talking about Heaven and saying "It's going to be a blast," but I think we should! It all comes together there, every last messy detail. And all the treats are fat free!

And so we sit and wait for a woman we love so dearly, to go home. To be healed. To have the body that she always dreamed of- without creaky knees and bad blood sugar, without cancer and blood clots, to be free. It hurts like hell, but is life. And to have the beauty, we too, must gasp through the pain.

She's laughing and smiling and saying "Hi" to so many people. Could it be that she is in between here and there? That she sees the signs saying "Welcome Sharon!" and knowing the crowd, "It's about damn time!" She jokes about her wings and them not working right yet.

We ordered Chinese food in on Friday night. Papa opened up his cookie and threw his fortune onto a plate of trash, without reading it. He turned back, thinking it might be significant today, and grabbed his fortune back out of the heap. It read: Time heals all wounds, Keep your chin up. We vowed to remember that in the coming days, in the rain or sunshine, but most likely, we will too, be singing in the rain.

Battle Wounds

Ella and I during the month of "No Doctors!!" in July 2007.
A smile - even with the NG tube in. Below, this is her last day with the NG tube before G-tube surgery. On her left cheek, you can see some of the scarring from taping the tube for so long.



Winter is a time of so much thinking for me....actually, it is too much thinking. I overthink everything. My mind makes me crazy. That's why I like to stay busy. Busy running errands, working, preparing, reading, sleeping - anything but letting my crazy mind decide that the voicemail I just received from my Mom was to exile me from the family for being so late to dinner that one night. But on these winter days, where it is -3 degrees and my car doors are frozen shut, I can't help but be faced with my own head. Maybe this is what God intended for this time of year, anyway. In the spring and summer, God shows off what He has been preparing all winter and our job is to just enjoy and soak in all the Vitamin D we can handle and lay in the grass and feel sand between our toes. Our job is to enjoy the dirt while we plant flowers and wake up early with sun shining on to our faces. But the winter....the cold nasty winter, is a different story. There are no colors, except for white and gray. There is no light, except for what is reflected from the snow. There are slush-filled boots and sliding cars and plows and dragging kids by the sleeves of their puffy coats. And to avoid it all, we stay inside with slippers and more coffee than usual and just hope that Santa brings a present to make up for it all. But inside, their is a painful work being done, a work that no summer tan can hide. And it is in this time where God can bring forth all those nasty, useless, forgotten, unhealed parts and give them life again. It is a cruel and unusual form of punishment, in the midst of dry cracked skin and salt-stained pants that are laced in snow and ice. But, this is where the grace finds a place to leak in.

Nick and I braved the cold on the coldest night we ever remember, with our 2 toddlers, to get them home and in their own beds. It was so frigid that my jeans froze and my legs twitched each time the wind blew. Total time between door-to-car-to-door was approximately 8 minutes. We put the kids right to bed and tried to defrost with some scorching hot tea. The next morning, the kids were awake and we were chugging coffee when I noticed Ella's face. I thought she'd been burned or scratched by some huge siberian tiger, for her cheeks were covered in red. And after a swift moment of panic, I let her runaway and sat myself down on the couch to do some more thinking. The painful little lines on her face were from no ferocious feline, but rather were old scars that had resurfaced in the cold.

From Ella's birth till 8 months old, she had an NG Feeding Tube in her nose that gave her all the nutrition she needed. The most stressful moments of my life thus far have involved that damn tube. As she got older and stronger, she ripped it out of her nose, gagged herself all the way up and then ripped the paper tape off of her face with it. She would cry and scream and we would cry and scream. When we'd finally had enough, she'd pulled the tube out 4 times by noon and our new babysitter who was starting her first day, was never seen from again. I spent the next 2 days on the phone with doctors and surgeons trying to express to them that this was an emergency and that I couldn't wait another day. Within the week, the tube was out forever and a button was placed into her stomach, something that she couldn't pull out and all that was left were the scars.

But, on this cold winter night, we were reminded of the pain that we had felt 14 months before when battered little cheeks showed the pain they had known so well. I've always believed that you have to grieve things at different level - I guess this is our next level.


Nichole Nordeman says in her song 'Every Season,' "Even now in death you open doors for life to enter..." Maybe this is why winter is so inconveniently placed between 2 of the most beautiful times of year. We've got to go through the death- and deal - and if we've let Him do his job, the ice melts and our hearts beat again. Possibly with more vigor and more life. I don't know, just a thought.

"...and everything that's new has greatly surfaced. And what was frozen through is newly purposed."

This heart of stone, be chiseled away
by unexpected acts of love
by hugs that touch the soul
by tears of pain and love and grief and joy and sadness and suffering and hope and forgiveness.
May your hands heal bodies and souls and minds - too numb to believe (for today).
May the rock barely beating in my chest flow again with life.
May gardens grow and flowers bloom where only dead roots and weeds thrive.
That I could become still in all the screams and hear you and know you are are there.
That I could feel your arms and breathe...
That I could just touch the hem - just one thread to touch and feel true grace.
And, that it would be enough