Sunday, May 23, 2010


Last week was a hard week. A really hard week.

It seems, on Monday morning, the dread had set in before I even opened my eyes.

It was Blake's last week of school...his last week at home.

The weather matched my mood. Dark. Cold. Cloudy.

I had told myself that it was just something I was going to have to get through - this week of waiting. Waiting to say goodbye.

As I moped around most of the day, flitting from one activity to another, unaware if I completed any or not; I did happen to check facebook (of course) and noticed a little note that said something like "need to drop something by your house this afternoon. Will you be home?"

Seeing as how the note was from my dearest friend, Janette, I said well, of course I'd be home.

I had no idea what she'd need to bring me. Perhaps pictures from her weekend away? A card?

Having settled in on the mindless task of ironing while I watched Dr. Phil (I know. I know....but I said it was a bad week) I kept one eye on the clock waiting for her to arrive.

And when she arrived, the dam broke. The lump in my throat that had been holding back the tears dissolved and the tears began to flow.

Because her arms were loaded down with food. Food to feed my family for most of the week.
Food to feed my spirit. Chicken and noodles, mashed potatoes, pulled pork barbecue (and buns), watermelon, fresh crunchy veggies, two kinds of cookies.

She knew.

She knew that my heavy heart had probably rendered me too weary to think about the mundane task of fixing supper for my family. She knew I was carrying a burden.

And even though she can't carry my burden for me, she carried me for a while.

And it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.

After a week of similarly sweet notes, e-mails, cards and calls from other friends, I was blessed again with the touch of a loving hand.


In our church, a time is set aside each Sunday for us to meet privately with our elders for prayer concerns. During this time today I was absorbed in song, absorbed in the peace that music brings, when I looked up to see a woman walking toward me with her hand outstretched. She took me hand and said "Come on. Let's go pray." And she lead me by the hand to one of our leaders and he prayed over us.

She knew. She knew my heavy heart today, a mere two hours after saying goodbye to my son. She knew because she is a Marine Mom and it wasn't so long ago that she said goodbye to her boy and wondered when she would next hear his voice.

And as that sweet Godly man put his arms around us - the two Marine Moms as he called us - and prayed for our hearts, prayed for our boys, I felt so incredibly blessed.

Again, it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.

My week has been sandwiched between two incredible acts of love and concern, peppered in between with just enough kind words and surprising gestures to keep my heart above the dark waters of despair.

The doers of these acts? They are all moms. This is not to say that a childless woman could not or would not bring me comfort; but this time I have been lifted up by moms.

Because moms know.

Regardless of how a child moves into our hearts, we moms know that once they move themselves in and embed themselves, once they wrap their arms and legs around our hearts and grow roots there - well, no matter the reason for trying to extricate them - it is nearly impossible.

Whether it's time or not, whether they want to move on or not, whether we want them to move on or not, it is just plain hard to pull ourselves from the hold our children have on our hearts.

And these women know that. Their encouragement and love have been humbling. I cannot repay it this time. And so I choose to just receive.

Receive their love and enjoy it and the humility that comes with it.

Thursday, May 13, 2010


Yesterday before the softball game I had to tell him "Look. When Kayla and I helped you pick out those jeans, we really thought they were for certain occasions - like dates and stuff. Not sitting on muddy bleachers and doing yard work."

He gave me a look and changed his jeans.

Today I had to tell him "Um...I simply cannot let this continue. You can't go like that. You need to change the shirt or the pants. Something. Let's show Kayla."

Kayla's response? "Ooooh. It's so true." At which point he skulked up the steps to change his pants.

I've had a lot of conversations like this with him over the years and it just doesn't sink in. I usually just let it go but sometimes I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. I don't want him leaving the house looking like he got dressed while wearing a blindfold. Because, let's face it. People will blame me. They know who is ultimately in charge of his clothing.

I mean, seriously. How old should a man be before he doesn't need help getting dressed anymore?

Because my husband is 44 and he still has to have our daughter and me guide him, wardrobically* speaking, when he leaves the house.


*Wardrobically - {ward - ROBE - i - kly} - of or having to do with a wardrobe, the victories and defeats thereof. 'The poor girl had a beautiful face but was wardrobically challenged.'