Tag Archive for: Jesus

“You have solid steel I-Beams, Stace.”

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“Mom, they are going to demolish that building soon.” My son told me as we drove through town.

“Yeah?” We were talking about the former municipal power plant building, much of which was already demolished.

“Yes, they are getting the explosives set on the beams. The I-beams are the only thing left.”

My brain raced back to the sweetest of memories as I glanced at the big building.

“You have solid steel I-beams, Stace.”

Do I? Is he talking about me?

I held the phone, tears in my eyes and a hopeful breath caught in my throat. My friend and mentor, Jim, had offered a defining word of encouragement that would shape my journey from age 29 on…

I suppose to really explain the importance and beauty in those words, I have to go backwards before I go forward. This is often something I explain to clients in the beginning of counseling (and remind often during counseling).

It was the first day of my sophomore second semester at Hope College. The pressure to declare my major was looming larger each day and it was nerve-wracking to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I had moved back into Gilmore Hall a few days before; it was snowy and cold, which matched my feelings of overwhelmed and lost. Initially, I wanted to be an English major, writing was always my favorite part of classes. I kept getting asked what kind of career that would give me and I honestly did not know….

 I had explored so many different career and major options but for a multitude of reasons, none seemed to fit. I could not settle on any of them.  My dad always encouraged, “have a job that you love going to, you will spend a lot of time there.” Both he and my mom had careers they loved and it set a strong example for me. They both worked so hard, lots of long hours as a physical therapist and a nurse (and her side hustle as an antique dealer.) At dinner, they always had good antidotes about their days, from his inspiring patients and the bartering and re-selling antiques to also the sweet (or funny) parts of her day as a nurse in a pediatrician’s office.

They have both lived what it means to love the career you choose and are given as a calling.

That pressure, to find my path, was mounting and the more worried I got, the more confused I became as well.

That January morning, I trudged through the snow on campus, cursing Michigan for this snow. It seemed to match the feeling in my body (what I would later learn is fight, flight or freeze). I was panicking about my future; it was cold and my anxiety was spiking. Trying to pay in class was going to AWESOME. I’m not even sure I remembered which class I was trudging to…

It didn’t help that my class that morning was located in Graves Hall, a building on campus that was old and original to when and how it was built. In other words, outdated, dark and seemed to have a musty, dusty smell to match. (Kind of similar to the fabricated smell of the Haunted Mansion, just not near as fun to be in.) No offense to my Alma Mater, by the way. Simply the way I experienced it, 30 years ago. Graves has since been renovated!

There was a bigger room in Graves, where student life usually showed semi-new releases for students on weekends. It had old fold-down seats with velvet cushions, once decadent and now aged.

I settled in, pushing down the adrenaline that came from walking in the snow and fear of icy sidewalks on the way to class and pushed my ever-present, “what am I doing with my life?” fear even further down.

“Hi there, so glad you are all here.”

I looked up and saw a warm, familiar smile. Jim (Dr. P on campus), was both a neighbor of my family AND a former fraternity brother of my dad. Even when I ran into him near home, he was always kind, happy and genuine in his “good to see you.” I could feel my heart, body and anxiety settle a bit, just in his greeting. I had also forgotten that he taught this “Intro to Social Work” class.

He began describing both the goals of the class and the history of social work. For the life of me, I wish I could remember the next few sentences, but I cannot. All I know is that it was in those few sentences, God made himself and my path abundantly clear. I think it was something like, “If you have a heart for caring for people, listening and helping problem solve, this is the path for you.”

I sat riveted on Jim’s passion for this field, the joy and humor in his voice, suddenly feeling the pressure dissipate.

I often ask friends and clients how they KNOW when God is guiding them. “When have you known without a SINGLE doubt, this is the path God has for you?”

Usually the answer is, “I don’t know, I just know.” For some who might not know Jesus, perhaps this is your conscience or a gut feeling. For others, this could be related to having an intimate relationship with Jesus, being guided by the Holy Spirt.

For me, this moment was without doubt, one of the places I did and still return to if I am struggling to make a decision or have difficulty deciphering “next steps.” I cannot tell you how or why, but I know with absolute certainty that I heard Jesus gently whispering next to me, “THIS is the path for you. THIS is exactly where I want you.” That fear that had been mounting since my junior year in high school, quickly began exciting my body, like a balloon that suddenly begins to leak and lose air. It was replaced just that quickly with a sort of scary excitement as Jim described the many areas in which a social work degree could be used in a career.

I realize that this paragraph might sounds like a nice story or argument to trust Jesus but it is all my truth. I know that deciphering God’s will is not that easy all the time, but for me, even when it is not entirely clear, it is more than enough….

I declared my social work major a few weeks later and the path since has been not always easy, but always completely RIGHT. I often tell clients, “The right thing is rarely the easy thing.”

About 3 weeks later, on Saturday, January 23, 1993, I awoke to a knock on our dorm room door. A family friend stood there and I was so confused. I loved her, but could not for the life of me, figure out what she was doing in my dorm hallway, knocking on the door, on a snowy Saturday morning.

“Stacy, I am so sorry, your grandma died this morning.”

My Gram’s death and all it taught me is certainly a post for the future. But
I’ll leave it here for today just knowing that I was one person before I answered that door and another entirely after dear Ardys uttered those words.

The following days and weeks were some of the most confusing, life-changing and difficult I had up to that point in my life. And God absolutely began shaping me in those very days to become a therapist specializing in grief and loss.

I moved in a fog, feeling so heartbroken and disorientated that I did not know which end was up. I sat in my writing class and my professor asked if I was alright. I was anything but…I couldn’t stop crying, aching or simply feeling shocked.

One day, not even really knowing how or why, I found myself wandering toward Jim’s office. He welcomed me into the sunny space that was filled floor to ceiling with books. Heavenly. There was a path to his chair and one other comfy chair that I gratefully sunk into, then noticed being surrounded by piles of papers; I spied a notorious “blue exam booklet” (Did other colleges besides Hope use those?) on top of a pile here, manila folders there. I instantly felt welcomed and safe, even though I truthfully felt like a complete wreck.

I don’t know what I said (again), or what he said, other than the fact that he reassured me that I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t going to flunk out of college, and that I would, indeed, someday stop crying. It was all going to be ok, somehow. I could believe him a tiny bit, a miniscule beam of light in that dark season of my soul.

Jim was an absolute anchor in the storm and I experienced the care of Jesus many, many times over in the course of our friendship. I visited him many times that semester, as well as many the following two years. I did indeed graduate with my BSW. We stayed in touch during my first job. 5 years later I applied and got accepted into grad school and as God led me closer and closer to becoming a therapist. He was affirming in my professional skills, as well as becoming a trusted role model for my own internal struggles. Which was why, when the bottom fell out of my life again, the week after I started graduate school, he was amongst the first phone calls I made.

Someone dear to me was killed violently and tragically as he drove home from his job as an EMT in the middle of the night. The driver, her passenger (her sister) and my friend were all killed instantly as the girls were both many times over the legal drinking limit.

In this, another, life-changing moment, my foundation shook and crumbled. I had family support, friends who did their very best to understand and yet, I was floundering, triggered once again. I often tell clients,  Grief brings up grief.

 One of my favorite analogies comes from Disney’s original animated version of The Little Mermaid (1989). Do you remember how Ursula grows gigantic quickly and begins stirring up the sea with King Triton’s glowing Trident? The old shipwrecks begin to resurface from the ocean’s floor. I often tell people that “Big Ursula “can feel like our present grief and all the “shipwrecks” can be past grief experiences that resurface in connection with the new, present grief. While the analogy is my own, if it weren’t for Jim, I would not have been able to move through both of those searing losses and have an understanding to draw on when counseling in the future. He spent many hours listening, normalizing and teaching me about grief, it’s affects, the need for self-care and affirming my ability to work through it, WHILE going to graduate school.

It was Jim, who with the wisdom of a dad, said to me one night on the phone, “You have solid steel I-beams, Stace. You are so strong in your desire to understand, work through and be healthy.”

That is how I felt about myself, that I wanted to understand, to find my way through this scary forest (many forests for all of us) and come out with better understanding, peace and the ability to help others because I had people who helped me.

In his kind affirmation, he praised WHO I was, HOW I was and gave me much-needed belief in myself.

I remember vividly, sitting on the floor, tears streaming as he uttered that life-changing-truth to me. I can feel how I wanted to rise to that, to see it for myself. I can feel the gift of being known by this mentor and friend and I am ever thankful.

I wonder who it is for you, that speaks absolute acceptance and life into you. Who is your person, who sees you as you want to be, who accepts who you are now, but cheers you on to who you will become?

I know we don’t have just one….there are many who add to our lives, each has their place. But don’t we all have a couple who come into our lives, help us see our own strength and change us for the good?

Mr. Rogers, in his acceptance of a Lifetime Achievement award, said (in part) to an audience of Hollywood elite:

Oh, it’s a beautiful night in this neighborhood.

So many people have helped me to come to this night. Some of you are here. Some are far away. Some are even in heaven.

All of us have special ones who have loved us into being.

Would you just take along with me 10 seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are — those who have cared about you and wanted what was best for you in life?

Ten seconds of silence.

I’ll watch the time.

[silence observed]

Whomever you’ve been thinking about — how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they’ve made.

Jim is still the dearest of friends and mentors. We don’t talk often, but when we do, we pick up just where we left off. We share photos and details of life in the present and he without fail, he encourages me. The blessing of being known is without compare.

He is but one who has shaped me and been an important part of the tapestry of this life, both personal and professional. He is an important one for me in this 28-year career, one who I still draw from today in my work and value.

I pray that you too, have many, who come to mind who have believed in and loved you. It is one of my biggest hopes and prayers, that we can feel and give that care and love to ourselves and others. If you have a “Jim,” or Neen, Tom, Jill, Rick or Susan, whoever it is that speaks love and affirmation in your life, today is good day to tell them. You never know if today is the day that your encouragement will bless your person in return.

I pray we can all claim our own “I beams,” or the truth others help us to see about ourselves. That is so much of the journey. Be proud and even a little excited at what it has taken for you to keep going on your journey. It is nothing short of miraculous.

To that end, if you look in the shirt shop, you will find an option to support kidney disease awareness. I have a dear acquaintance who shows me daily what it means to be born with a steel I beam. I made the “I would go anywhere as long as its not dialysis” in her honor. All proceeds from the sale of this shirt will be donated at the end of December.

 God is good, all the time. Thank you, Jesus, for each and every one of the people you place on our journey to show us how you love. I am profoundly grateful.

Both/And

Phil 1:3-5

For the love of mountains and Jesus; or pink slippers, 10% and unexpected grace.

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(An entirely different post than what I planned be writing this week…)

I have been chewing on a post for the last week and half and it is not this one….

Typically, an idea forms and the words come relatively quick. I reword and rework, sometimes erase and rewrite, but the words and ideas seem to just come. Writing for me has always been a joy, a place to release my thoughts, hopes, fears and prayers into the wide open. I can’t begin to express how important writing has become to me – and your comments, encouragement and ideas make it so much better.

Last week was not the easiest week and I am not even sure why….

I had a post started about some family conflict, how it is NOT always easy or pretty or even kind around here. And yet, it has not felt quite right to publish here, YET. Maybe in time, maybe not.

The reality is, I work really hard to be authentic, to not buy into only sharing the positive, “picture perfect” moments; normalizing both the struggle, the hard feelings AND the beautiful ones. And this past week, the beautiful seemed harder to find. Until yesterday…

A couple days before my big kids left to go on a church youth group trip to Colorado, we all seemed to be having issues with each other. Tension seemed sky high, all of us ruminating our own struggle. Suddenly, the kids were packed, leaving our house and off on a trip to Colorado for the first time.

My husband, youngest daughter and I remained home in a much quieter house. We visited dear friends for the weekend they left, but when we returned Sunday afternoon, the quiet within our walls was both needed and a bit unsettling. My mind kept thinking, “is this how it will feel a year from now, when E goes to college?”

Funny thing though… THIS post is not yet about my daughter marching toward senior year at an ever-quickening pace or my own both/and/and/and moments about that. My heart skips as I write that sentence, both excited for my girl and grieving already the future changes to our family as she makes decisions. But this post, this one that is jumping from my heart and fingers so quickly I can hardly keep up as I type, is about mountains, love and being seen.

Life for me growing up and navigating teen years was just full of unique to me challenges. EVERYONE can speak to their own challenges, none better or worse, simply our own. When my high school youth group was going to Colorado Challenge, I was not ready. I am sure that I missed an amazing experience and yet, I was not physically or emotionally aware enough at that point in my life, to face the difficulties of hiking, rappelling and advocating for my physical needs. I didn’t have the confidence. I believe it was absolutely part of God’s divine plan for me that I didn’t go THEN.

When I began working for a grassroots teen ministry just out of my undergraduate degree, I was invited to go with the church who had started and most supported this ministry. Though I was still anxious about the landscape and being out of my comfort zone, I was also beginning to understand my needs and voice. I know without a doubt that God wanted and made the way for me to go, AT THAT TIME in my life.

Before I gush poetically about the natural beauty and awe-inspiring scenery of Colorado itself for many paragraphs, (If you’ve been there, you know right?), this about sums it up, at least for me.

 “There were those green, undulating hills and this very beautiful river, the Colorado. The place is inspired and inspiring.”

– Terrence Malick.

I was in awe of Colorado, from the scenery as we drove through the state, to Colorado Challenge and every experience from the first to last time I was blessed enough to travel to Colorado, 5 trips in all. The last, was the one I had only dreamed of, worked for and raised money for so a group of teen moms could attend camp like their peers.

Each time I went has it’s own beauty and sacred space. I have memories I will forever cherish, tears that led to lifetime changes and awareness, places marked on my journey with Jesus Christ that allowed me to meet and love him personally. Moments where worship was ALL of who we are, you can’t get near enough to God’s own heart and call and YES to him is the most right, easiest answer.

I also had breathtaking moments of love, acceptance and grace that until that point, was new to me. From sitting behind students throughout evening chapel events and literally watching and praying with them as they said YES to Jesus and relationship to him to the grand view of Pikes Peak from camp. Whitewater rafting at Noah’s Ark, horseback rides through stunning trails, conversations late into the night, even helping the girls navigate conflict. Memories with my sister-friend and the students who bravely allowed me into their hearts and fears.

The first year I went, I struggled with many of the physical aspects of getting around the rustic camp grounds, roots, jutting up from the dirt in odd ever-changing directions, loose stones and steep inclines, not to mention that climbing was involved in nearly anything that you wanted to do for activities.

When we arrived at Rainbow Falls where groups were given the opportunity to rappel, I instantly knew  I could NOT climb to the top of the cliff we were supposed to rappel down without some serious back-up. I didn’t know the kids or leaders well, because I was asked to be an adult leader last minute when one of the others was sick. But I fell prey to believing that I, as an adult, “should not, could not,” ask those kids or other leaders for help climbing because “I am supposed to be an adult and help them!” Thank goodness for therapy that helps us see our own faulty beliefs and some of their roots.

By the next summer, I had built strong relationships with a number of the same high school kids who refused to let me “wait at the bottom,” this time around, walked with me carefully and safely up cliff and then helped me rappel! It is still an exhilarating badass, capable memory that means so much to me because it felt so impossible and I yearned to try.

One night, after worship had blown the roof off the chapel, I sat down next to a student named Ryan who just had a magnetism to kids around him. He had a smile that was both mischievous and kind, a signature baseball hat always worn backwards. He was wrestling in a way that I could feel as I sat next to him, listening and partly, just being present in whatever was the internal fight. “Why do you even want to listen?” He finally asked and his battle with something was palpable. I just prayed as tears filled his eyes. It was a holy, heart-wrenching space and yet, a memory I hold dear from an evening in that chapel in the mountains, overlooking Pikes Peak.

 In camp was Soldier’s Mountain, again something I had only heard about. I wrestled with longing and grief, the limitations of this body, when the kids begged me to come with them. A group of teen boys moved me to literal tears when they nearly plowed me over in the snack shack on our next to last night in camp.  They were organizing a sunrise hike up Soldier’s and “were bringing me with them!” They refused to take my no for an answer, (thankfully) and literally walked-step-by-slow-step up a steep incline to the top of Soldier’s Mountain. Reaching the top was an absolutely surreal moment, a picture of trust, care and acceptance that showed me Jesus himself in those teenage faces. Those boys are still “little brothers” to me, many years later.

There are so many more moments, the beautiful, brave teen moms that showed me as a single 25 year old what motherhood and sacrifice mean, how God can use everything to bring us closer. Jaw-dropping scenery, over and over, devotion from youth leaders and the very definition of brave, so many times I lost count.

Safe to say, Colorado has an important place in my heart. I even had dreams, hopes and prayers about moving there in my 20’s, but that too, was NOT God’s plan for me. My best friend played “Wide Open Spaces” by the Dixie Chicks about that time and it was as if they had written it for me… (Perhaps my version of how Taylor Swift “just gets it!!” in 2023?)

Life continues, I got accepted into graduate school in Michigan, met my love and the dream changed. God knew…and yet, I have for a long time told my kids about my love for Colorado, the incredible beauty and how God moves, especially during camp experiences…

I think in our relationships, there are always “mountain top and valley events,” and for me, relationship with Jesus is included. The mountains, whether physical and emotional, change us. Tremind us of the passion, the love and the goodness that ARE mountain-top experiences in relationships, especially when the greater amount of time in relationships takes place on the flat ground or the valleys (not always the most exciting parts of being in relationship.)

I have been doing clinical work for 22 years now, so my days of youth leading and traveling with students are a past chapter. So much so, that it caught me off guard when the church we’ve been attending since December began talking about a youth group trip to Rocky Mountain High in July in Estes Park.

I realized that my teens would get to experience Colorado in their own way; so. good.

I knew that the scenery would move them. I was even somewhat prepared for their personal “mountain-top experiences” and “the impending post-camp blues,” both familiar to me from my days as a camp counselor at Camp Geneva and Colorado Challenge.

What I really hadn’t considered for them was how this experience, uniquely their own, would truly translate, change them and shape them. How this week would give them lifelong memories with friends, leaders and Jesus Christ.

We picked them up yesterday in the church parking lot…rolling off the bus sweaty, exhausted, hoarse and beaming. Tight hugs, high-fives and inside jokes that I am sure, I will never here the beginning or the end of. The swath of parents hung back, both debating about embarrassing kids with big hugs (perhaps just me??) and trying to respect the vibes they were sending off. It was evident how this group of leaders and kids had bonded.

On one hand, I felt so old; and…so very thankful that after the pandemic changed so many things about so many churches, we are finding our way into a church community again, with our beautiful kids leading the way, fearlessly. A couple leaders came and introduced themselves, blessing us with kind words about the kids’ behavior and character. They may never know what that meant to us…

For the next few hours back home, the kids talked over and around each other, a unique shared experience of going on youth group trip as siblings and friends and all the dynamics in between. They showed us pictures of stunning mountains, sunrise views, elk roaming downtown, “right by the jerky store” and one of their leaders, dressed in a bear hug nightgown, pink slippers, shamelessly directing traffic in downtown Estes Park. They described “worship with so many kids, all raising our hands and holding nothing back.” They described messages from Megan Marshman, who presented them with opportunity after opportunity to know Jesus’s love, desire for relationship and sacrifice in such personal ways.

They told us about how as a group, they would nightly share their last 10%, allowing their friends and other leaders into the parts of ourselves that we all hold back, because, “if someone knows ________ about me, they will__________ (leave, tell others, think I’m a _____}”, or many other reasons.

Our kids shared some hard stuff about their own struggles. We are so very proud of them and shared with them our experience and belief that God will draw us in, rather than shame us out. They told us how their leaders discussed some of their own struggles, encouraged each other, then asked the group to pray over our kids and family.

I’m not sure if that moves you, but I get goose bumps (again) as I write those words.

It has been said, “It takes a village to raise kids.” The older I get, the more our village blesses us. The more our village draws us closer to Jesus, just by being WITH, authentically. The more the village ebbs and flows. The more the needs change within in the village, within ourselves.

I was once on the front lines with teens, staying up late, running on fumes, holding their stories firsthand. I was surrounded by a different village as I was a part of students and oh my goodness, those were the days….

Now…my kids are traveling; their village will change and I may not even know all their members. They are being challenged, sharpened, changing, softened and from what I know today, going all in with Jesus.

I am profoundly grateful for those who walk with me, who have shown me the heart of Jesus in Colorado and beyond. For the relationships I still have because of heart connections on the mountains and deep in the desolate valleys. I am thankful for those who see us not as we are but as we can be and have the courage to say so. I am thankful for health and strength. May we all be surrounded by those who build up when we need it, sit quietly and those who hype us into believing in ourselves at exactly the right moments.

“Colorado has always been a good place to find what you’re made of.”

– John Hickenlooper.

To Jesus, E & E,  Colorado and everywhere in between.

Both/And

Philippians 1-3-4

“Mama, Jesus is smiling!”

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(For SHM)

The sun was shining, I had the day off work. After I was blessed with a good workout and some quality time with my hubby, my youngest daughter (in her last year before turning 13,) asked if I would take her to 3 stores: a local consignment shop, 5 below (undoubtedly to spend her hard-earned dollars on a Squishmallow) and Ulta where she can cover the back of her hand in colors of eyeshadow, lip gloss and everything in between.

I learned a long time ago that when spending time with teens or even younger kids, being able to talk is one thing, but usually, having an activity at the same time is the very best case scenario. Before the pandemic, I spent many counseling hours playing Uno, “garbage” coloring or shooting hoops with a nerf basketball hoop while listening to some of the hardest stories and emotions. It is a lot easier for most of us, I think, if we are not in the spotlight, face to face or even asked direct questions.

With my own teens, sitting in the car driving, watching movies, building Legos, coloring and drawing or even sitting on their beds while they clean has provided some of the richest conversations we’ve ever had. Earning the right to be heard also consists of providing the safest opportunities and trust to be vulnerable.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to shop today. It has been a busy week, a headache was edging around my head from the moment I woke up and I truly wanted to spend some time researching how to self publish my writing! But…because of this career I have and the deep value instilled inside me about relationships, especially, with our beautiful kids, it was truly a very easy yes.

Our youngest daughter is the “icing on the cake,” of completing our family. She is, by many people’s description, “sunshine in human form.’ She loves with every fiber of her being, she cares deeper than most can even begin to imagine, is kind to a fault, has incredible wit and comedic timing (at 12!) and so truthfully, has a heart so much like how I know Jesus to be.

Lest you think she is the favorite of my 3 (or perfect), that is not the case. We ALL have our own brokenness. And we all know it…if we don’t, someone in this house will certainly let you know! She is a bundle of energy, lets her bodily noises fly at the most inopportune times and is at a really moody, emotional rollar coaster of a spot currently. We practice both/and ALOT in this season with (nearly) 3 teens in the house.

All that being said, I am feeling the race of time and KNOW without a single doubt that the days of her wanting or being able to amble around Ulta and laugh at funny outfits we put together on the fly or even spoil her with yet ANOTHER stuffed animal, are fleeting at BEST.

Before we left the driveway, she was cuing up Taylor Swift on her phone, creating our shopping play list in Apple Music and directing our route. Though I instantly became concerned about how long this shopping extravaganza was legitimately going to last, I played along because honestly, she’s my youngest. I’ve learned some things since the first daughter and our second kid, our son. She DOES have the more laid back versions of us, sometimes. Sometimes, I think we’ve kept her little for too long because “the last,” is hard to fathom. Whichever way it is, on any given day, we adore them all. So we listen to Taylor, LOUD, know we are enabling with ANOTHER stuffed animal and don’t get too uptight about it…at least today.

She directed me first to the consignment shop. On our way, we stopped at a busy intersection near a Burger King and the highway. On our right, a woman was walking, waving to each car. I looked and what appeared to be her husband and two small children sat in the grass, a sign explaining their need for food and shelter due to homelessness was propped up beside them. I am utterly ashamed to admit it, but my very first thought was, “shoot, I don’t want to make eye contact.”

These situations wreck havoc in my social-work-trained mind, my heart and the many pieces of advice and experience in our culture.

I have vivid memories of growing up in the Midwest and NOT experiencing the ravages and complexities of homelessness until I was on a family weekend in Chicago. As we walked our privileged selves to see Phantom of the Opera after eating at Gino’s East, we were asked many times for money, help or “a place to sleep.” My parents had tried their best to prepare their sheltered Caucasian kids, “don’t make eye contact,” tried to explain some difficulties with “giving money,” while also trying to honor helping others in the the name of Jesus. But nothing prepared me for the man propped up in a doorway, wearing clothes covered with dirt and holes, struggling to speak and holding a battered sign as we walked past. I am not sure if my parents whispered or if I realized on my own that the man also had cerebral palsy. I am certain I stopped and stared. I am certain seeds of fear were planted, “is this what happens as your grow up with this?” I was both terrified, horrified that this was indeed a real situation and sickened at injustice; this, awful, awful reality this side of Eden.

“Dad!” I tugged my dad’s arm as the crowd of people in Chicagoland kept moving past. “Dad, he has CP. And I think he peed on himself!” I cried, begging my dad to help him. It wouldn’t be the last time. My dad called my sister’s name, who was a bit ahead of us, but still near. She was carrying the coveted left-over pizza, had claimed it for her snack after the musical finished. He took the pizza, brought it to the man, set it in his lap and motioned for us to keep going.

Another time, we had driven to see my grandparents who lived an hour away for a pre-Christmas visit. The lights were bright and blinking, I was in the warm and lovely space of just seeing my grandma and suddenly, at a traffic light, a man yelled to people in the cars around us, for help. Tears streamed down my face as I heard my parents talking about calling the police, “he would at least be safe and have a warm place to sleep if they pick him up.” “Jail??” I thought, not understanding how that could possibly help him

. My dad, after trying to explain to me, poured hot coffee from the packed thermos into the mug he’d brought along, got out onto the busy, snowy street and as the man yelled, handed him one of our very familiar mugs. I watched, clutching a stuffed animal I had along and wondered how my dad would get his mug back. I think I started praying…that’s all I remember.

On yet another family trip, this time to San Diego there were countless experiences that I will not forget, both beautiful and life changing including one at Seaport Village that left a permanent mark on this heart God has given me.

We sat as a family eating dinner overlooking the ocean, the lights of the nearby carousel beckoning me in the dusky sunlight. It was dreamy and I felt like whole world was wide open to my teenage hopes and dreams. Suddenly, I looked out the windows in front of us and saw a man, bundled up in the California heat. He walked slowly, dreadlocks hanging in his worn face. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as suddenly he began digging in the garbage can in front of the windows where we sat. Tears instantly sprang to my eyes as he pulled an entire order of fries from the garbage and gobbled them like he had not eaten in a long time. I wept without control, pummeled instantly with a level of sadness and reality that I had no idea existed. I cried with a heart that was simultaneously terrified that people lived this way and the overwhelming desire to fix this man’s plight. It was a moment forever imprinted on my heart.

This was the feeling, now with years of life experience, but the same conflictedness, that came rushing back as my sweet daughter turned to me yesterday….

“Mama, we have to help them.” Her big eyes and heart were like looking in a mirror. My humanity thought, “I don’t know how…” The two of us in the car, safety, not sure about the situation and the realities crashing together with my daughter’s innocence, the innocence of the babies sitting on the grass with their parents and the overwhelming guilt that we were going to ULTA while they were in huge need….

I took a few deep breaths, drove slowly and prayed for God’s presence and wisdom.

It took a minute. My heart rate slowed. I explained to my love that I needed to think about it and she so patiently waited for my response….

I wanted to honor her, her desire and I needed to sit the wrestle I felt, trying to decipher the truth. I parked outside 5 Below, another deep breath…

“Trust me.” I almost audibly heard my Jesus whisper and wrap around me. Breathe…. “Trust…”

“Babe, let’s go get some things for them.” I said quietly to her and her face was so sure and beaming. “Oh mama, let’s!” She held my hand tight, helping me navigate the curb and entrance into the overstimulating store. We were five steps in when she knew EXACTLY what to do.

We filled a backpack with some basic supplies, her leading the way as I listened to her clarity and wisdom. Who was I to witness how God was using her?

She went to the stuffed animals. “This will be good for the baby! And the little kid will really like this!” She held up a zebra and a monkey. We lastly grabbed a few snack items, I handed her all the cash I had in my wallet and let her pay herself. Our items were nearly the exact amount I handed her. “Trust me…” Jesus seemed to whisper again to me, perhaps her and maybe even this family. We walked out and my sweet girl slipped her hand in mine again. “Mama, Jesus is SMILING right now!”

She filled the backpack while I drove back. The traffic swirled at that intersection and I prayed, “Jesus, use this moment, bless my girl and this family…” I couldn’t see the family for all the cars, but I carefully navigated to what I hoped would be a safe spot for us to give the backpack. I drove around the Burger King and there sat the family, all crowded under umbrellas, almost it seemed, to be waiting for us.

“I want to go, Mama.” I looked and my girl, so far beyond her years, was mouthing a prayer of her own. She took a deep breath as I put the car in park just feet from this dear family. She opened her door, stepped up to the mom who smiled and greeted her like a long lost friend.

“My mom and I bought this for you and your family. There’s toys for your kids. I hope everything in here helps you guys.” The parents both smiled, thanked us profusely, repeated, “may God bless your family.” As I sat there, the mom began to unpack the backpack, pulling out first the zebra and handing it to her smiling toddler. The small child broke into the biggest smile, hugging the zebra tight. My daughter climbed back in, waved and I could not control the tears that feel from my eyes, overwhelming my whole body. We backed out as they continued waving, eyes full of thanks. I sobbed, at my daughter’s faith, joy and leading. I cried for this family’s plight, wishing I could do so much more. I cried, out of my own shame and ignorance and God’s unending love and forgiveness.

“Mama, I have never felt this good. I think this is why we were supposed to come shopping today.” My little said in utter joy.

I have so much to learn. I learn so much from her and so many others around me.

Thank you for being such a picture of my Jesus, my daughter. You, change the world. You change me….

Thank you my Jesus for being patient in my ugly moments and for teaching me to trust you. Hold this family close, us all close and please keep making us each, more like you. I pray you are indeed, smiling.

Both/And

Psalm 13

Some thoughts on imposters, cheating and battle hymns.

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“Mom, your calves are popping!” My daughter exclaimed last night. I was walking in front of her as we left our dear friend’s house after an evening of feeling more blessed when we left than when we’d arrived. “What does that even mean????” My inner voice whispered. At the same moment, my body startled (involuntarily) as she verbalized something about these, MY legs, now the center of attention. Even after years of processing my own reactions, connections to emotions and everything in between, I found myself reacting just like I typically do to positive comments, especially about my body: with a passive tone of voice, “well, thanks, I am not sure why you are saying that,” or “thanks, but…” Besides the fact that “popping” is a new one to me and I can only assume that is positive, I still, at 50 do not know how to consistently appreciate this body.

As I was stretching and working on these muscles this morning, my mind drifted back to my daughter’s exclamation last night. Like a picture that slowly comes into focus, I realized that as I thought about her positivity about my muscle tone, the feeling I have most, is shame….

I wonder if you relate? In my office, I so often see eyes drop, hear tones of voice become softer, garbled, drift off or even a little disgruntled when the idea of appreciation of self is brought up. I’ve said it in other posts (and probably will again), that our society is 80% kinder to others than ourselves. (Check out the work of Dr. Kristin Neff at The Center for Mindful Self Compassion if you want to read more.) While I experience this number as higher in my work with clients, I too struggle to be equally kind to myself as I am to others. Why is it so hard to just say, “heck yes, my calves are popping?”

I began, with intentional curiosity to think about the shame I felt as my daughter complimented my calves last night. Much like the moment when we realize the correct answer when taking a test, I realized that when she complimented my calves, I felt like a complete imposter.

Cerebral Palsy causes my muscles to misfire, the part of my brain that regulates the “firing” is technically damaged. The vulnerability in me winces writing that and yet, it is the truth. My muscles fire beyond my control all the time, resulting in a lot of tone. The deep down thought for me regarding all my tone is that “it’s not real, athletes work for that and therefore earn the compliment. I don’t.” It is also hard to appreciate tone that can also make moving become much more difficult.

The very next thought was a memory of moving to another city just before high school, meeting new friends (that summer) and having my new friends remark about my “ripped biceps.” My only context for such a phrase was watching weight lifting in the Olympics. I began to wear longer sleeve t-shirts because in my mind, I didn’t want to look like a body builder. I didn’t know it was a compliment, and I felt fake. I hadn’t done any athletic hard work to earn their confusing to me compliments about my body. The fact was, people were complimenting a body that I didn’t like, understand and truly, wanted DESPERATELY to change. There weren’t enough positives for me about this body at that point to counteract my insecurity and imposter syndrome.

I wonder if I am not alone, that imposter syndrome is alive and well inside all of us to one degree or another, this side of heaven. Defined as the condition of feeling anxious and not experiencing success internally, despite being high-performing in external, objective ways, this condition often results in people feeling like “a fraud” or “a phony” and doubting their abilities. It is most often born from insecurity that has taken root and grown a tree of shame inside us. Once that tree is there, it is hard to see around it, becomes a part of every picture we have of ourselves. And for me, it has become siblings with the idea of “cheating.” Please let me explain.

One example…when I upgraded this spring to a recumbent pedal assist bike, I really had to work through the idea of cheating with that extra assistance. The perception with e-bikes, at least how I heard them, was that “people are just joy-riding.” The first time I rode that bike, 30 minutes after we purchased it, a neighbor commented, “that’s such a cool bike,” then looking closer stated, “oh, it’s got a motor, you are cheating!” Shame, imposter and “cheating” hopped on my bike and rode along. I can go faster than my husband on our rides now, but feel like I have to qualify it with, “yea, but only because of the motor.”

How many of us have those same passengers, riding around permanently? You may or may not be shocked to hear how many times I hear about imposter syndrome in the midst of sessions. Mine is occasionally cerebral palsy related, but it is many reasons for many people. It is like an old soundtrack that is ominous, “what if they find out this is the real part of me, not what they might think or believe…”

As I sit quietly, truth descends quickly, much quicker than it did when I was younger. I can kindly let the difficult feelings and memories (even shame) come forth, sit with them and then also engage in the truth. I know that (even when my perceptions and insecurities want to lie and make me believe otherwise) we are NOT imposters. God is the God of truth and gift-giving. He is perfect in his making and perfecting who he is within us. I am so very grateful….

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” “Psalm 139:14

Both/And in being human, right? We KNOW this verse perhaps, but applying and believing it? Much more difficult. One of the ways I help clients is to imagine how we would speak to our dearest friend and try to counteract that loud imposter with the “kindest thing you can say to yourself.” I encourage them to slow down and find a positive truth to counteract the loud lies…one truth at a time.

I pray for overwhelming kindness and compassion for ourselves and others. I pray for appreciation of the bodies God has created and given. And I pray for overwhelming truth and care, this side of heaven.

I was having a conversation with friends yesterday about “what our walkout song might be?” For me, there has been an anthem shared from a dear friend years ago. It embodies hope and crying out in the beautiful and the moments I brought to my knees.

https://youtu.be/BqgW727a-RU

“Hallelujah, hallelujah, every broken heart, be brave. Hallelujah, hallelujah, the Lord will make a way.” A prayer and anthem for us all. It is my deepest, truest prayer.

May we give the lies to Jesus, rest in his love and truth and keep doing all he has called us to. May we always keep trying to be kind, as much to ourselves as we are to everybody else. May we let our own imposter know that they are no longer needed and that our true self is worth trusting. May we learn to accept others appreciation of us with the same love and care it was given.

Both/And

Psalm 139

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It was a snowy afternoon, one of those where we as a family had a clear Sunday on the calendar, a truly miraculous thing. Even more shocking to me, as a mom of teens, was the fact that after lunch had been cleaned up, I wandered into the main area of our house and found it empty. This wasn’t new, especially as clean-up began. The family tale has always been that my grandpa’s sister, Aunt Betty, would always “need to go the bathroom” just as clean-up began. In reality, I think we all want to disappear at these points in post-meal chores, but our kids do a fantastic job helping, all over the house. Still, on the this particular day, I had gone to change clothes and found myself in a seemingly empty house.

I wasn’t sad – a fire started in our fireplace, courtesy of my husband who I could hear in the garage, already invested in something of his own. I curled up in our oversized sectional with a cozy blanket, trying to decide what I needed with this unexpected gift of quiet and being alone. I grabbed a journal, which didn’t feel quite right. Not my coloring, or napping. What did I need? 

I suddenly remembered the documentary on Mr. Rogers that had come out a few months prior. Yes! I could feel something align inside myself, but was not sure why…after searching the too many streaming services we pay for, I found “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” and could feel my soul settle just a bit further. With a cup of tea, fire crackling, my favorite fragrant candle giving me sweet memories of summer and my pup snoring on my lap, I hit PLAY on the remote and heard a familiar sound…. a few piano notes, a voice so kind, and THEN…. the familiar, ringing bells of Trolley. I couldn’t help but smile and instantly began to sing along with a seemingly forgotten song…”would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor…” (are you singing along too, just reading the words? I thought you might be…)

The first few minutes gave glimpses of Mr. Rogers history, beginning with a sepia toned video of a young Fred Rogers, tickling the keys of a baby grand piano, rehearsing how he would describe feelings to a child. Cut to a group of children clamoring for his attention and with laser focus, the gift of his attention and response to one after another. Cut to a description from his producer, describing the many reasons why “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood SHOULD NOT HAVE worked” and then, this: Mr. Rogers, saying earnestly into the camera, “Love is at the root of everything, all learning, all parenting. Love or the lack of it. What we see and hear is part of what we become.”

As strange as it is to say regarding a documentary, I was completely riveted in 4:41 minutes. I could feel a few different things at the exact same time: It felt like a warm sunbeam shining on my face, simply seeing images and hearing Mr. Rogers, Trolley, Daniel and the many other sounds of the neighborhood. I sat there, my adult self invested in the well-done documentary, and the delight of reconnecting with an old friend, the safety and understanding in his words, because these have become such a core beliefs for me as well. Up until those 4 minutes and 41 seconds, I hadn’t known that he was someone with whom I held such similar beliefs. 

A memory emerged, a fuzzy photo in my mind of watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood when I was very young. I could see myself, legs in a W, munching on cheerios, enthralled with Mr. Rogers and his land of make believe. I recalled his puppets, their personalities, the big red, yellow and green light, his voice, calm, caring and completely free of judgement. 

What t started as a feeling throughout my body that day, became something much more over the next 90 minutes. I wanted to know more and more still about this neighbor who I hadn’t seen in far too long. I found the melodies, stories and words returning from a place stored deep in the recesses of my heart, not even knowing I could still feel and sing every word.

I sat there there, a grown up, both safe in my living room, protected from the frigid Michigan winter, comfortably full from a Sunday meal with family and an acute awareness as I watched Mr. Rogers, heard his voice and character eloquently described, that he was indeed a safe, lovely friend to both myself and countless others. The kid inside me remembered the lilt in his voice, the comfort and calm, even as he talked about extremely hard things. I had not been through a war or natural disaster, traumatic death at a young age or divorce. Yet, the child inside me who had grown up with CP has been grappling with differences that I had no idea how to voice, acknowledge or process.

Bessel Vander Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, “For our physiology to calm down, heal, and grow we need a visceral feeling of safety. No doctor can write a prescription for friendship and love: These are complex and hard-earned capacities. You don’t need a history of trauma to feel self-conscious and even panicked at a party with strangers – but trauma can turn the whole world into a gathering of aliens.

I watched in tears as he normalized issues of both acceptance and pain related to racial atrocity, by inviting Officer Clemmons to cool off his feet in the same pool; as he sang with a young boy, “its you I like,” after sitting with Jeff Erlanger and hearing his story about life in a wheelchair; and as he normalized, simply, “being kind.” He had even left a life-changing impression on a gorilla. Unreal. I was thunderstruck with the ideas that were so important to him, are some of the same beliefs for me that as a therapist (and human) that are imperative in teaching clients about feelings, empathy, self-compassion and healthy coping. 

I began to take notes, noticing the connection and truth I felt internally as Won’t You Be My Neighbor finished.

“If you really want to communicate, the most important thing is to just listen.” – Mr. Rogers

From his character, work ethic, kindness, gentleness and admitted imperfections, I felt an odd camaraderie, almost as if I could understand and value myself better because I was seeing him through the documentary.

He had a tremendous way of just being with people, allowing people to talk and listen well in return. He answered as much of his fan mail as possible, thousands who over the course of time, and for millions, contributed to how they had felt as a kid and still as an adult, even though they only ever met in the neighborhood, ON TV. He showed me and so many others that we were seen. 

He was ahead of his time, tackling issues involving racial inequality, fear, divorce, conflict (even war and assassination) death, inclusivity and healthy coping in eras where most of these might have been avoided. He was also an ordained Presbyterian minister, though he seemed to let his life speak to that so much more than using the words, at least that is how it felt for most in his neighborhood. 

Tom Hanks, who played Mr. Rogers in the 2019 film, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” said this while promoting the film: “‘There’s an acronym that I’m using now in my own life – W.A.I.T., wait – which stands for “Why am I talking?”‘ Hanks said. ‘You should just sit and start listening to everybody who comes your way and you’ll be amazed at what you learn.” I’ve shared with many clients while also reminding myself. It is just one of many, gems that I hold dear from the life of Mr. Rogers. He emulated my Jesus is so many ways, though I doubt he would’ve seen that about himself. People matter, their thoughts and feelings, needs and struggles. Kindness MATTERS, to others and ourselves. Play, learning and joy, are imperative.

I found myself studying, reading books and videos about his life in the weeks following the snowy Sunday. Everything I read, watched or discovered about Fred Rogers led me back to Jesus, my own calling and gentleness. 

As I have read, watched re-runs, highlighted quotes and wished I could I have tea with Fred, (and honestly, purchased a few more cardigans and even a t-shirt with his image on it) I am left with these truths:

-We are all human so there is no pedestal necessary. Our lives WILL touch others, in either the beautiful or the broken ways. I can only hope and strive for the beautiful and apologize when my broken (or mean or misguided or thoughtlessness) takes over. Mr. Rogers, as well as Jesus, show me the wisdom in being slow to speak, quick to listen and even quicker to offer love. 

“The greatest thing we can do is help somebody know that they’re loved, and capable of loving.” – Mr. Rogers

-All the things MATTER! How crayons are made, how to manage the mad, sad or every other; consistency, presence and play; gorillas, clocks, relationships, honesty, music, humor, reading, artwork, dignity work ethic and I43. (I’ll let you look that one up.) 

“I think Mr. Rogers was one of those people who do their his work seriously and hope that someone would pick up on the seriousness of what they are about.” -Betty Seamans, producer and actress, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood

Don’t we ALL hope that we will be understood, seen for what we are about? I think Mr. Rogers knew it wasn’t just kids that needed to hear how to love and be loved, feel and be strong enough to talk about it. I think he hoped that in teaching kids, it would be easier as adults. The the short version of my favorite quote is ‘whatever is mentionable is manageable.” (I’ll let you look up the long version, it’s also in the beginning of the bothandkeepitreal website.) This is an important belief in my work as a therapist, the seriousness of what I am about. I absolutely BELIEVE in the work of knowing and loving ourselves. My writing has become the joy and purpose in sharing my hope and beliefs. 

What are the important parts of you, the seriousness of what you are about? Don’t be afraid to share it in safe places, it is there you can be seen and cared for, exactly as you are. 

“I like you as you are, exactly and precisely, I think you turned out nicely, and I like you as you are. I children need to hear that, I don’t think anyone can grow unless they are accepted exactly as they are.” Mr. Rogers.

-“His theology (just like Jesus) was love your neighbor as yourself. It was deeply personal and wide open to all,” stated a cast member in the documentary. I think this is why Mr. Rogers still resonates with so many people, 20 years after his death. He was such a human example of the God he loved even if he never said it on the program. This past week, someone noticed the Mr. Rogers sticker on my cup that I always have with me. He commented, “I loved him. There are not people like him anymore.” I stopped myself from fangirling about my friend Fred, but I thought to myself, “I’m really trying to be!”

Still, I know that his unconditional, kind and gentle heart was not and is not the norm. The documentary also explored the nay-sayers and doubters, those who blamed Mr. Rogers for contributing to an entitled generation. Here is the last truth, at least for this post, right from the documentary itself.

“Mr. Rogers was not talking about entitlement. If you don’t believe everyone has inherent value, you might as well go against the fundamental notion of Christianity that you are the beloved son or daughter of God. ” Mr. Rogers explained what you are special means in one of his commencement speeches. “You are special ultimately means that you don’t ever have to do anything sensational for people to love you. You are loved just as you are. You are endowed by your creator with good.” Junlei Li, former co-executive director of the Fred Rogers institute.

“People were intolerant of his tolerance…” Tom Junod

Thank you Jesus and thank you Mr. Rogers for showing us how to live a different way. Thank you for your relentless pursuit of people, love and something so much greater than yourselves. 

May we follow in both Jesus’s and Mr. Rogers example: be tolerant, kind, loving neighbors, to ourselves and each other. May we find Jesus in each other, give grace and mercy extravagantly in many ways and may we love without ceasing….

Both/and

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PS If you are curious about some of the books or resources I’ve found about Mr. Rogers and his impact, please message or comment and I try to share!

Underdogs and tears, the One who perseveres (and redeems.)

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For much of my growing up, I heard I was too sensitive, that I needed to get tougher and that even though I cared, sometimes it seemed as if I cared too much. I had so many emotions, in my teenage years, I am sure my parents and siblings felt like they were pretty consistently on a roller coaster. It was much later that I realized that it wasn’t just me, but actually a normal developmental stage for pre-teen and teen girls. I felt my excitement big, my fear bigger, had anxiety that stopped me in my tracks and sadness when others struggled. I am fairly certain that God was, all the while, shaping my sense of empathy; I just needed to grow up a bit in order to understand it.

While I would not change a thing as I look back on my life, at the time I felt like a little kid who did not have a clue how to manage feelings and certainly did not know about both/and. My parents are AVID Olympic fans, something they’ve definitely passed on (ice skating for me, my mom and sister – we all screech like owls while we watch, holding our breath and hoping that the leading US skater would land their axels, spins and salchows.) I still watch the Olympics like it is my job, staying up way too late, cheering and following the inspiring back stories of the elite athletes who make it ALL look so easy.

But even though we watched as a family and talked about the Olympics all the time, I couldn’t make sense the overwhelming awe, often times, sadness and something else it took me years to understand or begin to explain, even to myself: jealousy. I learned in time that there was a tangled knot of emotions, the beautiful and the hard. That’s how all of our experiences are though, as far as I can tell…the both/and in all of life.

When our kids were young, showing interest in new things, I was simply amazed at the way their bodies functioned, with ease, strength and the “normal” that I longed for. Our oldest tried ballet, tumbling and Girl Scouts.

One day I arrived to pick her up and found her troupe playing duck, duck goose to finish the days meeting. I watched, observing the fun of the chase. My experiences had been so different than this, the fear of getting picked because I must be a slow, deliberate runner; fear of tripping, get extremely embarrassed. But I was even more fearful of being “the goose” until I was age 20 because I couldn’t catch “the duck.”

Suddenly a sweet little girl got picked, “Goose!” She let out a breathy giggle as she stood up and threw her head back with laughter as she started chasing. Her long brown hair fell past her shoulders and her excitement at getting chosen simply stunned me.

I took a breath and felt my heart slam in my chest like a timpani drum, for just a few seconds. Along with her irrepressible smile, she ran while wearing medical equipment that was her lifeline, in a backpack. She had a somewhat familiar gait and a sense of wonder I had not encountered at that point in my life. Her mom helped but didn’t hover and little did I know then, the biggest cheerleaders in the duck and goose circle were her sisters, quadruplets.

Tears filled my eyes as the group cheered her on, yelling and encouraging, her giggle and joy nearly filling and bursting that whole room. I will never forget that first time seeing sweet Keyan and how she and her dear family teach me still about acceptance, sacrifice, family and joy. From what I know of her, she had no idea she was born an underdog in so many ways, but really, was anything but.

It’s happened many times over the course of our family life, tears filling my eyes as a teammate or another person “succeeds ” or a news story about someone hospitalized for an extended period, the staff clapping as they “graduate”; scrolling on my phone when a kid or adult who struggles in some way, only to reach the end of a race or goal and finish well, full of pride. My friend’s wheelchair rugby games or watching the elementary kid who participates in a running fundraiser while in a cast. If you have a minute, look up Rick and Dick Hoyt on YouTube…you will get the idea….

My family is not surprised to see me shed a few tears also as we watch different genres of tv, reality shows, athletics events or really, anything with a compelling story. But there are few shows that evoke tears quicker than I can wipe them away, my favorite being American Ninja Warrior.

Have you ever watched the discipline and athleticism with awe? Me too…. But I need to confess, I watch any and all sporting events that same way. Every single athlete who walks out on a field, braves getting across a wet pool deck, balances on starting blocks or diving boards, runs across a shiny gym floor or pole vaults in front of packed stands has in my mind, won a gold medal just for “doing.”

I unbashedly live vicariously through my kids events and events of their friends, not asking them to participate “for me,” but simply watching and soaking in every thing, as if I could somehow feel some tiny bit of team if I pay close enough attention. And the truth is, they ARE the definition of success to me, even before they start to play. For those who can’t even think about even the simplest part of being a part of a team for many different reasons, it is all a wonder, every single part. I really don’t have any frame of reference for how they accomplish so many different things…

Maybe that is why, in every story on ANW, I find inspiration. It is incredible to me, the dedication, strength and control. But it is also the the athletes who defy the odds, who fight their way through both literal and sometimes internal obstacles, who never fail to illicit the “good tears.” I love the achievements, especially when I know how much effort the little things take for so many people, not just as athletes. For some, dedication and strength is finding a way to get out of bed. The kid on the swim team, finishing the race after every other athlete, but does not give up and still finishes. The student who raises their hand in class as anxiety swirls and their stomach clenches because they just became the center of attention. Or the student who reports abuse at the hands of a family member, despite the waves of shock and conflict sure to ensue in the aftermath. Yes, the good and hard tears, most certainly….

I read a story recently in one of the Disney groups I follow, that if I can paraphrase, went a bit like this: A single mom who battles extreme anxiety and claustrophobia, saved for about a year to take her kids to Disney World, even though the idea of close quarters on the rides was utterly terrifying to her. She “didn’t want them to miss out because of her.” She got on a ride and began to experience a severe panic attack before the ride even began. She hastily got off and a cast member quickly made her way to her side. The cast member let her sit in an unused ride vehicle, then went on the ride with her, pointing out exits and “Easter eggs.” (details hidden throughout the ride to broaden the story and sometimes pay homage to designers.) The mom couldn’t stop crying as she made it all the way through the ride. So much bravery and strength. (Yes, I cried a bit, reading that story.)

In 2019, Kodi Lee made his way across the audition stage on America’s Got Talent, his mom next to him. He walked with a cane and his mom was beaming and steadfast. She described his early diagnoses, blindness and autism. She described him as “an entertainer,” how music saved his life…but silence after the introductions was palpable. There was a long pause, then Kodi began to sing, “A Song for You.” The judges and crowd were mesmerized, and I cried for both the struggle and the victory as the young man born with “differences” sang his heart out to thunderous applause. The judges and audience were also crying as he was given the coveted Golden Buzzer. I kept thinking, so well deserved, and likely so rare he would be celebrated, like this. (Spoiler…he went on to WIN that season, changing the minds and hearts of millions related to ability and talent. Videos from his performances are reported to be the “most watched in AGT history.” He plays nightly in Vegas. For a boy who could “barely string together words,” this is the underdog story…)

I am drawn to the underdog/ success stories in everything from March Madness to movies to real life; the grit, perseverance and the beauty wrapped up together. As I have spent time writing this piece and thinking through what it is that I want to convey, a realization hit me: as much as I love the image of conquering big battles and hard-fought victories, there is something else that I am drawn to as well. One of my favorite words is redeemed. Dictionary.com defines it this way: an act of redeeming or atoning for a fault or mistake, or the state of being redeemed. deliverance; rescue.

Redemption and having audacious hope is what I love most about the God of Heaven, Jesus and this story – perseverance, passion, rescue and love for all, including all of us underdogs. It is a redemption story like none other, both victory and redemption we absolutely cannot wrap our minds around. And this is the truth that always brings me to tears. I am undone at the reality that Jesus died for me, (for all of us) when he did not have to, not for a second. God himself says that the last here on earth will be first in heaven. I can’t even fathom the beauty in that…or the fact that though I deserve, “underdog status,” God promises the biggest victory.

Until then, I don’t want to stop crying the happy tears, cheering with my whole heart and yearning for redemption of all things. I never want to lose the awe in all things. I want to celebrate movement, trying and trying again. I want to feel hope, wonder and take nothing for granted. And I always want to be thankful to the one whose heart, sacrifice and love is so much more than I could ever imagine. May we love well, those who feel unlovable, may we see those who feel invisible and may we love extravagantly like you do, Jesus, always.

Both/And

Psalm 13

Becoming 50

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Tomorrow is a big birthday.

You know how you hear, “age 50” advice throughout your life? Some is well-meaning and sage, some definitely is NOT. Everything from, “tomorrow, it’s all over, Stacy. Your body starts to break down, you feel 80 from the minute you turn 50,” to “enjoy every moment, it all goes fast.” I think we all have pre-conceived ideas about certain numbers, birthdays and aging…at least that is what I hear in my office and in my relationships.

What I FEEL, strangely, is a bit excited and READY.

I have thought about this birthday for months, waiting for dread and “old” to descend upon me. Sitting here 1 day before the this birthday and all I feel is profoundly grateful. I am ever in wonder about my story, the way and why God chose this path for me: born early, the family I have, the experiences and heartaches. My career, beliefs and interests: the things that make up WHO I am. How God knows my love and I, these beautiful kids we have the privilege of raising, the stories I get to hear, the wonder I am allowed to experience.

It is not lost on me, the lives I interact with, the losses and pain shared with me, that I should not, (WILL not) take a moment for granted. I am humbled by the legacy of faith my parents have shown and that my greatest gift, EVER, is Jesus.

I am excited, standing on the edge of the next 50…how will our love story continue? What will the kids paths look like? How will I see Jesus and stay in wonder of it all? What I am going to do next, professionally and personally?

And yes, my fear of how my body will age with CP is real. But, I refuse to live in that fear. That used to be lens in which I saw most things. It is truly the hardest place to live. But acknowledging it is ok, reminding myself it will be ok, everything will unfold as it should, as a dear friend reminds me often.

My fear for our world and people is real also, as I look to my next 50. All I can do is speak and advocate for truth, kindness, love and hope, knowing that GOD IS SOVEREIGN and so good.

I remember watching Oprah, the day she turned 60, I think. She talked about all the negativity surrounding birthdays and something she said has stuck with me. “Consider birthdays a time to look back on your blessings of the year, celebrate those. Think about the people who’ve impacted you and be grateful for that, instead of the dreaded, I am another year OLDER.” This is most definitely a paraphrase, but the idea of a hopeful remembrance and celebrating who and how we are has stayed with me for sure.

To that end, I am so very thankful for this space, truly a gift to write and hear your feedback. I believe God gives us all stories to tell. How will you tell yours?

I am grateful for clients who bravely share who they are with me, and the ability provide a space that is safe, sacred and hopeful.

I am grateful for health, for continued awareness and light surrounding ALL of our differences in 2023 and pray that it continues, wider, deeper and kinder.

I am in awe of friends and family God has placed on this journey with and for me: a new church and wonder each time we attend, family who loves like no one else, the Word that makes me strive to be closer to The Lord each time I open it. Friends who know me authentically, love me still and are breathing examples of grace.

I am thankful for biking, movement and the daily understanding of how physical and emotional health really do heal and make way for peace and contentment.

For memories, and those who I will hold again in heaven and how they’ve taught me so much. You are loved always. Thanks Gram for all the “house cakes” on my birthday.

My goal is to hold this last 50 tenderly and enter the next 50 bravely; becoming less about me and more like my savior. I want to worry less, care more; Waste less, give and love extravagantly.

I know this sounds like a “Mr. Rogers ideal” and truthfully, it probably is. I know there is also so much pain for many, around birthdays and many other days. Praying love and hope over all. For me, this is the both/and – both my hope and gratitude going forward AND the knowing it is not always that easy.

Here’s to cake, ice cream, those we love, gifts of time, connection, sunshine (and a good bike ride) and always kindness and love for others and ourselves. EVERY day, not just on birthdays.

“Hey John, you need one of those!”

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If you know me or have followed my social media for more than this month, my love and joy in riding my bike is evident. I always relish the freedom my bike gives me, the effort of pushing my overly active muscles and the wonder of feeling my body accomplish this thing I ask it to, just in different ways than someone without CP.

There are (nearly) always comments when I ride, however and it is a complicated thing to grapple with…

My journey with biking has been a long one, one of watching, trying, longing, trying again and finally, arriving…Let me start somewhere near my beginning. I was born with cerebral palsy when my parents and sister lived in New Jersey. By God’s providence, I was born in 1 of the 2 parts of the US that had a neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) at that time. Had it not been so, I truly believe I would not have survived my early birth, breathing challenges and all the growth that had to occur outside of the womb instead of those 7 more weeks within. I know I keep writing, “that is another story for another post”, but in many ways, this is. In time, I hope to write more of my story. This format feels right to me for snippets, essays and in my mind, a focused reason behind each post. That story? Well, that one could be novel of its’ very own….

Suffice it to say for this moment, that I was extremely blessed to be born where I was in the world, if not when (7 weeks premature). With all the both and in the world, I KNOW God is in it, through it and in him, all the reasons hold together. (And, I can’t wait to curl up in a big cozy chair with the BEST cup of tea and hear the reasons when I get to heaven. I don’t really know if it will matter at that point, but I DO envision his hug to end end all hugs and my big sigh of relief at his telling and understanding of ALL that it has been.) See, that by itself could be a novel!

Even though I know God holds it all together does NOT mean that growing up with CP, making sense and facing my own challenges WITH IT are easy. In fact, CP has been and will continue to be, my greatest teacher of Both/And. It is the greatest “normalizer,” (if that is even a word?) I will ever know, of having so many feelings at the EXACT same time….

You see, I don’t think I knew or felt different than anyone in my youth. I think it just WAS for me. I pranced on my toes for years, because my hamstrings and heel chords were so tight that was all I could do. But very young, my dad worked with me a lot to find my own walk and I think once I did meet those “normal milestones” (a bit later than the average person,) I think I took off. And my particular diagnosis was “moderate.”

I don’t know the day that it changed for me, the reality of different, (and the shame that came with that particular realization), but I can tell you I remember moments and feelings in my body.

We lived out in the country when I was little, on a dirt road, right next door to a pig and blueberry farm. Our ranch home sat back far from the road, up a long driveway and just past the pond my parents had put in. It was “better than a swimming pool,” our place for splashing, catching tadpoles, playing on innertubes and for my brother, catching fish. One day we even looked out the front window and saw one of the massive pigs from next door, relaxing and resting in the shallow water! Her owner had to dangle one of her bleating babies while as he sat, legs swinging from the back of his pickup truck to get her get out of the soothing water and hot sun. Slowly the driver drove while the owner called to the pig, baby crying, until they disappeared in a cloud of dust up the drive to the house next door. It was a sight to behold…

I swam, ran, played in the woods with the neighborhood friends. Still, as I grew, I had difficulty keeping up with my younger brother and his friends playing capture the flag, and envious of my sister and the other neighbor kids who could take off down our winding driveway in the woods on their bikes. I saw speed, freedom and fun as they hopped on effortlessly, yelled to one another and gathered speed. I think my mind compared it to flying!

I begged my dad to teach me. Begged! And bless him. We tried, and tried and tried. I would fall, cry, become afraid and then eventually try again. But I think after awhile, we both knew that this was one of those things impacted by CP that I or he could not will away. I was crushed and I think for the first time in my life, realized I was disabled and had some limitations.

That sting did not disappear. In fact, I think it festered. I had many surgeries, changing my bone structure so that I had the best possible outcome for mobility with my particular range of CP. It is SO different for each one of us, with similarities perhaps, but each case, (1 in 350 people) looks different than another.

I dreamed of MOVING this body – whether is was ice skating on our pond, swimming, running, later roller blading and yes, still biking. I felt both trapped within a body that felt chained and was so hard to explain and I felt “bad for not having CP worse,” as though I should only be thankful that I could walk, talk and function as well as I could, almost like survivor’s guilt only “moderate CP guilt.”

A few days before Christmas, mid-seventh grade, my parents rented one of my favorite movies from Blockbuster (Savanah Smiles.) I loved movies and this particular one was one I had loved going to see with my Gram in the theaters. I disappeared to our basement to watch it and was in my own little heaven. Suddenly, I heard my parents calling me upstairs. I was ornery to tell the truth. I climbed the stairs and then realized they were calling from outside in December. I am certain I became a bit more than ornery, but went anyway. As I opened the front door, I could not believe my eyes. Sitting on our porch was an bright blue, oversized tricycle with a big white basket in the back!

You might be thinking, really, in 7th grade? And I hear you… I don’t think it occurred to me to be embarrassed about a trike. I think the freedom (and flying) was first and foremost in my mind. I will never forget that beautiful thoughtful gift from my mom and dad, or the forethought they had about adaptation. My parents even got permission for me to ride that bike in the school hallways of my Jr. High that winter. Only once was I going so fast that I hit a corner and got my beautiful bike on two wheels and almost tipped. I learned that lesson, quick!

I rode that bike until I began to drive, literally FLYING. When we moved to Holland and our house was a stone’s throw from Lake Michigan, I was there nearly every day in the summer. It was joyous. But as I hit about 11th grade, someone yelled, “why you riding your grandma’s bike?” and it was like hitting a brick wall. Shame and pain took the joy right out of the bike and I retreated. I gave the excuses of driving, but I knew it was the mean comment in the middle of heavy beach traffic.

Years later, in my 20’s, my roommate’s parents came for a visit from across the state. They’d discovered “banana bikes” for rent by the beach. Jo (roommate) and Don(her dad) got talking about my challenges with bike riding, Holland’s beautiful bike paths and “how to get Stacy on a bike!” Don ended up finding one for sale and driving to get it for me. Again, the most meaningful gift! I am forever grateful. It sat low and had 3 wheels (almost resembling a Hot Wheels, remember those?) with a banana yellow mesh seat. I rode it for the next few years until it’s wheels almost fell off.

Then a few years into marriage, my husband and I wandered into a nearby bike store. There, gleaming in the window, was a long Sunseeker recumbent bike, fancy and new. I had never heard of such a thing! We talked for a long time about it and again, the truth? It was WAY out of our price range…and my husband got it for our anniversary anyway. It was a gift of being seen and heard, after hearing my longing about bikes for YEARS. He even outfitted it to pull a Burley when we had our daughter, then our son.

And, if I am honest AGAIN, I became complacent. It was a lot to get the kids tucked in the Burley, wiggle their helmets on, get the bike hooked up and THEN go for a ride… I was a young working mom and it was a lot to get up and go. It is amazing to me as I look back, how the desire for something was so big to me and then, once I had the means to go, it was easy to push it away “til tomorrow, then tomorrow and many after that,” because I was tired or it was too much effort.

Fast forward a few more years. My son began working at a local bike shop, learning from the best how bikes function, what is most helpful for each of us, in a unique situation. We strolled in and found a shorter, zippier recumbent and I was instantly smitten. That bike took us all on a journey of discovery, growth, health and connection in so many ways. I had a goal of riding 365 days the next year – the rides we all took! It was, FREEDOM personified. There is so much more to say, feel free to ask or comment! I love to talk bikes and adaptation…

As great of a start it provided, I quickly craved more power than my zippy blue bike was able to provide.

I’ve now upgraded twice, first to a Fat Tad (a present for my birthday, a shiny red recumbent with fat tires and more attitude!)

This past spring, after some wise conversations about the mechanics of my rides, I upgraded again, to a Fat Tad with pedal assistance. This provides a more consistent pace, the ability to cross streets, ride rough terrain and increase the effectiveness of my workouts. Each upgrade has provided a new truth in my heart: I AM able, capable and AN ATHLETE.

And…I at times have experienced some downright mean or nasty statements while biking.

It is not uncommon on the ride to hear, “Hey, honey, that’s the bike we need to get for your mom!” or “You better get some lights on there if you want to stay alive!” There are other variations of the same theme.

Last week, as I excited Windmill Island, a man was walking in, saw me and yelled a few cars down, ” Hey John, you need one of those!” He had slowed down, staring a bit at both me and my bike.

I slowed, knowing I was now the object of “show and tell.” This happens often and typically, I try SO hard to see these interactions as a chance to educate about CP, how someone could feel in this situation. Truly, I do…and sometimes I am just too tired to educate and listen.

I rolled near John, who walked slowly over to me, as quick as his body would let him and began looking my bike over. I’ve heard it said that for those who use wheelchairs, the chair actually feels like an extension of their personhood and it is very invasive when someone is the bubble of the chair AND the person. I can relate! My bike represents my personhood and freedom.

Person A proceeded to discuss how this would be a perfect bike for John and the assumptions ensued. I need to pause and explain my emotional response…typically, my husband will say, that I become defensive related to people responding with, “that looks like fun,” or the ever-present insinuation that an elderly person would have a much easier time on a recumbent like mine than on a standard two wheel bike. Occasionally, my husband will whisper something irreverent under his breath at the third (or seventeenth) comment, just to shock and humor me.

The truth is, my bike is magic, incredibly life-giving AND is damn hard work. All your momentum must come from your legs and core, without the leverage to stand up on the hills. It is not, a quick and easy ride. It would be very, difficult for anyone to just “hop on and have fun!”

I think my “frustration” in those moments, is that I want to be truthful and advocating and I never l want to assume about anyone’s experience. My experience with my bike has been interesting in terms of commentary and assumption. From, “you look very awkward riding that bike,” to “that looks like so much fun,” to “that is so badass,” to “oh, look at you, laying down on the job!” there are so many reactions. The generous assumption is that most people don’t intend to be insulting – most! Some do… and…the comments can be. I absolutely experience both.

How often do we experience that in other parts of life, that someone comments and our filter responds before our head and heart remind us to “assume the best about people around us?” It is SO hard to do….so hard. One of my favorite anonymous quotes says, “be kind for everyone is fighting some kind of battle.” I pray that today, you encounter kindness from yourself and from others. I pray that we can approach one another with the generous assumption that we are ALL trying our very best. And I pray that you experience freedom, awe and wonder in a way that only can be described as the presence of the Holy Spirt: sailing on a boat, swaying in a hammock hammock, sitting near the water, a hard run, riding horseback or like me, in a way that is different than others, but is your own passion and joy. I will be on my bike, because God is good to me….

Family…

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We are, in our family of 5, spinning lately between our kids spring sports and events, church events, commitments to friends and family. These are all things we love, and the pace has just amped up! There is a metronome in the back of my mind, slowly ticking as we edge toward summer. But not just, “another summer,” but the last summer before my daughter graduates from high school… (Can you hear the excitement, overwhelm and perhaps a little shock in these words of mine?)

I’ve also been thinking about the many facets of family, even as I try to keep up with our schedule: in my counseling practice, the lives of friends and our family, as our daughter stands on the brink of college decisions and all that lies ahead.

During counseling sessions throughout the week, I can safely say that some of the struggles of family show up in some way, each and every session: beautiful, haunting, wounded, and abusive; broken, connected, healthy and hopeful. The constellations of family have changed in a multitude of amazing ways over the course of my career, and yet, the themes seem to remain the same: the hope to belong, be accepted and loved unconditionally. And truly, wanting our families to provide these values to each other in ALL the ways.

As we grow, I believe we also all have the hope and desire to provide these same values to families of our own. Some may call me idealistic, but my experience and my belief in the inherent good that God created us with, says that every parent WANTS DESPERATELY to provide to and receive love from every child ever born. And sadly, it is not always there or possible in some family situations….

If we turn on the news, drive down the road, scroll through social media, listen to kids after school, overhear conversation at work or perhaps all of the above, we know there is an excruciating amount of pain in families around the world at this very moment. Whether it is financial hardship, emotional instability, food insecurity, physical or sexual abuse or a myriad of other reasons, individuals ARE struggling, hurting, while also yearning for love and acceptance. While those may be some of the extremes, there are layers of pain, levels of longing for all of us, for connection with family.

Not only do I hear from the brave clients who tell me, but I can also tell from the increasing numbers of individuals searching for meaning, for the moments of connection and even perfection in families of our own….

I am an AVID Disney fan, have loved Mickey since our first family trip many, many years ago. A few years ago, my husband and I were ready to take our kids to the “happiest place on earth.” This was the very first trip for us and our babes, then 8, 6 and 3. Enough people had warned us to not “buy into the hype,” so we tried to lower our expectations. We knew there would be tantrums, possible tears instead of delight upon seeing Mickey and Minnie, sore feet and tired legs, arguments about souvenirs and much more. We hoped for beautiful memories, moments of pure delight and family fun. There were absolutely all of this and then some on that first trip. Unforgettable memories, even the hard ones.

A particular memory wasn’t really even about our family, but has stuck with me for many reasons. One morning as we hurried to get a spot for our son in the “Jedi Training Academy.” We hadn’t gotten up before dawn, (suggested if we REALLY wanted a spot for him,) but we did go to The Star Wars part of the park, first thing. We asked the cast member standing near us and were told the “Academy was full.” We explained this to our son, who was disappointed, but still happy to be at Disney. Just then, we heard a dad behind us screaming at the cast member we had just talked to. He yelled and belittled, “you are going to ruin the trip for our son, the trip that we saved for over a year to make happen!”

My husband leaned over, shaking his head and whispered in my ear, “the happiest place on earth…” The irony was glaring as we stood among parents and kids. I felt simultaneously so sad and tremendous pity for both the cast member, the family involved and anger at the way this dad had acted. The thought struck me even then, how families were banking on these experiences to find that elusive “family joy,” for themselves and their kids.

It is a billion dollar per year industry that Disney has mastered. The costs are currently rising and analysts continue to discuss how “it doesn’t really change because people continue to pay for it.” Why? Because the Disney Imagineers and marketing division tap flawlessly into that root of hope in all of us: the desire for connection, memories, joy and family.

There are more than Disney, however, who know that pathway. It is written on literal signs in many gift shops, quotes about family, wall art and jewelry; Hallmark movies with plot-lines of love, family and the proverbial happy ending. I AM NOT criticizing ANY of those, not even a little. I have simply talked with many people about the the many ways humans cope with the longing we all feel to have meaningful connection with family.

I am finding myself wrestling with that very connection while engaging in this next stage with our daughter. I know her drivers’ license says she is nearly an adult in the last days of her junior year in high school. But when I look at her, I sometimes remember her childhood before I see her as an adult. We go on college visits, have many discussions about her future. And my mama heart is at the same time squeezed with pain that we’ve somehow arrived HERE, where she goes forward without me in her day to day. AND, I am so very proud and excited for and WITH her. BOTH. AND…I want desperately to support, stand beside her in her next chapter, and, I want to hold her tight and never let go. We have spent years, protecting, knowing, caring, teaching, giving, crying and loving our kids completely then, in a blink, we are faced with finding a way to release them…

It is both foreign to me and if I am honest, a bit unfathomable, and, it is also healthy, normal and right. I know both inside my mind and my heart, truly. I am just really not sure HOW to do it, for her or me….I also know it will all unfold as it should, somehow…

These are the truths about family that I’ve been pondering in these both/and days…

I am grieving with you if you have been abused or hurt in any way. Please don’t hesitate to seek help, find support and love for yourself. Your life, efforts and pain are not invisible to the God of Heaven. I cannot explain or even understand the life experiences on this Earth. There is so much I want to talk with my Jesus about, in his time. But in the meantime, I can only offer hope and the belief that everyone is important and deserving of love, connection and adoration. I pray that you are able to keep believing, trying and hoping.

Brene Brown writes, “We will practice courage in our family by showing up, letting ourselves be seen and honoring vulnerability. We will share our stories of struggles and strength. There will always be room in our home for both.”

However family is for you, I pray you are connected and brave in the beautiful and the hard, this side of Eden. I pray for the courage and authenticity, to grieve and cry with one another, to be real and seen, enjoy laughter and hope. I pray we can establish boundaries as needed, trust ourselves in the joy and the pain, and I pray that as life continues to change, in phases and seasons, that we can love like Jesus. I have hope in being real and calling out perfectionism (kindly) within ourselves. And I don’t want to miss a moment of all of it, the moments when I or they are at the end of ourselves, unable to use words, or the moments that feel almost perfect and nearly every moment in between. In the loving always and the letting go, the searching and the finding, without a doubt, God seeks, holds and calls you his own. He is love, light, belonging and so much hope. Family…the one we all seek and the one we need. 

Both…and

Psalm 13

Two golf carts…two very different experiences.

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(For my EGM)

Spending time with my darling daughter is like getting my cup filled up over and over when it has been significantly hard to find a drink for weeks. 

One of our favorite activities together is to go to local craft fairs. We love the creative endeavors, finding so many ideas for her endlessly crafty brain and for me, just absorbing every word she says. We talk, shop, laugh, see things that catch our eyes or give meaning to us both. We notice, connect and sometimes are moved deeply just in our wanderings. 

It is a daunting and humbling thing to be a mama of one who is on the cusp of spreading her own wings… she is closer to adulthood than she isn’t, she is becoming so much of her own and it is all too easy to wonder if I have done enough, taught her enough, parented well enough or many other “have I enough‘s.” 

I have done so much of my work over the course of her life, both intentionally and unintentionally. When you’re a therapist it’s always a good practice to continue to stay in touch with a therapist of your own. More often, there are conversations about parenting wrapped up in conversations about how I provide therapy, my fears and growth; the regular ebb and flow of doing my emotional and spiritual work. But even with the knowledge that I have done and will continue to do my own work as she grows, it is still alarmingly easy to fall back into those, “ I wonders.”

I’m completely amazed that my girl’s love language is quality time with me. I am beyond blessed in the relationship I have with her, but today I am simply humbled in the fact that who she is becoming is more and more like Jesus.

Upon arriving at the craft show, she rolled down her window and asked where the handicapped accessible parking lot was. We were instructed to go a different direction than the designated lot because it was full. She deftly drove and parked which by itself is still unbelievable to me. I swear she’s a three-year-old behind the wheel of a car. 

As always, she came around the side of the car to hold my hand while we walk. I don’t always need that, but I’ll tell you it’s the most comforting thing, her holding my hand; especially when the ground is uneven, there is changing terrain or pavement. She regularly tells me that she WANTS to hold my hand; it’s not a necessity but at this point in my life, I actually believe her. 

We walk, my hand tucked through her elbow and my heart is light. I’m comfortable in my own skin, which she IS watching. We are giggling a bit and I can sense a motorized vehicle behind me, slowing down. I look to my left and assume that a nice staff member has seen us and is going to offer us a ride to the front of the craft show in his golf cart. Instead, a gentleman in a STAFF shirt rather gruffly leans over to us and says “Ladies, that is not where customers are supposed to park. I can see you’re kind of slow so it’s OK, but normally you need to park in a different area.” 

I blink, my heart racing. He had just summed up my identity in a snap judgement. He didn’t say “I can see you walking slow,” but that I WAS SLOW. …my brain had often filled in the rest- that slow was bad, that I WAS BAD. Years of experience, disdainful looks, pity and assumptions had wrongly confirmed it. That same feeling coursed through my muscles, making them all fire.

I can feel my daughter’s body also tense beside me… and before I can respond, she is the one saying, “when we pulled in, we asked the parking attendant where to park and she directed us over here because the handicapped lot was full.” Defending our parking spot AND her mama.  

“We’ll, I don’t know about that. I mean, I would beat you in a race but next time park in the other spot.” He drove off and I stood there holding onto her, dumbfounded. 

In my lifetime I have often been confronted with people’s ignorance and lack of awareness but it really never gets easier. Your skin gets harder, you learn some quick comebacks, but the affects still hurt every time.  This particular time completely caught me off guard. 

Before we go one step further, I have heard so many times, “who cares what he thinks,” and it is right- who DOES care?

WE ALL DO. We ALL CARE more about the insults and criticism than we’re able to accept affirmation and love. If we’re honest…

Emotional work does pay off. I took a few deep breaths, was as kind to my reacting muscles as I could possibly be and attempted to find pity for golf-cart man.

Daughter handled her frustration and own anxiety by reassuring me. “We can leave if you want.” She whispered, hugging me. Trying to swallow around the lump in my throat and a few tears caught in my ducts, I needed another second to breathe.  In my adult self, but not my previously bullied kid self, he had called out my biggest insecurity and insulted me when I least expected it.

I reassured her I would be OK; I just wasn’t quite yet. There would’ve been piles of shame in the past and believe me, that voice was whispering, but a bigger yell was happening inside me, that this was unjust, and so very sad that someone would not only think this way but say it out loud to another person in the year 2022. 

I hugged her and reminded her it wasn’t her job to take care of me, but thank you. It meant the world, her love. I didn’t even reprimand her when she ever-so-subtly shook her middle finger at his back.

“Oh Kevin, thank you so much for all the help, you are so kind.” We were collecting ourselves and heard “golf-cart man” being praised by another customer. A bit of insult to injury.

We walked on and had a really good time looking in the craft show. Rich fall colors, scents from candles and food trucks, eye-catching artwork and sparkling jewelry.  Though we were initially subdued, we began to shake the interaction off and return to “us.”  Conversation included processing how “golf-cart man” and his comments felt for both of us, how others might feel and what would lead someone to say something so blatant and rude. We talked about her first few days of school, her favorite social media accounts and her upcoming year.  We vacillated between the sad, mad, silly and fun. And a few swear words. 

We bought sweet treasures for friends, a few keepsakes of our own and gorged ourselves on iced tea and strawberry shortcake mini donuts from a fantastic food truck. I loved listening to her dreaming her dreams, future plans, the inspiration she found for crafts she wanted to make and how God holds her future in his hands. I cherished her hold on my arm and every once in a while whispering, “I’m sorry he was such a jerk, Mama.“

We left and before I knew it, she was again rolling her window down and trying to explain to event organizers what had happened and caring for her mama. The best part was watching her use her voice and standing up for what she believed in. (Passionately calling golf-cart man an asshole.) I was just the lucky recipient of her strength. Even though this man’s words hurt us both, we hurt for others who he might speak to in the same way and honestly, we were just plain pissed off. 

But I also experienced the beauty and the pride of my daughter’s awareness, her choices to use her voice, her heart and knowing that SHE changes the world for good. She loves like Jesus; she has a heart like Jesus and I am in awe of her trust – in both herself and her Savior.

I don’t know that I will ever feel confident that I have done right by her completely. Honesty again? Every parent this side of heaven wonders, I think. But today in the middle of some glaring ignorance I know that I am enough, I have enough and God is more than enough to take care of all of HER needs as well. Amazing how a craft show can give you things so good (and some hard) that has nothing to with crafts.

As the day ended, we came across a vendor who created lovely jewelry as part of a fundraiser for people in Haiti. Ella bought a Haitian coin with the words “Grace Wins “and me, a bracelet with the words ‘rise.”

Messages and reminders for today and those to come.  

Six months AFTER that day with Kevin, (golf cart man) I still think about that event sometimes….

I attend countless events for our kids and my brain is ultra-aware of people around me.

I have become accustomed to looks or experiences when I must advocate or explain my disability to others to get the help I need. I also am surrounded by lots of friends, family and our “swim family,” (the other parents we sit and cheer with, week after week, sport after sport,) who are spot on: reaching for my hand, helping me down the steps, bleachers, or many other situations. I am profoundly grateful.

As often as there is someone who is hurtful or unaware, there are many more in my corner….

Last Thursday was one of those days….

My love and I traveled about an hour to our son’s away baseball game, as usual. It had been a long week, my muscles still a bit off following lots of temperature changes, long days with clients (sitting too much) and many days in a row of events for the kids. No complaints, just this season we are in.

My husband parked the car and we could not even really see the baseball field clearly. It was and felt so far away, especially with my current state of mobility.

I could feel my heart begin to race, thinking about walking out that far. Still, there wasn’t really another option. I got out of the car, begin to pull my coat on as the chill was already in the air.

Just then, a man drove a bit past our parked car in a John Deere Gator. The very fleeting thought was, “oh, man, I wish we could hop a ride!”

Still, I continued pulling myself together to both walk a long way AND sit outside in the cold for a long baseball game.

I looked over again, sensing that the man on the Gator was still there…

“Hi there, would you like a ride? You’ll have to sit in the back…” He looked from me to my husband.

I blinked and my husband quickly answered, “I don’t mind sitting in the back, thank you!” We tried to grab our stuff quickly and though my muscles fired from being on the spot, I climbed up in the seat next to him. He had leather looking skin from years in the sun, a deep gravelly voice and the smell of cigarette smoke clung to him like a cloud. And…his kindness meant the world as he accelerated across the grass, gravel and field toward the immaculate high school baseball diamond.

 I asked his name, (Terry) and he explained that he worked at this particular school taking care of the various sport venues. I praised his efforts, thanked him again and had a lump in my throat as he pulled the Gator to a stop at the ball diamond where my son’s team and the home team were already beginning play. He could not have known how helpful he was, what it meant to me or how grateful I was.

As we sat watching the game in a truly stunning stadium, I felt the very love of God in Terry’s kind gesture. And as the game went on, I could also feel my anxiety building as I thought to getting back to our car. I tried hard to push my worry to the back of my head, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t nag at me as the game wore on.

Suddenly, the game was over and my husband and I again began packing our chairs, gathering our belongings. I was resigned to walking back, made a wise crack to my husband about getting back to the car at midnight to ease my own anxiety.

Another baseball parent we know well came and hugged us, then looked over.

“Stace, I think your chauffeur is here, looking for you.” We followed her eyes and there was Terry, pointing right at me.

My heart pounded for just a second at being cared for and seen. The negative stuff happens often enough that you just don’t expect THIS kind of kindness.

We quickly made our way to Terry and he smiled at me as he revved up the Gator. “Well, I was watching the game and I kind of kept track of you so that I could give you a ride back.” I swear, I could have shed tears…

”My wife has some issues with her knees, so I like to help whenever I can.” He told me as he pulled up by our vehicle. I was still a bit blown away. I thanked him again and in reality, might’ve hugged him if I thought I could get away with it. I didn’t, but instead climbed into our car with a ridiculous amount of gratitude and a sense of God’s timing and presence.

No disrespect to our kids’ team, but Terry and his kindness have been a big topic of discussion throughout the weekend. It was my husband who said, “crazy, huh? Two guys, two golf carts.”

These words hung with my heart, a lot of the weekend…both Kevin AND Terry.

It wasn’t lost on me that Terry’s giving attitude changed the sting of Kevin’s behavior as I thought about that event again, many months later…

Terry, if you happen to come across this, thank you for showing me Jesus in a person, driving a Gator. Please don’t stop helping, because it is so important. I loved that ride for a lot of reasons and your ball diamond is STUNNING. Your ball diamond and your heart….

 In a world where we all have the choice to be “Kevin or Terry,” may we all be like Terry…and say a few prayers for the Kevins. We all have that capacity, don’t we?

Thank goodness for grace, mercy and people like my girl and Terry. I am grateful to both.

“Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.”  Plato

Both…And

Psalm 13