Changing Seasons

John’s sweet voice carried down the stairs, “I can’t find my AWANA vest Mom!”  I hollered back from the kitchen, “In your closet…it’s hanging in your closet.”  John yelled down again, “Mom, I can’t find it!” Meanwhile, Jacob sat alone at the patio table screaming over half of an uneaten meatball.  I was anticipating the sound of the doorbell….a neighbor or the police checking in on what appeared to be a child abuse situation, but instead I heard John beckoning me to help him find the mysteriously displaced AWANA vest.  I yelled back for John to LOOK IN HIS CLOSET.  (He only has three things in his closet, so I can’t imagine this is too difficult of a task, even for a 5-year-old.)  It was just another Wednesday night. 

Too often, I fail to show love and grace to my children in an effort to get them to church so they can learn about how much God loves them (oh my—does anyone have a good therapist?)  But tonight I was filled with amusement!?  I rinsed the last pot and mounted the stairs to help search for the missing vest.  Upon arrival on the second floor, I found my 5-year-old completely naked except for his red AWANA vest.  Laughter rose from my chest and out my mouth before I had time to admonish this confused little boy for doing what would surely make us late.  “What kind of a group do you think this is John?”  And he joined me in laughing, and I’m pretty sure God joined us too.

The change from summer to fall isn’t the only change in season.  It seems the season of suffering and sadness that claimed the majority of my year is finally retreating.  The spring was wrought with pain and suffering from losing loved ones and experiencing a herniated disk.  The summer was spent regaining my strength, both physically and emotionally.  I wasn’t suffering, but was in a fragile state—not myself.  And now with the glimmering of the sun reflecting off the changing leaves, I am feeling a glimmer of my fun self rise to the surface. 

I can’t help but be reminded of Psalm 27, which has brought me so much comfort and hope through this year of trials.    The last two verses read, “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.  Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”  It has felt like a long wait in this season of suffering, and just like God delivered David (the writer of Psalm 27) from his troubles, He is delivering me from mine.  I’m looking forward to a season of joy and laughter and resting in a faith that is stronger for my trials.

Getting Derailed by a Train Table

It’s August 23 and we’re already on week #3 of school.  Don’t even get me started on how ridiculous this start date is, and the battles that I’ve been waging around bedtime and sleeping in beds rather than “camping” on the floor.  I should be lounging by the pool, applying sunscreen and distributing snacks, but instead I’m logging hours listening to everyone read, flipping flashcards, and completing parent assignments. 

Yesterday was my first ever PTA meeting, which left me feeling shell-shocked.  In addition to my cooking, cleaning, driving and tutoring duties, I’ll be adding the clipping of Campbell’s soup labels, Boxtops, and the turning in of receipts from the local shopping center.  Oh, and I can’t forget to use my reloadable gift card from the grocery store…..all small ways to make up deficits of funding. 

Elementary school is not all fun and games, as my now second grader reminded me during his first week of kindergarten.  Now the twins, which my body is still trying to recovery from carrying during pregnancy, are the kindergarteners.  They have embraced the school of their big brother with vigor.  The three jump out of the car and strut into the building like they own the place. 

I’m so happy that they are growing, and comfortable in this new environment.  We tackled the first-day-of-school rally like pros.  Everyone lined up behind their teacher.  No one cried, and I actually found myself thoroughly amused and laughing at the three wailing kindergarteners and their quietly weeping parents.  The second day of school brought the start of dropping off in the carpool lane, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I may have squealed the tires and sung the Hallelujah Chorus as I pulled out of the parking lot.

So you can imagine my amazement when I nearly shed tears this weekend over selling our train table.  The boys are in a new stage of play, leading to the purchase of a used air hockey table.  The train table had to go.  It wasn’t a beloved toy.  We bought it used and the boys never fell in love with it.  The only reason it still inhabited the basement was because of the functional surface it provided for playing other things.  I priced it to sell quickly, and within an hour we had a buyer.  She was going to pick it up the next day.  And wouldn’t you know that I found myself awake in the night, thinking about that silly table and mourning its departure like I would mourn a child going off to college?  What happened to the Hallelujah Chorus?

It turns out I was a little cocky, and this new phase of life is going to take more processing than I anticipated.  For the last seven years I’ve been wiping noses and butts, getting drinks and snacks, and reading books before afternoon naps.  For seven years I’ve been my boys’ “person”.  The one they see through sleepy eyes in the morning, the one who kisses their owies, the one who gets them started on a project or game when there’s “nothing to do”, the one they call out of the shower to help them even while Daddy is sitting in the same room.  And now they have new “people”.  Their teachers and peers who get to soak up their sweet faces all day. 

This is all leaving me a little lost.  The rhythm of preschool had been perfected.  I had it all figured out and was thriving.  I had my groups that filled me up and provided an outlet for giving back.  I had my mommy friends and favorite parks and playdates that left us all happy and exhausted at the end of the day.  But that song has ended, and a new song has started.  I’m desperately trying to learn the new rhythm.  In the meantime, this new song that is elementary school feels chaotic and filled with confusion.  It will take time and practice to find my new place.  It will take time to develop a new rhythm that balances the work and the play, which are both necessary in this stage. 

Ecclesiastes 3 is always comforting in times of change.  “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.”  So my days of being the 24-7 person for my boys is over.  It’s been a beautiful season—a magnificent song.  And the God who wrote that beautiful song is composing a new one for me.  I can’t wait to learn it. 

Memorial Day Memories

It’s Memorial Day weekend and the Lilacs are in full bloom.  Every time my eye spies the beautiful lavender flowers, anytime my nose discerns their sweet smell, I’m fill with nostalgia.  This time of year is always a busy one in Iowa.  Farmers diligently sow the seeds of corn and soybeans.  Graduates march to the beat of Pomp and Circumstance.  And everyone else stocks up on graduation cards and makes the rounds to all the open houses, sampling the tastiest each has to offer before moving on to the next.  My Mom just described to me her strategy for last Saturday’s stream of parties:  punch at the first house, dinner at the next, and dessert at the final stop of the night.  Small town life is a guarantee to know enough graduates each year to make such parties a permanent event on the May calendar. 

The nostalgia around lilacs and this time of year also carries over to the namesake of this long weekend.  I grew up observing Memorial Day in the most traditional sense.  It didn’t mean shopping the incredible sales, or kicking off the summer with a camping trip or a bbq.  Our family celebrated this holiday with observance. 

My Grandma Erb would drive her big Ford conversion van to school the week before.  All the grandkids would load up and she would navigate the gravel roads of Boone County to take us to an obscure cemetery.  There was a farm gate across the entrance, and wild berries growing in the fence row.  She would discharge us to place little American flags on each grave that had a military marker.  The American Legion provided the flags, and Grandma provided the manpower.  She was an expert overseer, taking the job of decorating the graves of heroes very seriously.  Once every hero had been honored, we would load up and repeat the process for the cemetery next to my Grandparents’ farm.  We were rewarded with popsicles when the work was done.  Grandma continued this tradition for nearly twenty years, and thankfully had grandchildren great enough in number and range to provide manpower through that time period.

Grandma wasn’t the only one who made preparations for Memorial Day.  My Mom would walk the yard with mason jars, picking lilacs, peonies, snowballs…  Whatever was in bloom would be turned into an arrangement to decorate the graves of our ancestors.  We’d load up the car and drive from cemetery to cemetery across three counties.  Each stop was a treasure hunt, trying to find the stone with our ancestor’s name.  The reward at the end was hearing my Mom tell a story or two about that person.  How her Grandma Norem’s kitchen always smelled of something freshly baked; how her Grandma Whattoff was a jolly woman who loved to laugh, was a meticulous housekeeper, and ALWAYS wore a corset.  We would place our mason jar floral arrangement beside the other freshly placed arrangements before moving on to the next cemetery. 

The weekend would end with exhausted bodies and hearts overflowing.  The connection I felt with these ancestors of mine who worked hard and loved well inspired me to do the same.  And the bond our extended family shared through honoring those who came before us was strengthened with each passing year. 

There are three new graves to honor this year, which makes me want to hop in the car and drive from Colorado back to Iowa to visit that precious ground…to instill appreciation and memories into my own children.  But we’ll settle for the storytelling piece of the tradition, which just happened to be my Grandpa Whattoff’s specialty.  What a perfect place to start.

Grandpa Erb gave his beloved the gift of flags to decorate the cemetery where she was buried in February.  Grandpa bought all the flags, poles and a few bags of cement, and my Uncles provided the manpower.  She is surely smiling down from heaven!

Finding Joy and Hope, Even on the Worst Day

Tuesday, March 15, 2016 was the worst day of my life.  It was an unlikely time to find myself in the bottom of a dark hole.  We were in Kauai, Hawaii, having celebrated my thirty-ninth birthday just four days before, with plans for another Hawaiian celebration three days later for our tenth wedding anniversary.  Back pain had plagued me the entire trip, but hadn’t prevented us from walking the beach, snorkeling, eating amazingly fresh fish, or sipping Mai Tai’s while being serenaded by ukuleles playing Hawaiian tunes.  But on this particular day, the back pain had reached a crescendo.  I was lying in the car as we drove to the airport, trying to enjoy the bits of mountain and tree-top views, the only scenery I could see from my reclined vantage point.  And then my phone rang with my mourning Mama speaking the words I knew where coming, but that I nonetheless dreaded hearing.    My Grandma had died.    

The emotional pain that filled my soul piled on top of my immense physical pain and left me a crying pile of flesh.  It took all my strength and resolve just to take one breath after another.  I hobbled and cried my way through the airport, endured the flight to Maui, and cried some more as my husband chauffeured me to the first urgent care clinic he could find.  He filled out the paperwork while I stood at the counter in a daze, unable to sit for the physical pain, and unable to focus for the emotional pain.  We collected my pain killers, muscle relaxers and steroids to treat a herniated disc, then made our way to the oceanfront condo where I would spend my next four days in Maui.  I cried out in pain as I tried to lie down, and the words, “I can’t take this anymore!” slipped from my mouth.  Those hours were terrible and painful, but my free-fall was broken by the arms of God.  He held me in those hours when I was inconsolable. 

The drugs started doing their job over the coming days and I found myself lying in bed, listening to the waves, and realizing that the same arms that held me in my time of pain held my dear Grandma in all of her moments of pain.  She suffered from osteoporosis, which left her bones brittle and constantly breaking. She’d also been fighting Parkinson’s disease for over twenty years.  This woman of incredible strength, character and love suffered through her last years, mostly with a smile on her face and a kind word on her lips.  God had been the source of strength that had fueled her grace-filled life. 

I was assured of this realization with the memory of a recent visit home over Christmas.  I would squeeze in multiple visits with Grandma on each trip home, but the final visit was always bittersweet.  Goodbyes had become increasingly difficult for both of us, with the realization that Grandma’s days on earth were numbered.  Grandma began to cry uncontrollably, and wouldn’t let go of my hand.  My heart broke as I grasped for words to comfort her.  And then I stumbled upon the blessing I had started saying over my boys in the previous months.  I whispered the words over her, “The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; The Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.”  (Numbers 6:24-26)  As I spoke the words her face cleared and her breathing calmed.  I could feel God’s presence, holding her, comforting her.  

God held her in his loving arms until our next visit home in February.  She summoned every bit of strength to awaken and greet my boys.  Laughing as 4-year-old Jacob played “this little piggie” on her elevated feet, singing along as 6-year-old Kenny serenaded her with Yankee Doodle Dandy from his patriotic program at school, bouncing a balloon back and forth in the air with 4-year-old John.  She was in the last weeks of her race here on earth, but she refused to put her baton down early.  Instead of staying in her comfortable, trance-like state, she chose to be present and connected with her great-grandsons one last time. 

Grandma was an expert at putting other’s in front of herself.  An unexpected visitor at dinnertime was always invited to stay, with Grandma giving up her portion for the visitor.  If you complimented her on a new blouse or her pretty winter coat, she would tell you she was getting tired of it and why don’t you take it home and use it for a while.  She kept chocolate chip cookie dough in her freezer, scooping out enough for a pan of fresh baked cookies when anyone dropped in for a visit.  She had a way of making each person around her feel special and loved, much like I imagine Jesus did during the years He walked this earth.  

Grandma held a special place in my heart.  We shared a love of all things girly from fashion to decorating.  I have cherished memories of shopping trips to JC Penny’s where Grandma and I would pick out my first-day-of-school outfit and then go out to lunch.  I spent my college year’s having weekly lunch dates with Grandma, who was just a ten minutes’ drive from my sorority house.  I moved away after college, and we both relished with a new intensity my monthly trips home.  We’d sneak off to her sitting room with a plate of cookies and cups of coffee, leaving Grandpa reclined and watching football.  I’d tell her about my adventures in St. Louis and try to pry out stories of her life.  We would always end up laughing so loud that Grandpa would holler from the other room, “What’s going on in there?”  We’d elicit more comments from Grandpa when our goodbyes became too long and mushy with kisses, hugs, and “I love you mores”. 

One of the best parts of growing older has been discovering the pieces of Grandma that I inherited.  I have her same white streak in the front of my hair.  I love playing pranks on and teasing my children.  I cherish my girlfriends.  I love my God.  I am strong-willed and determined.

There are other characteristics that Grandma demonstrated so effortlessly.  Unconditional love, self-sacrificial generosity, and hospitality are a part of who Grandma was.  I wish these came more naturally to me, but thanks to having her determined nature I do my best to conjure them up as much as possible.

Grandma’s determination served her well, especially in the last years of her life on earth.  She was determined to live at home, to be surrounded by family, and to hold tight to her faith to the very end.  She could proudly say, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”  (2 Timothy 4:7).  Verse 8 goes on to say, “Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day…”  While March 15 was the worst of my days, it was the best of Grandma’s.  She crossed the finished line, joined her husband in heaven, and had a sparkling crown placed upon her head of beautiful hair.  This reality brings me joy in the face of my pain, and a new determination to run my own race as well as Grandma ran hers.  I can’t wait to mush it up with her someday in heaven.  What a happy day that will be indeed. 

A Farm Fairytale

Once upon a time there was an Iowa farm girl.  She was born at home and when the time came, started school in a one-room schoolhouse.  When she was six-years-old, she moved to a farm with a big farmhouse on a road that years later would be known as Erb Road.  That girl grew and grew.  She went to the “big” Luther school with less than twenty students per grade.  She had girlfriends, played basketball, and participated in 4-H.  She was an all-American farm girl.  

It was a typical October Saturday night after World War 2.  She rode along to town with her parents.  They would visit friends while she searched the “big” town of Boone for fun.  Bowling, a movie, or just walking downtown was an exciting change from life in the country.  Little did she know that this night would not only be exciting, but life changing!  The girl and a friend were walking down an alley, when she caught the eye of a farm boy driving down the street.  This farm boy hadn’t been home too long from serving in the War, and he knew a good thing when he saw it.  He had spotted his future wife.  

The farm boy pulled up to the farm girl.  They hit it off immediately, and he invited her to go for a ride to the big city of Ames to pick up his watch that was in for repair.  Without a hesitation she hopped in and so began the first of many road trips the couple would take over the next sixty-seven years. 

The sweet couple had a standing date every Saturday night in downtown Boone, until the farm girl finally told her parents about the boy she met.  Then the dates became more often and more varied.  The couple hated going to movies, which forced them to sit quietly (the farm girl loved talking more than anything) so they opted for picnics and walks and drives.  The girl’s mother would make a picnic lunch out of garden fresh potato salad and the couple would be off. 

 

The boy worked while the girl attended Boone Junior College.  Her studies soon came second to her sweet beau.  She would skip class to take him lunch or visit him on a break.  By summer they were engaged, waiting to get married until after the fall harvest.  There had never been a longer harvest.  The boy worked harder than ever before picking and thrashing the corn on his family’s farm.  

When every last ear had been picked, he and his betrothed headed to Chicago.  They didn’t want a big wedding, which was hard to avoid in small town Iowa, so they opted to marry in Chicago with the boy’s best friend and his wife as witnesses.  The cost of true love was $60 for a medical exam, $60 for a marriage license, and $20 for the preacher.  They married with future lifelong friends by their side and the preacher pronounced them Mr. & Mrs. Donald Erb.  

They returned to Iowa and settled into married life.  The girl traded in junior college for a $35/month job at the local newspaper that paid rent. The boy worked too and they saved every penny to buy a farm.  Before long a baby was on the way.  The future grandpa living on the future Erb Road bought a neighboring farm and let the couple live in the old farmhouse.  The future grandma wanted her daughter to stay at home with the baby, so she offered to pay her daughter $35 dollars a month to be a stay-at-home mom.  And so begins a special farm fairy tale, set in the corn fields of Iowa.  A beautiful story of unconditional love, sacrifice and LOTS of kids. 

When faced with the question, "Why?".....

Life has been hard recently.  My Grandma died, my back is causing me excruciating pain, and with a 10^th anniversary trip to Hawaii on the horizon, my remaining Grandma is in the hospital and not expected to recover.  Pain is such a big part of my life right now, both physically and emotionally.  But life goes on, especially when you’re a mama.  So I hobble into preschool drop-off, grit my teeth in the carpool line, and cry at the littlest thing, whether happy or sad.  

Part of life going on is a weekly playdate with a friend.  Every Wednesday from 4-7 is spent at her house or mine, letting the kids play while we get down to the business of sharpening each other into better women.  So I pulled up the shades and let her peer into my pain.  And then she did the same, having recently received devastating news about her daughter with special needs.  We shed tears together.  We cried out, “Why?” in mourning.  Then I breathed truth into her situation.  Her daughter, despite cognitive ability, is a ray of light in this world.  She is overflowing with joy, which God is using and will continue to use.  My sweet friend breathed truth into my pain.  We mourned a little more, then poured some wine and moved on to the business of cooking dinner before the kids initiated a riot out of hunger.

God is so faithful to provide what we need in every trial.  He’s provided the presence of dear friends to help ease my pain.  And he also provided a sermon on Sunday that had my name on it.  Finding happiness in the midst of suffering……yep, pretty sure that one is for me!  It was like applying salve on wounds to hear that asking “Why?” is a perfectly normal reaction to hardship.  We have all sorts of examples of this in scripture, the most powerful being Jesus crying out from the cross, “My God, my God. Why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).  

Unfortunately, there is no answer for the “Why?” question in scripture.  So we have to make the choice to either become stuck in the “Why?” or move on and ask better questions like “Who?”  Who is there for us in our suffering?  We’re given the answer with sweet words from Psalms: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”  (Psalms 34:18)  God so often uses people to do His work, and I could immediately identify God’s love for me in the people who have encouraged and lifted me up through this difficult time.  

In addition to “Who?” another better question to ask is “What?”  What does God want to accomplish through this pain?  Sometimes we have immediate perspective, and sometimes it takes time and faith to answer this question.  God specializes in turning lemons into lemonade.  One of the most forlorn figures in all of scripture (and maybe all time) is Job.  He suffered the loss of every one of his children, all of his material possessions, and even his health.  Through his loss and suffering, he held tight to his faith in God.  The “What?” of his story was experiencing greater blessing throughout the second part of his life than he had experienced in the first part, before the suffering started. Not to mention the fact that Job has been a beacon of hope and understanding for everyone who has suffered since.  

I am so grateful to have wonderful people walking with me through the valley, but even more grateful for the knowledge of how to walk through a valley without losing my faith.   My girlfriend and I paused to mourn and ask “Why?”  And then we moved on to the “What?” and could immediately identify glimmers of God’s purpose, which soothed our wounds and gave us the strength to make it to next Wednesday when hopefully we’ll have less mourning and more laughing.  Amen.  Let it be!

Check out the sermon that inspired this post:  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFwJHRJmh2M#action=share

This is Our Story

The day that I was so sure was a few years off came early.  My Grandma, Helen Fern Erb, became a resident of heaven on Tuesday, February 16.  She spent her last days on vacation in Clearwater Beach, with the love of her life (my Grandpa) by her side.  

The shock is starting to wear off, and it almost seems a prophecy that was waiting to be fulfilled.  It was their twentieth year at Clearwater.  Grandma turned 87 on February 15.  They were scheduled to depart Florida for their home in Iowa on February 17.  Grandma was not fond of changing plans, and I can’t wait to see her again in heaven and verify what my gut is telling me……this woman wasn’t going to die on her birthday, and she certainly wasn’t going to cause a change in plans for their return to Iowa.    

The family gathered this week to honor her. Grandma was an only child who left a legacy of 6 children, 21 grandchildren, and 16 (and counting) great-grandchildren. She would have been thrilled with the 400 people who attended her visitation, and the 200 people at her funeral.  She would have laughed at the story my Dad (her firstborn) wrote and the pastor read.  My prayer is she felt appreciated and understood by the eulogy I delivered. 

Family gathered around Grandpa the evening after the funeral. The shell shock of losing his wife seems far worse than the fighting he survived during World War 2.  For the first time ever, there are breaks in conversation, moments of silence that had never before existed in my Grandparents living room.  My Grandma LOVED to talk, leaving my Grandpa unable to get a word in edgewise.  He never seemed to mind, resorting to his newspaper or birdwatching to break up the monotony of conversation. 

Now he looks longingly out the window towards my Grandma’s grave, just on the other side of the ravine.  And after a few minutes shares the story of how they first met.  With a little prompting, we hear about his childhood, the war, his lifelong best friend, and family road trips.  He finishes at 10:15, a full forty-five minutes past his bedtime, and declares, “Somebody should write this all down.”  

It’s good to remember during times of mourning.  Remembering seems like a prayer of thanks for all the blessings that God has bestowed.  And remembering is nothing new.  The Israelites “remembered” when God acted on their behalf by piling rocks to form an altar.  So, in a similar way, my hope is to create an altar of stories.  Each story honoring the incredible heritage I’ve been given, as well as the God who dreamt up each character, setting, and storyline.  

Big Daddy Weave sings it best in their song “My Story”:

If I told you my story You would hear hope that wouldn't let go If I told you my story You would hear love that never gave up If I told you my story You would hear life but it wasn't mine
If I should speak then let it be Of the grace that is greater than all my sin Of when justice was served and where mercy wins Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in To tell you my story is to tell of Him This is my story this is my song praising my Savior all the day long