For 14 1/2 years, I carried a loaded trunk full of toys and materials for speech-language therapy home visits. The rotation was constant. With the exception of family trips to the mall, zoo and grandma and grandpa’s house, the stuff was always there. Neighing horses and beeping timers sounded at every bump.

But now, once and for all, it’s time to unload the trunk. It’s time to bring it back in. It’s time to bid farewell to friends who stood the test of time. The great ones, the loved ones, the classics, the ones that worked for every kid regardless of their disorder or delay. It’s time to say good bye.

Dearest toys and materials, I’ve known you all too well. What works, what doesn’t, the words I’ll need, the response I’ll receive. I’ve loved you, grown fond of you, and relied on you. It’s been a good ride, friends, but it’s time to say good bye. Perhaps later we’ll play. Perhaps later we’ll learn together. Perhaps later we’ll grow together. But for now? You’re heading back to the closet.

Hopping Frogs, you always served me well a minute or two. Hop goes the frog across to the log. Green frog or pink frog, which do you choose? Mom’s turn or Sam’s turn, which will it be?

Stringing fruit (a.k.a. beads disguised as fruit), you’ve seen your days. The frayed edges of your box prove you were well loved. Yes, your fruit shape distinguished you as most clever, most interesting to toddlers and preschoolers. Swooshing down the line to mom or dad, and swaying in the breeze were your specialities.

Oh train. I can’t bear to throw you away. You were tried and true for so many years. Your $10 price tag was long ago worth it. And now, you barely move. New batteries won’t do a thing for you, Mr. Train. I’m so sorry. I’m not sure what to do. So there you go, back in your closet where you’re free to stay a lil’ while longer.

Sweet Nestle Quik boxes, I never really knew your name. Who knew you’d be a hit?! The kids did, that’s for sure. Pull, pull. Up, up. Then shake those eggs and wave those scarves. Your simplicity was golden. Your fray-edged ribbons show your wear. Good bye, dear one. Good bye.

Seek-n-Find puzzle, you were amazing. Absolutely amazing! You were, without a doubt, a tried and true. Your box is held together with layers of clear packing tape. I put together your edges, corners, and middle pieces countless times. Out of your 24 pieces, only 1 wasn’t optimal for speech and language. That means you’re reliable, Mr. Puzzle. You’re dandy. There’s no way I’m getting rid of you.

Dear picture cards, this is just the beginning of your collection. How many times we flipped through, set up, chose which ones we were going to do. I have a hunch you’re becoming obsolete, but to me, you made life complete. You’re as good as a guarantee to me. Pair you with any game, and we are good to go.

Magnetic ice cream and cutting fruit and veggies, you’re awesome, a wooden delight for all ages. You were so useful, I bought four versions of your Melissa & Doug goodness. Thank you for the days of velcro-ing, cutting, and velcro-ing some more.

Lids ‘n Lizards, Jeepers Peepers, and Grammar Gumballs. Who knew you’d be so popular? Who would’ve ever guessed? Super Duper knew what they were doing when they made you. Your catchy rhyme-y names suggest your creators were speech therapists, proving simple + clever is definitely best.

Oh tried and true board games. You’re my faves. Your boxes are torn, taped and ripped to shreds. Zingo, Don’t Break the Ice, Caribou and Counting Cakes. We’ll never forget you, Bunny Hop. You were the fave of the faves, the best of all, my most prized possession as a speech therapist, the toy that worked for everyone, every time. Those bunnies, they never stopped surprising. Rest in peace for now, dear friends. You played well.

Little bears, oh how I loved and hated you. One thing’s for sure, you made my job a lot easier when it came to following directions. Who knew tiny colored bears would do the trick? But you ticked me off more than once when you fell out of the trunk onto the icy, snowy ground and spilled all over driveways. Oh, how you ticked me off. I knew that was it, once and for all, when that box of yours broke into tiny pieces, strewn all over a driveway on the coldest of winter days. Oh, how I hated you then. I didn’t hold my tongue as well as I should have when I went into that house. “Oh, what a blessing it is for you to come so families don’t have to travel in this cold.” But my mind kept spiraling back to that icy driveway and how naughty you’d been just minutes ago.

You’re a little bruised, too, gears. Your corner broke off when you slipped out of the trunk onto the cold, icy driveway. My use of you waxed and waned, but only because you were so good. I used you so much that I fatigued of you. I simply had to get a break. I didn’t bring you much those final days. Your C batteries were all used up. I intended to refill you for sweet “T’s” play, but never got you back for that one last day.

Oh, Fisher Price Loving Family and Snap ‘n Play babies, dogs and dolls. I bought up every Snap ‘n Play before you left stores. You were so good, oh so good. Every mama and grandma wanted to know where I got you. Who knew you were a great gift, too?! But I was never sure of you, Fisher Price Loving Family. You were hit or miss, never in-between. So you came out and stayed to play, or got put away right away. Good bye friends, I’ll bring you back out for the grandkids.

Random bag of trinkets, nobody told me about you in grad school! Who knew these tiny treasures could entertain for 45 or 60 minutes? I wanted to buy more of you on eBay, but never got to it. I just kept on collecting you, one by one, until you added up to two bags full. I’ll never forget the seconds of fun you brought to the tabletop.

And then there’s you, oh you. Connect 4. Deluxe Version. How many times did we play? You never got old, you never wore thin. Never. Ever. We could’ve played all day. You served as a distraction between bouts of super hard work, a reminder that we’re human, a reminder that kids who have speech and language delays possess certain brilliance beyond measure of standardized tests. Connect 4, you’re perhaps the most memorable, impactful of all games, toys, and materials. Because you showed me that these special kiddos are more than their speech, more than their language. They’re human. They want to win the game of life, too.

He won nearly every time. I had to concentrate hard to win. It was clear he was genius with his hands and just about anything visual-spatial. 

That last day, I lifted Connect 4 out of the bag and sat it on the table along with some picture cards.

We were about to start playing and drilling one last time, but tears welled big in my eyes.

I told him I was proud. He’d worked so hard. He’d come so far. We’d done this together.

Then, after we played, after we drilled, after we worked hard all over again…

Back in the bag you went, back in the trunk, then back in the closet. 

I packed you all nice and tight. I’m closing the closet. For now, good night.

With gratitude and love,

 

 

 

We saw the smoke billow black from a distance.

It was obvious. Something was on fire. And we were headed straight for the flames.

The girls and I had a simple morning planned. Church. Lunch. Target. Home. But we hit a detour on our way to Target.

With every turn, the smoke got closer. We agreed before we got there, this was going to be the biggest fire any of us had seen.

We were right. It was the only house fire we’d witnessed that close, and it was a big one.

There it was. A mini mansion burning up in flames. Fire trucks, ambulances, police and what seemed like a hundred people stood by watching it go down.

We pulled into the closest neighborhood and made our way through sidewalked streets. Parents and kids on bikes walked towards the flames. Cars were parked at the intersection in lines, and continued to pull up behind us, too. The fire was in plain sight. Some stood. Some sat. We watched in amazement as the mini mansion went down in flames.

The girls and I sat for 15, maybe 20 minutes, just watching.

This was a rare sight. I wondered why nobody was doing anything. Why wasn’t the fire being fought? Why were the fire fighters letting this mini mansion go up in flames in front of their eyes? Why were we all just standing there? Why wasn’t somebody yelling, screaming? Stop the fire! Put out the fire! For God’s sake, stop the fire!

Everyone just stood there.

Nobody seemed worried. Not even a bit.

I decided. Either the fire had gotten so out of control that they’d decided to let it go down in flames, or the fire was intentional. But if it was intentional, the timing was sure weird. Sunday noon. Intentionally start a fire on Sunday, the holiest of days, the supposed day of rest? Intentionally start a fire on Sunday at noon, during family lunch hour? Why?

My nine-year-old snapped pictures upon pictures on the iPhone.

Layer by layer, the mini mansion burned in front of our eyes. The roof tumbled. Then the windows. And finally, after we’d watched a long while and the fire was nearing the ground, water kicked in from behind.

I felt like a tourist of things bad, so I told the girls it was time to go, time to escape this life going up in flames.

A week later, it still bugged me. I wasn’t sure whether that fire was intentional or accidental. So I asked friends who lived near the scene if they knew anything more. The fire was intentional. A couple had built the mini mansion, which all the neighbors agreed was beautiful, but later got divorced. A developer came along and offered top dollar for the property. So it burned baby, it burned, for the sake of cleared land for new development.

I wondered. What about the husband and wife who lived there? Did they have kids? Were they aware that this mini mansion of theirs was going down in flames that day? And if they were there, if they did know…

How did it feel to watch the life they once envisioned go down in flames?

How does it feel to watch your life go down in flames?

How does it feel to watch someone else’s life go down in flames?

We’ve all witnessed our fair share of fires.

We stand. We watch. And wonder.

Why isn’t anybody doing anything about this?

Why are we all just standing here?

Please, won’t someone stop the flames?

Somebody! Come! Make it all better!

This house. is on. FIRE!

Please!

Please.

Fight this fire!

Don’t let it go down.

Don’t let it go.

But it goes, anyway.

And we realize…

Perhaps the fire wasn’t ours to fight.

Perhaps there are times when we need to sit and watch the mess go down in flames.

Perhaps foundations were built on sand instead of soil, or rock.

Perhaps mini mansions were built where humble homes should’ve been.

Perhaps empires were erected where walls should’ve crumbled.

Perhaps egos took a front seat to others.

Perhaps dead things needed to burn to the ground before new life could rise again.

Perhaps our lives were never meant to be built, but to be broken, surrendered, and then lived.

God promises. “In this world you will have trouble.” But He also promises crowns of beauty for ashes.

So let the fires burn. Let the old, ugly, broken-down, used-up, long-ago dead things die.

Burn. Burn. Burn. 

Until there’s nothing.

But ashes.

Ashes.

New life. It rises from the ashes. It grows. It springs forth. It’s crowned with beauty, more radiant than before.

But when and how do we emerge as fellow human beings?

When do we turn from mere bystanders to helpers, firefighters of the most blazing kind?

We’re there in the kindling, before the flames ignite, before smoke’s seen with the naked eye. When something doesn’t seem right, when we get that nudge, when we hear bits and pieces of this and that going wrong? We lend a hand, open our ears and say “this is how I’m going to love you today.” We remind them they’re not alone. We point them in the way of hope. And we offer ourselves as a ray of sunshine. For God makes all things beautiful. In time.

We’re there when flames burn bright. When all’s failed, when all’s gone wrong, when there’s nothing else to do but let the flames engulf. We stand. We wait. We watch. We pray. We let them know we’re there. And we let them know we’re sorry. So sorry this is happening. So sorry your home is on fire. So sorry your life is on fire. So sorry. So sorry.

We’re there when nothing remains but ashes. When life’s hopeless, worthless, and pointless. When dusty black’s all over their feet and hands, and the mess is trailing everywhere they go. We’re there. Yep. We’re there. We’re there in the waiting and wondering if anything’s going to change. We’re there in the doubting and discouragement. We’re there in the believing nothing’s possible. But we know. Everything’s possible. All is possible. So we sit. In the ashes. With them. We get dirty when we don’t want to. Even when it costs us. Because we bear all things, together, even in the ashes.

We’re there when new life springs forth. When hope abounds. When things are looking up. When nothing but better days are bound to happen. We’re there. When dead things come to life. We’re there, rising forth as fire fighters. Trained. Determined. Ready to love and fight again.

And all the while, He’s there. Bestowing beauty for ashes, making all things beautiful. In time.

I was in my car.

The music was loud, but slow, spiritual and soulful. Just the way I like it.

The sunset stayed right alongside me as I drove. It was gorgeous, breathtaking in fact.

I couldn’t help but think that God was gracing me with a taste of heaven in those moments.

All I wanted to do was pull over and photograph the sunset, forever etch this memory in pixels. But the time was never right. One car or another followed me the whole way.

And then, I passed a cemetery. What a lovely place to stop and view the sunset in peace, I thought. So I pulled over, drove in and parked.

I got out of my car, but stayed near to get my bearings. The sunset was my guide. For some reason, I felt compelled to determine where the sun was shining most clearly down on a grave site. I moved my body to the left, then again to the right. A clearing opened between some trees across the way. Light shone on a site right in front of me.

I moved forward and sat down next to the grave site, all the while intending to take a photograph of the sun peering through onto the site. That never did happen the way I imagined. It was much, much better than that.

I kneeled before the grave. I looked down.

Teresa Marie Hennen Moksnes was the first thing I saw.

The next thing I noticed was her birth year, 1974. And her death year, 2009.

Then Loving Wife And Mother.

This woman was nearly my same age. And she was a mother. I was honored to have been led to this site.

I saw the bouquet of flowers and thought how lovely, someone’s been here to visit just recently.

I looked up at the sun.

Then looked back down at the site.

I sat quietly, pensively.

Then, as I sat reflecting, I looked again at the stone and saw the thing I hadn’t seen before.

July 24.

Today was her birthday.

1974.

Today would have been her 40th birthday.

And I immediately began crying. And praying.

365 days in a year, and I found myself sitting at the grave site of a woman who was born on July 24th and today was July 24th. Not only that, out of all the years I could’ve been led to that site, I found myself there in 2014, the year that would’ve marked her 40th birthday.

Only God himself could arrange a divine encounter like that. There was no way I could’ve ever known.

The Spirit had led me to this place, on this particular day, for a reason.

So I prayed for Teresa. And I prayed for her family even more. Tears streamed as I sat in disbelief that God performed this crazy, ever so gentle 40th birthday sunset miracle.

This was holy ground. For me, for Teresa, and for her family who had visited, likely today.

They visited. They left flowers. They love and miss Teresa dearly. Even to this day.

And I thought about God. What an amazing, loving and gentle God. How He presses on, how He continues to care for our loved ones, even when we’ve passed to our heavenly home. He cared enough to send little old me, a random woman passing on the way, to pray for Teresa and her family, to mark the special day that would’ve been her 40th birthday.

Teresa, I pray God gives you eyes to see that your family is being cared for, even when you’re gone.

And for you. I’m compelled to share this message. It was clear, so very clear as I stared down at Teresa’s grave site.

God wants to lead you. But he needs you to listen.

Where might God lead you if you simply listen? And obey?

He needs you, He’s calling you, He wants to reveal His sovereignty and lavish grace upon you.

Where oh where will He lead if you listen?

Today, he led me to Teresa.

Happy Birthday, Teresa.

May you rest forever in peace.

 

Inch by inch, he grew in your womb.

You nested and prepared days, weeks, months ahead.

You knew he was coming. You knew it was time.

Tiny and precious, he rested in your arms.

Your mama heart was overjoyed. This tiny bundle was yours, a gift bestowed upon you by God himself.

Time passed – minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years.

But his time to pass came far too soon.

Your baby boy was sick, his remaining days on earth, few.

Your heart filled with sorrow. The pain was consuming, overwhelming.

You pleaded with God in desperation. Take me, not him.

And why God, why?

In all that fear, in all that pain, a wave of peace miraculously surrounded your heart.

You surrendered.

You prayed.

“Okay, Lord, you can have him. But if he must die, I want it to be for something big. I want someone’s life to be changed forever.”

After all the pain, after all the sorrow, after all the last moments together, your baby went home. Up in the clouds he went, up a little higher.

You sat in the silence.

Your mama heart ached.

Your mama heart wept.

Your baby was gone. Your baby. was gone.

You gathered up all the pieces of your grieving mama heart, brought them to the only One who knows the true meaning of life, and asked…

How can a mama bear bare to live when her baby passed before her? How does a mama move on? Now what, God, now what?

He answers your prayers in the gentlest of ways. Take his life, mama bear, bring forth life from death. Enter in to others’ pain. Enter in to others’ joy. Speak of your son. Speak of his life. Speak. life.

That blanket of grief and pain’s been wrapped tightly around you, but you do what you’re called to do when you want your baby’s life to count for something big. You begin, oh so slowly, unraveling the threads until you find hope, until you find possibility, until you find the place where your son’s life, your son’s light, begins to shine through, again.

Because you’ve learned – that place where hope shines is holy, precious, sacred space.

So you bring forth life from death. You bring forth purpose from pain.

You honor your son’s life by sharing his story.

You honor your son’s life by letting everyone know – hope is within grasp, even in the midst of pain.

You honor the hope that sprung forth from his life by ensuring everyone understands – the purpose of your life will be revealed, even in your last days, even after your days on earth have passed.

You honor the brevity of his life by encouraging everyone to live more fully –  as if this minute, this hour, this day is your last.

After a while, truth becomes impossible to deny. Your baby boy made a mark. His life wasn’t for naught. His life was short, but your prayer had been answered. Your baby’s life counted for something, something big.

Perhaps your baby was an angel, sent for such a time as this.

And slowly, little by little, you begin to believe with all your mamma bear heart, that joy comes in the morning, even in the mourning.

Amy

*This post was written for mamas whose babies have gone before them, and is in honor of Laura Sobiech, who lost her 18-year-old son, Zach, one year ago in May 2013, after a four-year battle with osteosarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer. When Zach found out he only had a short time to live, his mom suggested he write letters to loved ones he’d leave behind. But instead, Zach chose to use his love of music to write a farewell song, titled “Clouds.” As a result, Zach’s story spread worldwide. His song went viral, with more than 10 million hits on YouTube. In her memoir, Fly A Little Higher, due to release tomorrow, Zach’s mom, Laura Sobiech, shares her and her family’s journey with Zach, through cancer. Laura’s hope is to build awareness, help fight cancer, and to provide hope for people facing similar battles. The Zach Sobiech Osteosarcoma Fund has raised $746,917.14 to date, and “supports leading-edge research to find out why children get this rare cancer, and to discover life-saving treatments.” To read more about Zach’s story and purchase Laura’s book, visit the website www.flyalittlehigher.com. It’s a true honor and privilege to be a part of the Fly A Little Higher Blog Tour.

*This post is also part of a month-long series titled Motherhood Unraveled. To read more from this series, click here and read to the bottom where all the posts are listed and linked!

It was the second week of August 2013. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. For some reason, I had more time than normal before my last speech-language therapy home visit that day, so I took the opportunity to stop at the grocery store where I planned to do business banking and pick up an ice cream treat.

But I never did make it into the store that day.

This thing that happened? It was a little crazy.

So I got out of my car at this grocery store I’d never been to before, and all I could hear was somebody whistling in the parking lot. It was the kind of whistling that was hard to ignore, although everybody but me seemed to be going about their grocery shopping business as usual.

I looked around and looked around some more. There were NO signs of a whistling person anywhere. But then I looked a couple rows down and saw an older man with a line of grocery carts. He was pushing the carts towards the store, and I noticed he was the one, HE was the one whistling!

So I crossed the two lines of cars separating me and that man in the parking lot because, hey, I had a little time and I really wanted to know what compelled this man to whistle so intently while he was working! I approached, told him how lovely his whistling was, how it captured my attention across the parking lot, and asked if I could tell his story on my blog.

When the man responded, I discovered a MAJOR problem…

He didn’t speak a lick of English. In fact, he responded to my inquiry in Spanish.

Hmm….

What was I to do?

I’d only been blogging for 13 months at that point, and I’d never run into a situation like this!

If I was any other sane person, I would’ve let it go at that. But no. I had to do something!

So I went back to my car and pulled up a translation website on my iPhone while keeping a close eye on the whistling grocery cart pusher. One of the first sites that came up was www.webtranslation.paralink.com, so I clicked on the link, found Spanish translation, and crafted something to say to the man. (And ya, I knew that whatever I said had to be simple and to the point, because I hadn’t taken a Spanish class since high school, so even with translation, I wasn’t going to be blowing the dude away with my Spanish proficiency.)

This is what I had translated on my little iPhone…

I love your whistling. Can I write an article about your lovely whistling for the internet?

OK. OK! So 8 1/2 months later, I realize this is craziness, utter stupidity! The fact that I went back to this whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pushing man just to say that seems ridiculous. I admit it. But for some reason, in that moment, I was compelled to return to him and know more about his story, and those were unfortunately, the best words I could muster in those moments of rush in the parking lot.

So I got out of my car, took my handy dandy phone with those words translated to Spanish, and sought out the whistling grocery cart pusher once again.

Utter craziness, I know.

When I approached the man, he recognized me from before and stopped immediately. I pulled out my phone and read the words, in my feeble attempt at Spanish.

Amo su silbido. ¿Puedo escribir un artículo sobre su silbido encantador para el Internet?

(I love your whistling. Can I write an article about your lovely whistling for the internet?)

The man must have understood at least some of what I said, and must have thought I was fluent in Spanish, because he then proceeded to tell me what sounded like his life story – IN SPANISH! 

As he proceeded, sentence after sentence, I debated in my mind – was this rude, demeaning and inappropriate to let this man go on and on in Spanish, when I don’t understand much of anything he’s saying? Or is it OK? I let my heart and my gut rule, and I decided I’d stay. Although I have to admit, it made me feel a little uncomfortable and desperate for a translator because I knew he was revealing to me, right there in the grocery store parking lot, a story that was heart-wrenching and incredible.

So there I stood, in the middle of a grocery store parking lot, listening to this man tell me his life story, in Spanish. And I didn’t understand a thing. Or did I?

My “translation” and understanding of bits and pieces of the man’s story compelled me to stay when logic told me it’d be better to flee.

This is what I understood of the whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher’s story, despite our language differences. Words paired with gestures, paired with my strong intuition and skill interpreting others’ communication from 14 years of experience as a speech-language pathologist, led me to understand this.

The man had been whistling since he was born. There were no tears when he was born, just whistling, right from the start. He was most definitely sure of that.

He had no schooling. He could write only a few words.

He’d experienced and observed many devastating and horrific things over the course of his life. His wife died. He gestured having an arm cut off from the elbow down three times. He gestured getting his head cut off another time. He took my pen and wrote “WICKED” on his hand, and had many names for Satan in Spanish.

But even in all his pain, the whistling, Spanish-speaking man had a deep faith. In our short time together, he pointed to the ground and then back up to the sky several times. There were many references to “Biblia.” And he even brought out his lighter and lifted it high to the sky to demonstrate the power of God in all the pain.

After about twenty minutes of chatting, it was time for me to go. I didn’t want the man to be fired, so I found an opportunity to politely wrap up the conversation and bid the man a warm farewell as best as I could.

I returned to my car and scribbled notes about my encounter with the man.

I went home that night and told the story to my husband. It all seemed a little crazy, but there was another part of it that felt holy, like it was a divine appointment between me and this whistling stranger.

My notes and the grocery store flyer sat on my night stand for weeks. I finally decided to tuck them away in a special spot in case I wanted to refer back to that story someday.

Six months later, I took that trip to Haiti. And it wasn’t until I returned from Haiti and sought wise counsel about next steps for my life, that I realized – my encounter with that man was profound. I finally got it. I finally understood.

That whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher taught me the only thing I need to know about LIFE. Though life’s handed us the worst, the most devastating and horrific of circumstances, we can CHOOSE to be joyful, we can CHOOSE to whistle and make the most of each and every day. We can CHOOSE to let faith rule our lives rather than fear.

It’s true for me, and it’s true for you. Will you choose to be brought down by your circumstances? Will you choose to let life get you down? Or will you whistle your way through life with faith, finding joy and opportunity in every moment?

That whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher taught me the only thing I need to know about the PURPOSE of my LIFE, too.

The purpose of my life is to be a translator-of-sorts.

To translate stories of fire and ashes – into beauty.

To translate stories nobody understands – into stories everyone can understand.

To translate stories untold – into stories told.

To translate stories of lifelessness – into stories of true life.

To translate stories of pain – into stories of purpose.

To translate stories hidden – into stories brought to light.

To translate stories of misunderstanding – into understanding.

To translate stories of doing what you love, and loving whatever it is that you have to do.

Yes, it’s mysterious work. And I’m still trying to figure it all out.

Before, I believed there was no purpose in me sharing this story – because I didn’t know all the details, because I didn’t understand all of the man’s words, because I didn’t really know his story after all – so I stuffed it away in a hiding spot to keep to myself. There was simply too much mystery in it to believe it had value.

But now, I rest in peace, knowing the mystery is what’s profound. The mystery is where I’m meant to reside. This gift of translating mystery into some sort of beautiful reality? It’s what I’m meant to do.

So whistle on, whistle on people.

Whether you’re winning or losing or somewhere in-between, whistle on, whistle on.

Amy