The earliest of autumn’s crispness set into the evening air. Most likely, this was a one-night phenomenon, with many long, hot days to come in-between here and the shorter, colder days of fall.

Still, mama knew.

Change was coming. Change had already come.

And uncertainty was most certainly all around.

Mama just heard of a great actor and comedian’s passing. Suicide they suspected. And she couldn’t get over it. She couldn’t let it go. Because this great artist, this human being of a different kind made mama laugh, made mama cry. His portrayal of a great physician in Awakenings awakened her to life not once, but many times over. It was one of her favorites, a gentle-spirited movie about waking up to your life, capturing moments while they’re still in your grasp.

She was a little distraught about this passing. But she bathed her babe anyway.

The days since babe’s last bath had passed in a flash. After one glance at babe’s dirt-filled fingernails and brown-stained feet, mama knew it was time for that bath.

“My got my diaper off! My ready!” shouted babe as she waited for mama to fill the tub.

Mama turned on the water. Not too cold, not too hot. She threw in the bath toys – puppy dogs and fish-catching nets, wobbly-weebly people made for miniature yellow boats.

She watched as babe lathered up soap on a washcloth and scrubbed her body, her baby doll, her wobbly-weebly people, and even the bath ledge clean again.

Don’t we all walk ledges – longing for better days, opportunities to start over, desperate for someone to see us for who we are instead of the mask we’ve been? Don’t we all sit on ledges – waiting to feel clean, whole, restored to brand-new condition, free again?

Mama thought hard as babe scrubbed the bath ledge. She wondered how it could be that a celebrity, a comedian, a great artist of our time could be so desperate, so filled with pain, so wanting to leave this world.

The pain fell like a curtain. She felt all the pain of the world in that moment. And she wondered why moms and dads take their lives, why babes suffer beheading, why kids cross borders alone, why Ebola strikes ebony and threatens to spread like a deadly wildfire.

Babe continued to wash the bath ledge new.

Dad and son watched the Matrix in the other room.

And mama thought of Jesus. Jesus on the cross. His pain. His suffering. His crossing every border because of us. His name that spread. Like wildfire.

So mama decided. She couldn’t push away the joy because of the pain. And she couldn’t push away the pain because of the joy.

Babes take baths. And babes are beheaded. Children frolic in sprinklers. And children watch parents fall ill and pass in a matter of hours. Children are safe and sound in the comforts of home, and children are sent afar, alone, to cross borders in search of freedom. Children experience lifetimes with mommies and daddies, and children live orphaned because mommy and daddy couldn’t bear the weight of this world anymore. All under the same sky. All under the great canopy provided by God himself.

She didn’t understand. She didn’t grasp the purpose of this pain. She couldn’t fathom the point of it all, couldn’t reconcile this good and evil under the same blue sky.

So she asked, yet again, one of the greatest questions she’s ever asked God. Why must babes, innocent children suffer? And why is it that some humans sneak by with mere inconveniences, while others are bathed in blood, pain, trauma, poverty and the like?

Mama had to let it go. She had to release it to Jesus who suffered the greatest pain of all, to God who created it all. For us. For all of us.

So mama washed babe’s hair and smiled at her big. Because babes need encouragement if they’re to live upright in a culture that can feel completely hopeless. If we’re going to fight this fight, we musn’t give up. We must prepare our generation, the next generation, as armies of brave warriors. Warriors armed with belts of truth, breastplates of righteousness, and swords of the Spirit. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

She bundled her babe in a plush pink towel, and pulled out those pink pajamas with the frog on front. She read babe a book about the animals of the world. And she brought babe a glass of water before turning on the white noise.

Downstairs she went. She felt directionless, like her cares were nothing compared to the weight of this heavy, heavy globe called Earth.

Mama got out the vacuum. The floor was a disaster. Then she got out the mop. Because the vacuum hadn’t cut the grime. This mopping wasn’t as easy as it looked. She pushed hard, and while the floor was still dirty, she couldn’t bring herself to finish. Because it still seemed pointless compared to the world’s greater state of disaster.

It was then that she really heard, really noticed the girls out on the front porch. There were six of them, to be exact. Binders and bows, brushes and blow dryers laid on the table. A big bucket of clean water served as their source for making all things new in regards to their hair. They’d created a hair salon and were busy bees prepping and primping one another.

Mama addressed the first thing any mama would think of when it comes to homemade hair salons. Don’t share brushes. The girls already had that taken care of. They’d already gone home to get their own.

As mama lingered with the girls for a few quiet moments, she continued to have a hard time reconciling all this innocence with all the world’s tragedy.

She asked the hard questions. Again.

Why do these beauties have the privilege of creating a hair salon on a porch, while others equally as beautiful sit on a mountain top afraid for their lives?

Why do these beauties get to primp and play, while others equally as beautiful walk miles to cross borders into the unknown?

Why do these beauties have a clean bill of health, while others equally as beautiful suffer death?

Why do these beauties wonder whether their daddies will arrive back home at 5:00 or 6:00 tonight, while others equally as beautiful discover their daddy’s decided it’s the last night he can hack this world?

It’s hard to understand why God would allow all of this.

Hard questions don’t have easy answers.

But by the supernatural grace of God, powerful words came to mama’s mind.

For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.  1 Corinthians 14:33

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.  Romans 12:21 

 You are of God, little children, and have overcome them, because He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world.  1 John 4:4

Then, mama decided she simply had to trust. That He’d take care of it all. That the world’s weight wasn’t hers to bear, but His.

So she let it go. As much as she could. She gave it up. To the One and only One who knows the purpose of all our pain, who knows the story He’s writing.

Two girls danced in the driveway with caps on their heads to protect the beauty they’d made. And one little girl came to mama needing help with her headband. Mama helped the little girl put on hope in the form of a butterfly, and sent the six beautiful warriors on their way.

The bikes swished and swooshed down the street.

Mama stood alone with the bowl of clean water.

Truly I tell you, anyone who gives you a cup of water in my name because you belong to the Messiah will certainly not lose their reward.  Mark 9:41

Mama couldn’t help the world, but she could help those she was called to help. For tonight, the gift had been water. The washing of water over a warrior babe in a bathtub. A glass of water before bedtime. A bowl full of water for warrior girls who know that it’s glimpses of beauty, glimpses of gratitude, glimpses of the Divine in the daily that make the world go round.

The fact that my dad’s lifelong career as band director was never celebrated properly bothered me for eight years straight. So one week ago, I took a leap of faith and wrote a post I hoped would rectify that wrong. When I hit publish, I had no idea what the outcome would be, but I did it anyway.

Today, I’m happy to announce that my hopes and dreams for that post came true. The response was greater than I imagined. The outpouring of support? Tremendous, amazing, absolutely incredible.

As of this afternoon…

7,200 people saw the post in their Facebook feed

615 people read the post on the blog

41 people “liked” the post on Facebook

38 people left a personal message for my dad on the blog

27 people shared the post on their personal Facebook page

and…

1 person (my dad, aka Mr. Femling) left a note of thanks for all who made the week so special for him:

“Your comments have raised my spirits immeasurably! It’s easy to get down when you have pulmonary fibrosis and can’t play the trumpet like you used to. I wear oxygen tanks all of the time now so I can still get around and play golf. I always wanted to die directing the band when everything was clicking, as it did many times with you guys, or playing golf. I almost got my wish when I had a heart attack on hole #3 at the [golf course] about 6 weeks ago. As depression started to set in your comments lifted me up and made me want to fight on! The “wall of sound” you created gave me the “chills” many times as do the memories of those times do now. Thanks to my daughter Amy for this great retirement party and to all of my fantastic band students. [Mr. Femling]  JUNE 18, 2014 – 8:07 PM”

I have to admit, I’ve learned some lessons this week. Publishing that post and seeing the positive outcomes was eye opening for sure.

So what have I learned?

1) Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith. Sometimes there’s just no getting around it. When I published that post, I had NO idea what the response would be. I had no idea how it would “perform.” I had no proof, no evidence to suggest the post would be a success. For all I knew, the post could’ve died flat on its face. But something told me that wasn’t going to happen. I just had a feeling, a suspicion that it had the potential to produce the outcomes I desired for my dad. So I took a leap of faith. And it worked. Sometimes, in order to get the outcomes we desire, in order for God to produce the outcomes in our lives that He desires for us, we need to take leaps of faith.

2) People really can be amazing. And once in a while? They’ll not only meet, but greatly exceed all of your expectations. If you’ve been around this blog for a while, you’ve heard me talk about expectations. About four years ago, I became very aware of a fault I’ve carried for a lifetime. The expectations I have for myself and the expectations I have of others are simply way too high. Well, let me just say that all of my expectations were met and exceeded with this blog post for my dad! People showed up. They spent time leaving messages that were detailed, heartfelt, and kind. They acted when they could’ve sat idle. They cared when they could’ve chosen to care less. It was a true honor for me, my dad, and my entire family to read the messages people left on the blog. The outpouring of love and support was amazing, each and every perspective unique, and all together an honoring, perfect picture of my dad’s character and career as band director.

3) Words are powerful. I love words. And I take them seriously, probably more seriously than most. In fact, I’d say that when it boils down to it, words might just be the point of my life. Words can lift up, and words can tear down. We choose our words. Yes, we choose our words. We choose how and when to use them, and with whom to share them. If you go in to that blog post for my dad, dig deep in the comments, read each word, and ponder the true meaning of it all, you’ll be astounded, overwhelmed by the content that was communicated in that space. Words have immense power. Why are we careless with words, throwing them around as if they don’t mean anything, joking as if it won’t hurt anyone, blaming when maybe it’s nobody’s fault at all. Why do we withhold words when they have the power to heal, bring peace, joy, encouragement? Why don’t we love, lift each other up, tend to one another with words more often? Why don’t we consider the holy weight of words, every one important, every one filled with possibility?

Yes, these are just a few of the things I learned from the post I published in honor of my dad’s career as a band director. So today, I rest in peace, acknowledging publicly that the post was a success.

Together, we provided a little joy, a little hope, a little reassurance and blessing for my dad, Mr. Femling, in the midst of times that have been tough.

Words of gratitude are extended generously to those of you who read, responded, and replied to the post. You recognized and restored dignity to a man who deserved it.

Amy

**If you haven’t read the post I wrote in honor of my dad’s career as band director, I strongly encourage you to do so! You’ll find it here, at In Which I’m Throwing a Retirement Party for My Dad, Mr. Femling!

Sometimes life as a mama doesn’t feel compatible with your dreams as a woman.

Maybe you’re late to the game. You stayed home with the kids all those years only to discover that when you arrived to interview at the workplace of your dreams, everyone else was in line ahead of you. Or maybe they were already seated at the table, and you feel like there’s no way you’ll ever get a seat. It’s hard to imagine how you’ll ever catch up. How will you get to that place you imagine for yourself when all you’ve ever done is give everything you have to your kids?

Maybe you were already in line, maybe you were already seated at that table. You were on your way, but motherhood called, and you had to step away from the hopes and dreams you had for your life as a woman. You got up from that table, left that place in line. Tears sprung forth from your eyes the second you walked away. You knew you had to do it, you knew it was time, but something tugged at your heart saying stay, stay.

You walk beaten paths with chocolate milk bottles, straws that fell on the ground, and dirty napkins. And when you look at that partially eaten double chocolate chip cookie your baby finished along the beaten path, you think yep, this is my life right now. Chocolate chip milk bottles, straws, dirty napkins, and partially eaten double chocolate chip cookies.

So you keep walking.

You keep on walking and you keep on walking.

You keep on loving and you keep on caring for those beautiful kiddos the very best you can.

You’re keeping on, keeping on.

Because you know – you’re mama, but you’re woman, too.

Your hopes and dreams for your life as a woman won’t be trampled on – just because you’re mama.

For once upon a time, God laid dreams on your heart to become a mama. He made those dreams beautiful in their time. Those little ones you hoped for all those years? Now they’re yours, gifted to you, for such a time as this.

Those little ones that needed you all those years? Your time with them was precious, the days fleeting. You loved them dearly, for such a time as this.

Those tiny ones that beckon you to come, be with them now? They’ll remain tiny for only so long. So love on them, be with them, for such a time as this.

Rest assured, sweet mama, that God’s dreams for you as a woman will be fulfilled. He’ll lead you to that perfect spot in line. He’ll make space for you at that table when your time has come. Rest, assured.

You need not be afraid, tears need not spring forth from your eyes.

For God makes all things beautiful, in time.

You’ve been in a season, mama. You’re in a season, mama.

So walk on, walk on.

Press on, press on.

Love on, love on.

You’re not just mama or just woman. You’re mama and woman.

Rest assured, mama.

Time’s in your hands, time’s in God’s hands.

As hard as it’s been to find a seat at that table, as hard as it is to step out of line, as much as it seems you’re surrendering your womanhood for motherhood – just know, it’s all compatible.

Because you’re mama and woman.

Be brave. Love big. Press on.

Because you are amazing, just as you are, right where you are.

One day, when the time is right, when the season’s turned, you’ll find yourself seated at that table, you’ll find yourself at the front of the line – and you’ll wonder, how in the world did those days of partially eaten double chocolate chip cookies escape me?

Amy

*This post is 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!

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