Seeing the Miraculous

I'm always worried what's in my head won't translate well to writing. But I also really want to write a lot right now. Recording what's happening to our family is the best way I know how to process this and to sort through some of the harder days. Harder weeks? Probably weeks. 

Maybe just last week. Probably just last week...

I wish I could proclaim that my Faith never wavers, that I'm always on, that I can stay positive. That the long days of the hospital and the long drives home and back don't bother me. I wish I could tell you I don't get jealous of other peoples lives and the way everyone else seems to be moving forward while I feel absolutely stuck in limbo. 

But all of that would be a lie. 

I was so angry last week. I was sad and frustrated and exhausted and grouchy. Dean got way more tech time than normal because I wanted to escape through reading and I wanted to tune out the world. And the problem with that is I can only do it briefly before the next doctor/nurse/tech/social worker/child life/ nurse manager walks into his room...

The hospital feels both extremely busy and extremely slow. 
What a weird place to live your life...

Having one child in the hospital and three at home feels like slowly being worn down, like a dull knife. I'm not sharp, I cut nothing, I'm barely functioning. Dean gets 75% of me because he needs me, my girls get the other 20% and 5% of me is lost in LA LA Land...the brain cells don't cell very well. 

Which is why, typically, on a Saturday night, I turn into an absolute nut case and I stop being able to function. Which is great when I have three little girls who want snuggles and attentions and kisses. The panic attacks came back. Its the worst when I think about having to organize and pack up my things and the girls things...and have dishes to do...and gifts to pack for Dean...I didn't even attempt laundry this weekend (shout out to my Mother in Law who told me not to worry about it and bring it to her, do you know you're an angel?!). This Saturday I called in the troops, aka Crystal Hill Book Club, who cuddled, swept, did dishes, discussed books and made me laugh and stayed until I could breathe properly. Until the weight that was sitting on my chest lessens...and I can cuddle my girls. 

On my drive into DC today, after my friends husband had our van checked because the check engine light came on after Church (are we laughing? We should laugh right? I mean, if I don't laugh, I'll cry again, and I think I'm dried up) I was thinking...

Here's my miracle. 

I prayed for miracles when Dean was a baby. I begged God to heal his heart, to make this easier, to not give this to us. I begged Him to pass us up...and He didn't. Those first three years with Dean were so special and so brutal and so faith building. I was challenged in ways I never imagined. And then we had Ana and Daisy and Dean was so healthy and we have those beautiful seven years of peace and home and stability. 

And here we are, in a month and will be longer. Waiting for the next steps to make sure our boy is safe to come home. And stay home. 

And here is the miracle...

That I got out of bed and showered and looked nice for church. 
That my Pastor hugged me this Am and it felt like being hugged by my Daddy. 
That my friends drop their lives to support us, watch our girls, and be in our house with me. 
The miracle is that I walk back into the Hospital, down this hallway, into this room and that I smile at my son. 
The miracle is Dean dedicating his life to the Lord all of his own in the dark one night while we were here. 
The miracle is that I haven't walked away from a God who I full well believe could heal my son, and that I choose to believe that it's for our good and His Glory. 
The miracle is a Faith that shouts and sobs and cries and yells and still says, "Yes Lord, You are good."
The miracle is that my marriage is still strong despite seeing my husband like two hours tops a week right now. 
The miracle is the envelopes that keep getting slipped to me and the emails that say "For whatever you need."
The miracle is the many people who deeply love our kids and have sent things to them just for fun. The people who don't just see my son but our daughters who are always hurting. 

My faith isn't perfect, and I'm crawling in the mud right now, but I'm keeping my eyes fixed on Jesus and not the hard. I'm crying the whole time, mad about it, and boy does it look ugly...but I came back to the hospital, I'm here. 

I'm ready for the next week. 
And that's the miracle. 

Hello 2026-Let's Chat

 Fun fact: my blog still exists. Isn't that just precious? 

Time and life and mundane has kept things blissfully chill, or as chill as they can be with four kids who we're raising. I've written here or there but not at all like I did when Dean was a baby and we were dealing with a very heavy medical diagnosis. 

Well here we are again. In patient for almost four weeks and...it looks like it will be longer. March 26, days before my Grandmothers funeral, I was concerned enough about our son that I called Cardiology. They were concerned enough that they told me to take him into the hospital. We tried INOVA first and very quickly were told that we were going to go to DC Children's National. 

From there we have started dealing with a disease we knew very little about, Plastic Bronchitis. 

And I am still completely floored. 

My nervous system goes back and forth from being semi ok to stressed out to crying to we totally got this to why is he coughing again to my dude you're not sick enough not to do math. Have you ever had a child in the hospital? I pray you haven't. This time around is much different from when he was a baby and I struggle to know where I can talk about what he's going through while protecting his autonomy and his privacy. He's ten now. Dean is ten now. We haven't had an extended hospital stay in seven years and believe me, I know what a blessing that is. I truly do. Ten is old enough to remember. Ten is old enough to have opinions. Ten is old enough to have his own meltdowns because he realizes how this is very very much not our norm. 

I still want to write about all of this. I have been. I've been journaling and recording what I can when I can, and I've never been shy about sharing where we are. I want this to be about what I have seen however, my experiences as a mother, not so much about Dean. He gets to tell his stories when and if he is ever ready. 

We were not ready for this, and yet we were. This year alone Blair and I have has a lot of date nights where we really dived into some harder conversations Of course we talked about our son. What we went through and how its not over. Little did we know those dates and that conversation would be the glue that held us together during all of this...

Right now I spend the week days at the hospital with our son while Blair works and does his best to see our girls in the evening. We have friends who go to feed and pet the cat and who magically wave wands make sure my house stays clean and doesn't smell gross. On the weekends I drive back home and spend some time with our girls and, if I'm being honest, I cry. I cry a lot. I usually end up asking a friend to sit next to me to baby sit me because when I'm home trying to make choices feels impossible. Our girls are so out of sorts and want us to all be home together and this just gets longer and longer and longer...

Today we found out it will be longer yet. 

We want Dean home. We want him home safely. And we want a life at home. I don't want to be tethered to a nebulizer and as it stands that's what it would be. It's not good for him. Its not good for any of us. I want my kids, all of my kids, to really truly LIVE their lives. Including our son. We are seeking the best possible way to make that happen for him. Unfortunately that takes time. 

Time for doctors to confer with other experts. 
Time for us to be apart from one another. 
Time for Dean to be bored out of his skull in the hospital. 
Time for Blair and I to have virtually no time with one another. 
Time for his body to get the help it needs. 
Time for another heart cath lab. 
Time for another lymphatic procedure. 
Time to be still and heal. 
And one, time to go home. 

I am asking my ten year old son to do something that feels impossible. To trust us and wait. When all that little boy wants is his own bed and his sisters and his living room and the food he likes. 

I question myself nearly daily. I ask my friends, you trust me, right? You know I would come home if I could, right? You know we're doing our best to confer with the doctors, right? I want to be home, together so bad I now dream about it, when I can sleep...

Despite all of this, despite how "good" my son looks I know his body needs more help than I can give it at home. And I will continue to fight and advocate for him the best that I can. And I see the Goodness of God in all of this. 

In the waiting and the unknown, I see God's goodness. 
In the hospital rooms and hallways, I see God's goodness. 
In our Community and Church, I see and feel God's goodness. 
In the drive to and from the city, I see God's goodness. 

All the prayers, the gifts, the support, the generosity, the people who have gone out of their way to help us or our girls, my in-laws who have completely rearranged their lives to love on our girls, the money that gets slipped into my hands for gas or whatever else we need...I'm overwhelmed and humbled by it all. I'm shocked that we are here again...I'm amazed at our community. 

I'm trying to remember all of it. The people who clean my house so I can just let my system relax and be with my girls. The texts and videos from friends reminding us that life does, indeed, still happen in the out, the friends who show up anyway when I say I don't need them to. The way plans have been altered or changed because they want to include me...

Someone once told me, "It's just as humbling to realize how deeply you're actually loved" and I feel every single part of that sentence right now. Every time I start to think, "I should be able to handle such and such a thing" I'm reminded I am handling it...and that asking for help and support help me handle it. Like Aaron holding up Moses hands, I'm being propped up right now so I can be present for our son. Our bills are being paid, our girls are not just being taken care of, but enjoyed and loved and wanted. They aren't a burden, they're a blessing. You all have no idea how much that HELPS me during the week. To know people are being GENTLE with them while their lives are in absolute upheaval...that people see past the attitudes or whining to the little girls who miss their brother and Mama...

We are not done here. It could be one to three more weeks of being in patient here, maybe even more, plastic bronchitis is no joke, its hard to treat. I am still processing that information and working on the best way to help our son handle that information. I am deeply thankful Blair was here today to help me hear that information...and to process it. I'm thankful Blair got to take him down and do something fun because Dean needs to do that with his Daddy and I very much needed a moment of quiet. 

If nothing else, please know, our Faith is strong. I know it will carry us through this, just like it did seven or ten years ago. The same God who saw us through Deans first three surgeries will see us through this stay and this procedure and all Glory to Him honestly. 

We get to decide how we respond to this.
I am choosing to respond with turning to the Lord and not away from Him. 
I am encouraging my children to do the same...I am asking such big things from them right now...and I am in awe of the way they have risen up and are meeting this challenge head on...

I'm amazed by them, all of them, honestly, they make me brave. 

One day at a time. 

God is good. 
All the time. 
All the time. 
God is good. 

Kitchen Cleaning Thoughts

 It's been a very long time since I put my thoughts here. A lot has been happening and a lot will continue to happen because that's how life works, right? 

I was cleaning up the kitchen tonight and wiping down counters while bopping along to my music. I have two little girls who are waiting for snuggles and a happy boy who picked Mary Poppins to watch for our family movie time. The new to us $15 dishwasher is running, the dishes are all done, the living tidied. Its quiet. I have happy tired kiddos. Our bills are paid. We are loved. 

While puttering about in my kitchen tonight I was wiping down the kitchen island we have. And thinking about the amazing couple who gifted it to us. There are already scratched on the top where I have cut things when I shouldn't have. The handle at the end in missing as well, too many kids hung off it before it finally broke. We've made pasta at that island, served dinner to others, its seen a lot of pizza there as well. Every time I wipe it down, I think of our Tyler's. I smile. I pray over them. I thank the Lord for them. 

I put up some important tax papers I found today. I forgot I stashed them somewhere and I knew I needed to put them away or I would be mad I lost them later. I have a cool way to store important documents now, because my biggest brother said to me once, "It doesn't matter HOW you stay organized so long as it makes sense to you and Blair." He was right. We've gotten much better about that because of him. When I put things away now, I always think of him now. I did today. I smiled. I prayed over him and his family. I thank the Lord for them. 

There are drying flowers in my kitchen. I moved some down to my desk, and put some of the roses I got Blair for Valentines Day up to dry. I love seeing those bundles and remembering why they were given and when. The bundle from when we were all sick and friends brought soup and flowers. The flowers sent to my mom this December for her and my Dads anniversary. I dry my flowers because Blairs younger sister does. She has these bundles all over her room. When I see these bundles, I smile. I pray over her. I thank the Lord that I love my sister in law. 

I look around my kitchen and I see and feel the influence of so many lovely people. People who have shaped and changed me for the better. Wanting a stand mixer because of Chelsea, loading my dishwasher the way Carly does, the supplements I take because of Megan, the magnetic picture frames on my fridge from Michelle. The sign Danielle sent in the thick of Deans treatment, the utensil holder from Katharine, the magnets from Mimi, not to mention that post cards! So many wonderful post cards from so many wonderful people! There's so many people I could name. Each one so special to me. Each one making me stop and smile. Each thing reminding me to pray for these people I love so deeply. 

I love seeing it all. Tonight it made cleaning the kitchen feel like being with friends, hearing their conversation and laughter in our little house. Marveling at where we were and where we are now. How perfection has taken a backseat to life, how messy it can be, but how fulfilling and loving. 

We are made up of all the people we love. 

I don't think I will ever be over the community that has become family that I have worked so hard for. All the ways I have absorbed their influences, and how deeply I feel humbled by that kind of love. 

Shields and Warriors

 I'm not at all sure when Anxiety became part of my every day life. I would love to say it was when Dean was little and we faced such big struggles with him. I would love to pin point and say "this was the moment it all changed for me." 

I can't though. It drives me nuts if I can be honest. 

Today, friends asked if we wanted to meet up at the Library, about 25 minutes away, a place we have been so many times, a place I used to work at. I could tell you how to get there. I love that Library. Today is also Monday and for the month of May you can get free coffee from Dunkin on Mondays (you're welcome for that one). It took forever, but we finally loaded up and got everyone in the car and I headed to get my free coffee before taking everyone to the Library. While on the way there, the temperature gauge on the van steadily crept higher and higher. 

All of a sudden it felt hard to breathe and I was having a hard time focusing. My leg started to do that leg jiggle thing it does when I get anxious. And all I could think was "I know I said I would meet friends at the Library, but I want to go home. I want to go home I want to go home." 

So we did. 

I pulled into the driveway with the kids and explained I wanted Daddy to look at the van before we did anything, that I just felt anxious. That sometimes we do hard things (even if seems simple to others) but sometimes we don't have to push ourselves and do hard things. We talked about how my body was scared and I didn't want to spend our time at the Library feeling that way. My wonderful kids climbed out of the van and act snacks on the front lawn in the sun while I texted my friends. I texted Blair. Any time the van acts off in any way, even if I know what to do, it makes my whole body feel off. It makes me panic. 

There are some things that struck me about this whole thing today though. 

One, I love my people. I love my friends, so much. I love that while I struggle with these every day simple things they have never once made me feel bad about it. They have all been amazing and supportive and honestly, I don't know how other people do their lives alone. I also appreciate that my friends, while they respect what happens in my head and what it looks like for my life, they challenge it. Sometimes it IS time to do the hard things and suck it up. I love that they can tell when those times are and when its ok to let me have those moments. "Come anyways, you need to", or "Well fine then, I'm showing up at your house" or "Hey friend, we understand, it's ok"...I can't believe these are my friends...

Two, I get frustrated with myself. I am simultaneously so happy we are home and so disappointed in myself...I don't want my life or my kids lives ruled by Anxiety. My own or their own. It doesn't get to win. And today it feels like it won. I have worked very hard for over a year to get a handle on some of these bigger feelings. I have been in therapy and I am unashamedly on anti-anxiety medications. I am openly talking about it when I can. And I am not glossing over the fact that this a war waged with the ruler of this world. Between me, Jesus, and the medicines and knowledge we have been given, I am fighting this. So the days when it feels like I'm not winning? I just want to sit and cry for a little while. 

Three, one of the best things about homeschooling my kids is that we have a lot of freedom. Field trips and day trips and whatever else we want, we can do it. I want to have adventures with my kids. I want to feel brave again. I don't though. I don't feel brave. I feel like the only reason I do take my kids places is because of those aforementioned friends. Driving any where over an hour from my house feels...impossible. The people who pay the price of this more often than not, are my own kids. This seems very unfair to them...

On these bad days I try to think about when this really started. This Anxiety that I held to my chest and begged God to take. I remember the summer when Dean was a baby and how scared I was that one mistake would kill him. I remember the injections and medication schedules. The immense pressure I felt as a mother to a small baby with a heart condition. Not to mention a not even two yet toddler. I remember those long days and the friends even then who showed up. For play dates, for support, to help me. I remember calling a friend for help during a panic attack, she showed up and gave me Rescue Remedies and helped me calm down so I could take care of my kids. I remember calling my mother...multiple times asking for her help. I remember the first family vacation we took and having a panic attack from one place to another because I was overwhelmed by how many people we were around. 

I wish I had gotten help then. I wish I had started therapy then. I should have. 

The course of my life has shifted and moved. We learn and adapt, we try new things and handle the next thing. This is just another part of my story. Just one more thing I am working through. Even if I have a hard time accepting that its ok. It's ok to need space, ok to need a moment, ok that some days I don't push myself to do the hard things. It's never been an excuse to me though, and I am more thankful for the people who don't let it become an excuse. 

I never in my wildest dreams as a teen thought that I would label myself as an anxious person. I never thought I would have panic attacks and I find it ironic that in my twenties I was put in places where I walked other people through theirs. I hate how out of control it makes me feel. How off my entire body feels during and after one. I hate the...triggers. I am starting to be able to pin point them and work to combat them, but some days they still get to me. 

It will not always be this way in my head. It will NOT. 

Above my sink, every day while I'm doing dishes, I see the verse 2 Chronicles 20:15 on a tin sign that my best friend sent to me when Dean was a baby. "The Battle is not yours, but God's."

I am, beyond grateful, for God who is in my corner, helping me battle this, and the friends He sends along as shields and warriors on the days I feel beaten by it. 

Anxiety can feel so stupidly isolating. 

But here is the truth, I am not alone in the war I'm waging on my own thought processes. 

And I find immense comfort in that...

The Gift of Authenticity

 I came down to my desk today while Daisy was napping to get some work done on some commission pieces. But I remembered I needed to send an email and then I remembered I had a blog in my head and now I want to write. 

Lately I have felt a stirring in my heart and soul. Something coming up, something mixing around in there. A call to be more involved, to be studying, to be reading. A shift in what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. Not only to disciple myself, but my children. I am not satisfied with Sunday Morning mediocrity right now. If my Bible isn't open in the days between Church, I just don't feel like I'm doing it right. 

I want more. For me, and for our kids. 

As I think more and more about what I want for my kids and for us as a family, I can't help but think about my own parents, my mom and my dad. 

Both would admit to not having all the answers, both would admit to being sinners in need of Jesus, just like me. Recently some conversations about authenticity have come up in my life. What does it look like? Who are the authentic people in your life and what characteristics do they have? What makes you want to be around those people? Would you consider yourself to be an authentic person? Would you consider me to be authentic? 

When I think about my parents and the faith that they each showed me, I would consider both of them to be authentic people. I'm not sure I appreciated it as much as I should have when I was younger. In my skewed sense and own misperceptions I'm sure I felt they were "hypocritical" at times. But then, I think I threw that term around like confetti at a party without really taking to heart what I was saying. My parents were the same person at church on Sunday as they were on a Thursday night. If you came to our house and Mama was mad? She was still mad. She didn't stop being mad because someone else was there and might see her be mad. My Dad was still the grouchy looking guy on Sunday morning that he was on a Friday night. I saw them be mad, I saw them cry with people who held grief, I saw them fight for people who needed someone to fight for them. I saw them pray. Deep heartfelt prayers to an audience of one. It didn't matter if we were praying before dinner or together in the living room, they were talking to Jesus, and I knew that. 

I don't know if my siblings feel the same way I do. They all have their own perceptions, opinions, and life experiences that I may not have. The parents that had my oldest brother are vastly different than the parents who had me or my youngest sister. Their ideas changed and they grew with each of us. Of that, I think all of my siblings can agree. 

Now I have kids of my own. And this has changed so much about me...but in all the best ways. I have benefitted so much from the way motherhood has shaped me. The mom I was when I had Ellie is different than the mom I am now with older kids who are able to do things on their own, but who still has two little toddler girls who require much of me, still. 

As Ellie gets older I am starting to think about who I want to be when she is  32 years old and thinking about her own childhood and her own memories. 

I want my kids to see me as the same person Sunday morning as the person I am on a Wednesday afternoon, or a Thursday night when I'm exhausted. I never want my kids to feel like I put on an act in Church on a Sunday morning. I long for and seek out authenticity. 

I want to pray over and out loud with my kids as much as I do my friends. I want to talk about the Bible with them, share what I've been reading and the way it shapes me. I want to make sure they know the deep truths of the Word, the way Jesus loves them. I can teach them math, and history, science and geography, how to read and write, but if I'm not teaching them about theology, and Jesus...am I really doing my job? Am I really being authentic? 

I am not perfect, nor do I want to be, the last guy who was, know what they did to Him? No thanks man. But I do want to be as like Him as I can get. He is good and kind and patient and gentle and had so much self-control. I want to be so rooted into Jesus that the fruits of that spill out of my life in the most beautiful ways, starting here in my home, with my kids. I won't do it right. That's not self-deprecating, its just the truth. 

I feel like there are all these things we try to do to give our kids a good future as well as a good childhood. There are plenty of things I do differently than my parents. I am not my mother, nor am I my father, but. I am thankful for the people that they were and are. For the way they taught me to be part of a community, to love, to feed, to welcome people in my house. For being the same person on a Sunday morning when they were annoyed with us all for making them late, to a Tuesday night when my Dad called us all into the living room to pray out loud with one another. For my moms tenderness, for my Dads strength of conviction. For both of them admitting when they were wrong and trying to learn better ways. For the laughter and the worship. 

I am thankful for the authenticity my parents gave us, gave me. And my prayer is that I can give that same authenticity to my children. In all my sin and mistakes and issues, I know that I can admit, ask forgiveness and move forward.    

My mom was here with us in March and something has stuck with my since she's gone back home. She came to our co-op one day, helped watch the babies, was there when we sang our songs, read our devotional, corralled children. She pulled me aside and told me "Your Daddy would have loved this, he'd be so proud." I felt disorganized and loud and silly and she'd seen me holler at my kids, and here was, telling me how proud she was, how proud he would be. That day, there didn't feel like there was anything for her or for him to be proud of. I was simply living my life...

Yet there is something precious about letting people get a glimpse into your life in a beautiful and real way. No changing. No pretending. No acting like I have it together when I for sure do not. 

So come on over, any day of the week. If there are crumbs from cracker packets on the floor so be it. If there are dishes in the sink, so be it. The person I am on a Sunday morning is the person I am here in my home, loud and joyful and silly and compassionate. When I raise my hands in worship on Sunday, I raise them in my kitchen too. When I pull you into a hug to pray for you at Church, I do the same for my kids in our living room. 

I decided I want my kids to see me live a life of authenticity, I have to be willing to be vulnerable enough to be that way. It's not easy. The desire to hide the messy is always there. Heaven forbid you know I'm grumpy at my husband (which happens y'all, I love him, but he's a man. And men are sometimes....well. They're just men!), or that I haven't folded the laundry, or I left dishes in the sink, or that I narrowly avoided a panic attack right before you showed up (that actually happened this weekend when a friend asked if she could come by!), or there is cracker crumbs literally all over my living room. It all gets cleaned, I promise. This is not me advocating a house that is falling apart on you, but for allowing the small bits that don't matter, to be that: small things, that don't matter. 

People won't remember the laundry or the messes. They'll remember being welcomed. They'll remember being fed. They'll remember being loved. The same way everyday, no matter where I am, or what I'm doing. 

I don't remember all the times my parents messed up. I know they did. I know sometimes they yelled and it was loud and people got upset. But I remember that there was never any pretense. We didn't actually have to pretend. 

That's what I want for our kids. A life of authenticity, where they don't have to hide how they feel, not even from me. Because when they learn to be authentic with me, they will learn to be authentic with their Savior. 

And I can think of no sweeter gift to give them. 

                                 

Grace Valley

 It's pretty amazing to me how long this blog has lasted. It's also interesting to see the way my life has ebbed and flowed, the years when I wrote all the time and the years that it was slower. 

Every now and again I go back and re-read some of these. That can be both good and bad. Memories are so incredibly powerful, our stories and our lives are shaped by the way they are carved into our hearts. 

Right now I wonder what I should even be writing about. What do I even have to offer?                 

My days are filled with mothering. There are still diapers to wipe, toilets to clean, there is always dishes and I don't understand why or how there is so much laundry. We still have a strict nap time, I'm still convincing my kids we have to bathe every now and again, and don't even get me started on the dinner time struggles I encounter. 

Nothing about being a mother is what I thought it would be like. The daily struggles, the worries, the issues and behaviors I am up against. Seeing too frequently an older generation that glorifies and romanticizes a time  that is past. Feeling so inadequate in the face of technology, emotional needs, and the constant unrelenting feeling that I am not measuring up. 

Also, I'm homeschooling, so if my kids are dumb, that's on me now too. 

As I talk with more and more friends, as we build our community I am in awe of how much I need real life friendships and face to face connections. The internet is not and never has been, enough. 

There is a comfort in Friday night pizza nights. With kids running everywhere, a hot stove, extra salad, and finding ways to love one another in hard seasons. The routines keep me looking forward, not just to the next week, but the next few years. I know that the friendships my kids make will be good and helpful, the same goes for me. When I am connected to these friendships I tap into the parts of Maddie who was Maddie before she was a mother. That part of me still exists, these friendships solidify that one day, when my kids move on from me, I will still know how to make and keep, friends.

Every week we meet on Thursdays for a co-op full of women and families that only God could bring together. There is joy and discipline. There is teaching and learning and stretching. Grace Valley is not just a place, it is a mindset, a comfort, a blanket of security and joy in a world that is shoving information down my throat. I find so much peace there amongst my friends. They help me to be a better mother in all aspects. I bake more, play outside more, pray more, and get down on my kids levels because of these women. Because of the strength and community I find there. 

There is a comfort in knowing that any of them are a phone call away. In knowing they showed up to an art show for me, in knowing I would do my best to show up for them. They make these hard days of mothering less lonely. Five women with such different parenting styles, homeschooling styles, and even life styles and we still make time to hang out together. 

This is not something I stumbled into either. I worked for it. I think I worked hard for it. As often as I have asked for help I try to extend a hand to any of them. As often as I have asked for prayer from them, I have been willing to offer up my prayers for them. 

People like to bring up how "it takes a village" and its true, I believe that. I also think we don't acknowledge how hard it is to find and make that community. How many tries it takes. How vulnerable you have to be. How you have to be willing to show up, on both sides, the giving and taking part of things. No one knows you need help unless you ask. No one will ask unless you show a willingness to help.  

As I went back today and looked at some old blog posts, I found a comment on one of them from my Dad. He said something he said a lot to us kids during his life...that Relationships are what are truly important. 

He was a smart man my Daddy. Because the relationships with my Grace Valley moms? Those are ones I'm taking to Heaven with me. And I couldn't imagine my life without them...

The One and Only JLC

When Mawmaw was here she wondered about Heaven. She always wondered if those who were with Jesus could see us here on Earth. Some questions we will never know the answers to, and I just always said “I think the people in Heaven are to excited about being with Jesus.”

Then you died John Lee Cunningham, and I changed my mind. 

I changed my mind because it was abrupt and awful and shattered us and the community and it shattered your wife. I have watched the things you’ve missed this year and I find myself wondering, often, is there a window from Heaven where you get to see? 

Do you get to see your wife? Do you know the depth of her strength and vulnerability? Have you watched her endure day in and day out as she learns to navigate this life without you? I remember a year ago the phone calls, multiple, vividly. I remembering screaming in my van and telling the person who told me that it was a sick joke and I was mad as hell she would joke like that. I remember the look on my two oldest kids faces. 

I remember the Cicadas all over everyone outside of your house John as we stood in stunned silence. Your widow looked at me and “I’m so sorry your kids have to go through this again.” 

Did you watch those things, or was Heaven just too glorious and blinding? 

Did you know that the next month was a blur and my life was, once again, put on pause? All the times I was at your house unsure of what to say or do, knowing my words were empty when put up against the pain and grief my friend felt. 

Do you know I gave part of your name to Daisy? Daisy Lee. Daisy Rebekah Lee. She’s a comfort to us, and you would have LOVED her, like you loved all my kids. God gave us her sweet smile and personality after the tremendous grief that shook through our lives as we learned to move forward, just a little, each day. 

In your life I knew you loved your wife deeply, and I knew how immensely proud you were of her. I wonder if that continues over in Heaven. I imagine you talking with Jesus after a day of watching her and how the two of you high five at her victories and hurt when she hurts. Maybe you can’t hurt in Heaven…maybe you don’t know. 

All of me wants to think that you know John. 

Did you watch your godson struggle with his grief? Did you see the way he insisted on being rough and punching all the men in his life in the belly, because that’s what he did with you? He clings to that memory of the day you and Kackie took him to ice cream and the thrift store. He says he wants to name his son John. He can think of no higher calling than to be someone’s Dad, and to “play like Uncle John.” 

Your death ripped through us all like the worst Earthquake any of us have ever endured and the entire community suffered aftershocks. 

Yet still…I know Heaven is better.  I know you’re  whole and complete and spending every day of eternity with the Savior you love. We all somehow managed to survive the year without even though every single one of us woke up remembering you were gone. 

I’m thankful John Lee Cunningham, for the time I had you in my life. For the memories you gave my kids, for the way you encouraged my husband, for the way you teased and made fun of me. I’m thankful for your story about Tuesdays, and how you broke into our room to save the stupid cat when Dean locked the door. I’m thankful for you unwavering determination to make sure my van didn’t blow up. 

I don’t know what you can see from Heaven, but I hope sometimes you see the strength and resilience we’ve used to navigate this life without you…

I hope you can see your wife sometimes…because John…she’s the most amazing person I know. She didn’t have to forgive that man who made that choice that led to your death. But she did. She didn’t have to wake up every day and still chose to love the Lord and carry your legacy. But she does. 

We miss you a ton John.  We really do.  But I know Heaven is better.  I really do. 

See ya there one day Buddy….