Is Our Son Lost in the Deep Snow?: The Space Between the Unknown and Known

Picture Taken with Son's Phone on the Mountain

Christmas passed a few days ago.  My Man and Son took advantage of a clear, pristine day on the Mt. Hood snowy slopes.  I enjoyed a quiet day with my girls. 
We were eating dinner and making play-do creations when the phone rang.
The one that stops you in your tracks.  
Makes your heart immediately go into erratic beats.  
Puts pretzel knots in your delicate stomach.  
Turns your brain inside and out so you can't think straight.  
"Hey, can you turn on your 'Find My iPhone' app?" My Man asks when I answer the phone.
"Sure.  What's going on?" I reply.
"We're looking for an iPhone," is all he can say before he needs to go and would call me back.  
The call ends. I turn on the app, and try to talk sense into myself but it sounds more like jumbled verbal throw up in my head.  And why is it that worst-case scenarios even arise?

....Surely My Man isn't looking for Son.  But what if he is? Did Son go off the beaten path and he's deep in snow?  Alone?  Hurt?  What the heck is going on?  It's getting dark.  You did tell them to take the phone in case they got separated. Is there a search party happening? My Man is there and he would tell me, right? He has things under control.  Or maybe he doesn't want me to worry?  Obviously, that's exactly what I'm doing! I'm ridiculous. 

My brain stops long enough for my heart to tell it a few truths: "Do not be anxious for anything but in every situation, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God" (Phil 4:6).  
I calm.  

I breathe.  

Even in this....presenting my jumbled verbal throw up to him...Don't. Forget. The. Thanksgiving.  That's the key for life.  That's the key that opens the door to a perspective we can't get when we're so consumed with our circumstances.  
And it's in the waiting, the space between the unknown and the known, that our true colors either shine against the situation exposing character that has been through this before and knows a faithful God who will never leave us nor forsake us, or they can blur together to form the color of murky mud and we wallow in the worry.  
In this moment, I fight against the mud and cling to the thanksgiving.  
My shaking hand sends a text comprised of four words.
"Did you find him?"
With every palpable beat of my heart, I have to know.
My Man immediately calls and tells me that he is with Son.
Utter, exorbitant relief.  
It's the darn phone that went missing...somewhere in the mounds and feet of powder snow.  And I don't give a rip about that rectangular electronic.
One run prior to the phone falling out of Son's pocket, he found someone's brand new Samsung Galaxy.  He turned that in, and now my boys wait for hours to see if anyone would do the same for them.  
Nothing.
Nada.
No phone located through the app either.      
When they walk through the door, I wrap my arms around Son's frame, look him in the eye, and tell him how much I love him. 

And tucked away in the minutes of this day, I was reminded to rest in the waiting.  Sometimes our waiting is milliseconds. Other times it's years, or a lifetime.  But the longer we wait and trust and press in and grow, the deeper our roots go down and our tree grows tall.  In the minutes today between my unknown and known, a place deep in my heart revealed I still have a long ways to go but also confirmed I've come so far.  I will rest in the latter knowing my life is always a work in progress.

And, as for what happened to the phone, that's a story for another day!

The Purple Threads in Our Lives

It's a cold December morning, and I feel the desire to wrap myself in a blanket all day long.  Since that's not possible, I don the closest companion: my favorite Fred Meyer khaki-colored poncho.  And then the crazy morning routine happens: first kid to the school bus, second kid's diaper changed, and the third kid driven to school.  I arrive home in time to dress the second kid, light the Christmas tree, and put the tea kettle on the stove for my small group (aka heart friends) who will soon be walking through my door.  

Breakfast forgotten.
Husband traveling.
Dog a muddy mess.
Dishes all over.
Trip over the balance beam in the middle of our living room. 
Laundry pile staring vehemently.
Toddler potty training. 

Friends arrive.  So glad these are "come as you are" friends in my imperfect life, but yet I realize more and more with time that real life is so much grittier and more beautiful than anything else.  It's truly freeing that my house, and more importantly my life, doesn't have to be perfect.  Because, really, what does that mean anyways? People are knocking on the doors of our life.  

Let them in for crying outloud!

And somehow in the midst of the craziness, life calms.  Being in the presence of these women who listen, care and love well fills my soul and helps carry me through.  It's a priority for our lives, and it's an hour-and-a-half well spent to refocus, pray, and support one another.  

The last friend leaves, and the toddler requires a nap.  I place her peacefully in her crib, and on my way tiptoeing out of her room, my poncho catches the door knob.  My body lurches backwards towards the door, and "Dang it!" comes out in an obnoxious whisper.  

I release myself from the entrapment of the door knob and examine the snare it caused.  
Only to find among the thousands of khaki-colored weavings is one:

PURPLE THREAD

Misplaced.
Misaligned.
Misinformed.
Missed.
Doesn't make sense.

I grumble at why anyone would put a purple thread in the midst of this poncho and look for a way to cut it out.  But...then...I start thinking about why it's there:
Beauty.
Color.
Purpose.  

My whole poncho will unravel without this Purple Thread.  As much as we don't think we need the Purple Thread in our lives and grumble about it, we do.  We don't want to face our disappointment, anxiety, addiction, loss, parenting struggles, betrayal, health issues, jealousy, or whatever it may be.  

We want it to disappear.  We want to cut it out of our story. 

But we can't.  It is part of us.  

As Solomon writes, "He has made everything beautiful in its time.  He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end" (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

It's not in our time to know when and how God will use this, but He will (and maybe is using it even now!).  It reminds me of one of my dearest friends: as a tender, ten-year-old she tragically lost her daddy.  Her hero.  I met her when we were both 18, and she allowed me on her journey of grief, healing, redemption, and purpose. And now she speaks about this to others whose story is similar, encouraging little, vulnerable hearts to keep pressing forward and trusting God's plan for your life even when life doesn't make sense.  Everything IS beautiful in its time. 

 

Embrace the Purple Thread.  

Look on it with grace and joy.  

God wants to redeem those places.  

And know that in the midst of whatever trial, whatever challenge, there's always something to be thankful for.  

Maybe you can't see past today.  And that's okay.  I get it.  I've been there, and will probably be back there again. At this moment, I stare at the beauty, and I'm grateful for dear ones in my life who embrace their Purple Thread and teach me to do the same.  We are not meant to do this life alone.

Maybe the Sewer took the sharp needle and that Purple Thread kicked and screamed, tried to run away, and didn't want to be part of the poncho.  Or maybe It was too tired, limp, and too deep in a hole that saw little hope.  But the hands that reached down, delicately picked up the Purple Thread, and crafted each pull and push of the needle knew the importance, the significance, and the magnitude. Your Purple Thread intricately matters, and the Sewer sees the beauty, color, and purpose.  Rest in His hands as He weaves your story back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

      

 

Punching Through the Bricks: Kaylee Overcoming Fear

She stands alone at the corner of the blue floor.  Her toes curl against the springy surface that promises to launch her high.  Her pink, sparkly uniform reminds her all eyes rest on her.  She wipes the sting of the tears from her eyes.  She wants this SO badly.  But this is only the warmup, and her teammates, friends and family in the stands, who know and understand her, yell, "C'mon Kaylee!"  "You've got this, Kaylee!"  "Here we go, Kaylee!"
She's frozen.
I sit on the cold bleachers with my left hand covering my mouth.
I see the tears in my daughter.
I feel them deeply and wait in suspense.

It's been nearly two months since she rocketed down the gymnastics floor doing a routine skill, tweaking her ankle in the middle skill and landed awkwardly, causing her to fall violently on her back.  I, along with her coaches, thought she would "get through it" in a day or two.
Days.
Weeks.
Months.
Tears.
Making herself sick she wanted it so badly but the fear was real.  It was a thief.  It was a terrorizing beast hovering over her every time she stepped on the floor.  It was as if bricks were being built in front of her: one by one until her vision was entirely blocked and all she recalled, all she

remembered, all she could think about was the hurt of the fall.  Who wants to experience that again?  No one!  No one at all!  Not even her teammates who observed the fall as some of them developed their own fears after watching her.
When it first happened, we talked about it, challenging her to press through. But it soon became very clear that the fear was real and deep, and our verbiage shifted to encouragement and letting her know how much we loved her, and we were here for her.  After awhile, there were no words. Just a hug.  A reassurance.
What we were dealing with was real life.  Matt and I honestly did NOT care if she touched the floor one more time and she was done with gymnastics, but we did care that somehow, someway we got through this.  This transcended gymnastics; we were talking about a life skill she can carry with her forever.
A mile marker in her journey.

I stand from the bleachers to get a better view of my petite girl.  My mind goes back and forth whether she's going to try the skill in warmup.  If she can do it in warmup, she'll do it in the routine.  I know this.  I believe it.  And with all the gumption mustered in her small frame, and the gym's focus and vocalization drawn to her, she propels her body through the bricks, past the thieves and the terrorizing beast and does a beautiful round-off, backhand spring, back tuck. Her teammates cheer.

I wipe my tears.  She did it! She performed the skill in her routine, and ran to give her coach (who's been there every minute for her) for a big hug. 

On Sunday morning after church, we asked her what her lesson was about.
COURAGE.
Say what?
COURAGE.
"Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes, like when I did my back tuck."
Absolutely, Little One.
You get it.
Hide those Truths away in your heart for the next time fear creeps in like a dragon breathing fire.  Hold up your shield, let go of your arrow, and watch the dragon crumple to the ground.  And tomorrow...you may need to do it all over again.  
And know this promise by heart: "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9).
     

Brazilian Pride

From my journal in 1985...our time in Rio.

The Olympics.  Inspiring.  Captivating.  Alluring.  Beautiful.  For the past two weeks, the news is distant, social media is banned (I can't learn results!!), and my nights are late as I don't want to miss a thing.  I listen to every story told. I sit on the edge of my seat with my rapid heartbeat for the final fingertip reach in the pool, the stuck landing on the bright blue gym floor, and the finish line joy.
And then there's just something different and special about this Olympics. With my mom born and raised in Brazil and my grandparents living there for 40 years, I made the journey a handful of times as a child to this vast, breathtaking country, playing with the other children, tasting the acai ice cream, and splashing in the Amazon.  I walked atop Sugar Loaf Mountain, people watched on the sandy

Copacabana Beach, and climbed the steep stairs to stand under the massive, unbelievable statue of Jesus overlooking the scenic bay and city.  
And then there's soccer, or futbol.  I was born a fan of Brazilian soccer.  The only time we ever had cable TV in my first 18 years was for the Olympics and the World Cup.  Every Brazilian soccer game we watched.  Every Olympics we didn't miss.
So, as I'm watching the gold medal match played in Maracana Stadium, I feel Brazilian.  My blood is red, white, and blue, but at moments like these it does run blue, green and yellow like my mom's!  I want this so bad for this country.   
When Neymar kicks the winning penalty shootout shot into the upper right corner of the white net, the country erupts in a volcano of tears, exultation, and joy!  And I wish I could call Gramps. 
A few months ago, my grandpa told me he looked forward to Rio hosting the games and the hope of Brazil's soccer team winning the gold medal.  He knew what it would do for a country.  He knew the many heartbreaks it would mend.  He knew.  Just as I know he was smiling down and celebrating from Heaven.  As much as this is "just a game", it echoes resoundingly as so much more.  It teaches life lessons for those on the field and those of us watching.
I call my mom, and pride bellows from her voice.  And in two years for the Winter Olympics, two weeks of my life will again be well-spent. 

A Concussion's Answered Prayer: One Year Later

Her body slumped over.
Faintly crying.

Difficulty breathing.
I couldn't get to her fast enough.
My legs ran while my heart raced and my mouth prayed.
Is she okay?  God, let it be a broken bone.  Bones mend.  Internal healing is harder.
I carefully picked up her fragile body and cradled her in my arms.  Her forehead, chin, elbow and knee were scraped from the hard, brown dirt that blackened her world for a few long seconds.  The tree swing swung like a pendulum above where I stood.  Her injured head throbbed and she lay limp.

Kaylee and her best friend a few weeks' prior to the accident.

"Kaylee!  Kaylee!"  I wanted to shout but instead whispered to her.  "I've got you."
"Where am I?" she whispered back.
I recalled to her the events of the day (at the park, playing tennis, went on the tree swing, and took a tumble), and she blankly stared at me.
"What's your name?" I asked her.
"Kaylee," she quietly answered.
Phew.  She knew her name.  With a series of quick events, we got her home within a few minutes.  We knew she experienced a concussion; we just didn't know the severity of it.
In the next few hours, she would have every freakishly scary sign of a concussion and would spend awhile in the ER.  The scans came back clear (praise God!).  No bleeding in the brain.  Rest.  Rest.  Rest.  Wake her up and check her vitals.  Rest.  Rest.  Rest.  Repeat.

The next day after her doctor's appointment, we were driving in the car.
"Mom, I know that angels were protecting me when I fell," she shared from the backseat.
"Really?  How do you know?" I asked.  Honestly, I was skeptical.  I mean, c'mon, I viewed for that moment that they could have protected her more, and here she is teaching my heart a lesson.
"It could have been so much worse," she answered.

It made me think about something bigger than a concussion.  For nearly two years before this accident, we nightly prayed the same prayer by her bedside.  When we lived in California, their school had a lockdown, and she developed a fear of "robbers"  (there was a man who had stolen a car in the vicinity, so they locked down the school as a precaution).  From that experience, she began to have nightmares which made nighttime difficult, and most nights she would end up in the wee morning hours sandwiched between me and Matt in our bed.  We had prayed for peace over her dreams, and, honestly, we were beginning to run out of words to pray.
When she told me about the angels protecting her, I remembered all of those nights where we prayed she'd feel God's protection around her, and now she understood it in a rather obscure, interesting way.  
It has been 365 days since the concussion, and the number of nightmares this year haven't even filled up the fingers on one hand!  A crazy, horrible concussion jolted all of us to the reality that God's plans and ways are higher than ours (Isaiah 55:8-9).

"Yes, Baby, angels were watching out for you." 

When Your Anchor is Pulled: Love and Loss

 

The radiant sun setting behind Mt. Baker and the British Columbia sky glowing with an indelible silhouette of colors was the perfect ending for a day filled with celebrating my Grandpa's life.  One of triumph.  Overcoming.  Legacy.  Beauty.  Devotion.  Sacrifice. 
I have tears of sadness at the simple reality that I miss him.  I miss the weekly emails.  I miss him telling me to give Matt a swift kick in the pants for him.  I miss just being in the same room as him; I always left filled, better, inspired, and reflective.

Our Edmonds Walk on Thanksgiving

This past Thanksgiving while the turkey was baking, and we were waiting for family to arrive I decided to briefly drive to my favorite spot: the Edmonds waterfront.  The landscape feels like you've entered a painting with the bright blue Puget Sound below the majestic Olympic Mountain Range and whistling ferries and gentle boats on the water.  My 92-year-old Grandpa headed to his room at my parent's

house to take a rest when I disrupted it with, "Grandpa, do you want to go with me to Edmonds?"
He looked at me with his inquisitive, always thinking and loving eyes and immediately said, "Well, of course." 
It is one of my most special memories.  Him and I walking arm and arm in the clear, brisk November air as we took in the beauty, talked about life, I listened to stories, and sat in silence with my head on his strong shoulders. 

He never wanted to miss moments in each and every day.

Didn't know this would be our last picture together. 

And so today we said goodbye.  As we crossed back into the US from Canada, I felt like the family's anchor was pulled from the ship suddenly.  The pain is real.  But somehow, in a strange and amazing way, the ship sails and the compass points north, and the anchor remains in the life Grandpa gave us and taught us.
I thank the Lord for this man who helped guide me.  And his beautiful life forever continues in our hearts and the way we live each day.        

11 of his 14 great-grandkids he prayed for daily