It Feels Like Just Yesterday

This is the blog entry I didn't want to write. The timing is terrible, and I prefer to share my faith in God with others in a more subtle way, talking about my blessings, my church involvement, my Bible study group. There was a time when I chuckled silently, yet listened politely, when someone said, "God told me to do this." I didn't think God did that anymore; that only happened in the Bible. I wasn't there yet. Then there was a time when I said, "Why isn't God speaking to me?" I wanted to hear His words. I wanted to join that special club of people who had real conversations with God, but I didn't know how to become a member.

Today God spoke to me. It was not good timing. I woke up with a migraine, and for the first time in my life, the pain migrated from the base of my skull, all the way into the right side of my jaw, like I had read about in websites and books. For the rest of the day, I battled flu-like symptoms, meanwhile taking the boys to swimming lessons, the grocery store, and a baseball game in a car with a freshly-charged air conditioner that decided today would be a good day to stop working. I forgot to bring treats and drinks for Max and his teammates after their game, as I had signed up to do a few weeks ago. I wanted to throw up but I couldn't. I had a mental to-do list that could have stretched across the unscrubbed kitchen floor.

In the midst of our normal daily summer activities, we spent the day thinking about and discussing the event of the year in our family: Heather and her family's return to Rochester. Heather, her husband Brian, and their sweet children Ella, Sacia, and Zachary, some of our very closest friends in the world, have spent the past ten months across the world from us, immersed in Indian culture in Bangalore, India. They will be home in eight hours for an extended visit. We are so excited to see them, hug them, hear about their travel adventures, and resume our at-least-twice-a-week playdates and shared mealtimes. For nearly a year, we have exchanged emails, gifts, webcam chats, and phone conversations, all the while wondering when they would return home.

In the morning, we will meet them at the airport, joining their family to welcome them back to the States. The boys have been counting down the hours for three days now, and they both have special gifts to give their little friends, and I'm sure they will be awake shortly after dawn in anticipation of the big homecoming. Mitchie decided tonight after bedtime prayers and stories that he would give Sacia a big "licky kiss," one of his Mitchell Specialties he has been practicing on the webcam for Sacia for months, but I think I managed to convince him to offer his little world-traveling sweetheart a regular kiss instead of the licky version. Max used his own money to buy his beloved Ella a sparkling guardian angel pin. ("Do you think it's made out of real diamonds, Mom?")

For several days, I have been thinking with amazement how quickly these past ten months have passed. When Heather told me early last year that they were indeed taking a special assignment to India through Brian's job, I couldn't imagine how we would spend so many months without our friends. When they left the States for a short "survey trip" to acquaint themselves with their area of India, I cried sad tears as I thought of what the real goodbye would be like when they would be gone for a year or more. When they left, we watched for their plane to fly over our house, calling their names into the sky. When New Year's Eve ended 2007 without our friends with us to share a champagne toast and fireworks (I went to bed early that night), I thought, How Much Longer? and now, finally, suddenly, they are coming home. The time passed so quickly. It feels like just yesterday they were leaving for India, another world to us.

I wondered where the time went, much the same way I wonder how Max grew into an eight-year old (it feels like just yesterday that he was born, after twelve hours of labor), and when Mitchell became a soon-to-be kindergartener (it feels like just yesterday that _he_ was born, after five hours of labor), and how in the world I have been out of high school for two reunion's worth of years (it feels like just yesterday I was saying hi to friends in the hallways). I kept thinking about one of my favorite Bible verses, the one that brought me great comfort after baby Gabriel's death ten years ago, 2 Peter 3:8, which states,

"But forget not this one thing, beloved, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day."

At that challenging time in my life, I interpreted that scripture to mean it would feel like forever to me until I would see my baby again, yet to the Lord, the time would be short. I was comforted. Since then, I have learned a more complex and accurate interpretation of that verse, yet I still take comfort in the many reminders of the promise of Heaven and the way those words reassured me when I was feeling lost in this world.

I don't mean to compare a ten-month separation from dear friends to losing a loved one from this world. I know it's not the same as losing a parent, a grandparent, a child, a best friend, or another someone special. I knew we had a chance to say goodbye. I knew our reunion would be sooner, rather than later. I knew my friends were safe and happy across the world from me. I could see their faces on my computer; I could hear their voices over the telephone. Being separated from a loved one by death can feel like forever, especially for people who may not believe in God or for those who question if Heaven is real. Even for those of us who believe in God with as much faith as humanly possible (which is still smaller than a mustard seed, though we can ask God to help us become stronger), the almost-magical idea of Heaven can be hard to comprehend. Those painful, grief-stricken days can be filled with the worst kind of darkness imaginable.

Yet today I couldn't help but think, This must be what it will be like to be reunited with loved ones in Heaven. I couldn't help but think ...

Someday I will hold my babies and say, It feels like just yesterday I carried you inside of me!

Someday I will kiss my uncle and say, It feels like just yesterday you were making me treasures out of wood and holding me on your lap and making everyone smile!

Someday I will embrace my friend and say, It feels like just yesterday I watched you play hockey and listened to you laugh!

Someday I will greet my friend's parents and say, It feels like just yesterday I was at your house, hanging out with your daughter and watching PG-13 videos!

Someday I will hug my friend's husband and say, It feels like just yesterday you gave me one of your big, strong bear hugs!

On that glorious day, when we are reunited with our loved ones in Heaven, just like the special "practice" reunion two families will share in the morning, the miles and the months and the lonely times will disappear in a collection of hugs and happy tears. That is what Gold told me today.

I Wish I Didn't Feel Scared

Today I went to the cemetery to water the flowers that bloom in honor of my babies. As the boys and I neared the heavy wrought-iron gates, I drove on the left side of the street to make room for an older gentleman on his bicycle who was also headed toward the cemetery. The boys waited in the air-conditioned comfort of the minivan during my quick stop, allowing themselves more time to play at nearby Mayo Park when I was done watering the flowers.

I filled the watering can with cold water from the spout that looks just like the one at the cemetery in New Ulm that I remember from times I went with my mom and my Nana to water the flowers they had planted at Grandpa Burdorf's and Uncle Dale's graves. Now so many of my cherished friends are buried nearby my grandather and my uncle: my cousin Nicole Rae Burdorf, born still years ago that seem like yesterday; my friend Chet Petersen, who died of a heart attack, when he was 31 -- my age now; my friend Jeremy Booth who died in a motorcycle accident like my uncle; my childhood idol Laura Kastmann, a beautiful cheerleader and gifted writer; Melissa Larsen's dad, an amazing pastor who died during our senior year; Ted and Jim's mom, Bettianne Wirtz, who wanted her funeral to be a celebration of life; Molly Mammen's dad, Harlan, who raised one of my best friends from high school; Erica Reiger, my classmate; Missy Linbo's parents. I bring all of them flowers in the summer. Thank goodness for the promise of Heaven.

After I finished watering my flowers, I used the leftover water to fill the pots of nearby plants. Parents or grandparents had brought geraniums, petunias, daises, pansies, and even a potted rose bush to honor the babies they missed so much. Three families I know well also have babies in this part of the cemetery. As I returned to the water spout for to fill the watering can again, I was startled to see a man wearing a bike helmet waiting there. I had not even noticed him watching me. Lost deep in thought, and concerned about my boys in the car, I didn't realize he was the same man on the bike we had passed a few minutes ago, and I didn't realize he was waiting for the watering can.

"I'm waiting to use that," he said. "Do you water all the flowers here?"

I wasn't sure if he was asking out of curiosity or impatience. "Sometimes," I told him. I felt ill-at-ease for the sake of my boys in the car. I was glad my body was in between this stranger and my vehicle. I thought I would be faster than he would.

"Are all these babies?" he asked increduously. This time, the curiosity was evident in his voice.

"Most of them," I answered. "Some of them are older."

"Are there any five year-olds?" He wondered aloud.

I could tell something was different about him, from his questions and his body language. "I don't think so," I said. "Some of the children buried here are two or three years old." I spoke those words like an old pro, not letting the pain of my answer reach my heart today. Babies. Two year-olds. Buried here. Most of the time, it's easier to think about watering flowers than to think about why.

"There is another baby section at the cemetery," I told him. "Up that way," I said, pointing to the center of the cemetery.

"More babies," he said as a statement, rather than a question.

"I'm going to water my relatives' flowers," he said. "Some of the flowers died, so my relatives planted artificial flowers instead."

"I bet they look pretty," I answered.

"Do you mind if I fill this once more?" I asked, gesturing to the watering can. "Then you can use it." There were a few more pots with drooping, thirsty flowers, and it would only take a minute to give them a drink. I was hoping some parents would be surprised and gladdened when they came to water their plants, realizing that someone had already remembered their flowers and their baby.

"I can water some of the flowers, too," he offered sincerely. He continued, "Do you have a baby here?"

"I have three babies here," I answered, my voice mixed with pride and sadness.

"What happened?" He asked me with genuine interest. His voice stumbled over the words, yet he lacked the discomfort that many adults show when they talk with parents whose children have died out of turn.

"One of them didn't have any kidneys," I explained. That's hard for anyone to understand, yet he seemed to grasp it without question.

"Oh," he said.

"The other two babies were miscarriages," I continued.

I passed him the watering can.

"There's still some water left," he noted.

I wanted to ask him about his relatives.

He tried to find the right words to ask me one more question. "Did you get any kids out of it?"

"I have two sweet, healthy boys in the car," I answered with a smile.

"How old are they?" he asked.

"Eight and four. I am so blessed to have them."

I watched him walk to one grave, then another, slowly pouring water onto the blossoming flowers. I knew I would come back next time and find out who he missed. I would walk to those graves and read the names. I would pray for that man. I wished that I didn't have to feel scared when I met a kind soul at the cemetery. I coveted his peaceful manner. I wanted to ask him to tell me a story of the person he was remembering today. I wondered if he was missing his mom or his dad or someone else who was very, very dear to him. I wondered if I would ever feel safe talking to a stranger in a cemetery. I wished society hadn't forced me to worry about personal safety and self-defense. I wanted to thank him for asking about my babies.

I am so blessed. Blessed because God has given me three angel babies in Heaven who are waiting to meet me someday; blessed because God has answered my prayers, sending me his two sweetest angels to care for on this Earth; and blessed because God sends me other angels, unexpectedly, when I need them to teach me about this amazing world.

Health Food for Thought

You gain strength, courage and confidence

by every experience

in which you really stop to look fear in the face.

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Longing for Long Days

T onight I am so tired. I've had less than twelve hours of sleep from Sunday until now, and the rest of the week doesn't offer any opportunities for rest. I crawled under the covers at seven earlier tonight for a quick snooze, which went as fast as the nine minutes I get when I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock.

Max and Mitchell were dolls today until about four o'clock. The rest of the day brought new meaning to the "witching hour." Fortunately, we had already said goodbye to James at the checkout at Target, the groceries and unexpected purchases were loaded into the minivan, and we were safely, nearly home when the tired-boy-tirades began. Later, after a challenging end to the school day and a dinner that would have been entertaining if they had been someone else's kids, I listened to Mitchell fight valiantly for his cause -- we didn't know what his cause was -- while he brushed his teeth and watched Max finish his night in an exhausted, silly stupor, I thought, this is so hard.

Two hours later, the boys were sound asleep, Mitchell in his size six diapers -- even though he stays dry all night, every night -- and Max in his green army men boxers, surrounded by their beloved, miniature stuffed animals and panting dogs, and I had savored every second of my evening nap. I scanned through the A section of our local paper, my eyes still heavy. On the editorial page, I found an opinion piece written by one of my favorite national columnists, Leonard Pitts. His pieces are always thought-provoking and tonight's article about his daughter's high school graduation pulled hard on my heartstrings instead of tugging on my brain cells.

After I finished reading it, I knew that my recent long days weren't as hard as the long days Mr. Pitts and scores of other parents and friends have likely experienced in the past couple of weeks as they watch their babies don cap and gown and pose for starry-eyed pictures with the friends they have known for years. All of us wonder, where have the years gone? I know Mr. Pitts would give anything to fight about brushing teeth and finishing schoolwork again, and I know someday, hopefully for those same happy reasons, I will long for these long days again, too.

A Dog's Life

Brittany forwarded me another great email today, this message about the lessons our dogs teach us, spoken with graceful eloquence by a six year-old boy. Remember to ENJOY LIFE this weekend!

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle. I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away. The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker's death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up and said, "I know why." Startled, we all turned to him.

What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?" The six-year-old continued, "Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

Live simply.

Love generously.

Care deeply.

Speak kindly.

Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.

Take naps.

Stretch before rising.

Run, romp, and play daily.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.

On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.

When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

Be loyal.

Never pretend to be something you're not.

If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle them gently.

ENJOY EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY!

Waiting For Godot

I recently resumed reading a favorite book by the gifted Anna Quindlen. Loud and Clear is a collection of her writings, first published in Newsweek and The New York Times. The book is filled with reflective essays about life and society.

Among my favorites is a selection entitled Oh, Godot. In that essay, Quindlen references the play in which her eldest son appeared, Waiting for Godot. Playwright Samuel Beckett tells the tale of two lost souls who wait through the entire play for someone or something that never appears. She compares the tale to the way that many of us spend our lives waiting for that magical something to transform our own story into something extraordinary. Quindlen wrote her words as a commencement speech, in hopes of inspiring young graduates to go out into the world, remember who they really are, and listen to their hearts. Here is my favorite part of her speech:

Godot has arrived. The linchpin, the bedrock, the source of all the questions that have plagued your soul, and all the answers, too. The way is clear. The way is here. You saw Godot when you blew your hair dry this morning, when you brushed your teeth and put on mascara. I have seen your salvation, and it is you, staring back at yourself, your eyes windows to your heart and mind. Many of you have looked for Godot, or some facsimile, elsewhere in this particular place. You have looked for it in the grade on the last page of that art history paper, in the grad school acceptance letters, in the laughter of your friends, in the smile of some nice man or woman. What passed for your life was often a search for outside validation. Law school or a museum internship would save you, or love or romance or sex, or a poem published in a magazine, a painting hung at a show. But one edition of a magazine has a way of giving way to another, and course grades come and go, and occasionally, very occasionally, a lover who should know better will nevertheless dump you. The prizes arrive, but soon they are dusty, and then what do you have? You better have you. The real you, the authentic, examined self ... ... Today is the day that those lucky enough to be your teachers, your classmates, your friends, and your parents must say: Your life belongs in full to you and you alone. Do not cede it to anyone else, no matter how loving and well-intentioned. People will tell you what you ought to study and how you ought to feel. They will tell you what to read and how to live. They will urge you to take jobs they themselves loathe and to follow safe paths they themselves find tedious. ... You already know this. I just need to remind you. Think back. Think back to first grade, when you could still hear the sound of your own voice in your head, when you were too young, too unformed, too fantastic to understand that you were supposed to take on the protective coloration of the expectations of those around you.

What do these words mean for me? For you? From her essay, two main points resonated within me. First of all, do not let others create your definition of happiness. We all must search for our own special meaning in our lives. Next, I noted that we should not wait for years to be happy. We should not count on the realization of a dream, or the accomplishment of a goal, to deliver our happiness to us.

We must be happy while we wait to achieve those hopes and dreams that are truly our own. Do you know who you are? Do you know what you believe in? Do you have a close friend, a special someone, a best buddy, with whom you share that one-of-a-kind-in-six-billion-beings that is very special You? Isn't that a gift in itself, to have your hopes and dreams and values, and know what they are? To do something kind for someone and share a part of yourself with someone else? To learn something new about this huge, amazing world each day? Can you grasp the smallest fiber of hope when you find yourself in an abyss of great despair, with the prayer that tomorrow might be a better day? Can you recall one simple yet shining moment as you are drying your tears and adding one more crumpled tissue to the pile of thirty you have already used? Do you beileve in your heart that there is always, always something for which to be thankful?

On my best days, those questions are among my guiding principles, my quantitative methods of measuring a life that is usually defined by subjective terms like "pretty good," and "fine" and "okay" when someone asks, How are you doing? Some days, those flowery-sounding phrases that Anna Quindlen wants us to think about are not enough. As darkness falls upon my world at the end of a long day, when every room of my house is in a state of disarray, and my overtired, cranky boys won't go to sleep, and my to-do list includes a handful of unpaid bills, a stack of dirty dishes, and a pile of unwashed laundry ... well, forget about contemplating dreams or thinking ahead a day past tomorrow, because I have to get through the rest of today.

Sometimes just knowing myself is not enough. I want the bigger house. I want the bigger paycheck. I want the long vacation next to the ocean. I want my own agent and editor and endless hours for creative endeavors and weekly trips to the spa to inspire me. I need to remind myself it is okay to feel that way, that it's perfectly normal to want a little more than just enough, and I believe that kind of wishful thinking is necessary to achieve my lofty but attainable goals. Those thoughts remind me that I do have hopes and dreams and in the meantime, for one day, one month, or even one long year, I might be wishing for my own Godot to make my life better.

But then, in sudden realizations spread throughout the waiting, I have moments of truth that would pass by my heart if I weren't ready to accept them. I see my reflection from years ago in my son's pleading brown eyes when he asks for just one more bedtime story. I play the old, saved message on my answering machine from an acquaintance who said, you made my day. I open the freezer and I see meals I have lovingly prepared for my dear, sweet Nana, and I open the pantry and I see its shelves full of staples and spices and a piece of rich, dark chocolate for emergencies. I scan the obituaries and count my loved ones in my prayers, smiling as I say their names, and I thank God that I believe in the promise of Heaven. I see the gratitude and easy joy in my toddler's smile as I snuggle him to sleep. I glimpse beauty in a sunset, in an unwanted but secretly beloved field of dandelions, in my son's piles of pebbles scattered randomly all over the front step, in a famous painting that thousands before me have admired with critical eyes, in the sands of a beach that will never again be the same as they are at the end of that wave.

Those times in which I experience the purest forms of beauty remind me that I don't need to wait very long for something else to make me happy. Those simple gifts disguised as ordinary moments assure me that even though I have hopes and dreams are not yet fulfilled, I am not waiting for Godot. I am enough. Whatever I need is in me, somewhere. Sometimes I forget, sometimes I worry. Sometimes I remember that I am enough when feel myself smiling a real smile, sometimes an old friend reminds me, sometimes God resassures me. Sometimes a star whispers it to me when I can't sleep and I stare into the night toward the heavens; sometimes I see a forgotten color in the sky as the sun falls into the grass; sometimes a loved one talks to me in a favorite memory. Then I remember again: I am enough.