May 22, 2012

Surrounded By Heroes

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My daughter’ picture as part of Robert Fogarty’s Dear World series on Joplin. His work is amazing. To see more click the picture!

Life is filled with contradictions; mundane mixed with miracle, tragedy with celebration, amazing strength with humbling weakness.  Contradiction makes life both difficult and powerfully beautiful. 

Ten years ago, on May 22, 2002, my first child David was born.  He turned my life inside-out and upside-down.  He taught me that love can be frightening in its intensity.  He made me look at the world differently.  Everything suddenly mattered so much more except, of course, for those things that suddenly mattered so much less.  Motherhood, like life, is also filled with contradictions.

Today is a day to celebrate his life.

One year ago, on May 22, 2011, our birthday celebrations came to an abrupt stop when the tornado pounded through Joplin.  The tornado also turned my life inside-out and upside down.  It also taught me that love can be frightening in its intensity. 

Today is a day to remember that loss and fear.  To, once again, allow myself to be swept away in gratitude that those walls bent but did not fall.

So today, at 5:40 in the evening, I will close my eyes and sit in silence for a moment with my community.  I’ll remember what happened a year ago today.  I’ll remember the lives lost and the neighborhoods destroyed.  I’ll remember that, like my girls’ picture reads, we are surrounded by heroes disguised as neighbors and strangers.  I’ll take that moment so that I can remember; once again, that everything we hold dear is fragile.  It’s a scary reminder.  It’s also the ultimate inspiration to live fully today.

But then I’m going to open my eyes and watch the young man sitting across from me blow out the ten candles on his cake.  David inspires words like hilarious, serious, sensitive, tough, kind, and brilliant.  He’s totally weird in a normal kid sort of way.  We’ll celebrate with pasta and chocolate and presents.  It’s good to be ten-years old.

We are taking this day back from the storm.

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May 20, 2012

One Year Later in Joplin, Missouri

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Almost a year ago, on May 22, 2011 a tornado hit my hometown of Joplin, Missouri.  The year since the storm was filled with joy, sorrow, tragedy, and miracle – sprinkled with refreshing moments of ordinary.  Most of you have heard the story:

On May 22 David turned nine years old.  The day started as a day of celebration. At 5:30 that evening, David, two of his friends, and I were in a movie theater watching pirates duke it out for the fountain of youth.  After the movie, we planned to meet Keith and the girls for pizza.  As we watched, I received a text from one of the boy’s mom saying “Stay put, Amy, the storm is bad and the tornado sirens are going off.”  The movie stopped in the middle of a scene, the lights turned on, and we were all instructed to go sit on the floor underneath the screen.  I called Keith to tell him to stay home with the girls and wait out the storm.  At the time, Keith and the girls were getting shoes on to head out the door and meet us for dinner.  Meanwhile, the theater crowd was laughing, talking, and in good spirits.  This is Missouri; we’re used to sirens and tornado warnings.  We were all sitting on the floor sharing any weather tidbits we could get on our phones.  Someone asked a manager why the movie was still playing in the theater next door.  The manager replied, “That’s not a movie.  That’s the storm.  Maybe a tornado …”

The mood changed.

I couldn’t reach Keith and the girls on the phone.  When the storm finally ended, people started to walk up the stairs to leave the theater as texts and calls began to come in.  It was terrifying to see people check their phones and start running, or crying, or saying “Oh my God …” The first text I received was from David’s friend’s mom.  It said, “Are you okay? Where are you? Tell M I love him.”  The next text was from Keith.  It said, “Our house was hit.” 

Across town, shortly after my initial call to Keith, he watched it turn black outside – he didn’t hear any sirens.  When his ears suddenly popped, Keith grabbed the girls and ran to the closest “safe” place – our closet.  He laid over Emily and Molly on the floor of the closet and listened as a tornado went over our house.  The tornado took our garage, trees, fence, roof, two cars, boat, and bent our walls as he and our little girls huddled together – fragile and exposed.   

That was our tragedy.

Here’s our miracle:  Keith, Emily, and Molly walked out of that closet untouched and unharmed.  In our family room, all the windows blew in, parts of our neighbor’s home came into ours, and the furniture was destroyed.  Our two dogs were kenneled in the only corner of that room without glass and debris.  They were also untouched and unharmed.  Our home, unlike the homes of most of our neighbors, stood.  It was fixable.  My parents came that night and took the kids to their home in Kansas City while Keith and I began the work of sorting through belongings trying to salvage what we could as the rain poured in.  We moved into a rental house.

And life went on.  David started the third grade, Emily the second, and Molly went back to her wonderful preschool program.  Keith continued his work at a manufacturing plant in Joplin.  I began a new job as a hospice social worker.  The kids’ usual flurry of activities continued. And, while all this beautiful ordinary went on, our home was slowly rebuilt.

Seven months after the tornado we moved back home!  Our neighborhood is still empty: the trees are gone, homes are missing, our view is a path of destruction instead of homes and trees, and many of our neighbors have moved away.  However, there is construction and progress every day.  We have new neighbors on our right and old neighbors have returned across the street.  Joplin is rebuilding and healing.  The community is a supportive place for those whose stories were more tragedy than miracle.  In fact, this city feels more like home to us now than it ever has in the five years we’ve lived here. 

Life is good and the ordinary is more beautiful than ever.

Filed Under: Finding Hope · Tagged: , , , , , , , ,
Apr 8, 2012

Finding Hope

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A few months ago, someone planted some bulbs.  

And while the people of Joplin rebuilt homes and lives; the bulbs grew silently under the ground.

Now they’ve bloomed.  While we worked to recreate what was lost, hope grew.

What a wonderful surprise when the word HOPE bloomed through the ground.

I look back on this year of tornadoes and death and loss and I’m in awe of the journeys we all pass through in life.  And I’m filled with hope.  Not just a sentimental word but a powerful call to action:

We can be better. 

Our world can be better. 

Our actions matter. 

We matter. 

During this year, I’ve witnessed the kind of hope that carries us past our experiences and understanding and delivers us to words like faith, joy, growth, and strength. 

Our world is filled with people trapped in a suffocating darkness.  Neighbors grieve behind closed doors.  We hide behind status updates and smiley icons.  I doubt there are any of us who haven’t felt the pull of hopelessness.  It’s powerful. 

Fortunately, hope is brilliantly contagious.  I believe hope is spread through the sharing of our stories.  There is healing strength in recognizing ourselves in another person’s story. 

“Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.”  — Madeleine L’Engle

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Apr 2, 2012

One Day

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She lies on the bed with her eyes closed, her hair puffed around her like a cloud. She’s not sleeping inside those closed eyes. Her body is still but she laughs along with someone I can’t see. I come closer and tell her I’m there and she says, “Momma?” When I take her hand she giggles and talks to me about candy. Her hand feels so fragile, her skin tissue paper inside my hand. She is 95 years old.

But in that moment she’s a child holding her mother’s hand. And inexplicably I’m reminded of my daughters.

Later that day, when I’m cuddled up with my kids at bedtime, I’m reminded of that woman. It resonates with me deeply that in her last days her mind clings to moments like this one. These moments matter – deeply.

But it’s not that thought that steals my breath away and makes me tremble with new awareness. It’s this:

Someday, if our stories go as I hope, my babies will be old.

Someday their chubby, little hands will be wrinkled and fragile; their skin will be tissue-thin.

I hope that when that day comes my children will be surrounded by family. I have to believe, with every ounce of faith I can muster, that someone will love them as fiercely as I do and care for them and give them words of comfort when they’re scared.

One day my children will be vulnerable, weak, and maybe even call for me – but I won’t be there.

It’s heartbreaking and terrifying. But it’s also, ultimately, okay.

This is how life was designed. There’s an Irish proverb that says, “It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.” Today, it’s my role to be the shelter. I protect my children, nourish them, and teach them. I do these things so that eventually they won’t need me. And then, one day, they will become the shelter – for their children and, perhaps, for me.

This is life.

And it’s beautiful, miraculous, and scary.

It’s also simple. We need to love each other. Protect each other. We need to be the shelter for the people who have no one left to look at them with love and memory.

And the next time I hold the hand of someone on the other end of life, I’ll remember that I’m holding the hand of someone’s child. And I will be their shelter.

“Resolve to be tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant with the weak and the wrong. Sometime in your life you will have been all of these.”
Dr. Robert H. Goddard

My heart goes out to those whose stories didn’t go as hoped, especially to parents who fiercely loved children who did not get the chance to grow old. Life has so many different truths and I hope my words didn’t cause any pain.

Filed Under: Life, work, heath, and everything else under the sun · Tagged: , , , , , , ,
Mar 26, 2012

The Day The Music Died

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Kids are obnoxious.  It’s not their fault, obnoxious is a developmental stage. 

But there is nothing (NOTHING!) that raises their obnoxiousness to new levels like when my kids have a song stuck in their heads.  Repetition does not faze kids.  Things do not stop being funny.  They are relentless. 

 I respond with my parental repertoire of encouragement, redirection, bribes, threat, and (finally) either hysterical laughter or tears. 

Then, once they finally stop, I come face to face with the horrible truth that these songs are now stuck in my head … for forever.

So, in order to share the misery serve as a warning to all parents, I present you with the top two songs my kids have been torturing me with lately.

Peanut butter and jelly anyone?

How about a little circus afro?

The only solution is to fight fire with fire. 

Oh yeah kid?  I see your Circus Afro and I raise you a Mahna Mahna.

What songs have your kids been torturing you with lately? Parents of older kids, does it ever stop?

Filed Under: Life, work, heath, and everything else under the sun, Parenting from the trenches · Tagged: , , , , , , , ,
Mar 20, 2012

Good neighbors don’t flash each other.

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We don’t have blinds on some of our windows yet.  The reasons for this blaring, privacy-prohibiting oversight are things like indecision and blinds on back-order.  (Of course, personally, I blame Keith.) 

Our new next-door neighbors are also somewhat blindless, which only seems fair.  I’ve become used to scenarios like David pronouncing from our dinner table that the next-door neighbors are watching basketball again. 

It’s a great way to get to know the new neighbors.

However, it’s also like performing nightly on an open stage.  I’m fairly certain that the neighbors are not overly concerned about any of the activities in our family room.  (And by “fairly certain” I mean I know they’re not.  I never see them watching us when I’m watching them.  Scared yet?)

However, it does make those oops the shirt I need to wear is in the laundry room moments a bit awkward. So, I’ve mastered the crouch walk that keeps me below line of sight (at least in my head).  I’ve learned to sprint through the family room when wrapped in a towel.  And I’m getting fairly good at making it look like I’m lovingly correcting the children when I’m, in fact, yelling at them.  (Thank God they don’t have a sound feed into our family room!)

I feel like making these efforts is just plain neighborly.  Good neighbors don’t flash each other.

I was tempted to make this blog post about feeling exposed.   I thought I could explore how we expose ourselves every day through social media and that we should be more aware – apply some filters, hang some blinds.

But I’ve decided not to do that.  This post is just about my efforts to not flash my new neighbors.   Because I think we need a bit more of that in the world.  And I know I’m not the only crouching, sprinter out there.  Just know you are not alone.  And, one day, you and I will both have blinds and we’ll remember these days.

One day.

Filed Under: Life, work, heath, and everything else under the sun · Tagged: , , , , , , , ,
Mar 19, 2012

Haven

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On the outside the house looks like any other home.  Inside, kids sit in the living room watching cartoons and playing with toys while a toddler in a highchair eats a pre-dinner snack, a pretty normal scene.

Except that there are no moms and no dads. 

Instead, there are caregivers – employees obviously hired for their compassion, sincerity, and all-around coolness.  This is a children’s crisis shelter, a wonderful place that gives children in crisis, whatever that may be in their lives, moments of home and safety.

We arrive at Children’s Haven arms loaded with lasagna, veggies, and bread – enough to feed a small army, more than enough to feed this house filled with children.  Our monthly dinner with these children is our family’s way to give back, to even out the balances.

But I also come with ulterior motives. 

I come to give my children perspective.

I come to cultivate an awareness of how much even our smallest actions can change the lives of others, just like how much our lives were changed by the people around us after the tornado. 

I come to show my kids that little things are important – a dinner, a smile, a presence. 

I come armed with more ulterior motives than food. 

Then the little boy turns to my son and asks him, “Are you homeless too?”

And in an instant my ulterior motives disappear.  This child is not an object lesson.  He is a little boy without a home.  And his innocent question pierces my heart and the heart of my husband and the heart of my son. 

Are we homeless too?

No, sweet child, because of the kindness of strangers and grace beyond understanding, we are not homeless.   And you gave me so much more than what I came prepared to give you.  And, for tonight, you’re not homeless either because you’ve found a haven.  And there’s not one among us who won’t need a haven at some point in life.

If you’re interested in learning more about Children’s Haven please click this link.  If you’d like to help, there’s a Needs List posted on their website.  We live in the shade of each other.

Filed Under: Uncategorized · Tagged: , , , , , , , ,
Mar 11, 2012

Rules Are Rules, Keith

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Keith – please don’t read this post.  Or at least skip past the beginning part.  Thank you.

I don’t wear socks to bounce houses.  (Can you feel it coming?  That’s right I’m about to hit you with some advanced parenting wisdom.)

I don’t wear socks because you have to wear socks to go on the various bouncy things.  And if a child gets stuck on one of the aforementioned bouncy things then the parent with the socks ends up going to save the child.  On more than one occasion my sock-less self has sadly said:

“Sorry, Keith, I don’t have socks on.  It’s against the rules for me to climb up the 20-foot tall inflatable rock wall, low crawl through the inflatable tunnel filled with children, and plunge down the inflatable slide with our crying child.  Sorry.  Rules are rules.  **sigh** If only I’d worn socks.” 

Yep, it’s not my first rodeo. 

Despite my use of the sock-less technique, I was relieved when my normally fearless three-year-old decided not to climb up the giant tower.  (Sometimes Keith counters my “I have no socks!” technique with his “I’m 6’3!” technique.) Emily, however, plunged her 7-year-old self right into the daunting structure. 

This, my friends, is why you don't wear socks to a bounce house.

She soon realized that it wasn’t just the height of the tower that made it challenging.  There weren’t solid floors at each level – just interwoven belts that you push aside to climb through.  When other kids pushed the belt aside the whole “floor” would wiggle and you could fall through to the level below.  This realization paralyzed her around level two or three. 

As I prepared to show Keith my sock-less feet and he started to stand up as straight as possible to highlight his awkward-for-bounce-house height, a kind child helped Emily down.  (For shame, Keith.  For shame.)

Emily was a bit thrown off her game.  She’s not used to being the child who needs rescuing.  She went off to one of the other bouncy things and bounced reflectively for a couple of minutes.  Then her smile came back, she walked up to me and said:

“Mom, I know what I did wrong.  I looked down and I worried about the wigglers (wigglers = interwoven belts).  This time I’m looking up and I’m going to think about me going down the big slide at the end!”

She marched up to that tower and did exactly that, wiggly floors and all.

That’s my girl.

May the metaphorical wiggly floors of your week end in amazing, metaphorical slides.  May your feet be sock-less and your partner short.  May you find wisdom in unexpected places!

Filed Under: Life, work, heath, and everything else under the sun, Parenting from the trenches, Uncategorized · Tagged: , , , , , , , , , ,
Mar 4, 2012

Beautiful Ordinary

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The wall calendar hanging on the inside of my pantry door is open to May 2011. Today is March 4, 2012 but I’m not taking the calendar down – not yet.

The weekend of May 21-22, 2011 was a busy weekend – slightly stressful. I was throwing a Parisian pool party (yes, you read that correctly) for Emily on Saturday and taking David and his two best buddies to a movie and pizza for his birthday on Sunday.

I was worried about things like decorations, cakes, balloons, party favors, and the timing of the movie. I remember actually thinking:

“If I can just survive this weekend …”

Most of you reading this know that in the middle of David’s birthday party the tornado hit Joplin.

Before the tornado

David and his friends less than an hour before the tornado

I keep that calendar to remind me that I never know when my world is about to change.

I go about my day-to-day and so often feel stuck on the treadmill of work, kids’ activities, bath time, bedtime, cooking, cleaning, shopping, laundry, and on and on and on. I forget. I forget that in a split second something can happen and the very things that cause me stress and distraction and frustration can become the things that I grieve over.

I keep that calendar to remind me of the beauty to be found in the ordinary.

“If I can just survive this weekend,” pops into my head each time I look at that calendar. I can remember wanting to be done with the parties and the birthdays. I wasn’t just going through the motions, I was steamrolling through them. I didn’t completely miss the moments of fun, joy, and delight from that weekend. But, more than anything, I wanted those two days to be behind me.

Then a storm rolled in.

“If I can just survive this weekend,” took on a completely different meaning.

All of a sudden, everything else fell away and I just wanted to hold my babies. I just wanted to get to them and see them alive and breathing. I wanted to kiss their tears and not let go of them. I just wanted to get them to a safe place. And, as the days went on, I just wanted us back together again. I wanted to recapture our feeling of home. I wanted my neighbors and friends to be okay. I just wanted our ordinary back.

There is something so beautiful about the ordinary when it’s viewed after the storm.

So, for now, I’m going to keep that calendar hanging up. It’s a reminder that I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know when my world is going to change. It’s my reason to live boldly and fully. It’s my reason to embrace the beautiful ordinary of my life.

My thoughts and prayers go out to those affected by the tornadoes that rolled through the Midwest recently.

Filed Under: Life, work, heath, and everything else under the sun · Tagged: , , , , , , , , ,
Mar 2, 2012

TGIF

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Top Five Signs It’s Been A Rough Week

5.  You find yourself humming “Gonna Fly Now” as you triumphantly proclaim the workday over.  (Eat your heart out Rocky.  Your steps had nothing on my week.)

4.  You had to choke back tears a couple of times when saying to a coworker/friend, “Thank God it’s Friday.”

3.  Your three-year old just asked you where the purple nail polish is – and you told her.

2.  You frightened the pizza delivery guy with your vehement and emotional gratitude.  “Thank you so, so much.  You have no idea what this means to me.”

1.  You’re about to eat dinner on a picnic blanket on the family room floor and it sounds more appealing than any five-star, dining experience on the entire planet.

Hello Friday night.  It’s been too long.

Filed Under: Life, work, heath, and everything else under the sun · Tagged: , , , , , , , ,
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