Author Archives: linguita79

Five Years Without You

Dear Daddy,

I’ve often imagined what a typical day in heaven is like for you. Now, on the fifth anniversary of your death I am wondering, what does five years feel like in heaven?

In case you’re wondering, here’s what five years feels like down here…

I live in a house you’ve never seen. You aren’t here to help me when I need to fix or paint something. I cry angry tears when spring comes and I work on the front yard landscaping alone. That was always our thing.

I have children you never met. Twins in fact. I know, right? You always joked about wanting twin grandbabies. When I look at my kids, I see so many of the qualities I adored in you. Kindness, quick whit and curiosity. If you were still here I wonder how you would influence their little personalities.

But it’s not just the kids and this old house triggering sadness. It’s me. Five years later I am a different person and it’s strange to think you don’t know the new me. Since you passed, I am stronger. Not just in my faith, but in my thinking and determination.

Oh, I’m still selfish and greedy. I want you back so you can teach my children what you taught me. Five years later I grieve the memories that will never happen.

The year you died my heart was dripping with sadness. The waves of grief washed over me frequently. Now, they don’t come as often or linger as long. But when they come, oh how my heart longs for you. Then I do what I have done every year for five years. I pull out your old shirts and smell them. I put on your jacket and put my hands in the pockets. Then I let myself cry. The kind of cry that makes your chest ache and gets stuck in your throat. I let grief hug my soul and I mourn what is gone.

As quickly as the sadness comes, it’s gone. I take a deep breath and once again choose to accept the sovereignty of God. I remind myself pain has purpose. My pain has a purpose and I will not waste it. You wouldn’t want me to. So I change my lens and remind myself,  even in death you are still helping shape who I am. Five years later I think you would be proud of who I have become. More like you.

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You Are Not the Only One

Earlier this year my daughter became obsessed with learning how to do a cartwheel. She took a cheer class at the Y and enjoyed going every week.  Until one day the teacher took a break to play a game. A cartwheel game. I could hear the sadness in her heart as she explained how everyone in the class started running around the room doing cartwheels and she just stood there.

When we got home, she insisted I teach her how. Her passion was evident. Her pointed toes were not. Her cartwheels were on the struggle bus and the countless bumps and bruises proved it. She rarely landed on her feet and every time she fell, she would cry and say, “I can’t. Everyone else can and I can’t.”

Which we all know is completely untrue. But that’s how she felt on Saturdays at cheer class. It wasn’t about doing a cartwheel. It was about feeling like she was the only one.

Lately, I’ve been fighting those feelings too.

It’s no secret our youngest son has issues. If you’re around him for more than three minutes you’ll notice he’s not “typical”. Because of this, it’s hard to take him places. It’s hard to explain to our other children why Jack sometimes gets treated differently. It’s hard to watch him take three steps forward in speech, but two steps back in behavior.

If I’m not proactive, I start believing the lies.
“Everyone else has normal children and you don’t.”
“Your family will never get to do what other families do.”
“It’s not getting better, it’s getting worse.”

There are days I wish Jack would be like the “other” kids. There are days I feel left out. Like the only girl in cheer class who can’t do a cartwheel.

Maybe your child isn’t delayed. Maybe your cartwheel is perfect. It’s still safe to say you’re hearing lies in at least one area of your life. The enemy of our soul wants to isolate us and make us feel like we are the only one struggling,

My determined little girl practiced every night for three weeks and finally mastered the skill. Now she proudly flips all over the house and is even attempting to teach her little sister.

While I haven’t mastered the skill of overcoming lies, I am getting better. I’m saying the lies out loud and replacing them with truth. In my car, washing dishes, in a conversation with a friend. I’m smashing those suckers like it’s a game of whack-a-mole. Every time I get them out of my head, I feel lighter and stronger.

Try it. You will too.

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Prayers for Jack

Like many teachers at the beginning of the school year, I share pictures of my family with my classes. This year, I did something I’ve never done before. I shared a prayer request. Working in a Christian school affords me this privilege, and praying with my students is easily one of my favorite things. But usually we pray over their needs, not mine.

I shared how my son Jackson only says five words, even though he should be speaking in full sentences. I showed them a picture of his special preschool for children who are delayed. Several students in different classes specifically asked if he said “mama”. When I told them no you could hear the room sink with sadness and their tiny faces looked at me as if they understood my heaviness.

Without fail, every class filled my heart to overflowing. They responded with compassion and encouragement. They asked thoughtful questions and promised to remember “Jack Jack” in their prayers.

They kept their promise. Mothers stopped me in the hallway before and after school to tell me their children are praying for my child at bedtime. Teachers are writing Jack’s name on their prayer request sheet because students are remembering, believing and asking. I am humbled and cannot hold back the tears as I think of all the prayers shooting up to heaving and reaching the ever listening ears of God.

I am also learning. Without even knowing it, my students are teaching me. Their faith is so big. So honest and pure. I asked them to pray and they did. Then they expected an answer. A first grader spoke up immediately after we prayed and said, “He’ll probably start talking so much when you go home tonight.” I smiled and dismissed his comment but as it turns out, that squirrely kid could teach me a thing or two about faith and expectancy.

Tuesday when I picked Jack up from daycare he was standing at the door smiling. His teacher told me he’d been waiting by the door for me, laughing and saying “mommy” over and over and over. He said it again this morning as I helped him get dressed.

New words are coming.
I think a new level of faith is too.

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