Love

Sugar & Spice

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

I think there’s something special about being a grandchild. Talk to most parents and they will tell you that grandma and grandpa are not the same people with their grandchildren as they were with them. As a grandchild, I think we (in some ways) get a clearer picture of our grandparents. Or at least, the people they want to be. We have the luxury of only the secondary effects of their sin and the primary effects of their love. In other words, we get to reap what our parents have sewn.

I lost a beloved grandpa last week and it has brought with it not only a myriad of emotions, but a myriad of observations. I do not grieve in the same way my parent is. And the simplest explanation I can come up with is that though we both experienced the same man, I think I got to experience the man he wanted most to be.

Throughout my childhood, my grandpa owned and operated a bakery. What had started as a commercial bakery supplying local stores and restaurants had turned into a local bakery and deli when I was in elementary school. Because my father worked long hours in a factory and was not readily available to pick up sick children from school or take the many days off for school vacations, I got to spend a lot of time amidst the flour and sugar at Sugar & Spice Bakery and Deli. I distinctly recall being picked up from the nurses office to spend a few afternoons curled up on a sack of flour in the office. Which is not nearly as comfortable as one would think. But I’ll also never forget the warm smells of the bakery and the comfort they still bring.

My grandpa was magic. Little girls could sit, mesmerized, as the men poured sweet waterfalls of sugar into giant bowls with giant paddles and hooks, creating giant batches of all things carbs. And as the machines whirred, and the ovens spun, small girls could sometimes crack dozens of eggs with no grown up (visibly) hovering looking for wayward shells. They could watch, in awe, as grandpa, all in white, with asbestos hands and sweaty face, would reach into the oven with a large wooden paddle attached to a long handle and deftly deliver delicious treats to waiting counters. Then, that same strong grandpa would take tiny little tools, spun between thumb and forefinger and create beautiful, delicate roses right before their eyes. And they would sit and wonder as grandpa laughed and chatted while casually assembling giant white wedding cakes. Finally, when little girls could not stop running and had cracked all the eggs and drawn all the pictures and were done watching the creations of other people, grandpa would pull out his magic book.

Hidden somewhere in the bowels of the bakery, covered in flour and bits of dried dough, was a book that turned little girls into little creators. And in the hands of grandpa, they could turn lumps of cold, wet dough into golden, magical, edible turtles and alligators. Complete with raisin eyes, the girls would bring them home and dad would have to stealthily throw them away once they got moldy. Because the creations were too beautiful for little girls to eat. And eventually, those girls would go on to make their own magical, edible creations for their own families. They would find the smell of baking bread, cookies and cakes to be the smell of love and help their own littles become little creators. Maybe not of bready turtles and alligators though, because they don’t have the magic book.

Grandpa had lots of little girls at home too. He was blessed with an abundance of girl grand babies, who would spend hours riding down carpeted staircases (getting covered in rug burns) in his house and doing their very best to drive grandparents crazy. One of those staircases led to a magic room. What was once an old maid’s quarters with its own steep, dark stairway, led to a private bedroom that must have gotten the best light. Because in it was a magic picture. Grandpa didn’t just create with carbs. It turns out he created with paints too and on an easel in the middle of the room stood a picture little girls didn’t then understand. But one would come to find out it was a picture of the most magical thing grandpa ever showed her.

It was a picture of Jesus, complete with crown of thorns. And when this girl was much older I would realize that grandpa really did know all the magical things. He knew the Creator that helped him create. The magic of a Savior that redeems. The Love that overflows like sugar into spicy little girls.

So, my last observation. What if we remembered everyone like grandkids? What if we chose to see their sin as secondary to us and their love as primary? What if, we remembered them like that while they were still here? Today, please take a moment to reevaluate a relationship and put it in the hands of the Redeemer. Reach out and ask them to break bread together. In memory of a lovely baker.

Jesus then said to them, "Truly, truly, I say to you, it is not Moses who has given you the bread out of heaven, but it is My Father who gives you the true bread out of heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down out of heaven, and gives life to the world."
John 6:32-33
For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.
Hebrews 8:12

NOT an orphan

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

I have spent the last couple of months processing and praying about how to share this with you all. Because it’s an amazing thing. But in order to truly appreciate the provision, you need to fully appreciate the need. And though much of the need was of a financial nature, the emotional need was just as, if not more, important.

A few months ago, I was invited to participate in a podcast with an organization called Hunter’s Hope, to share how God has been, and continues to be, a very present help and Hope in our family’s lives as we navigate Leukodystrophy. Upon completion of those recordings, they invited all of those that participated to a retreat during which we would have opportunity for fellowship and community with those similarly afflicted and walking with Christ. It was a gift the enemy would try to steal. In several ways.

Shortly after recording, I was approached about an opportunity to speak at a local women’s conference on Romans 5:3-5. Considering the timing of the invitation and the subject matter, I was certain this was something the Lord was asking me to do.

So, I was simultaneously proofing the transcript from the podcast, writing for the conference and writing a mini message for the retreat. I should add that none of these things are within my comfort zone. In fact, if I was to make a list of things I dislike, public speaking would take a top slot. I have a great story about a public speaking class in high school that involves hives and a “D”, by the skin of my teeth, that I would love to share with you sometime.

But I was also struggling with audience and subject matter. You see, whenever I share our family’s story with people I start to feel this “separateness”. Even with fellow Christians, I am usually reminded that our life is not “normal”, it just doesn’t look the same. Even with those that love Christ, there are many that will avoid us because they don’t know how to respond or relate to our family. Leukodystrophy often sets us apart. As I prepared, I knew I needed to prepare for these feelings as well. Yet, I am absolutely convinced of the need to share the incredible ways God has loved and provided for us. How we have had the opportunity to know Him, trust Him and love Him more intimately through trial.

Then there was the retreat. I am a homebody. I don’t like travel. I prefer routine and the familiar. So, I was preparing to step out of my box. Because it was a gift. But as I prepared for that retreat, I knew I had to prepare for another kind of “separateness”. Within the world of Leukodystrophy, Hubby and I often struggle with survivor’s guilt. Because our kids have a treatment and have received that treatment in time to positively impact their quality of life. In those circles we are acutely aware that we are the minority and that the quality of our children’s lives has come at the great cost and contribution of so many beautiful children that came before and paved the way for things to speed diagnosis and treatment. And my heart breaks for those families. I grieve with them and wonder why our children were spared, while theirs were not. Survivor’s guilt.

So, there I was feeling stuck in the middle. Acutely aware of our “separateness”. Simultaneously feeling sorry for us and feeling intense gratitude. When Oldest Son borrowed my car….and it blew up. Okay, now you’re likely picturing a fantastic fiery explosion. But it wasn’t that dramatic. It turned out to be the engine that blew up. Which is much less impressive than one would think. It just quit. And sprayed liquid all over the highway. Done. Kaput. Dead. Or, as the sympathetic mechanic explained, “catastrophic failure”.

Now, this would likely be stressful for almost anyone. But, when your credit was completely destroyed by a diagnostic journey and you had saved and saved to buy that vehicle outright…. For it to barely last a year, it’s a little more than stressful. It’s downright frustrating. And when you have absolutely no savings to replace it and no way to borrow money to replace it, it becomes a bit of a crisis.

So now I’m feeling the “separateness” on a whole different level. Because now I’m aware of another way in which I often feel alone. And this is one part I wasn’t sure how to share. So, in order to honor my mother and father, and to love you well and protect your hearts, I will simply say that due to the fall, we don’t have much family to give us a hand. Or a co-sign. Or a down payment. Or maybe just a hug.

This is when I MAY have indulged in a small(ish) self pity party. In my mind’s eye, I always picture Baby Girl at about two years old, laying on the floor of the kitchen at my feet, face down, with her hands covering her eyes. And that was my inner self. Channeling my inner two year old, still sitting at my Father’s feet, but in silent tantrum mode because I didn’t like what was happening. Although, if I’m honest, it wasn’t completely silent. There may have been a little dialogue along the lines of….

I’m doing all the things! I don’t like to speak, but I’m gonna speak. I don’t like to travel, but I’m gonna travel. I’m going to feel all the feels I don’t wanna feel and step out of my box and I’m gonna shine my light and I’m gonna tell of Your goodness, even if it might kill me (okay, there was a little bit of drama) and we could sure use just a LITTLE bit of protection while we do it! A hedge. Even a speed bump for the enemy to slow him down would be helpful. Heck, could You blow up HIS engine instead??

So I took the gift card from a sister in Christ for travel expenses, packed my bags and stepped out in faith. With no plan but His because we had no way to fix it.

And surprise, surprise, He had a plan. And it was SO much better than I could have asked for or imagined.

It started with a borrowed vehicle and the gift of time so we could try to save enough money for a down payment. Hopefully enough of one to qualify for a loan. We hadn’t used credit in seven years, I was inwardly preparing for the best case scenario of a ridiculous interest rate on another “lemon” from a shady dealership. But we’d have a vehicle, and that was the important part.

Then, it really got good.

We were down to one more week with our borrowed wheels and I’d just put on my list to cancel the next couple of weeks of Baby Girl’s occupational therapy before I started dinner. Mini Hubby was climbing walls and getting on stressed nerves so I sent him to take out the garbage and get the mail while I got making chili.

My kitchen is still holy ground.

I’m chopping onions and garlic and singing Shane and Shane’s Psalm 46 (One of my “fight songs” because it reminds me how big my God is) and my heart is softening with sautéing onions and the stress drains off with the juice of diced tomatoes and the door bangs open with an oblivious boot from an oblivious boy and both boy and blur of puppy race by with a stack of mail and a lot of noise and I laugh because…holy ground. While my chili simmers, I open this.

And it all goes quiet. Even the boy and the puppy. And while the chili burns and my ears ring and my eyes and nose fill, the Lord leans down and grabs my face in His hands and tenderly tells me,

“You are NOT an orphan. Stop acting like one.”

And now I’m laughing and crying and the “separateness” is gone because the Love envelopes me and crowds it all out. And I don’t even care that my holy ground smells suspiciously like scorched dinner and I run into Hubby who can’t quite wrap his head around what I’m holding.

Because that kind of outrageous generosity takes awhile to process. And when you know that the generosity came from an outpouring of love for a little girl lost to Leukodystrophy, it gets even more complex.

I spent the next several days “God Crying”. This happens quite a bit in our house. When the kids have caught me at it, I used to have to reassure them that it was a “good cry”. While texting with someone one day auto correct redeemed itself and changed my “good cry” to “God cry” and I realized it was far more accurate. They’re tears of awe, gratitude, joy and love. I think, a form of worship. And if you’ve ever heard me sing, you know it’s a form of worship that is far more beautiful, even if it’s an ugly cry.

Now I’m gonna feel a little like Billy Mays, because, “That’s not all!”. While we were still processing a week later and narrowing down our car search, we got an envelope. With another $1,100. Which brought the total to almost EXACTLY what we paid, with tax, for the lawn ornament with the blown engine. And this generosity came from the other side we sometimes feel “separate” from.

When that car engine blew up, I could not have imagined a scenario in which we would have our needs filled so completely. But even better, in a way that reminded me of my perfect Father’s love and care for me….through people that so thoroughly removed those feelings of separateness. Through our Leukodystrophy family and our church family. So much more than I could have even thought of or imagined, never mind asked for.

Ephesians 3:20

Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us

The lumpy, bumpy road…

/ bobbiblanchard / 4 Comments

This road we’re on sure has a lot of stones in it. The narrow path can be hard to navigate. Trying not to fall to the left or the right is tough when this road less traveled never seems to stay straight. Instead, we’re full steam ahead on a journey that has more twists and turns than the county fair roller coaster. I heard someone say once that if you’re bored as a Christian, you’re not doing it right. If there is any Truth to that, I have to believe we’re really rocking this following Jesus thing.

But the really cool thing I’m finding about maturity is that my reflexes have greatly improved. Usually, at a new bump or bend at break neck speed, I start with crying out. Right away I know to approach the One Whose stamp of approval has been placed on this detour. I occasionally start with the “Why me”, followed by (a little bit whiney), “What is it about me that requires THIS much correction?” Or maybe “What am I NOT learning?” and sometimes, “How long, Lord?”. This is a much quicker stop than it used to be. Because, well, reflexes. Muscle memory? Practice?

Next, I move on to remembering. Because when I’m nervous or scared or just plain tired, I know that I fail to practice some basic safety measures like looking in the rearview mirrors. Looking at where I’ve been reminds me of how I’ve gotten through, and Who is always traveling WITH me. Over every rough patch, through every close call, I can find strength in remembering that those situations seemed precarious at the time too, so surely there is hope yet for this one.

Then I slow down and remember to check those side mirrors and watch my blind spots. Because, in remembering, I’m reminded that this is when the enemy delights in trying to destroy. Destroy my peace, destroy my calm and destroy my deep breathing exercises. A bit of defensive driving here is absolutely crucial. I grab hold of that manual, that map, that Word of God and speak Truth to myself where lies threaten to sneak up on me.

This last couple of weeks I had some difficulty navigating. We hit a few bumps. The A/C went out in my van. Which isn’t such a big deal unless you have a kiddo that doesn’t regulate their body temperature well. Then, there’s the water heater that suddenly quits. And in the midst of a cold shower, another bump. Or rather, a lump.

In my breast.

And if any of you have experienced this kind of bump in your road, you may know the kind of road I traveled this week. It took a twist at the ultrasound, after the mammogram, when the radiologist ordered the core needle biopsy. Though I’d been in regular prayer over all our bumps lately, I will admit that the big medical words like radial scar and inter ductal carcinoma had me doing more of what would be considered, praying continuously.

I prayed continuously as they prepped for biopsy. I prayed continuously when that room looked more like a crime scene than an exam room. I prayed continuously that I would not lose my lunch, that I would remain conscious, and that they would finish soon. And as it was all over, I prayed for wisdom for the staff that would interpret the results.

Curled up with a couple of ice packs that evening I was still praying. My busy mind in direct contrast to the stillness of my living room, I made a familiar stop at “Why me”. Because I was feeling a bit…. afflicted.

Why us? Why finances? Why always medical problems? Why SO HARD? Why can’t we have “those” problems instead? You know, the ones those other people have? How much longer, Lord? And this whole pity party collided with gratitude for a Father that tolerates the questions of His struggling children.

So I finished my devotional. I finished my daily reading and I prayed for the ability to hand it all over to Him. For a peace that surpasses circumstances. Because I knew He could provide it, I turned off all the lights and crawled into bed.

When Psalm 41 flashed insistent through my head.

I don’t know Psalm 41. Is that in the first book, or the second? I’ll look tomorrow.

I tossed, turned, fluffed and got back up to take some more Motrin. Then tried again.

Lord, I know You already know those biopsy results and You’re already ahead of our every need. Please help me remember that and rest in You.

Psalm 41

1, 2 & 3…

That seemed rather specific so I picked up my phone and looked it up quickly on Blue Letter Bible.

Psalm 41
Blessed are those who have regard for the weak;
the Lord delivers them in times of trouble.
2 The Lord protects and preserves them—
they are counted among the blessed in the land—
he does not give them over to the desire of their foes.
3 The Lord sustains them on their sickbed
and restores them from their bed of illness.

Giggling and crying, because that’s how I roll when the Creator of the universe lowers Himself to not only hear my prayer, but whispers comfort in illuminated text. I shut my phone off and went to bed. And slept.

The air conditioning is still broken, the water heater still needs to be replaced and biopsy confirmed what’s called a radial scar. Benign, it should require no treatment, but will at least need to be removed.

But I have it on good authority that we are being protected and preserved and we will be delivered in our times of trouble. Not to mention being sustained and restored. I’m feeling far more peace about the road we’re on.

Sometimes I’m wrong…

/ bobbiblanchard / 1 Comment

Have I ever told you I never planned to be a Stay-At-Home mom? It wasn’t what I thought my family would need. I thought my future family would need things like reliable vehicles, family vacations and savings accounts. It turns out my family would need a mom that could devote hours a week to paperwork, phone calls and appointments for a couple of medically complex kids so they could get a diagnosis in one year, instead of the average fifteen. They would need a mom that could stay home and research, fight for answers and fight insurance companies until she got them. Thank God, He knew I was wrong about the career and making money thing.

I was wrong again when we finally got our first diagnosis and I decided to bring Baby Girl shopping for school clothes. At Justice. We don’t normally shop at places like Justice. Because shopping at Justice falls into the same financial category as family vacations. If you don’t have a tween daughter, just take my word for it. But somewhere in my sleep deprived, grieving mind, spending a ludicrous amount of money on Baby Girl seemed like… justice.

So we walked in the door and I said the craziest thing, “What do you like, Baby Girl?”. Two hours later I had agreed to a pile of clothes that not only exceeded our clothing budget (for the year) but also some hard and fast rules I had on 8 year old modesty.

Then there were “the shoes”. Because of Baby Girl’s deteriorating coordination, footwear had been limited to Velcro laces and flat, functional shoes. She did not find flat, functional shoes at Justice. She brought me a pair of the most ridiculous, sequined, flashy, silver platform sneakers… with tie laces.

And I took one look at her hopeful little face, thought of what that doctor had said two weeks before about her being in a wheelchair within ten years… and placed the shoes on the growing “keep” pile. Three years later, we do not believe that first diagnosis is what God has for Baby Girl. And I’m absolutely sure that she didn’t need “the shoes”.

I was recently wrong again. I know, I’m as shocked as you are. I was sure once the kids were all in school, I would be able to go back to working outside the home. We would have things like savings accounts and there would be vehicles we could at least afford to fix. And bless sweet Hubby’s heart and broad shoulders, maybe he wouldn’t have to keep taking all that overtime…

Oh, I knew I wasn’t going back to a career in IT with long hours and longer commutes, but when Mini Hubby started kindergarten this year I was pretty sure a job in the school where Oldest Son was starting High School would be a perfect fit. It almost was.

These last several months my heart grew for kids in tough situations, with big obstacles and even bigger attitudes to overcome. I learned how to better support Oldest Son socially and in academics. And because I had the opportunity to see what he sees of the world on a daily basis (trust me, their world is far bigger, scarier and less restricted than ours was) I know what kind of conversations we need to be having regularly. I also had the chance to work among adults again. I won’t lie, it is far more entertaining than working with myself. I found a whole bunch of new people to love.

There was also puke.

So.

Much.

Puke.

Strep throat.

A few times.

The loss of my mother-in-law.

A surgery for tonsils and adenoids.

Some problems with some crucial labs for Oldest Son and Baby Girl, and finally….

The realization that God was sending me home, again.

Usually when I’m wrong, it feels a lot like… failure.  I’ve made the wrong choice, my plan didn’t work. It can feel like I’m giving up, letting go or making emotional decisions (“the shoes”). Because I can’t see the full picture. My vantage point is far more limited than God’s. But, in hindsight, it is a joy to see how He purposes my missteps. Redeems them all and uses them for my good and His glory.

Right now though? I still can’t see what He’s doing. And that’s hard. So I’m holding tight to a few of these Truths.

And maybe this song. 😉

What Do You Have To Lose?

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

I just found out I lost another former classmate to suicide. Yes, I said it. Suicide. Because if we truly want to be there for them, we need to be willing to “go there” for them…to the uncomfortably dark places they’re in.

My heart has been breaking a bit today. Not just for the loved ones that are left behind (I’m so sorry) but also for the despair experienced by the one they lost. Because I’m acquainted with the kind of pain that makes you resent a sunrise, loathe your next breath, I can’t help but wonder if they knew the only One that can meet you in despair, and pull you through. Yes, this is where I’m going to talk about Jesus. The only topic more taboo, I think, than suicide.

Every grieving loved one left in the aftermath of suicide knows, you can’t be with them every moment.

I’ll say it again, because if you’re grieving their loss, you’ll be doubting and agonizing over that statement.

You couldn’t be there. You couldn’t have know exactly when that moment of hopelessness would come. We don’t have that kind of control, though we wish we did.

So for those currently in despair…this is your HOPE.

Jesus can save you here just as He does for eternity. I know, because in despair is where I experienced the LIVING God, as close as that next dreaded breath.

Just as any of your loved ones would tell you, you are absolutely welcome to call me, text me, reach out to me, and I will love you as best as I know how. But unlike some others, I’ll tell you honestly that I’m also very aware I’m not enough. At some point I know you will be alone when that despair crawls in and settles so heavy on you that you can’t breathe, a darkness so pervasive, you can’t see clearly the painful destruction you’ll leave behind. When all you can see and feel is agonizing pain.

So, I implore you. Set aside whether you recognize your need for a Savior. Set aside your belief of the existence of heaven and hell. Set aside any past hurts from religion or the church. You need not even share your weakness with anyone else!! But, please, give Him a try. In the privacy of your own home, PRAY. As if your life depends upon it. Because. It. Does. Ask, seek, knock. Storm the gates of heaven with your cries for help. Grab hold of His robe and DO NOT let go until He reveals His face to you. He will not disappoint. You will not regret it. What have you got to lose if I’m wrong?

And what have you to gain if I’m not? Relief? True joy? The assurance that you’re NEVER alone? Fully and truly loved?

Twice Saved

/ bobbiblanchard / 12 Comments

I met her twenty years ago, before either of us had met Jesus. Back then she sat in her recliner opposite the matching one her husband occupied, wearing what I would come to recognize as her typical uniform of worn out flannel and faded sweatpants. Hair cropped short and not a stitch of artificial color on it, or her face, she sported twenty year old glasses and a deep, rough, smokers laugh as she told stories of hunting and “mudding” and cleaning fish with her bare teeth. Okay, I made up the last part about her teeth, but she definitely cleaned her own fish, along with anyone else’s. She was “butch” before being butch was cool. She fascinated and scared me in equal measures…and I was dating her son.

Over the next several years, we’d shop together, eat together, smoke together and laugh together. Turned out she wasn’t as scary as she seemed and neither was her son. I married him and gained her.

She liked to tease that she liked me better than him and that there were no refunds, he was mine for good. But she’d prove over and over again that she loved us both the same. She called me her daughter, and he was still her son. She’ll always be my Mom.

We built our home, and our family, right next door to this lady with the men’s size 10 feet. And those feet would regularly make the trek between the houses for awhile. Three grandkids would soften and delight that rough around the edges lady in ways I hadn’t seen coming. They’d light up her face and dull her colorful vocabulary.

Until those work damaged arms screamed loud for pain meds. And the doctors gave them.

And then gave more.

Until that hard working, hard loving, hard living Mom stayed put in that worn out recliner for years. Barely recognizable, she stopped working, stopped loving and stopped living. Sometimes only awake for a few hours a day.

We thought we lost her for good then. That generous lady that sent diaper coupons to distant nieces and nephews starting their own families, dozens of bottles of baby soap and lotion to the ones that were close, paper plates and napkins for every family get together and cards to everyone for every occasion.

Then, just when we were grieving our own personal tragedy…she met Jesus.

Now, when a person taking enough oxycontin to bring down a horse tells you they’ve been talking to Jesus, you don’t take them too serious like. You start believing that this is about to be another personal tragedy. And you start crying out to your own personal Jesus (the One that tends to speak to you through His Word, in your prayer closet, not in the flesh) for some relief.

That’s when it happened. It turned out her Jesus and our Jesus were the same and He told her to dump out her pain medication, that she didn’t need it anymore. So she did.

Because Jesus can reach you even in a drug induced fog and when He tells you to do something….you do it.

Twenty years of narcotic use fell away like as many chains, gone as quickly as those pills skittered and slid to the bottom of the garbage can. And those doctors that gave them to her? Kept her for three days to witness a miracle by the Great Physician. No withdrawal, no pain. Until they finally said they had no reason to keep her and no medical explanation for what just took place.

Her miracle wasn’t without some consequences though. Twenty years of increased doses did some damage to both brain and body but for the next two years she learned to live and love hard again and we enjoyed every minute of learning to live with, and love her, back.

She played BINGO, returned to competitive shooting, watched middle school orchestra concerts and elementary school programs. She went to movies, the town fair (complete with kiddie rides), filled grandkids full of junk food and ice cream, and even learned how to use a debit card. She laughed, and played, and even though she might not have had the capacity to read and study the Bible, I absolutely believe she knew and trusted Jesus as her Lord and Savior.

In fact, she’d tell you He saved her twice.

Today, my greedy, selfish, heart is a little disappointed it doesn’t appear that He’s going to save her a third.

I’m grieving the pending loss of our Mom and Grammy from this world while trying to remember to be grateful for the gift she was. Trying to thank Him for giving her back to us once, long enough to soak up her silly personality and sweet generosity at a time we desperately needed both.

Praising a loving Savior powerful enough to save us from both the grave, and the chains that bind us here.

Rejoicing in the knowledge that no matter what, we will meet again, in heaven.

Hand In Hand

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

Twenty years ago our paths intersected somewhere the other side of Early Adulthood and there was something attractive in the easy, confident, way you walked. Even if I left a safe, observable distance between us for a bit. Eventually though, your persistence closed the gap and we stepped out together hand in hand for the first time. Hearts and fingers tentatively entwined and overlapping. Questioning, sideways glances through lowered lashes revealed a contrast of broad, safe shoulders, thick, strong forearms, but genuine, kind blue eyes and gentle smile. Always smiling. How does a girl resist a combination like that? A girl whose road up until that point had been a little dangerous and lonely?

We continued into a new territory, Together, me and you. Though I’ll admit my focus was most often on you, I was quite amazed at all the new things I could see. With you beside me. Shadows weren’t so long or menacing and you taught me to jump over puddles and sidestep hazards, smiling all the way. Before I knew it, I had almost stopped looking back over my shoulder and was learning to live facing forward.

This next leg of our journey, though, brought us into Commitment and required a quick jump over a broom. Youth shiny new and dressed in finery we glowed and holding hands, made the leap and the promise to stay the course together, forever.

Then, holding our forever hands with new joy and confidence we continued on. The whole world seemed to open up, spacious, in front of us. Oh, how beautiful those days were! The way the sun shone on Possibility in the distance and all sorts of lovely trails appeared as we checked the map. We spent hours wandering along the way, discussing and deciding which one to choose. There were a couple of rough patches (much easier to navigate together) in the beginning then, but nothing that slowed our progress.

Feeling like we could conquer, together, any path we chose, we went for what appeared the most challenging. We took a deep breath and passed the sign welcoming us to Parenthood. Things sure speed up a lot then. Sometimes I wondered why there wasn’t a better description on the map, or more warning signs at the entrance, for it sometimes felt like we’d picked the diamond run as amateurs. But for the most part, we navigated all of the obstacles “Dirty Diaper Ditch”, “Pacifier Pass”, “Sleepless Slide” and several “Trust Falls” together. The going was tough, but the rewards were great and we emerged on the other end with three precious people we’d been entrusted with for the rest of our journey. They’re loud, expensive and exhausting but we found they definitely make the trip more beautiful.

Checking our map again, we realized our choice to visit Parenthood limited our next steps briefly and the terrain looked slightly more winding and definitely slower going (as we’d come out with more baggage than we’d thought). Given our three extra hands to hold, we decided to stay awhile next to Family Forge and focused on raising up and providing for our pack of five. We settled in and made plans for “after”. For when they finished school, chose paths of their own and found someone to travel with. We worked, saved, spent, planned and enjoyed the time and things we amassed here.

Looking out across the hills one day we watched storms gather menacing in the distance. We’d been relatively protected from extreme conditions in that forge but as soon as I saw that horizon turn purple, the little hairs on my arms stood up and I glanced at you scared, waiting.

Giving my hand a quick squeeze, you didn’t smile, but turned away and set to work. This time though, the broad shoulders and work rough hands were no match for the approaching storm. We sold what we could, searched high and low for shelter, to no avail. As the forge flooded and filled we held on to each other for dear life and even though we still had each other, we were tossed so violently to and fro we could barely keep our heads above water. Terrified, my foot brushed up soft against an Anchor. I’d picked it up a few years before, had moved it into our home and had been studying it when time allowed as it seemed to lend a constant, quiet comfort. That moment though, it seemed to come alive and hold me fast. The storm didn’t cease it’s battering, but held firm by the Anchor I was able to once again grab your hand and those of the children.

The waters receded, we caught our breath, but we’d be forever changed. You kept on moving, working, fixing, taking on anything you could to restore what we’d had, to forget about the change of the landscape as if by sheer force of will you could move the mountains that had shifted directly onto our path. We often held hands in the quiet, without words. You with the weight of us on your shoulders and me with my gaze on those mountains. Exhausted, we had no idea what to do or which way to go next. Gone seemed our confidence and definitely our joy.

But during the clean up. Sifting through the debris, I kept resting on the Anchor. The workload for the days seemed unchanged, the mountains remained immovable, the horizon still tinged grey, but there was always the promises of the Anchor to hold me fast. In those promises I found the joy I thought carried away. And it remained, regardless of circumstances.

I’ll never forget the day you tripped on that Anchor. The way you wrestled with it for days.

You didn’t need the Anchor.

It was enough that it was in our house…right?

But that load you were carrying left you too worn out to fight it for any longer. Led to the Word to study the Anchor of our souls, the Creator of our mountains immovable and the love of our Savior, you invited Him in. Into your heart, into our home and into our marriage.

We’re working our way now, hand in hand, following Christ, around our mountains. Sometimes hand in hand is through tears. Sometimes it’s through laughter. But still together. Always thankful. Because now we both know our final destination (even if we don’t know what will happen in between), that we’re never alone, and our God is bigger than any mountain we come up against.

A couple weeks ago you insisted we jump over that broom hand in hand again. Renewing former promises and making a few more that are meant to last the rest of our journey together and acknowledging the source of the love that has, and will continue, to sustain us along the way.

Blessed to make this journey hand in hand, with you, Hubby.

The Other Mothers

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This mother’s day is a bit different than the past four. In a good way. Or a mostly good way. It started a few days ago when Oldest Son and Baby Girl had their latest appointment in neurology.

Neurology hasn’t been my favorite. This place of MRI’s, EEG’s, spinal taps, bloodwork and few answers but more questions makes my heart race nervous in the parking ramp. That day though, kids touched noses, hopped on one foot and images stayed the SAME. This momma breathed deep, exhaled grateful and smiled to her eyes for holding steady. Steady hands, steady legs and steady labs. This momma stayed up late overflowing grateful. And guilty. Heart rejoicing and heart weeping. Oh, she sang praises on the floor of her closet, wrapped warm in undeserved grace. Then prayed hard for the other mothers.

All of this mothering is hard. SO hard. But there is some mothering that hurts more than others.

The kind of mothering that happens when you lose a child to mother. I saw that this week. Prayed for that momma and hurt for that momma as she stood in front of a school she no longer had a child at. What does one do when you have a lifetime of love for that child and the lifetime is far too short?

The kind of mothering that happens when a child goes their own dangerous way. Prayed for one of those beautiful mommas this week too as she watches and prays and waits. Waits for that child’s saving, fully aware that she can’t be the one to do it.

The kind of mothering that happens when one does all the things to be a mother, but hasn’t been given the gift of the child. I prayed for one of these precious ladies too. For she has helped mother my own babies. Will continue to pray that she understands the beauty of mothering whatever children God gives you, no matter what that looks like.

And finally, the kind of mothering that happens with a special needs child. These other mothers weighed heavy on my heart this week. Because not all of them get to hear good, steady, news.

These other mothers stare fiercely brave into the hardest things. Things they won’t tell you. But I will. So you can pray for them too.

Their sleepless nights last far longer than those infant years. These warrior mothers navigate hospital halls, insurance denials, government paperwork and medical equipment. Always advocating, always fighting. They have grieved a diagnosis, mourned a prognosis. And if it’s a degenerative condition, they’ll grieve the loss of each ability, one by one, over and over again. And at the end of their hard days, their want to give up days, they might break a little knowing the only break they’ll get is when their heart breaks.

Or, they don’t have a diagnosis at all. Oh, I’m hurting for these other mothers too this week. You see, our diagnosis is CTX. And after years of research, I know about all the mommas before me that knew something was wrong. That did all the things to find the answers. And lost their babies before they found out what they were. I also know that there are likely hundreds of mommas out there right now, praying for this diagnosis and might not get it in time.

You see, I know I’m the momma that’s had a few hard years. But I’m also the one that gets the diagnosis, the treatment, the good doctors and the steady news.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m rejoicing and grateful for good news. And I’m praying for all the other mothers. That they know The Good News. That they find their rest in the only One who can give it to them. And that they know that there are mommas praying for the comfort and strength they need to persevere.

Multiplied

/ bobbiblanchard / 2 Comments

basket-bread-rolls-fish-750x330.jpgI unloaded the kids’ school paraphernalia out of the back of the van to make room for the two black construction size bags filled with clothes that needed to be dropped off at our local clothing center. I was already fighting a panic attack before I’d even left the driveway.

Before you ask, no, I don’t always panic at the thought of being separated from the clothes I’ve dug out of the bowels of my children’s closets. Nope, you see, the donation was a well timed front for my true destination. Which was giving me all the early symptoms of a panic attack.

I pulled into the parking lot at dusk, wishing it was just a bit darker. Shutting off the van I took a deep breath and opened the driver’s side door, right next to a sweet girl I went to high school with. Because that’s what happens when you don’t want to be seen in a small town. All one has to do is not shower, have a bad hair day, or forget to put deodorant on, and you’re guaranteed to run into someone you haven’t seen in awhile. Every. Time.

Except this time I was showered, my hair was presentable and though I was sweating, I was still okay in the odor department. This time, I had something bigger to hide than poor hygiene. No worries! I have my two bags of donations, they’ll never know what I’m up to. It’ll be fine! Until she kindly offers the services of her husband to carry said bags for me. Still okay! I will just drop the bags and they’ll be on their way. As we walked through the parking lot catching up a bit she tells me they’re headed into the building too, for a community education dance class for the adorable toddler holding her hand. My nervous brain finally processes the pink leotard and leg warmers. My too bright smile masking the new panic as I realize they’re headed in the same direction I am.

I drop off the bags, say my goodbyes, and head back to the safety of my van. That’s it. I’m not doing it. I even start the van again before I realize I don’t have a choice. The refrigerator is as empty as our bank account and pay day isn’t for three more days. This is when I start to think I’m suffocating. That someone has snuck up and sucked all the air out of my van and caused this crazy fear to grip my throat. I jump back out of the van, sucking in deep breaths of air. You know the kind. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I stuff all that fear back down to wreak havoc on my stomach instead and jog to the entrance of the food shelf before I can change my mind… again.

That’s right. My super secret, anxiety provoking mission is this tiny little grocery store replica tucked into our community center. I step quickly inside and take a seat with my back to the front door. I fill out the required paperwork and wait for my number to be called. The worst part seems to be over, as far as anxiety goes, but now I’m battling a new fun thing. Shame. I can’t even meet the eyes of the sweet ladies helping me. What I really want to do is curl up and cry. Then, I want to explain why I’m here. Then I start a running dialog with God on why I’m there.

How did this happen?

I did all the right things!

(Whine. Whine. More whining.)

Just as the tears start to win, a lady from the desk comes and stands next to me. It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s saying. And when I do, I’m a little confused. She’s asking about my purse. I think she likes it? I struggle for a minute to remember that I had inherited it from my mother’s closet. I told her I’d considered it a step up from the diaper bag I’d been carrying for what seemed the last 12 years. She laughed. I laughed. And I finally looked into her eyes. Where there was no condemnation, no pity, just kindness. Once she had my attention she started showing me the “ropes”. That it’s just like grocery shopping, only there’s limits listed on the signs. When you’re done, you bring your shopping cart to be weighed to “check out”. And then there’s a very sweet gentleman that will help you carry your things to the car, or you can pull up if there’s room.

As we’re loading my bags, in full cover of darkness now, I still take a few glances around hoping I haven’t been spotted. I thank the volunteer for his help and make a quick exit.

It occurs to me on the drive home that there is something probably wrong with my reaction. That though we’d routinely supported the local food shelf in the past ourselves, I had quite obviously had a few misconceptions not only about the “kind of people” that used it, but the way it was run. As the days and weeks passed, I became more and more convicted of my pride and self righteousness.

As the months wore on it became more and more clear that my faithful, thorough, relentless and loving God was totally committed to purging me of some of these blemishes of my character. Trust me, by the time we’d sold anything with value, come perilously close to losing our house, borrowed from our parents to get our daughter to the latest specialist and still had to dig through the change in the van to pay for the hospital parking fees… all semblance of pride in our circumstances had pretty much evaporated. Everything I have is a gift.

Now, this has been a couple of years ago now and God is continually chipping away at some of these ugly parts of me (which can be depressing) but sometimes I have to look back to see how far He’s brought me.

This week I was reminded of this day when I was feeling enormous guilt. Why? Because we bought new appliances. Like, brand new and delivered. There was a time I wouldn’t have truly appreciated them. A time I would have been the most excited about the way they looked and telling everyone about them (And now, as I’m typing, I realize I’m telling everyone about them. 😅 But in a totally grateful, praise be to God for His provision kind of way, right?).

I wouldn’t have blinked an eye at the invoice or agonized over what this money could do for someone else; where it might be better spent. I wouldn’t have thought long and hard on if I truly NEEDED them or not. I certainly wouldn’t have waited until only one burner on the stove worked and the dishwasher was continuously leaking before trying to replace them. And that crack in the sink? That wouldn’t have lasted a week, never mind three years!

Now, I’m not saying I don’t still roll in the mud of pride and self righteousness. That I don’t still care far too much about how my life “looks”. That I don’t regularly hourly need to be washed clean by the blood of Christ. But, every once in awhile I’m reminded that I’m a work in progress. The key word there being… progress!! I may not be who I want to be, but I’m not who I once was! Praise God!!

ef671dea865e9b7c31e033f5d1df6a7b.jpgIn celebration of the gift of another year of sanctification, 😉 I’m asking anyone that might be considering a card or gift for me to instead support our local food shelf. They were not only there when we needed them, but they showed more kindness than I’d imagined. Let’s help Five Loaves continue to multiply.

5 Loaves Food and Clothing