Archives for February 2017

Tuesday, Tuesday

02.23.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Originally from July 5, 2016

It’s the Tuesday after the 4th of July. Tuesday, Tuesday. My fingers itch to write but my brain is foggy, drawing blanks and truly just recovering from a busy night before.

Yesterday began as the worst 4th of July ever.

Not really. No one got hurt, we were fine.

At times, many time, most times, introverted me craves being alone, nestled in with this family of mine, protected from the outside world. I long for quiet and slowness. But then I get it and I’m antsy. Deep in my bones I needed to be out there celebrating with people. It was a national holiday, after all. I needed people. Real people. Images of people attending 4th of July parades via Instagram wasn’t cutting it. The 4th is for family, and if not family, friends, better yet both.

How I longed to be surrounded by family and friends at a BBQ or picnic with checked picnic tablecloths in black or red and watermelon, lots of watermelon. I don’t like watermelon, but I should because yesterday was the 4th of July. Watermelon is the fruit of the 4th and the entire summer. It’s what you eat.

I finally went to my parents’ house with the kids to drop off cookies. They had plans later on. Emily and Greg baked Icebox Pinwheel Cookies for the cousins arriving tomorrow from Tennessee. We stopped at Fred Meyer.

Then home again, where we watched a movie and ate BBQ hotdogs and hamburgers served without black or red checked tablecloths. We watched Harry and the Hendersons, the five of us piled on the rust colored couch with Chloe moving from lap to lap, trying to find the coziest spot amongst us. It was a stupid movie, but one I enjoyed as a child. Like all things ridiculous, it was made funny through the eyes of three children.

We were about to watch a second family movie, after all, it was too early and light for fireworks, when Steven asked if we could play baseball. I don’t like sports, but something inside of me wanted, needed, to get out, move my body, laugh and play.

The five of us, and the dog of course, ended up in the backyard and having the best time, being alive, moving our bodies, laughing into the night. It wasn’t perfect. Lauren spit on Steven. Steven lost his temper. No one wanted poor Emily to pitch. I accidently hit Steven in eye with a (rather soft) ball. But we were a family, together, an imperfect family, playing baseball together on the 4th of July.

Another Snowy Day

02.23.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Originally from early February, 2017

Today is another snow day for our district. At this rate the last day of school will be near the end of June. I am not complaining. How we needed another day to get our hygge on! This body of mine is still fighting a cold and nothing is more appealing than another day set aside for the one and only purpose of being lazy, to relish the rare gift of time to heal my body and soul.

There’s not a lot of snow at this point. But it’s freezing and the ground is wet. The Twedtlings refuse to play outside for very long. I hardly blame them. There’s not a lot of snow going on but roads are treacherous, so I’ve heard. I haven’t driven anywhere or even left the house since Sunday. Greg hasn’t had a problem getting to work. Then again, his car is a snow champ. Mine, not so much. Home I shall stay. Normally cabin fever would rear it’s ugly face by now, but I am loving this. Bring on the snow days!

I wrote a post yesterday. It was intense, even by Nicole standards. Just writing about what happened, the practice of putting words to feelings, is a tremendous thing. It feels ugly at the time, putting myself out there. Even if it’s not out there-out there, since I have yet to introduce my blog to the wide open and scary spaces of the internet. By the way, the post I wrote, it will never see the light of day because it isn’t entirely my story to tell. I had to get it out in order to process this wild thing called grief. But it involves someone else and their lack of processing, or processing the only way they knew to do it. Hurt people hurt people, and that’s about all I should say.

I can say this: I’m starting to wonder if there’s more to do with the havoc in my present life than what happened twenty-plus years ago. I grieve more than death. I’m very much struggling with the trauma of Steven’s birth defect and vision impairments, and I’m deeply scarred by Lauren’s hearing journey. It’s an alternative form of grief, but grief all the same. And I’m feeling guilty for being heartbroken in the first place since God has done amazing things in both of their stories. Add to it, I’ve never had the luxury of time to process the latest bits of my own hearing loss story. I’ll have to go there eventually.

I’ve pondered the idea of being brave over the last few years. Maybe being brave right now means declaring out loud that I don’t have my act together. I was never supposed to have it all together. My shoulders aren’t wide enough or strong enough to carry past hurts or the wounds of the world. But they don’t have to be. I’m reminded of Jesus and how he calls me to come to him, leaving the heavy burdens of life at his feet.

It’s humbling to admit that I’m deeply broken. I don’t like saying that I’m really just clawing towards the light, scratching to grasp onto what I know is true. I know where I’m headed, I’ll get there in time, but the process, oh the process.

I recently bought a print to hang next to my bed. It’s one of those Bible verses with fancy pants lettering that are everywhere these days. It’s part of Ecclesiastes 3:11, “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” I’m counting on this promise. Only the designer wrote it’s instead of its and the English major snob in me can’t get over it. And when I finally did get over it and had the print framed and ready to go, I noticed the verse’s address was printed as Ecclesiastes 33:11 instead of 3:11. I’m no Bible scholar but I can’t get over that one. It won’t do. Not that anyone beyond Greg and me would see it. But I see it, and it was supposed hang next to my side of the bed.

I placed a second print underneath the bogus Ecclesiastes one, before I knew it was bogus. They were all part of a close-out sale. It’s a Christmas print with lyrics from O Holy Night. The plan was to switch it out with Ecclesiastes and hang it in the living room during Advent.

A thrill of hope

A weary world rejoices

This one is going up. On the wall next to our bed. White chalk lettering on a blackboard, without the dust thank you very much. The print suites our bedroom well. After all, I was a teacher in a former life. Added bonus, I fall asleep on my back but wake facing that side of the room. Hope. Rejoice. The first words I will see in the morning.

I am weary. But I’m holding onto hope. I will rejoice.

Suffering and Sudafed

02.23.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Originally from February 10, 2017

The Sudafed lost it’s magic. I’m having trouble catching my breath. When is this cold going to end? At least it’s not the stomach flu. This illness is unpleasant but I’ll take it any day over vomiting over the toilet or into the family barf bucket. It could definitely be worse.

I’m thinking of suffering this morning. Not me and this cold, but suffering in general. Maybe it’s being sick or maybe it’s the ADHD, but it’s really remarkable how quickly my pondering moves from Sudafed to being glad that I’m not throwing up to thoughts of suffering, redemption and healing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. Aren’t I a ray of sunshine this morning? I’ve been so focused on wanting to be healed, and I still do, so bad I can taste it, but I’m also thinking of everything else that happens when we suffer. How these experiences (dad’s suffering and death, my hearing loss, Steven’s vision impairments and Lauren’s hearing issues), are worth it a thousand times over, as painful as they are, if something better than the healing is coming out of it all. It’s hard to imagine something better than healing but I know my God well, and he has a remarkable way of taking care of his children and blessing them when the world would say otherwise. He has an amazing ability to take what the enemy earmarked for destruction and instead use it to draw his children closer to him, his glory on display for all to see. I was thinking of Jesus on the cross. How he had to die. If his life was spared, Jesus’ power would have been displayed in his release from the cross but his divine power over death wouldn’t have happened. It’s all so confusing, wonderful, glorious, heart-breaking and beautiful. Such is suffering.

Still, I really don’t like suffering. If I’m honest, I just want the healing.

And I’m thinking of the times he does heal. Or the times when nothing short of a miracle has occurred. I’m thinking of a very specific situation last year involving an extended family member. The story is not mine to share. All you need to know is that it wasn’t looking good. The situation was so full of evil. There was no possible way for it to end well. Yet in the final hour, God showed up in all of his glory and really showed off, making the impossible possible. It’s overwhelming to comprehend how he swept in and made a way where there was none. I still can’t believe what he did for my family member.

That’s all the thoughts I have for today. Time to lay down again, or at least read this month’s book for book club. In a few hours I will drive to school and pick up Steven, take him to Bellevue for an appointment with his pediatric optometrist. I’m nervous. I’m praying for good news. We’ve had such good news but also such bad news at these types of appointments. It’s enough to keep a mama’s emotions out of whack.