Nicole K. Twedt

Being Brave When Life Is Hard

Archives for April 2017

Friday Share Day, April 28, 2017

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This afternoon a black bear ran through my yard while my five-year-old and our little dog were outside.  The Tiniest Tiny took it upon herself to herd Chloe into the house before screaming “Bear!” from the back porch.  Thank you Suburban Sprawl.

I will write more about Petunia (or Pablo), our neighborhood mascot, another time.  For now, I thought it would be fun to share posts by fellow Hope*Writers every Friday.  Well, that’s a joke.   What I mean to say is that if it strikes my fancy, I will share links.  And it may or may not happen on a Friday.  I find it boring to commit to the same plan every.single.week when it comes to this Ol’ Gal (my blog).  I’m a strong “J” in all things Meyers-Briggs, except when it comes to writing.  It’s the one area in my life where I have complete freedom to throw out the rules.  Enjoy the links today.  It may or may not happen again.

Kaitlyn Bouchillon wrote about clinging to hope in Even Still, I Will Praise and When You Need To Know the Story Isn’t Over.

I loved the pictures of the white kitchen from The Nester’s post about her dad’s newly renovated home.  Swoon.

Jill McCormick shared the story of how her oldest daughter wanted to start a pet-sitting business.  Stay with me.  Jill’s essay is more about learning how to do what God asked us to do, even if it means disappointing others.  I need to work on this area.  Big time.

Megan Lynch wrote about why she based an entire book of poetry off of a rainbow in Why A Rainbow?  It reminds me of my story of our family’s Christmas Angel .

Jessica Erhardt Herberger at Celebrate JOY Everyday wrote about seasons of joy and grief, and how it is an AND thing not an OR thing.  I could have used Jessica’s words back in February when I wrote the essay Thirty-Eight Minus Twenty.

I might add to this list of links later.  For now, I’m off to the high school for Emily’s volleyball game.  Have a wonderful weekend!  And if you live in my neck of the woods, keep your little ones and animals inside.

N.

Sing Over Me

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I’m going to plagiarize myself in this mini-essay.  It’s partly from a Christmas letter I wrote back when I was pregnant with Steven.  I’m dusting it off  since I’m supposed to deliver a Mentor Moment tomorrow morning at MOPS and I’ve got nothing.   

The theme for today’s MOPS meeting is good sleepers.  It would’ve been really cool if I had my act together and had a mentor moment to go along with it.  I’ve got nothing.

But my ADHD mind specializes in making random connections.  The subject of sleeping babies reminds me of lullabies, which reminds me of the CD mom gave us when Emily was little.  It was called Sing Over Me by Bethany Dillon.  I loved the CD but the title track rubbed me wrong; it’s from Zephaniah 3:17.  “For the LORD your God is living among you.  He is a mighty savior.  He will take delight in you with gladness.  With his love, he will calm all your fears.  He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.”   It’s a great verse, really it is, but the bit at the end bothered me.  I thought we were the ones who were supposed to rejoice in him, not the other way around.  And what does it even mean to sing over someone?  It’s kinda weird, don’t you think?

Someone smarter would’ve just googled it.  But I had a very busy toddler, and I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.   The Zephaniah verse troubled me, but it was more of a fleeting thought.  The verse would rise to my mind as I was driving around the silvery lake to the grocery store or while I lathered shampoo or conditioner into my hair in the steaming shower, which is where I do all my best thinking.  I’d ask God about the Zephaniah verse.  I wouldn’t get an answer.  I’d then forget about it.  Wash, rinse, repeat.

I was pregnant with baby number two around this time, and I was seriously freaked out.  My pregnancy was marked by fear because a dear friend had just lost her baby boy a month before her due date.  I had this irrational fear that something was seriously wrong with my unborn child.  Or everything would turn out fine with the baby but I would be hit again with postpartum depression.

One afternoon I was lying on the couch, feeling guilty because I was too nauseous to even pick up my Bible.  But in that moment on the couch the Zephaniah verse, the one that never made sense, fell from my head and landed firmly into my heart.  He spoke to my heart through a picture of me rocking Emily as I sang her a lullaby. That’s how he longed to comfort and nurture me.  All I had to do is run to his outstretched arms and lay everything at his feet.  Or in my case, I just needed to lay in fetal position on the couch as he rejoiced over me with singing.  At that moment I knew God was with me, calming my anxious heart.   He was with me in this pregnancy, and he would continue to be with me in childbirth and later as I learned to take care of a newborn again.  After all, he is mighty to save.   All I had to do is come to him.

Child of God, he delights in you, he longs to gather you into his arms so he can sing over you with joyful songs.  All you have to do is come.

Edited to add: On the way to MOPS this morning, about a mile from church by Albertsons, God reminded me of something that happened during the tender months following dad’s death.  Most nights I dreamed of music, of joyful songs in the night.  And these melodies were complete orchestrations.   In my dreams, I could hear each and every instrument and every single musical note from stunning symphonies that were new to me.   I play the piano but I’m not a musical person.  Add to it, I have a high-frequency hearing loss in both ears.  It’s impossible for me to experience the full effect of the orchestra when I’m awake and fully conscious.  I’ve always wondered about those dreams, and what they meant.  But driving to church to talk to moms about how God sings over us with great rejoicing sparked a connection.  He literally sang over me in the darkness of night with songs of great rejoicing.

 

 

Exploring Autism Essay on Kindred Mom

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Most nights, when I climb the creaky ladder to the top bunk for evening prayers, I find Steven, my blonde-haired, blue-eyed larger-than-life eight-year-old, hiding under a mess of scattered paper airplanes, Junior Factoid books and origami. Or Iʼll find him thrashing about the upper bunk, skinny legs flailing all over the place as he squirms to avoid momʼs hugs and kisses. Thereʼs a mound of blankets and pillows without cases at the foot of Stevenʼs bed. His bright blue quilt, the one from Target with the primary-colored cars and trucks and navy border, itʼs somewhere beneath the rubble.

If Iʼm lucky, Steven will settle down long enough to demand for me to fill his volcano-red Hydro Flask thermos with fresh water.

“It doesnʼt taste right!” he petitions. Next, heʼll try to tickle me. Or heʼll slap my arm and yell “Tag! You’re it!” followed by “Tag dad!”

Before I leave the room to search for my husband, I lean over and remind our son, like I always do, that if I could choose one boy out of all the boys in the world, Iʼd choose him, every time.

Inside, however, Iʼm waving a white flag in surrender. I love my boy, of course I do. Steven is a bright child, full of life, full of love. But itʼs hard being his mom. The older he gets, the quirkier he gets, the more difficult it is to raise him. Then again, parenting Steven has always been a challenge.

Head over to Kindred Mom for the rest of the story.