Nicole K. Twedt

Being Brave When Life Is Hard

The Dawn of About to Get Better

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There’s a shifting, a shaking, a changing in our family, a change for the better.  And it’s coming soon, I know it.  The Twedtlings and I (and Greg of course), well it’s like we’re living in the dawn of about to get better.  I can almost taste it, we’re that close!  From what I can tell, this change will be an awful lot of work, but it will be worth it.  For it’s already bringing hope to our family, along with peace, love and great joy.

The dawn of about to get better.  That’s a line I wrote at the end of our 2016 Christmas letter.  I don’t know why I added it.  I don’t even like the sound of the dawn of about to get better, it’s so cheesy.  What does it even mean?

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to write a different ending, even when the letter went through edits for the blog.  I didn’t know it at the time, I couldn’t have, but this little phrase was going to be down-right prophetic for our family, particularly one of us.  How could I possibly know that something so big and so terrible was about to get better?  Especially since it was going to get a lot worse in the first few months of the new year.  Nonetheless, something was about to change.

I’m itching to write more.  The whys and hows of this dawn of about to get better, all that’s shifting and changing, and taking new form.

You see, my family and I are setting off on the marathon of our lives.  No, that can’t be right.  What’s about to happen is more like a much-needed pause during the middle of a race.  Not that races have half-times.  I’m not the best when it comes to sport analogies.

I participated in quite a few 5Ks back in college, my glory days.  Or they would have been my glory days if I wasn’t so messed up.   Anyway, I admit  most of the races were all about the free long-sleeve T-shirts, the ones with the name or cause of the race on the front and all the sponsor logos on the back.  I’d proudly wear my race T-shirts on walks or runs around Green Lake.   They made me look the part of the runner that I surely wasn’t.

Back to the 5K.  Most of all, I remember the cheerful volunteers on the side of the road, around the halfway point, holding Dixie cups of cold water or Gatorade for me to grab as I dashed limped by.   Now that I’ve had three babies, drinking anything while running (even before running) is never a good idea, no matter how refreshing it sounds.  Who am I kidding? I don’t run anymore.

Anyway, the Dixie cup of cold water represents the season we’re in, a season of refreshing.  Not to be confused with a season of rest.  There will be no resting in this season.  We’ll be running harder than we’ve ever run before.  But our bodies and souls will be nourished along the way, which makes all the difference.  For nourishment to the soul is what it will take for us to run together and not hold back.

Perhaps a better picture would be of the five of us entering a new race altogether, one we’re equipped to run because we’re learning to pace ourselves.  The race course is new to us, but we’ll figure it out with a little help.  We’re sure to grow tired, we’ll stumble or fall.  But help will come when we need it.

I’m mixing metaphors.  I’m getting tired.

I will write more about this soon, very soon, and with fear and trembling.

For it’s a different kind of story altogether.  It’s not about healing or grieving, or any of what I usually write about.  It’s more of a perspective shift.  And this little shift in perspective has been one of the greatest Ah-ha moments of my life.

O Lord, help me trust you.  Help me trust you as I dwell with my family in the dawn of about to get better.  A new day is dawning, surely it is.  I’m holding onto this promise.   I think of Psalm 92:4 when I think of you and I praise you for it.  For you said about yourself, “He will cover you with feathers.  In his wings you will find refuge.”  How mighty and how beautiful it is to be covered by the feathers of your wings.  Up close, I can see the intricate detail, patterning and glossiness of your feathers, of your glory, your strength.  I don’t even like birds but I have a thing for them because of you.  Help me be brave enough to see your beauty in every point of this new race, even the ugly parts when I’m limping along, out of breath and ready to quit.  But I will keep running because I’m not alone, never alone.  You are here, with every step along the way.

 P.S. You can read about the big ah-ha moment here.  Then everything went out the window with an even greater ah-ha moment.  You can read that essay here.

Grandpa

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Here’s the crazy thing: after working on a draft documenting a significant hurt in my life in the area of grief, I took it down.  I don’t want to know how many edits it went through, fifty?

Fifty-seven, I just checked. But I  took it down.  Back to draft status it goes, at least for now.

You see, I never intended to publish the piece and then I did by mistake.  It needed to come out, what I wrote.  But the piece doesn’t need to be out there.  It was about my grandparents, my dad’s parents.  My only living grandparents.

All it took was a Facebook message from cousin Audrey for me to take it down.  Not that Audrey is aware of my writing spot on the web.  I love Audrey, dearly, by the way.  She’s a favorite.  It’s just that no one in my extended family knows about my writing.

Grandpa’s not doing well, you see.  He hurt his back helping Uncle Johnny move.  And he’s loosing weight, too much weight.  Why, you may wonder, was a ninety-four, soon-to-be ninety-five-year-old man involved in a move?

Knowing Grandpa, he couldn’t not help.  Keeping busy, working, helping, moving, that’s Grandpa.

Grandpa and Grandma’s anniversary party is cancelled, even though it’s four months out.  They are feeling overwhelmed.  Aunt Laurie is worried, because let’s face it, he’s almost ninety-six.  Grandpa’s going to bounce back or not.

I’m not sure how I feel about their anniversary party in the first place, before it was canceled.  I’m filled with regret now that it is.

But hearing the news of Grandpa’s misfortune, via Facebook Messenger no less, it weighs my heart with sadness.  And I’m so very angry.  But mostly, I’m sad for my aunts and uncles.   I’m sad for my granparents.  I’m sad for me, heartbroken for us all.

Oh, Lord, don’t take him now.  Quiet the soul of a man who never rests.  Help him find rest and be well.   Mend his back, his body.  Speak to him.  Let him hear your tender voice.  Help him know you are God and how much you love him.  Help him know you were in all of it, all of his life hurts.

My heart is being pulled across a mountain pass, to a walking trail around the Spokane River, to the brick and wood rambler near the community college.  Spokane calls to me.

Oh God, help.

Edited to add: My grandfather, Clarence Beck, passed away on July 2, 2017, a few weeks after his ninety-fifth birthday.  Due to circumstances beyond my control, beyond any of our control,  I was not able to say goodbye to him.  Toward the end of his life we found out it was cancer, not a back injury.  I was not close to my grandparents, but I think of Grandpa with fondness.  He was a kind, kind man, and a handsome one at that.  He was a hard worker, much like my husband.

(Learning to Be) Flexible

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Photo by Hannah Tasker on Unsplash

When Emily started kindergarten, all those years ago, this rule-following mom read the school handbook from cover to cover.  Our school administrators (whom I love dearly) gently, or not so gently, discourgaed parents from scheduling appointments during school hours.  So I didn’t.  Until this year when it all came down to free babysitting.

Emily has homework most nights so it’s no longer practical to run errands after school, not that I ever run errands with three kids by choice.  And for a second-grader, Steven has a bit to do too.  And there’s Lauren.  She’s in a sweetheart stage once again but tired after a full day of kindergarten.  It’s our fifth academic year at our school, but it just occurred to me that I’m the parent.  I can take my child out of school if necessary.  I have to do what’s best for our family when life happens.  Why take two along for the ride when I could just take Steven during school hours?  Lesson learned.

I’m learning to go with the flow, that’s the other lesson I’m learning.  And it only took thirty-eight years.  Well, I’ve always been able to go with the flow, just not with a gracious heart.  I’d smile on the outside but the smile would end there.    I like my ducks in a row and I very much like knowing what’s going to happen, when it’s going to happen and how it’s going to happen, thank you very much.

They say practice makes perfect.  Let’s just say I’ve had plenty of practice being flexible this week and last.  Who am I kidding? Being a parent for ten years will teach flexibility, if nothing else.

Steven’s glasses broke on Thursday.  And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.  It was the day of big sister’s and little sister’s Girl Scouts so we couldn’t get the frames fixed after school.  After Girl Scouts, Steven was unusually grouchy, wanting to go to bed without dinner even.  Vomiting began within a few hours but only lasted until midnight.  Not bad for the stomach bug.   There would be no going anywhere Friday because, you know, you gotta wait 24 hours after the last bout of vomit.  Or is it 48 hours?  I really don’t know.  I should, because the handbook.

Anyway, Saturday was World Thinking Day with the Girl Scouts.  Afterward, the five of us went to lunch at our favorite spot in Redmond, if you count a taco bus as “going to lunch.”  I do.

We didn’t exactly run out of time to get the glasses fixed.  It’s just that three kids were busy all day and were done with it all. The eyewear shop is closed Sunday and Monday.

Normally I would freak out over Steven not wearing glasses for five days, fearing his vision would be further damaged.  But there was nothing I could do.  So I didn’t.

I’m not usually this chill.  But something about being sick for so long, and not being able to do a thing about it, has taught me the fine art of chilling out.  The cold, by the way, it turned out to be a sinus infection.  All of the Sudafed in the world wouldn’t have helped.  That’s another story for another day but it’s too boring to write about.

Today is Tuesday.  Steven and I butted heads all morning before school.  At one point he was literally on the ground, kicking.  A flashback to toddlerhood if there ever was one.  We were almost late.  And it was my turn to help with Sight Words first thing.  The plan was for me to come for Sight Words and then check Steven out of school to run to Woodinville to the eyewear shop.  But the student teacher needed to film her lesson.   And that was okay.  I couldn’t have cared less that I came to school for nothing.  I totally remember student teaching and it’s requirements.  I wasn’t feeling put out at all.  I just went home, played with Chloe, worked on a Bible Study and finished my morning coffee.  I couldn’t have asked for a better and more focused 45 minutes.  Just knowing I had to turn around and get back to school to pick up Steven did the trick.  Thank you, God.  This is not typical Nicole behavior.

It was snowing when I picked Steven up.  Not enough to stick, but enough to fill our hearts with wonder.  By the time I delivered Steven and his glasses to the eyewear shop, we were both calm, enjoying each other’s company even.

And I would need to be calm and cool.  Our favorite technician, Katherine, could tell Steven’s glasses didn’t accidentally break.  Sigh.  The Holy Spirit and mama intuition is telling me that he’s angry that he’s different.  Little Nicole hated her hearing aids for the same reason.  Grown up Nicole knows it really doesn’t matter.  You have to do what you have to do to see or hear.  Now is the time to wear glasses, anyway, the bigger and bolder the better.  It’s hard to explain to an eight-year-old who is still learning that God loves him and doesn’t want him to be the same.  In fact, God sets us apart on purpose.  We are uniquely made and he calls us his own.  It hurts watching my son learn this one, but learn it he must.  We all need to be reminded of this painful yet life-giving lesson from time to time.  I know I do.

I’m not sure where I was going with this.  Once again this ADHD mind of mine has gone walking.  Anyway, I’ve got to get out of here.  The school bell will ring in about twenty minutes.  I need to bring the Smith Brother’s milk in from the box on the front porch and put Chloe in her crate before I bundle up and walk the half-mile to school.