Nicole K. Twedt

Being Brave When Life Is Hard

Thirty-eight Minus Twenty

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Originally from early February, 2017

I originally and inappropriately came up with the title Crazy Town for this blog post.  After all, the shoe fits.  A little too well.  I thought about Twenty Years or maybe even Battle Wounds.  But I’m partial to Thirty-eight Minus Twenty.

With a smile on my face I admit it’s true, the part about life being a crazy town.  My sanity is in question most days.  I have three children and a small dog, after all.  It’s crazy town all the time.  But this is different.  I’ve been wondering why I’ve been highly-emotional this year.  Highly-emotional, even for me.  I tend to fly on the side of highly sensitive by nature.  It just seems that I’m a little too quick to get teary about everything just about all the time these days, which is unlike me.  I may be highly in-tune with my feelings, but I prefer not to let anyone know what’s going on.  No one is going to see me lose it.  I’ll do my falling apart in private thank you very much.  I’m Scandinavian, after all.

I’ve been sick lately, really sick.  I’ve had a sinus infection since forever.  One of the perks (if you can call it a perk) during the initial fever-laden days was that I was too sick even to read, which forced me to sit on the couch and do nothing but watch TV and think.  Everything else hurt.  No complaints here.  When mama is sick and the kids are old enough to somewhat fend for themselves, being sick and homebound is honestly a little like a mini-vacation minus the spa.  Just me and the couch and season one of Bones.  Quality Netflix, I tell yah.  I’m living the life.

Someone like me needs time to process just about everything, and with three busy kids I don’t have the luxury to sit and think about much of anything.  But it hit me, this last week on the couch with season one of Bones in the background.  I know what’s up.

I turned Thirty-eight in June.  I love being thirty-eight.  The year began triumphantly.  For it was on my birthday that I pretended to be brave and bought myself this domain and purchased all that needed purchasing to get this blog dream into my actual life (even thought this baby isn’t launched).  Thirty-eight-year-old me took a very important first step.

But thirty-eight minus twenty equals eighteen.

I don’t know why I was doing the math.  I’m a word girl, after all.  Though lately I’m contorting into some sort of hybrid number girl.  If only I can view a number by its name rather than numeric form (like five instead of 5), which has nothing to do with anything.

Back to thirty-eight minus twenty equals eighteen.

I randomly came across a picture of a guy I went to high school with on Instagram.  I was thinking it’s been twenty years since I’ve seen him, which put me just shy of eighteen.  Suddenly all that happened right before I turned eighteen came rushing back.  I believe the kindness of the Holy Spirit led me to the make the connection:  It’s been twenty years, closer to twenty-one now, since I was almost eighteen and lost my sweet dad to cancer.  This is a fraction of what I don’t want to write about.

I can hardly breathe, but it’s not the sinus infection.  I’m reliving the horror that was 1996, but in many ways I’m experiencing my emotions for the first time.   During the real-time first time I wasn’t ready to face the darkness.  I focused on God’s grace in the situation, but didn’t allow myself to experience the full range of emotion that trauma calls for.  In other words, I set my feet firmly in the land of denial.  I remember how my throat used to hurt, burning as I held in the screams.  I couldn’t face them,  couldn’t let them out, couldn’t bear to hear them.  I wasn’t ready.  So I watched many a sad movie so I could cry for the men and women on the big screen.  What was I thinking?  Why couldn’t I cry for me?

For all the times I said everything was okay, it wasn’t.  How could it be okay?

And it’s more than my dad’s actual death, the most horrific, yet gentle at the same time, beautiful moment of my life.  It’s his illness and the overlapping time when I lost my hearing that haunts me so.

Almost two years ago God set me on an adventure.  Not an exciting adventure.  It was quite the gruesome one.  Through a writing assignment at a Story Retreat near Leavenworth, God set my feet back through time to show me that he was always there, during the darkest moments of my life, of cancer and the trauma of loosing my hearing on the cusp of high school.

God was tender, so tender to me during the writing activity.  I had always known that God was with me in dad’s actual death because I was getting to know him then.  But God spoke to my heart about how he was there in the darkness before I knew him.  And he spoke to me about how these experiences, these hurts, didn’t come from him, but he’ll use them for good, and I believed him.

Then last fall, maybe the end of summer, our church did a Sermon Series titled Do Hard Things.  I remember very little of what was said, but I can’t stop thinking about how it occurred to me during one of the sermons that it’s hard for me to ask for help.  Again this winter we are revisiting the Do Hard Things series.  I guess I’m not the only one who needs a repeat.  Anyway, I remember clearly in January one of the pastors saying that Doing Hard Things means it’s time for some of us to deal with our stuff (raises hand).

And that has to be why I’m running from writing.  You see, I started the blog in June but have written precious little since.  I don’t want to deal with my stuff.  To write is to process and make sense of my God, myself, my world.  But to write is to hurt because writing involves facing what I’m feeling, what I’ve been feeling and what I haven’t let myself feel for over twenty years.

Today was a much-needed snow day for our school district and neighboring towns.  The kids played for quite a bit in the back yard dusted in white. The kids had fun and the dog came back with her beautiful long hair dreadlocked in snow balls.  Don’t ask.

After showers to warm their bodies and lunch to warm their bellies, even if it was only organic instant oatmeal, we watched the rest of Pete’s Dragon, the newer version.

Grace (Bryce Dallas Howard) is the park ranger.  She rescued young Pete from the great Forrest of the North where he has lived for the last six years, alone she thinks.  Pete is an orphan.  His parents died tragically in a car accident on an adventure six years ago.  Grace tells Pete that he is a brave, brave boy and I felt the Lord whisper to my younger self and my heart, You were so, so brave.  You were a brave, brave girl.  You were so brave when your dad was sick and when you lost your hearing.

As the movie comes to an end, Elliot the Dragon brings Pete back to Grace, her boyfriend Jack, and Jack’s daughter Natalie.  Even a dragon knows it isn’t good for a boy to be without a human family.  As I watched Pete being welcomed into his new family, I could practically hear the Holy Spirit whisper once again to my heart.  It’s not good for you to be alone with all of your thoughts and experiences.  It’s time to process what you went through.  You are going to make yourself sick if you keep holding onto that time.  You were brave but I never wanted you to face it alone.  You can’t hold onto it any longer.  It’s time to deal with your stuff.  It’s time to write.  

I don’t know what this means for the blog.  But I finally know what I’m supposed to write about: grief.  And it’s the last thing I want to do.

I don’t want this blog to become a pity-party for one.  I want to write to encourage others, not to drown in a sea of narcissism.  It’s going to be hard, this writing.  But it’s impossible for me to move forward unless I deal with what’s behind.  Now is the time to release some of these toxic feelings, the ones I’ve held in for the last twenty-odd years.  Now is the time to let the bottle containing my deepest emotions explode, just a little, so it can be mended and filled again with beauty, truth, wonder and love.  Once again, it’s time to write.  Before I have it figured out.

Thirty-eight minus twenty.

Changes

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Originally from August, 2016

Around two years ago, God spoke to my heart that he was doing something new in our community.  Something new was coming.   And this something new was happening or about to happen in a radius around our house. I could see it.  Slightly north of our house, down past Willis Tucker to the East, to Fred Meyer in the West and into Mill Creek.  I kept thinking this radius should end on 35th because 35th was significant, though I couldn’t have told you why.  But every time I prayed about this “new thing,” it was clear that the radius extended into Mill Creek.

At the same time, I began to grow restless with church. Not in the church itself, but out of my heart’s desire for my kids to worship with kids they see at school Monday through Friday. I started looking ahead to their teenage years with dread. Knowing myself well enough, I already despised driving the 30 plus minute commute back and forth to church so the kids could attend youth groups and small groups.

I want to invite friends to church with us.  But so far no one is willing to make the drive, once they find out where it’s located.  But we love our church.  It’s where we met and married, where we raised our babies.  Our hearts were challenged, set free and given hope at this church.  We love and will always love our church.

This summer Greg and I started two-timing on our church.  Twice a month we attended a new church, a local church.  Our kids have friends from school in their new Sunday school classes, my cousin’s kids too.  Every other Sunday we made the drive across town to our old church, where we continued to teach Sunday school during second service.

At the end of August, on Greg’s birthday actually, we decided to go to the new church for first service and our old for second. I’m glad we doubled up that Sunday because it resulted in a Come to Jesus Moment, at least for me.   I basically ugly cried all the way down I-5 because the message at the new church was the vision God gave them about building a new building to reach the demographic circle of unchurched people in the areas slightly north of our house, down past Willis Tucker to the East, to Fred Meyer in the West and into the city of Mill Creek.  What about 35th?  Well, the church property happens to be located on 35th.

Who am I that God would prepare my heart in advance and include me in this glorious new thing to come?

We have no idea what roles we are supposed to play in this new thing.  God will speak when we need to know it. All I know is that we have a tremendous love for our neighborhood and surrounding community. I know God is doing a new thing here and we are supposed to be part of it.

I don’t want to overly spiritualize this journey but I believe with all of my heart that God has gone before us to call us to something new, something we might not have been on board with had he not gone ahead to prepare the way.

This new adventure is hardly confidential.  Yet we spoke very little of this part of our story aloud, even to those who are closest to us.  We didn’t want to say anything until we were certain.

I’m sensing in my bones and in the deepest parts of my soul that now is the time.  We are entering a new season, a beautiful, splendid and scary-because-it’s new, season.  The Spirit is leading.  Our hearts are stirred.  Now is the time to go.

Christmas 2010

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Originally from December, 2010

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all of our dear ones from the Twedt family!  I thought I would start this year’s letter with an experience I had this summer in Florida at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) Convention.

During Convention, I was lucky enough to hear Donald Miller, author of Blue Like Jazz and A Million Miles In A Thousand Years speak on leading better lives for ourselves, our families, our communities, the world and for God.  Don spoke about daring to dream bigger dreams and challenged us to go home and play the What If? game with our families.  Basically, we were asked to write What if…? in the middle of a giant piece of paper and dare our family members to fill in the blank.

Immediately I thought of the possibilities.  What if Greg and I took our children to the camp I worked at in Romania? What if we took our children to visit our friends in Tanzania or China? What if we applied for international adoption?  But the more I listened to Don speak, the more I was certain God was saying something entirely different about the immediate future.  One single question kept coming back to me.   What if….?

I couldn’t wait to tell Greg about the What If? game!  Unfortunately, he thought it was pretty lame, especially after I filled in the blank.  Greg doesn’t find Donald Miller very funny or even inspiring.  I think he fell asleep watching the free DVD lecture that came with Blue Like Jazz.  Then again, maybe Greg’s just jealous of the picture I have of Don and me from when I met him in Florida, except my sweet husband doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body.

After much praying, tons of confirmation, a slow change of Greg’s heart, and a semi-surprise, we are pleased to announce that our What If? is in the works and will come to pass this July.  It may seem little and insignificant to some, this What If? of ours, but for us, it dares us to dream beyond what’s comfortable and prompts our hearts to trust God more by taking a giant leap of faith.  By the way, our What If? is this: What if we had another baby?

I realize that being pregnant with #3 is hardly a surprise to many of you.  Yet the drama queen in me couldn’t resist setting it up like that.  I suppose it makes for a top-heavy Christmas letter, but I’m totally okay with it this year.

Moving on to each family member: Greg turned the big 4-0 this August and does’t look a day past his early 30s.  Even though I’m eight years younger I’m insanely jealous of his youthful looks and boyish charm.  Much like years past he is involved with the Men of Hunger Bible Study and is still plucking away at the garage.  I think the stainless countertop for his workbench is all that’s left.  Then again, I tend to avoid any and all conversation about the garage so there’s probably a lot to do that I either don’t know or conveniently blocked out.

Right after Greg’s 40th we became uncle and auntie to Amelia Dean Andrews, compliments of my stepbrother Ben and his wife Jennifer in Tennessee.  The following month I returned to MOPS, but this time to a new volunteer position in leadership.  I’m loving every minute of it, or most moments anyway.  Last year I wrote about how God was teaching me not to wait for courage but to trust Him and rely on His strength.  Little did I know that He was preparing me for something to come.  A few months later I had the opportunity to share my life story with about 75 women at MOPS.  God is so good! I actually liked speaking in front of everyone, which was a shocker since I dread public speaking.  I believe God was glorified when I shared my experience of how he brought me through an eating disorder in college and taught me to love Him with my whole heart.  He loves each of us so very much and all He wants from us is our heart willing to love Him and follow him.

But enough about Greg and me.  It’s time to spice this letter up and play the What If? game to talk about the kids.

What if Steven is healed?  What if his vision is fully restored and his eye muscles stabilize?  What if?…These are the dreams dearest to our hearts and what we’re hoping for, praying for and waiting for.  My heart hurts thinking of the last year and a half and all we’ve been through with Steven.  In January we received a 3rd opinion, which we were certain would be positive, only to find out Steven really does have Morning Glory Syndrome.  Less than 1 in 5 million folks in the US have MGS, and our little guy has a rare form of it.  Nice.  Then sometime around the beginning of the year, a spot on Steven’s optic nerve was discovered.  Now the word cancer was never spoken aloud, but after loosing my dad to cancer that’s exactly where my mind went.  Turns out everything is fine, and we’re praising God for it, but under doctor’s orders we had to put our boy under anesthesia for a MRI to make sure nothing was wrong with his brain, which sometimes happens with MGS.

The latest is that Steven’s right optic nerve is normalizing.  We were told that this happens with MGS but that it always goes back.  It’s not gone back.  Do I dare say miracle?  I’m trusting that God fearfully and wonderfully made Steven’s eyes and has an amazing plan for them, a plan that will display His glory, splendor and majesty, along with His goodness, compassion and love. Back to my question:  What if Steven is healed?  Well then, God will certainly be glorified because it wouldn’t be for any effort on Steven’s part!  He’s fully mastered the ability to remove his contacts, he constantly warps the frames of his glasses beyond recognition and damages the lenses from chewing on them.  I must say though, Steven’s specialty happens to be ripping off patches with a vengeance  It’s all supposed to get easier as he gets older, but frankly at just shy of 2, Steven is stronger and more determined not to cooperate than he was a year ago.  Don’t get me wrong, we LOVE the care we receive under Dr. P.  She’s the best pediatric optometrist around.  “Doctor,” and Miss Rachel the receptionist, are like family and we love them dearly.  All of that aside, we’ll be happy for the day when we just bring Steven in once a year for his annual eye exam, as we do Emily.

Speaking of almost 4-year-old Emily, It’s her turn for the What If? game.  What if…?  What if Emily actually ate dinner without pitching a fit? Now that would be the ultimate miracle, perhaps greater than Steven’s healing!  Now I’m the first to admit that I prayed long and hard for boldness and compassion for both of our children when I was pregnant with them.  And I know that Emily was also fearfully and wonderfully made without mistake.  But the thought has crossed my mind that maybe I should have dropped the boldness and focused a bit more on praying for compassion when praying for Emily, except she’s a very compassionate little girl too.  I want to honor our daughter in this Christmas letter, so I will be quick to point out that things are about 90% better than they were in years past.  It’s just that Emily is one smart little girl who dearly loves to control things.  She’ll make a great CEO one day.  Emily loves preschool with Teacher Nicky and Teacher Linda, although she doesn’t tell us much about it.  We do hear all about her new friend Audrey at preschool.  Whenever Emily says Audrey she says her name with the perfect British accent just like Teacher Nicky’s, which I secretly adore.  I mean, really, who hasn’t secretly tried to impersonate the British? Oh, just me?  Anyway, Greg and I are amazed that every day at school Emily’s mind is filled with learning and fun and wonder and that her heart is filled with God’s truth and love, often blowing us away with the things she says. Like her brother, Emily is a joy and a delight and we love being her mommy and daddy.

That brings us to the end of this year’s Christmas letter.  We love each of you so very much, especially those we don’t get to see often.  We pray that 2011 will be the year that God dares you to dream beyond what you know and take comfort in.  We can’t wait to hear how you and your family answer the question that rocked our world: What if…?

Love,

Greg, Nicole, Emily, Steven and Baby-to-be