My Story – Page 3

If: Gathering 2015 Remembrance Stone

03.01.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Originally from February 2015. Unless you happened to catch or attend the first and second IF: Gathering, this post probably won’t make sense.

I’m a year behind. I accidentally bought and watched last year’s IF: Gathering, thinking it was the one from this year. I’m caught up now, having just watched the final session this morning as I have a sick one home from school and time to spare.

About the Remembrance Stone. At the IF: Gathering, those present were given a small stone to record what God was laying on their heart to do next. I didn’t know what I was going to write on my rock, but I knew God was calling me to take a step of faith and participate in the activity.

I didn’t even have a rock. Then I remembered the landscaping rocks that grace our small property. Since Greg and I know almost nothing about plants and flowers we literally have tons of landscaping rocks of various shapes and sizes to fill our yard and make it look like we know what we’re doing, at least we did before the kids messed with them.

I paused the session, slipped my feet into the brown leather clogs I keep by the sliding door to take the puppy out, and marched out to the back yard, full of purpose in search of the perfect rock.

And there it was, past the sliding door, at the edge of the house almost to the fence. There it was sitting amongst the smallest piles of rocks. I chose the smallest rock. I wasn’t sure there would be enough room to record my next step. But it jumped out at me, radiant amongst the others, practically luminous, purplish in contrast to the plain stone-colored variety. This was my rock, my remembrance stone, a permanent reminder of what God was saying to my heart pertaining to the next step of faith. I didn’t yet know what He was saying, but my heart was ready. I had my rock.

Then, for a moment, going back to my house I got distracted by a second pile of landscaping rocks, bigger rocks, gorgeous rocks with plenty of room to record God’s goodness. And I thought to myself, Mine is the wrong shape. The other rocks are prettier and there is more room to write. I glanced down at the tiny rock in my hand. It didn’t even look purplish anymore. It looked plain and ugly, hardly set apart from the others. My rock was small, too small, unimportant and nothing special.

Immediately as I began to compare and complain, God nudged my heart, confirming I made the correct choice.

Back in the house, sitting in front of my computer screen, I wasn’t sure what to mark on my stone with the black sharpie. The Lord already spoke powerfully to me about being quiet before him at the beginning of the year. But what was the next step? I didn’t really know. But I had my rock. I began jotting down notes as I resumed play on Session 4 as others shared their Next Step.

The Spirit is quiet but moves like thunder. As I diligently took notes, he reminded me that as I follow him, being the one he made me to be, I will be luminous, shining like stars amongst this dark generation (Philippians 2:15). But that was not all. He gently reminded me that, like my rock, I was not the wrong shape. He called me to stop comparing myself to other woman, both in physical shape, ministry or calling. Praise the Lord, as I have been struggling, seriously struggling, with this battle since I shared a story with IF: Local friends about my past with disordered eating.

Now, I too, have a rock engraved in black sharpie, my little remembrance stone.

I will shine like the stars and I will not compare myself to others.

Christmas Angel

02.23.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Originally from December 2010

My dad was first diagnosed with cancer in the early nineties. Although dad was in remission at the time, in the fall of 1994 the board of firefighters recommended an early retirement from his career as a firefighter. He had survived the deadly battle of cancer, but his body was no longer able to fight fires. Early retirement presented a huge financial burden for my parents. Mom was a stay-at-home mom and dad was now retired with a pension half his normal salary. Money would be tight and Christmas was just around the corner.

But money was not my parents only concern that weekday afternoon. Dad’s cancer was back. My parents were crushed. Dread filled their hearts as they neared our family home in Shoreline. They would have to tell my brother and me that cancer had returned. And this time the prognosis wasn’t positive. To make matters worse, mom and dad didn’t have the money to provide for Christmas the way our family was used to celebrating. Not that Christmas was about the presents, but mom’s heart broke with the thought of the financial pressure they faced at this time of the year. The Lord’s birth was always the central focus of Christmas in our family, but how could she ignore the festivities of this special holiday when this could very well be dad’s last Christmas?

Like many family homes, ours had two main entrances, the front door for visitors and a side door adjoining the driveway for close friends, neighbors and family. Earlier that afternoon, my brother Scott and I returned home from school to find an envelope taped behind the screen of our side door. Certain this was a note from my youth group’s Secret Santa, I ripped the envelope open. What I found inside was a typed note attached to a bundle of bills. Knowing this was clearly not for me, but a blessing for my family, Scott and I shoved the money back in the little envelope and anxiously awaited the return of our parents.

Knowing nothing of this financial blessing, dread seeped into my parents’ hearts as they neared our home. But something caught the corner of their eyes as they slowly turned down our steep driveway to the little house in Shoreline. We had a large picture window in the front of our home. And to their surprise, my parents could plainly see Scott and me jumping and dancing around the living room like wild hooligans. Teenagers at the time, Scott and I were not prone to such displays of emotion or excitement. Mom and dad knew something was up.

As soon as we saw their little Geo pull up, Scott and I dashed to meet them. We threw our arms around our parents, laughing and crying, oblivious to the news we would ultimately hear. When we finally let go of them, with tears streaming down our bright eyes, we presented our findings. Slowly, mom and dad opened the envelope to discover ten crisp one hundred dollar bills with a typed letter explaining that we were not supposed to know who the money was from but that we had a friend who knew that we needed a little extra help this Christmas. As a family we praised God, rejoicing that an anonymous friend, a Christmas Angel, had it on their heart to bless us with a generous gift when our family needed it most.

Then came the hard part. Once inside, mom and dad sat us down and explained all that they had learned from the doctor. With more tears, Scott and I learned that dad’s cancer was back and that his future didn’t look promising. Ironically, it started to rain at this point. But when all of our questions were asked and answered around our dining room table, mom and I looked up through the sliding glass door and noticed that it had stopped raining. There, to our surprise, was a glorious rainbow, bright in color and promise. Immediately I was reminded about God’s covenant with Noah. The Lord would protect and bless our family, even in the deadly realm of cancer.

Over 15 years has passed since we were visited by the Christmas Angel. Still, the verse from Jeremiah is clearly impressed upon my heart when I think back to that late fall afternoon: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future” (Jeremiah 29:11).

I once thought that God sent the rainbow and the Christmas Angel as a promise that nothing was going to happen to my dad, that cancer would never take his life; and that we would always have plenty of money for Christmas presents. Now I understand that the promise extends past the physical world and into the eternal, spiritual world. There is no promise against cancer. There are no promises that we will always have the funds needed to celebrate Christmas elaborately. That’s not the point, is it? However, God promises something better. He loves His children so much. He has something better planned for us than what we understand from our given circumstances. We will go through trials, believe me we will, but He is always there. And what He kindly offers is a love relationship with him that stands against even death.

Merry Christmas.

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.