Category: Family

Needs Repair

As I opened the old cardboard box covered in Christmas stickers, the kids crowded around trying to be the first to glimpse the ornaments lovingly stored inside.  Even though decorating the tree can be stressful, and this year was proving especially interesting as I worked with Darcy, Aidan and two other children who refused to respond to names other than ‘Spider-Man’ and ‘Buzz Lightyear’; pulling out the ornaments and putting them up is one of my favorite things in the world.  We, all six of us, end up standing in this area of a few feet and looking through all that has been while thinking about what is yet to come.

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There are the Sunday school ornaments from when I was Darcy’s age and the kids laugh at the thought of me as a little girl, writing my name in glitter. There are the ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ globes with a date I won’t print on this page and someone asks if running water had been invented by the 1980s while Bob laughs. And then the kids go through their own ornaments, like rediscovered treasures. with a new one marked for each year, and they laugh at some of their earlier choices and greet others like long-lost friends.

Christmas 2013 was the year Darcy chose a Cinderella ornament and all three boys picked small green and yellow John Deere tractor ornaments.  Those were hard days to keep the tiny metal tractors on the tree and tamp down the temptation to take them off and play with them every day, but mostly they succeeded.  

However, in the course of only a few years and the packing, unpacking and rehanging, Chase’s tractor had succumbed to the wear. It was missing it’s front wheels and steering wheel and I’d totally forgotten about it until I reached into the sticker-covered cardboard box. Chase pressed close and as I pulled out the small box for the tractor, I saw the bright pink post-it with my mom’s neat handwriting from last year: “Needs repair” so I quickly tucked it back into the box. This wasn’t the moment to fix it and I knew if Chase saw it, he’d want it, so I gave him his ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ ornament instead and we hung it with care.  But as I’d moved away from my place in front of the box, Aidan took it, pulling out the damaged tractor’s box once again, holding it high over his head, and yelling “Whose is this?”

The second Chase saw it, he jumped, screaming “Mine! It’s mine! Give it to me, Aidy!” And ripping the box open, he saw the truth of the words he could not read and immediately stilled. “Oh. Mom, this is broken. We need to fix it.”

I held out my hands for the box and the broken ornament.  “I know, sweet boy, and we’ll fix it, but for now, why don’t you give it to me? This isn’t the right time. We’re decorating the tree. We’ll get it all set up and then you can hang it another time, okay?”

His head dropped low and I waited for the storm, but it never came. His voice stayed quiet. “But it’s my ornament. I remember it. Can I please hang it up even though it’s broken? I love it.”

Isn’t this the breathtaking wonder of Jesus coming to this world? The purpose in the story of this season? He came as one of us, grabbed for the broken and damaged, the things we’d rather hide away, fix before acknowledging, find another time to deal with, and He lovingly says: “I remembered you. You’re mine. I love you in your brokenness and I’m making all things new.”

Moment by moment.

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If God Is For Chase . . .

“Mom, do we still have to go to school even though it’s your birthday? Can’t we just stay home? . . . Uh, to be with you?”

I couldn’t help but smile at the logic of Aidan’s plea. The part about actually spending the day with his mother was definitely an afterthought to the part about getting a day off school.  “Get ready, buddy. The buses are coming soon.”

The birthday breakfast had been consumed, Aidan and Darcy were preparing for departure, and Bob had taken Chase to an early ophthalmologist follow up.  It was another busy day and a part of me thrived on it as I stood in the middle of the living room and took in the backdrop of holiday lights around another morning with the ones I love.

The ringing of my phone on the table by the Christmas tree cut into my thoughts. It was Bob.

“Hey, we’re done with the appointment.”

“Good! He’ll be on time to school. How did it go?”

“Not great. Chase needs surgery . . .”

How things and feelings can change in a minute.  

“What! Why?”

“The cataracts.” Bob’s voice was subdued. “They’ve grown. The doctor said his vision was about 20/40 in both eyes the last time he was in and now, he’s 20/60 in one and 20/100 in the other.  It’s time.”

“Now?”

“After the holidays . . . after the next MRI.”  There was was the subtle suggestion that if the cancer came back, failing eyesight will be the least of our worries.

And with those few words over the phone, the light and joy seemed to ebb from the room.  I didn’t feel the holidays or the birthdays or anything, really. Just the numbness that comes with sad thoughts and the quiet whisper that has occasionally plagued for three years now: We did this to him.  Oh, how I hate that whisper when it comes at me. And how I wish there were never any threat of guilt in the sadness.  

In the broad spectrum of surgery, this isn’t that big a deal.  In fact, it’s quite routine, so that isn’t the heartbreak.  The part that makes my throat grow tight is that it’s one more.  It’s one more and they’re pretty sure it came from the treatments that saved his life.  

Everything becomes so mixed up in moments like this and the brokenness screams out over the good.

That afternoon, I sat with Chase and we talked about his needing surgery to help his eyes.  As I spoke, he took my hands in his. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay. Hey, look at me. When was the last time you smiled? Can you smile for me? It’s going to be okay.” So I smiled through the tears because you have to smile when Chase asks. He’s an old soul, my bald boy. And one more surgery needs to be scheduled with no guarantee that it’ll be the last. And the voice of guilt is never fully squelched; rearing its’ ugly head in the moments of greatest vulnerability. But in this moment, I need to keep close to the things I do know: If God is for Chase, not even a hundred surgeries and complications can stand against him because he is fearfully and wonderfully made and despite the sadness, my soul knows this to be true. Even when I do not feel or see it, God promises that His plans for Chase are good and are lovingly orchestrated to give us hope.

These truths are the only lights that banish the sadness. 

Choosing joy in the pain . . . Moment by moment.

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Every Promise Is Enough

For three years now, we take a moment to reflect. This Wednesday in 2012, Chase was deep into radiation on top of his chemo therapy and was staying in the hospital. He was weak and his counts were very low, but he was stable and so, late in the afternoon of this Wednesday, I held his weak and white body by the window and stared out at the lake, shielding his face – eyelids covered in scabs from where daily anesthesia tape had ripped the tender skin – and prayed that they would let us go home for Thanksgiving. And then Dr. Goldman entered the room (as only he can enter a room) and told us to go. And we went. Three years later, we are thankful for so many things and our darling Chase is still with us to celebrate.
 
“My heart is filled with thankfulness
To Him who walks beside;
Who floods my weaknesses with strength
And causes fears to fly;
Whose ev’ry promise is enough
For ev’ry step I take,
Sustaining me with arms of love
And crowning me with grace.” [Getty, Townend]
 
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!
 
~The Ewoldt Family
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5:31

Five hours and thirty-one minutes.

For five hours and thirty-one minutes he pounded the pavement, putting his feet to his purpose. And for all those hours and all those miles, past crowds, houses, and fields in the November sun, he ran holding a sign in the air – “Chase Away Cancer”.

And he told me tonight, though he kept his headphones in his ears, he never needed them as he talked to the people around him. People who came alongside him to talk about his sign because they were survivors, neighbors, family, friends – each one a person whose life had been touched by cancer. They saw him identifying with it in his sign and they identified with him as they all ran together.

And this morning, as he geared up and prepared to walk out the door, Chase and his fuzzy head stumbled down the stairs before the sun was up, urging him to run fast, not slow down, and “Run like me, Dad”. And then Chase covered his fuzzy head against the frost and cold and stepped out along the route to cheer the runners on, holding a sign alongside his crazy, cheering grandfather, proclaiming that “sweat is liquid awesome”.

Five hours and thirty-one minutes later, Bob crossed the finish line for Chase and fighters and parents and friends everywhere. And he wasn’t alone. You put your hearts into this race with him, and today, nearly $5,000 dollars went to St. Baldrick’s in their tireless efforts to chase cancer far, far, away.

THANK YOU.

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Of Dirty Dishes…

One late night this week, it occurred to me that my kitchen might need a little attention…

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Actually, I got the idea after my kitchen practically jumped out and attacked me.

Oh my word, I’m cringing even looking at it… And I’m cringing even more, because, I took this second picture significantly into the cleaning process and considered posting it instead.  I secretly wanted this to be the messy kitchen you saw that might possibly promote me to an organized-neat-freak-whose-house-is-so-clean-at-all-times-that-the-tiniest-mess-is-a-disaster in your mind.  I actually considered downplaying the mess to somehow make me look better.

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If I’m honest with myself and with you, my house is messy far more than I’d like and I have proof of this pattern, because the other day, when I cleaned just for the sake of general responsibility and health, Darcy walked in and gasped: “Yay! Is Grammie coming today?” [cue the psychological damage, please…]

When we first got married, a very wise woman gave me advice on carving out time and making priorities and our many conversations would go like this: I’d ask “But what about this good thing?  …or this good?  …or that better?”  And she’d quietly smile and knowingly state:

“You’re saying ‘no‘ to one thing to say ‘yes‘ to another – your ‘no‘ to that social commitment is a ‘yes‘ to the commitment of your relationship and making time for it – the best thing.”  

I love this idea and I think it bends out into my home life and family life too.

When one of my children needs extra counsel and love, when there’s a writing deadline, when a 4th grade landform, a 1st grade corn celebration party (for real, it’s a thing), and a kindergartener’s reading homework all coincide – and they all need to be addressed at the same time, something has to go so I can keep breathing, and that something (for me) is usually the dishes.

One of my favorite phrases is: “There are only so many hills you can die on and this shouldn’t be one…”  (Seriously, I’ve long considered a needlepoint or canvas…)  And so, after what feels like a defeated week, I’m posting a picture of my dirty dishes.  And I hope they encourage you! (weird, right?)

Because sometimes, whether in casual conversations or on social media (particularly the latter), it’s easy for me to feel shame when I see the best and most polished in others’ lives and then I feel terrible for not being able to “do it all”.

For me, saying ‘yes‘ to my children, to my husband, even to something like writing, often means letting something like the dishes go for just a minute. (or, you know, two days…[double cringe] )

I promise, it doesn’t look like this all the time, and I definitely don’t want to hold up my dirty dishes as an example because each person’s “saying ‘no’ to say ‘yes’ moment” will look different, but for me, this is real, so I’m coming clean over the dirty today – this week, I said ‘yes‘ to my family…and the dishes took a little longer to get clean.  Because most of the time, my life doesn’t wrap up all neatly like a pretty package…

And I need to remember to take even the dishes…moment by moment.

“Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom.” Ps. 90:12 (NLT)

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