Nineteen years

Nineteen years is a long time. Long enough for God to take a tiny egg and a tiny sperm and grow it into an adult. Long enough for a parent to become a grandparent. Long enough to be considered a long marriage. Long enough to spend in prison for murder, in many cases. For me, nineteen years was long enough to experience the divorce of my parents, the death of my mother, multiple types of abuse, estrangement from my father, at least 20 different homes, seven different schools, the death of all four of my grandparents, too many romantic relationships, graduating as valedictorian from my high school, and all the normal developmental milestones of walking, talking, reading, writing, driving. Nineteen years was also long enough for me to buy my first brand-new car, get pregnant, and learn the hard way why alcohol is not my friend.

Nineteen years is a long time. And yet, somehow, it's not long enough to erase my memory of the day that began the worst week of my life. The pain has dulled, and God has pulled me back from the depths I dropped myself into after that week, but the memories still remain.

It was a Sunday morning, and I had spent the night on Grandma's bed, praying, dozing, and crying out to God for her healing. I had sent Papa to bed after he sat me down and showed me the lockbox with all their important documents and given me instructions for dividing up the possessions in their home. I only half listened, wondering why he would be showing me all those things when Grandma was the one on the brink of death and he was fine. When I heard from the family members who had gathered there to pray that Papa was up, I left Grandma's side to go say good morning and make sure he got breakfast.

As I walked into the living room, I saw my aunt poised by the phone and Papa standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was clutching his arm and trying to fish his wallet out of his pants, telling my aunt that the ambulance phone number was in his wallet and something was wrong. I told her to call 911 (I was probably too loud and a bit rude) and immediately rushed to Papa's side. I took his arm and began to help him walk across the room to his chair, still dazed by the events I didn't expect. After two steps, he fell, and I knew. The man I loved, the only man who had been in my life for all of my 16 years on this earth, was gone. When the ambulance arrived and the paramedics began their work, I just wanted them to stop. I knew it was over, and when we got the call from the hospital telling us the inevitable, they confirmed what I knew. His heart had burst, and there was no way he could have survived that regardless of what they did.

Two days later, on Wednesday, Grandma followed him to heaven. Friday, we had a funeral for them both. That was nineteen years ago.

Nineteen years is a long time. Sometimes, I wish it was long enough to make me forget. Other times, I'm glad I remember, because I can't imagine living my life without being able to close my eyes and see his smile, hear his voice, feel his love for me.

Today as I remember the man I lost so long ago, I am comforted by the words of 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14:

And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died.

Momma, he was my friend.

September 26, 2012 - This morning, I heard words that struck pure terror into my heart. As I arrived at my office, a friend from the nearby town of Perkins said, "Did you hear? There's been a shooting at one of the Stillwater schools."

At that time of the morning, school had just begun for my kids and they should all have been in their first hour classes - Morgan at the high school, KayLynn at the junior high, and Aaron at the middle school. My heart dropped into my stomach as my brain imagined each one of them in grave danger. I dug into my purse for my phone, only to discover I'd left it at home. My babies were in trouble, and I couldn't even call or text them to make sure they weren't hurt. It seemed like an eternity passed before I found out which school the shooting occurred at and what happened. As details trickled in, we learned that a 13-year-old male student had shot himself in the head in the 'Pit" area of the junior high. The kids were put on lockdown and then evacuated to a nearby shopping center parking lot for parents to pick up.

It was like a nightmare. Our kids were safe, but someone's child wasn't. Another mother was learning that her son had not only been shot and killed at school, but also that he was the one who pulled the trigger. Other mothers were comforting their hysterical children, all witnesses to the brutality of a gunshot wound to the head, right in the common area of their school.

When I got to see my KayLynn and talk to her this evening, she told me about her friend Cade. She says he was funny and loved to tell jokes, and that whenever someone was upset in their circle of friends, Cade was the one to cheer them up. In middle school, he was popular; kids loved his sense of humor and affectionately called him "Carrot Top" because of his curly red hair and comedy skills. I asked her if he was popular at the junior high too, since this was their first year there, and her voice changed. "Well, mom, people change when you get to jr high. He had friends, I was his friend, and all my friends were, but it's just different here," she explained. She told me how their little group had all planned to have a party at Pizza Hut this afternoon and how excited Cade was about it. She told me how he had come to Switch the week before and rededicated his life to Christ, and how he told her he couldn't wait for Switch this week. She talked about Cade's smile, his laugh, and how much fun he was to be around. "Mom, he was just really a great kid," she said, and she began to cry.

"Mom?"
"Yes, sweet girl?"
"I saw him this morning. Mom, I could see the sadness in his eyes; it was like his eyes were just full of this deep sadness that I'd never seen before. And Mom?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I saw a bulge under his shirt. I didn't know, Mom. I didn't know it was a gun. I said hi, but he just walked away, and I didn't know he had a gun,"
"Oh, Honey, there's no way you could have known."
"But, Mom, I should have stopped him." At this, my beautiful, precious, innocent KayLynn buried her head into my shoulder and began crying, She looked up at me with tears rolling down her face and bloodshot eyes, and she said "Momma, he was my friend."

As I held my 13-yr-old baby in my lap, she cried. I didn't know how to help her, so I cried too. I looked into her little upturned, tear-streaked face and told her that she could not have stopped this, that this was not her fault, and that she was a good friend to Cade. I told her that she didn't do anything wrong, and then I just held her and we cried together.

I can't fix this. I can't take away her pain, her memories of the gunshot sound, or the way her stomach churned at the overpowering smell of blood. I can't tell her why, or promise her nothing like this will ever happen again. All I can do is cry with her and pray that God will heal us all.

Cade's mom, if you ever read this, I want you to know that I love you. I don't know you, but my daughter knew your son, and my heart breaks for your pain. Please know that just like it's not my KayLynn's fault that this happened, it's not your fault either. I can't fix this for you, but please know that I am crying with you and praying that God will comfort and heal you.

Jr High students, if you read this, I want you to know that I love you too, whether I've ever met you or not. I have a God who fills my heart with love for each and every one of you, and I'm praying that He will touch your lives and bring beauty from your pain. I don't care if you're a cool kid, a nerdy kid, a drama kid, a bully, or a pothead. When I look at you, that's not what I see. I see wonderfully made boys and girls full of potential to change the world, and I love you.

My KayLynn, when you read this, I want you to know that I love you most of all. My beautiful angel, you did nothing wrong. You couldn't have stopped this, and you don't deserve the guilt you feel. You are God's child, His masterpiece, and He will lift you through this to become the world-changer he knows you can be. When you hurt, I am here. When you remember and need to talk, I am here. When you're overwhelmed with grief and need to cry, I am here. And when you're happy, because it is absolutely ok for you to be happy, I'm here to smile and laugh with you. I will never leave you, baby girl, and more than that, God will never leave you. I love you more than all the raindrops in a cloud.

What's your number?

If you've spent extensive time at my house and with my family, you'd know exactly what it means when we say, "What's your number?"

In our house, we measure pain on a scale of one to ten. Migraine pain, back pain, headache pain, belly pain...you name it, and you better be able to give it a number. When our good family friends had a bad car accident and we had an extra son for a week or so, he made the question into a joke since it wasn't something he had ever been asked and we did have to ask him that A LOT to determine what meds he needed. Numbering our pain allows us to know when medications are needed and what kind, as well as when to be concerned or call the doctor. It also gives the person in pain some perspective on what they're feeling. When we give our pain a number, we stop focusing on how much it hurts and define limits for controlling it.

Since I get migraines often, my husband (and my kids!) have gotten really good at knowing when I have one. Apparently they can see it in my eyes, which is really frustrating for me. There are many days when I'd rather just lie and say my head doesn't hurt, simply because I get so tired of having a headache all the time. I figure if  I don't tell anyone, then it doesn't count. If I can hide the pain, then I don't really have a migraine and I'm perfectly normal. Of course, that doesn't work for very long - eventually, the pain escalates, and my body taps out. Before I know it, I've gone from a manageable 3 to a miserable 7, all because I didn't want to admit that I was hurting. Since I'm so stubborn, my family has learned to stop asking me if I have a headache when they can see the pain in my eyes, and instead they ask, "What's your number?" With that one little question, they make it clear to me that they know I'm hurting and they want to help. It's like giving me permission to be in pain and to share it with them instead of holding onto it alone.

So what if we asked "What's your number?" more often? What if, instead of just applying the question to physical pain, we also applied it to emotional pain? What if those numbers came with treatments and limits, just like our physical pain numbers? Our emotional pain is so much easier to hide, so much easier to ignore....and so much more destructive when left untreated. Even the physical signs of emotional pain are easy to ignore - we can say we're tired, or sick, or hungry, or any number of other excuses to hide the fact that our emotional pain level is so high that it's affecting us physically. We don't want to burden others with our problems, so we stuff it down and put on a smile while we die a little inside. Our hearts are crying out for someone to see, someone to care, someone to realize that we need comfort, restoration, sympathy, affection, love. 

Dear children, let's not merely say that we love each other; let us show the truth by our actions. 1 John 3:18

Who can you show the truth to today, just by asking that one little question..."What's your number?"

Mrs. B

Today’s blog is dedicated to a very special person, one who cared for a child not her own, and cared enough to save that child from a desperate life.

Mrs. B was an elementary school teacher. She was fun and well-respected, and her students loved her. This year, she had a new girl in class. The new child seemed different from the rest – she didn’t make friends easily, didn’t seem to grasp social skills very well, and behaved very oddly at times. Mrs B took note of this new student and began to learn more about her. She noticed that the girl rarely brought snacks for ‘party day’ and that when she did, it was a small box of raisins. This seemed odd to Mrs. B, since the girl constantly seemed to be hungry. While the other second graders shoveled their lunch down as quickly as possible in order to get outside for recess, this girl spent her entire lunch hour in the cafeteria – chatting with the cafeteria workers and eating second and third helpings. That might make more sense if the child was overweight, but she certainly was not. Mrs. B didn’t know what was going on, but something didn’t seem right.

One day, she asked the child and discovered that things at home were not right. The girl told Mrs. B how she spent her time at home locked in her room or outside, and how she was fed a small bowl of cereal each morning and a peanut butter or cheese sandwich for dinner, every day. She told Mrs. B about her special cup under the bathroom sink where she could get a drink of water if she was inside and her door wasn’t locked, and about the delicious-smelling meals she could hear her parents and younger sister enjoying in the evenings. She talked with love and longing about her grandparents, the Papa she loved and the Grandma who was such a wonderful cook. The child told Mrs. B how much she loved being with her grandparents, because she was free to be with them, play, eat, and not be harshly disciplined.

Mrs. B asked the child about discipline in her home, and was shocked at the answer. The child told Mrs. B that she was spanked for crying or for being bad, and especially for having accidents on the expensive hallway rug if she couldn’t get out of her locked room to make it to the bathroom on time. The girl told Mrs. B about her chalkboard, and how the hash marks on the board represented how many nights in a row she would be spanked, depending on the severity of her transgressions and how many hash marks were already on the board. If she cried excessively during the punishment, she said, more hash marks would be added. She also told Mrs. B how sad she was that she would be punished if her little sister came into her room, because she loved her little sister very much and couldn’t understand why they couldn’t play together. Mrs. B asked the girl to make her a chart for a week, showing what food she ate that week. The child seemed excited to do this special job for her teacher, and worked to make her chart as pretty as possible, drawing pictures of her cereal and sandwiches every day.

One day in November, residents of the town woke up to a thick blanket of snow. The snow prevented the buses from running, so the administration chose to keep school open for those kids whose parents could bring them, but called all the parents of bus riders to let them know that the buses would not be running. When the girl walked into her classroom that morning, very late, she was soaked from head to toe and shivering uncontrollably. Mrs. B seated the girl on the counter where the heater vents were located, with the rest of the class staring, and went to talk to the counselor. They called the girl’s stepmother to bring dry clothes, and the counselor decided to talk to the girl and find out why she was cold and wet. The girl seemed confused as she said she had been waiting at the bus stop in the snow all morning for the bus to come, but then her daddy came home and took her to school instead. She didn’t understand why the bus hadn’t come, because she felt as if she had waited a long time and no one else was waiting outside on her street. When the girl’s stepmother arrived with dry clothing, she seemed very annoyed and the counselor could hear her yelling at the girl as she changed, telling her how many marks she would get for interrupting her day like this. The counselor and Mrs. B knew what the marks meant, and they were determined not to let this little girl continue to live in these wretched conditions.

Mrs. B and the counselor set an evening meeting with the girl’s parents, determined to see for themselves what was going on in the home. When they arrived at the house, they never saw the girl, and they had clear evidence that this environment was not healthy or safe for her. Mrs. B and her colleagues gave the parents an ultimatum: stop the abuse, or find the girl a loving home , otherwise they would be reported by the school to the authorities to be prosecuted for child abuse.

The day after Christmas, it was all settled and arranged. Mrs. B and the counselor met the girl and her parents at the school and watched as they loaded the girl’s toybox and a few possessions into the car of a family who had agreed to take her in. Mrs. B hugged the girl goodbye and gave the girl her address, so they could keep in touch even though the girl was moving away. The girl was confused and sad to be leaving her family, but the decision had been made. After the visit from Mrs. B and her colleagues, the girl’s stepmother had given the girl’s father an ultimatum too: get rid of the girl, or she would leave and take their young daughter with her. The father had to choose between leaving his oldest daughter an orphan, since her mother had died two years earlier, or losing his wife and youngest daughter. He chose to stay with his wife, so the girl had to go. He arranged for a couple from their church to take her; they very much wanted a child but were unable to have one.

The girl was frightened and sad, and she didn’t understand why her daddy didn’t want her anymore. She loved her new family, but there was a sadness in her heart that followed her everywhere, and within six months she was moving into another home with a relative, feeling completely abandoned and unwanted. She kept in touch with Mrs. B for a while, but eventually she stopped writing to her.

Now, the girl is a woman, a mom, a wife, and she recognizes how different her life would have been if Mrs. B hadn’t cared enough to find out her story and had the courage to help change it.

The girl is me, and Mrs. B was my second-grade teacher. I can’t say how she feels about what she did, or even if she remembers the awkward little girl whose life she changed forever. What I can say, however, is how thankful I am that God put her into my life at that moment. Thank you, Mrs. B, from the bottom of my heart. Your courage and compassion will keep you always in my heart and my prayers, and you’ll always be a hero to me.

I'm a Finn fan!!

These are my sweet friends, Britt and Betsey Weaver.  We like to call them Brittsey, since we get a little tongue tied trying to say Britt and Betsey. :-) This photo was taken in the summer of 2011, while they were taking a late honeymoon in California.  Britt had planned the entire trip and made it a surprise for Betsey, but he wasn't prepared for the surprise she had planned for him...

Betsey had just found out that she was pregnant! Baby "Shocker" was due to arrive just after Christmas. They hadn't planned on adding a fourth child to their brood, but God clearly felt they needed just one more! We were all excited and eagerly anticipating a sweet Christmas gift for their beautiful family. The gender reveal party shared the news that we were waiting for a boy, who would be named Finn Ricker. Perfect! Finn would round out the family perfectly, since Brittsey had twin girls and one boy already. We couldn't have been happier for them!!

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before Betsey began experiencing some serious complications. After many scary trips to the hospital, prayer vigils, and bed rest problems, she was admitted to Mercy hospital in OKC to stay until Finn arrived. The goal was to get her as close to her due date as possible, since every single week of pregnancy increased Finn's chances of survival. Doctors weren't sure what was wrong, but they did everything they could to keep Betsey and Finn healthy while we covered them in prayer.

On October 5, 2011, the doctors realized that Betsey had a placental abruption and rushed her into surgery for an emergency c-section. Finn was born at 26 weeks gestation, weighing only 1 lb, 14 oz. He was barely longer than a ruler at 13" long.  He was tiny and needed lots of help to survive - but he did it! Finn survived and thrived, and got to go home (with oxygen support and a heart monitor) just after Christmas. He continued to grow and get stronger until he was finally able to be off the heart monitor, then have his oxygen weaned to nothing. By June, Finn was out and about with his family - Brittsey, twin sisters Emma & Lara, and big brother Jake.  As I snapped this pic of my oldest daughter holding Finn when we ran into them at a local restaurant, my heart was overflowing with emotion at how far my dear friends had come and how much healing and growth God had given all of us through Finn's struggle.

Now, Finn is healthy, happy, and right on track with his growth and development. To celebrate his journey and contribute to the fight for babies everywhere, I have decided to walk with Finn's Fans at the March For Babies on October 6. Finn will turn 1 year old the day before our walk, and I can't help but smile when I see his precious little face. Will you join me in helping babies like Finn? I need 15 people to donate $10 in order to reach my fundraising goal. You can donate online at http://www.marchforbabies.org/meredithbeyl - every donation helps! Please join with me in celebrating this beautiful family who I love so much!

Melba Louise; August 16, 1953 - June 25, 1982

 
My Dearest Mom,

I hope you know that I love you, even though I don’t really remember you.  I have pictures, but it’s not the same.  An old tape recording of you is the only reason I remember the sound of your voice.  I sometimes resent my cousins because they knew you better than I did – they have so many memories to share, so much love for you.  And I’m thankful for how much you loved them.  They needed that, and the things I’ve heard from them about your loving nature gave me a desire from the beginning to love others like that.  People tell me that you were kind and patient, and I hope I’ve inherited some of that from you.  Some days, I think I do better than others.  And some days I wish I could ask you how to improve.   So many people loved you.  Your parents missed you until the day they died; I don’t think a day went by that they didn’t think of you.  They never said an unkind word about you, at least not to me.  They didn’t agree with all your choices, but they loved you always.  Did you know that they fought for your pictures?  It wasn’t easy, but they did it for me.  They bought a big black trunk and filled it with you – your pictures, your fur coat, your wedding dress, your clarinet practice book, even the receipt for the clothes you were buried in.  Grandma used to go through it with me every summer.  It would take us two full days to get everything out and put it back; not because there was so much stuff, but because we would look at every single picture while she told me stories about you.  For years I believed that you weren’t really dead; you were in hiding and would come rescue me as soon as you could.  I wrote you letters and had dreams about you.  I don’t even remember when I finally accepted that you really were in that grave.  Probably when I saw a copy of some hospital paperwork from that day…most everything was blacked out, but I could see enough to know that it wasn’t a mistake.
 

Some days, like today, I miss you so much it hurts.  I’ll never know why I think of you every time I smell mustard, and you’ll never know your beautiful grandchildren.  I’ll never get to laugh with you about the day we took my favorite picture of us, when I was wearing the yellow flower in my hair.  I remember that day!  We were celebrating my birthday and Rebecca’s with one party, as always, and you had gotten Rebecca a flower too.  Hers was white, and I wanted it instead of my yellow flower.  I threw a fit, and I wasn’t very nice to you.  The picture doesn’t show that – in the picture, I’m all smiles with my cake showing the story of the little pig who went to kindergarten.  If I could talk to you now, I’d tell you thank you for not giving me the white flower. You were right: the yellow one was beautiful, and I was being selfish.

Today would be your birthday.  I’ll never forget the last one we got to celebrate with you.  I was so excited about the sugar-free cake Grandma had bought you and the dinner she’d made, and so happy to spend time with you at their house.  I never dreamed that birthday would be your last, and I know you didn’t either.  Remembering you makes me realize how unpredictable life is and how little control we really have over it.  Remembering your life, I can’t help but renew my own desire to make mine count – to love freely and fully, to serve others, to be generous and kind.  To move past my mistakes, to forgive myself when I mess up, and to never forget that it could all be over in an instant. You weren’t perfect, but you’ll always be an inspiration to me.
 

Love always,

Meredith Lee

From This Day Forward

Tonight, Cory and I got to share our marriage story in a short video for Lifechurch.tv Stillwater. We had talked beforehand about what we would say, but sitting in those chairs with the bright lights, microphones, and video cameras, I was struck by just how blessed we are to be in this moment. Sometimes, in the process of day to day life, I forget just how much we, as one, have been broken, redeemed, and healed.

We've been married for six and a half years, and for the first three, we definitely were not "one" person. We had very different perspectives, priorities, and goals, and we discovered pretty quickly that we had very different bonds with Christ. Probably due to all the struggles in my childhood, I've always had a relationship with God that's very tangible, very real, very intimate. Cory, on the other hand, seemed to view salvation as a prayer you say once, a plea for forgiveness, or a "get out of hell free" card. When the kids and I found Lifechurch.tv Stillwater and became a part of the family, we and many others prayed diligently that he would come to know the joy of a deeper relationship with our Savior. I did all I could to be a godly wife and to hold our marriage together, and I vowed that I would do everything possible to make sure I didn't find myself divorced for a second time. Then, a little over 3 years into our marriage, all that changed when I found out that Cory had been having an affair for almost the entire time we'd been married.

I was heartbroken, angry, and hurt. For the first time in three years, I was thankful that I was spending the night away from home working at our local domestic violence shelter. I was ready to give up, ready to face failing at marriage yet again, and ready to go back to being a single mom of three kids. I wanted nothing more than for Cory to pack his things and get out of my house. All my prayers, all my longing, all my hopes and dreams were shattered. My thoughts swirled as I wondered how to break it to the kids, how I would manage two visitation schedules, how I would be able to pick up the pieces and go on when I felt like such a failure. I poured my heart out to my best friend, my Jesus, and waited for his comfort and validation to take over.

But comfort and validation never came. Instead of telling me I had failed and that He would give me strength, God told me that His ways are not my ways, and that divorce was not in His plan. I had been praying for my husband to see Christ the way I see him, and this was my chance to show just how committed I was to making that happen. I had to forgive my husband. If I wanted him to know what it truly means to be saved, redeemed, and forgiven by God, I had to show him myself, mirroring the love and forgiveness of Christ. Instead of walking away, I had to stay,

For the next year and a half, I fought my urge to leave and watched as God worked miracles in my husband's heart and soul. Every time Cory asked me about a Bible verse, told me about hearing God's voice, and took baby steps toward Christ, I questioned God. Was he doing this just to keep me from leaving, or was it genuine? Would this new-found faith keep growing, or would it shrivel and die before it ever really bloomed? Would our marriage really be transformed, or was this all an act? Would my faithfulness pay off, or would I end up heartbroken yet again? Oddly enough, God didn't give me any reassurance about the sincerity of my husband's changes. Every time I questioned, the answer was the same: "It doesn't matter. Your forgiveness can't be dependent on his sincerity." So I kept forgiving and tried to trust. Cory began going to LifeGroup with me, then started joining me at church. Nine months after I caught my husband in an affair, I sat next to him and prayed with him as he committed his life to Christ fully - all in, holding nothing back. Six months later, I knew his devotion was real when he stood in the pool for everyone to see and our children baptized him as our family, church staff, and friends rejoiced, cheered, and cried.

Now, three years after we almost gave up, we get to sit in front of a camera and tell others how we seek God together, pray together, read the Bible together, and serve our Number One together. We are redeemed, restored, and renewed, and our marriage is stronger than I ever could have imagined. Our children know how much we love each other, how much we love them, and how we love God above all, and they join us in prayers, Bible studies, and in serving God and others. As always, the Bible says it best: Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy. Psalm 126:5