My Life As A Squirrel Mom

There seems to be this misconception held tightly in our youth - "Once I reach 18...21...25...(ect) I will be grown." The real truth is that with each changing phase of life there is growing up to do. Often times, the growing happens at such a slow pace that we are unaware of the changes taking place as our beliefs become more solidified, our footing begins to feel more secure, our purpose is more sure, and our more frequent groans in standing up signal the wear our bodies have taken. But then there are other times in which death and trauma speed the growing up process along in the blink of an eye. In those moments, we're left breathless, confused, stumbling, depressed and longing for what might have been. The story of my time as a squirrel mom was dropped right into that darkest part of depression and loss, woven in such a way that only an omniscient God could orchestrate. 

Those that know me, or have read any of my ramblings, are aware that in 2015 we said goodbye to my gma after a 4mth marathon of caregiving. The toll and change that journey took on my being forever changed who I am today. It was during this time that my secret was discovered, as momma found the burn marks down my back left from the constant usage of heat packs used to just make it through that fast paced time. Just as I promised, I sought treatment once gma was Home and found out the diagnosis that would again force me to grow up a little more - osteoarthritis of the spinal column resulting in disintegrating disc disorder. All fancy talk for - one day you'll be a walking, talking, real life Woverine. (That was the easiest way to describe it to the kids, who loved Marvel comics as much as their dad and I did, although adamantium is not an option. My plates and screws are all titanium.) 

During this same time, my Aunt Suzie's battle with metastatic breast cancer waged on as treatment after treatment left the Dr saying, "We'll have to try (this) now...." We knew she was getting weaker, tireder, weary but not even her Dr could admit this was a battle that was being lost. 

In March of 2017 I had the first of many spinal related surgeries. For reasons unknown still to this day, my Dr prescribed EIGHT WEEKS OF BEDREST. You read that correctly - EIGHT. Everyone else's lives continued on as mine stood still, or rather laid still, as I grew up in a totally different way through this journey. My mental health tanked and depression loomed large just around the corner. But there was one other person in my life who, though she had not been prescribed bedrest, would find herself with so little energy that her bed, her chair, had become the tiny vantage point from which she was living also - my Aunt Suzie. 

During those eight weeks we talked everyday. We giggled as we tried to imagine all the things the twins were doing, we prayed as we talked about her "big" grandkids and how their school years were going, we talked about my kiddos activities and how they were doing, we imagined heaven and what it must be like for Mawmaw and PaPaw to be reunited after more than 20 years. We were peas in pods, separated by a few miles, confined to our recovery places, throwing digital glitter back and forth between texts and Facebook messenger. Once I was fiiiiiinally released from my prison, the first place I went was to spend the entire day with her. It. Was. The. Best. Day. Ever. 

Then, the unthinkable happened only 3 weeks later. The toll that the battle against cancer took on her body was just too much. We were forced to say goodbye and "we'll see you when we get there." My teeter-tottering mental health could not take anymore as I slipped into the darkest place anyone could ever imagine. 

The only way I can think to describe what I was experiencing is a muted, grey-scale world now devoid of all joy, happiness and laughter. There were birds, but they didn't sing. There were trees but they had no color. There were children but they had no mother who could do all of the things they needed done. Over the next year, I would beg doctors for help out of that place as I did the bare minimum to ensure my family's continued existence. For days, I would only get out of bed to take them where they had to be. For weeks, I would go with little to no self-care - I couldn't tell you when my last shower was or the last time I picked up my toothbrush. As life continued on out there, the darkness of my spiral continued as tears soaked the pillow I just couldn't seem to lift my head off of. 

Then one day, as though dropped out of heaven itself, a tiny baby squirrel fell from its nest and into our lives. Her eyes were still closed and her fur was downy soft. The big rehabber in Magnolia was full so what was I to do with this baby squirrel??? I reached out to Ms Natalie, a childhood friend of our parents, about what to do for this tiny baby I knew nothing about caring for. She walked me through that day and through the night to care for Smeagol, named such because it was our dogs Sam and Frodo who found her. I was finally able to identify this cry I had heard so many times outside as a baby squirrel's cry. So the next day, when a storm blew through and downed a tree in our yard, that cry I had never known before could be heard loud and clear near the tree's base. There were two more baby squirrels now in my hands with no momma who came to retrieve them. 

The darkness and fog I had been existing in had to change in those moments. With nowhere to take these 3 babies, I would HAVE TO get up. I would HAVE TO set feed schedules. I would HAVE TO begin to live again if they were going to have a fighting chance. And so it was like the breath of God, breathed life back into Lazarus's lungs, I had to make the conscious choice to step out of the cave of death's shadow where I had been.

Over the course of the next few months, there were 3hr feedings, eyes that would open, mouths that would squeak, and little legs that would jump from side to side in the bird cage that sat on my bedside table. Smeagol, Dwight and Chuck Norris (named such because the kids were afraid he wasn't going to make it through the night) went EVERYWHERE with us. Football games, church, co-op classes. Their intense schedule MADE ME grow up again. 

It was through those 3 little lives that I would begin to hear the birds sing - I remember that day clearly, I texted mom when it happened. The trees had color again and flowers appeared out of nowhere. But more than all that, those 3 little lives gave me back the 4 little lives that needed me the most, MY BABIES. My babies were anxious to help with the squirrel babies. They diligently watched the clock for feeding times. They learned to wipe squirrel heinies alongside their momma. They loved and doted on these precious creatures God had literally dropped into our laps. There was laughter again. There was happiness once more. There was joy none of us had known for what felt like a long time. 

Who knew that squirrels would be the catalyst God would use to MAKE ME grow up when all I had wanted to do was mourn for the rest of my life. Who knew that squirrels would be what bonded me to my children again after the year of emotional neglect reeked havoc in our lives. Who knew? Most rehabbers. The few that I've talked with have similar stories - in desperate times that demanded desperate intervention, God began healing their soul through His Creation and our original mandate to remain watch over the tiniest of creatures He gave. 

My life as a squirrel mom came to a pause with the death of Chuckie, the last to survive all those years. Oh, how fitting his name turned out to be. The memories of their antics play sweetly over and over in my head. The graciousness of their presence in our lives could never be overstated. The gratitude I have for the 3 little lives dropped into mine could only be stated as such - God gave them to us when they needed us most, but also when we needed them the most too. And we all grew up a little more. 

Mundane Faithfulness, Eternal Impact

As cousins, nieces, nephews and subsequent generations of all of those met yesterday to lay to rest the last of the original Rutledge children, there was laughter, there were memories, there were tears. Knowing that Aunt Janet was reunited in the blink of an eye with Uncle Joe, Grandma and Grandpa Rutledge, Uncle Harlow, Mawmaw, Aunt Bobbie, Aunt Mert, and her twin, Uncle TJ gave much more than mere solace in the face of our loss - it gives us great Hope.

Sometime in my teen years, I began to push back and honestly resent the fact that allllll my family did at gatherings was talk about Jesus. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Can't we talk about anything else?" I was headed straight toward rebellion and the consequences that would accompany my choices. And so I became hostile toward any chatter that served to remind me of how far my heart had wandered. You see, some of our journeys take the "scenic route" - alongside the cliffs and overhangs as we edge along the rocky outcrops just to see how close we can get without falling over. Some lessons are to be learned firsthand. Some hearts must experience the weight of wandering before they can be bound to Jesus, as the old, familiar hymn alludes.

Yet even in our lessons there is mercy we don't deserve and grace we couldn't earn. My family has been the embodiment of that mercy and grace here in earth. What others would see has everyday, mundane living has been the gateway through which Brian and I have seen God's grace poured out repeatedly in tangible and encouraging ways. 

As my second cousins, Aunt Janet's sons, offered glimpses into who she was at different points in her life, an overwhelming humility engulfed me as I stood there, wondering if anyone else knew how deeply the gift she and Uncle Joe had given us in the early months of our marriage affected who we had become.

Two weeks shy of high school graduation, Brian and I carried a secret that would soon reveal itself as we would become parents in six short months. We had nothing. His lease was up within weeks. He had just begun working at Dr Pepper and I was only working part time at a kids' clothing store. In the days before the pre-existing clauses were written out of insurance policies, my pregnancy pre-dated both his employment and our marriage. We spent the next three weeks attempting to shore up any kind of assistance and housing we could. Only we didn't qualify for anything. $5 a month too much for assistance. $5 a month not enough to rent an apartment. We were so engrossed in our own attempts to salvage something, anything before we would have to tell our families. To no avail. 

As news of our expected baby traveled, of course, it got bigger and more convoluted. The rumors ranged from me not knowing who the father was to this being a plan we had come up with. The treatment I, in particular, received from former church members and deacons ranged from ignoring me completely, except the look of scorn, in Brian's presence to pointing across the aisles, whispering to one another, then walking away in plain view as I watched. Not only was I carrying the weight of the life growing inside me with no real way to provide for him but nearly every way I turned offered a new hurt in a different capacity. I was drowning in the sea of judgment and uncertainty. 

That was when that family I had grown so irritated with took me into their arms, unconditionally. No one made me feel the shame others had heaped on me. No one whispered or pointed when I walked in the door. No one even looked at me skeptically, much less scornfully. All that I received from them was love, compassion, genuine care and excitement once the numbness of our announcement wore off. 

Then, I got a phone call from Mawmaw. Aunt Janet and Uncle Joe had bought a house in Huntsville but their house in Spring had not sold yet. They ASKED us to live there until the old home could be sold in order to take care of the yard and the pool. Our only rent payment would be the work we would do around their new farm. Yes, you read that correctly - NO RENT. We knew nothing about pools or large plots of land. I didn't even know a convection oven was a thing. There were deer every evening and the most beautiful rises in that kitchen. 

The three short months we lived in that gigantic house (it sure seemed gigantic with just the two of us there) allowed us to pay out of pocket a large portion of Kendall's delivery. It wasn't our home but we were allowed to call it home at a time when we needed it most. They gave us a three month jump start into adulthood, and parenthood, that could never be repaid. As a woman and stay at home mom also, it has never been lost on me that my Aunt Janet let me cook in her kitchen before she got the chance to even unbox a single pot. My Uncle Joe let us swim and relax in the pool before he even put a little pinky toe in it. We got to enjoy the quietness our hearts and souls needed in the refuge their farm gave. But more than all that, the hands on, wandering heart lesson I learned through their grace, mercy and love was that I CAN serve others and Jesus in everyday, mundane faithfully. Checking pool levels and weeding the front flower bed. Sharing my space with others when they've got no where else to go. Giving a "hand up" to those that are desperate and wandering. 

As I stood there yesterday, I realized that most of my cousins had no idea of their quiet generosity to us as that scared, shaky footed, wounded young couple. They weren't in the business of advertising their love and grace but were about living it out, which in turn taught us all the more how to follow their example. The example they learned from Jesus Himself. 

So as one more of the Rutledges was welcomed Home, I am left here with grateful tears, a deep sense of gratitude and awe, and a once wandering heart bound to Jesus because all they did was talk about Him. And loved like He loves. 

I Will See you In The Morning

Growing up going to church with my future husband has been one of the biggest blessings I experienced in all my life. Sure, we didn't really hit it off for years, but at God's perfect timing, I have to confess that it was HIS EYE that caught a glimpse of the nerdy girl in the group. But that's a story for a different time. 

If you didn't know anything else about Brian, you would need to know that he LOVES to sing. Over the past few days though, the gift that God has given him would be put to its hardest test as he would sing his momma Home. 

She loved to hear him sing. Yesterday, in fact, they may have drifted from worship to "Ob-la-di ob-la-da..." Man, she loved the Beatles almost as much as she loved him. 😉

I've spent much of the past few days sitting quietly, watching grief and sorrow wash over some of the people I love most in this world and reflecting. What are the right words? Are there words at all? How do you even begin to honor the person who gave you the greatest gift this life could ever give with mere words?

Sitting in a quiet waiting room this morning, God gave me the words I had been praying for all weekend. The last words she would say to me, "I love you. I'll see you in the morning." There were a few words this morning but those are the last words she whispered in my ear. 

There is nothing easy about the death of a loved one. Sights, sounds, and events would flood back to my mind as they were experienced anew and differently. God's grace, mercy and goodness shone through the darkest moments again just as the glitter I dropped out off my pockets would on the floor everywhere our feet went. But those are not my stories to tell either. 

What I can tell you is that "No More Night" is one of the greatest songs Brian Foster has ever sung. Its chorus is based on Revelation 21. Revelation 21:22‭-‬25 says:

I did not see a temple in the city, because the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are its temple. The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their splendor into it. On no day will its gates ever be shut, for there will be no night there.

Without either of us knowing, she had stated the simple truth - She will see me in the morning. 

I don't know how Heaven time works but I do know that we will see her again soon. One day, we will also close our eyes here and open them as Jesus takes our hand and walks us down the roads that glimmer and shine just exactly like the glitter we would catch glimpses of today. 

I pray she knew how much I loved her. How the flowers I'd send to her office on his birthdays were a small token of the gratitude my heart felt. How she gave me her son, like I'm how giving mine away now. How her unselfishness in that would give me four amazing kids that would lead to three more amazing daughters. How I will teach her great grandchildren about how much she loved Jesus one day. 

But for tonight, our hearts linger behind our minds a little. We know that there's no pain. There's no night. Only being with Jesus forever. 

I'll see you in the morning, mom. It's good. 

Spiritual ADHD

Our lives provide repeated opportunities to recognize our weaknesses and depend on Jesus's strength. 

One sentence. Sometimes that's all it takes. 

As I sat in the middle of our bed, surrounded by clipboards, commentaries, notebooks and Bibles preparing for the lesson I would teach Monday night, that sentence caught me up short. In looking for an illustration for my students, "Be vulnerable" kept coming back to my heart. 

Be. 

Vunerable. 

The two words that strike fear into the heart of all mankind. No one wants anyone to air their dirty laundry for the amusement of others. Why, then, would one willingly air out their own? 

The simple answer? To connect with others. To demonstrate the "me too" that cries out when we see others struggling. To offer healing and a testimony of God's faithfulness in the middle of their hurt. To meet them where they are, just like Jesus will. 

When I began this blog in June 2015, it quickly became the window into our journey in the caregiving to my Mawmaw. But the title was something I had grappled with for months leading up to her fall. 

"Spiritual ADHD" is my confession that so many times my view of God's faithfulness, my trust in His provision, my awareness of His working in my life is largely affected by external factors. My focus, like that of our four ADHD kids, bounces around, distracted by "shiny objects" or dark clouds that beckon my attention. The depth of my faith and steadiness of my heart ebbs and flows with the waves of the storms that breech my horizon. I suspect I'm not alone. 

Through a series of events, detailed in a social media post, I shared in October that over the course of a week, we managed to lose three running vehicles and nearly lost the lone surviving one that we had. Suspecting theft and after dark tampering with those vehicles, we were quickly losing sight of any goodness around us. But the tipping point came when a report was made involving a member of our family, a squirrel raised from 3wks old that God had used to breathe life back into my existence during the darkness of clinical depression. Arrangements would have to be made for our Chuckie or euthanasia would become his fate at the hand of the state. All faith in humanity dashed, we could have simply packed all of our shmoopies up and become hermits to protect ourselves from further hurt and harm. To say that our spiritual outlook was bleak would definitely be an understatement. 

Days would roll on as, not unlike Job, we would question, confident that God is big enough for our questions - But we've been obedient! We've paid all of our own bills, even when it was hard and others would not. We've even paid other's bills. We've taken care of others in need and shared everything You've given us. We've followed Your path for our lives, even when the way was unsure and thorns covered the way. We've loved unconditionally and been broken for people that You love. Why are YOU allowing all of this to happen? What more could we do? 

As a single income, blue collar family, the loss of the vehicles was a devastating blow. 

Until. 

Two weeks after the detailed post, just begging to be left alone, there would be another knock at the door. My spiritual ADHD in high gear and with our eyes off of Jesus, we all feared more calamity and setbacks. "What now?" not only played in our heads but came out of our mouths. 

Standing on our front porch would be our "You of so little faith. Why did you doubt?" moment as a person from our past explained that God was telling them to give us an extravagant gift. Though they didn't know details, we immediately recognized God's handiwork in order to get us back on two feet. 

After our company left, we spent the rest of that evening and the next few days crying over God's faithfulness and our faithlessness. This gift was sobbed over, invoked more humility than we've ever felt in our lives and stunned us absolutely speechless. Wanting to shout from mountaintops how God used this couple in our time of need, we also knew and wanted to respect their quiet, thoughtful, timely giving. (How Godlike that I had taught "Give as if your right hand doesn't know what your left hand is doing" that very night.)

Through their sacrifice, we were not only able to replace an entire engine and get a vehicle running but were able to give to others, quietly, thoughtfully, secretly. We became merely conduits of God's faithfulness. My spiritual ADHD, again affected by external circumstances, was refocused as Jesus took my hand and lifted me from sinking in the waves. 

Our lives provide repeated opportunities to recognize our weaknesses and depend on Jesus's strength. 

One of my greatest weaknesses is allowing my spiritual ADHD to rule over my focus. The repeated opportunities I'm given to recognize this give me only one place to turn - Jesus. He gives strength in our weakness. He provides for our physical and spiritual needs. He uses His people to remind us of His faithfulness. 

How often I get distracted. 

Corazon de mi Corazon

"Do you know how much you love him?" I laid there, 18yrs old, barely 24hrs out of surgery, holding this tiny human that I was now responsible for and who would soon call me "Mom." 

"Yes," I replied. 

It was then that the profound love of both my mother and of God finally came into focus as she leaned in, put her hand on my cheek and said, "That's how much your momma loves you." She knew how desperately my heart needed to hear those words. She continued on, "And my precious girl, God loves you even more than that." Those words of Kit Bautsch changed my life. 

Very few things change our lives like becoming a parent does. We learn a whole new language we seem to have forgotten - You need to poopoo in the potty. We learn how very little sleep we can actually function on. We learn new ways to teach math and reading. We have a plethora of practical applications of what patience and self control really look like. But perhaps the hardest thing we learn is what life looks like to have these tiny pieces of our hearts walking around outside our bodies. Our joy is multiplied with theirs. Our excitement can't be contained anymore than theirs can. Our anxiety finds new heights. Our heartache, new lows. 

Tonight, I got to spend time with a dear friend who has lost one of those pieces. 

I've often thought about what I would do in that situation, how I would ever be able to go on again, and if I would be able to express the same faith I've clung to my entire life. But I watched her, through grief and tears, repeat the same thing to everyone she greeted - God is so good, mijo. 

In 2006, I sat in an adult Sunday School class for a few months. At the time, the study was about the book of Job. A few things stuck out to me during that study - 

1. Job's friends SUCKED. I mean, in the end, they really weren't great friends at all. Maybe this one guy a little but still. Being a friend in moments of tragedy most often means just being present. Words complicate and placate. They come out all wrong and fall short of healing. Being present, all there - that's what people really need. 

2. Job was patient until about chapter 3. Don't believe me? Check it out. There's really nothing marvelous about "The patience of Job". 

3. We are free to question God. He welcomes it. After all, every relationship must be built on honesty and He already knows anyway. When you do though, be prepared for Him to answer. "Where were you when I told the waters to stop?" ALWAYS pulls me up short when my attitude is bigger than the words that come out of my mouth. 

But perhaps what has stuck with me the most --

4. In big ALL CAP letters, written in pencil, at the end of the book are the words, "How would our view of God change if He didn't restore Job? Would He still be good?"

Last weekend, my friend reached out to me to let me know that her younger son was sick. He was very sick. I, like so many others, began praying that God would use the drs, nurses, and the medicines to heal Albert. I often want to kick myself for not being specific enough in the words that I use. HERE. That's what I meant, make him better here. 

But tonight, I found myself standing in a funeral home with my friend. I watched as so many littles walked in with their families to say goodbye to their coach. I watched as teachers, friends and family gathered to comfort one another. I watched as his former Army Sergeant, who flew in from out of state, took a packed polishing kit and diligently polished all of the buttons, the belt buckle and the medals that hung on his dress blues. I watched a different person - a complete stranger - hug his mother with only the words of, "He met me on the street and he changed my life." But mostly, I watched his mom, my friend. 

I watched the grace with which she met every person who came to say goodbye. I watched the gratitude expressed with each gift she was given. I watched her embrace strangers and console them. I watched her walk over to Brian and me, time after time to say, "Did you see that? That was God." and explain the part of her conversation we missed. 

My friend, mi hermana, my Millie stood there in the middle of the darkest, deepest hole any parent finds themself in and still was actively looking for God. 

As parents who follow Jesus, there is no greater concern, no desire so deep, no longing so real as the one that our children love God. That's it. Everything else is temporary. But that our children's hearts reflect God's heart, that is our lifelong goal in parenting. 

Albert loved God. He loved people. It didn't matter who you were or where you came from. It didn't matter what you had or if you had nothing. "He was his happiest coaching..." Loving on even the littles. 

As I watched mi hermana embrace those who came to offer condolences, tell stories and share tears over the "corazon de mi corazon", the term she often uses for her children and grandchildren, something amazing happened. Millie was the embodiment of "corazon del corazon de Dios" - heart of the heart of God. "If even one person comes to know God because of the loss of my son, all this will be worth it..." she repeated over and over again. All I could do was nod and sob.

Honestly, I'm not really sure, if faced with the same loss, my heart would be able to say those things. But my Millie. Her view of God didn't change when He didn't restore Albert HERE. She not only believes that God is still good, she told everyone who would listen.

I can only imagine that as she falls asleep tonight, Millie will hear from her heavenly Father - Ah, mija, corazon de Mi corazon.

The Other 85

Perhaps one of my greatest joys as a middle aged mother of adult sons are all the times they come and plop themselves down on the foot of my bed to fill me in on every thought, every doubt, every fear that they have. Having been with each of them 24 hours a day since birth, this is never an event I take lightly for I know these days are fleeting. Time and some amazing young ladies will replace me one day but until that day, I relish every word shared. 

It was late last night when the most recent conversation took place with our oldest. A 25 year old responsible, independent young man, he stood and paced for 2 hours at the end of our bed though it was nearly midnight. He shared his excitement over purchasing a new to him car soon and lessons he's learned at work. He shared his hopes for his future and making a life for someone he loves. But then I watched as tears filled his eyes. "Mom, we're just never going to be a united people again."

At first glance, one might think his lament was a purely political one but that's when you have to really listen. He likes to think that his compassion and concern for his fellow human beings are things buried deep within him but they're not. They're ever close to the surface with his tale tell sign being historical experiences that have shaped his outlook. 

I listened as he recalled an event they all learned of through their years of homeschooling. 

On December 24, 1914, only 5 months after World War I began, the booming of canons and popping of shots ceased in the trenches across portions of Europe. Then, slowly, a German voice would be heard singing from across the no man zone. It was the sound of Christmas Carols in their native tongue heard from their enemies' trenches. I cannot imagine the confusion, the disbelief, the baited hope those young soliders must have felt. 

On Christmas morning, the first men would literally stick their necks out of those godforsaken hell holes to see the eyes of the opposition peering back at them through the fog. First one man, then another would venture out, unarmed to meet their adversary in gestures of good faith, restatement of humanity and chivalry. Thus, the infamous Christmas Truce began when these enemies would "live and let live", exchanging small gifts and tokens to solidify the idea that we're all in this place together and while we may have our differences, we can still recognize the humanity and heart of those we would otherwise deem our enemies. 

I watched the tears and listened to his cracking voice as he said, "Mom, it's just too late for that now."

But it's not. 

The reality is that most of us live in the other 85%. Most of us WANT to see others as human beings to be loved and have compassion poured on them, the same way we wish to be loved and shown compassion. It is not by mere coincidence that Highway 85 transverses our country from north to south directly down the middle. 

The neighbor that you built a relationship with prior to the heightened emotional state that we live in now is still the same person they were before. The old classmate who reached out to let you know they were thinking about and praying for you through that gut wrenching situation is still the person who wants to do that today. The cashier who watched your kids grow and shared that his daughter was your same age until she was tragically killed at 18 is still the same man who wants to get that little side hug each time he sees you in line. 

If we could lay down our arms for just a moment... If we could recollect the character of the people we've built relationships with because of who they are and have always been... If we could meet in the middle simply because we are all in this life together, longing to be loved and shown compassion...

As long as I have breath within me, it will never be too late. 

This morning I woke as I always do. In the midst of so much confusion and heartbreak "out there", I asked the simple question I've asked so many times before - God, who do You have for me to love better today?

When the Best Gift You Got Gets Broken

This is a repost from one of my very first blogs written over 15yrs ago. (Circa 2005)

My grandparents are tightwads! No seriously. My dad often jokes with them about buying dog for them to eat since they "never seem to have money." Don't get me wrong - They have money, not a lot, but enough. (I honestly think that's where I get my knack for saving a dime.)

Anyway... that's why I was shocked when on our 10th anniversary my grandmother gave me a gift. I rushed to open the neatly wrapped box top find a Thomas Kinkade snowglobe inside!

I. LOVE. SNOWGLOBES! They are one of the few things I actually collect. 

I was so proud of my new treasure - both the meaning behind it and the fact that my grandparents were still alive to celebrate our 10th anniversary with us. I brought it home and put it high on a shelf behind our couches. I would occasionally bring it down, wind it for the boys to listen to, then gently place it back on the shelf I thought was out of reach. It wasn't. 

As I'm standing, washing dishes one day, I see Jonathan jump on the back of the couch, reach for my treasure, then hear this horrible shattering noise. In his quest to listen to the snowglobe, MY snowglobe, he had dropped it on the corner of the coffee table and broken it. 

I was irate! I turned the corner to see water, glass and glitter flakes everywhere. I tore into him. I began yelling about how a precious gift like that could never be replaced. "How could you not understand the meaning behind the fact that it was MY gift? Now when G-ma and G-pa die, I'll have nothing to show for their lives!" I spanked him and sent him to his room. He, by his choice, stayed there for the rest of the day. 

When I look back on that day (even retyping this 15+yrs later), I am honestly embarrassed and devastated. How could I possibly treat him like that? He was only 5yrs old. Jay, out of all of our kids, is by far the most tenderhearted. 

I cleaned the glass up though and went on about my day. I remember talking to him that night. I remember apologizing for the angry words I said, but I still didn't want to let go of MY snowglobe. I searched for weeks for a repair shop, determined to have it fixed as soon as possible, needing only to save the $75 to do so. 

That was August. We found out we were having another baby only a few weeks later. 

Fall came and we played in the leaves. 

The snowglobe was quickly forgotten. By me. 

Christmas night we were at my parents house. Everything was going great. I have always entered spending time with my parents, brothers and sister (in law). But when it came time to open gifts, momma made me sit down on the couch. That's never a good thing with us. It means - I'm about to make you cry. 

I was very nervous. Then Jonathan walked in with a box. It was wrapped in the most beautiful Christmas paper I think I have ever seen. Mom was crying when she said, "He told me he had to get you something when we took them to the store..." 

I had no idea what I was about to open. Jay sat down on the couch beside me. As I began to unwrap the box, tears began streaming down my face. 

It was a snowglobe. A dolphin snowglobe. 

I heard a tiny voice beside me say, "Mom, I'm really sorry I broke your snowglobe."

I don't remember much more about Christmas. I remember that I couldn't stop crying. It all hit me again - how I had wounded his spirit to the point that he, a five year old, would remember months later. I cannot think about the events now without crying still. 

I can tell you that the snowglobe I got from my grandparents that year was never, nor will it ever be, fixed. It sits on a shelf in our livingroom to remind me of the power of my words. 

****2021 update****

Beside it sits another snowglobe though - my reminder of the power of forgiveness, the desire of my children to always know my unconditional love and to please me at all costs. More recently, though, the two snowglobes have become my reminder of the grace and mercy I've been given over my 26yrs as a mom.