10/25/96

When I grieve my brother Jackson's death on October 26, 1996, the painful memories find their genesis in the night before the 26th.

10/25/96 dealt me the first blow. It's the night my sister Mary called me after she visited Jackson in Augusta, Georgia for the last time

Dan and I lived in Kansas City and had friends over that night. We were eating chicken wings in our living room, laughing and having a great time. The phone rang and it was Mary on the line. I knew she had planned to visit Jackson that night, so I took the phone to my bedroom to talk privately with her and not disrupt dinner with our friends.

Mary's voice was tense and serious. She told me, "Poozie, you need to come home - sooner rather than later." I thought she was being overly dramatic.

I gave her excuses why I couldn't simply pick up right then and drive 12 hours to Augusta: I told her I had to work. And, besides, I already made plane reservations to fly down a week later to spend time with Jackson. His wife, Bonnie, had asked for caretakers to help so I bought tickets just the day before.

"Mary," I said, "I'm coming soon enough."

I went back to chicken wings and beer and laughing with my pals. I even have a photo of it; I kept it because my later regret wagged its finger at me in shame.

The next morning, Dan and I slept in. I worked weekend nights in my TV news job, so we were having a lazy morning before I started getting ready for work. I was just about to head to the bathroom to shower when the phone rang.

I answered it, and the words I heard shattered my world. It was Jackson's wife, Bonnie. She was crying and simply said, "He's gone."

Tonight, I type this story and still feel regret about the decision I made twenty years ago, right around this very moment.

I regret that my sister called and told me to hurry, and I placed my excuses in higher priority than my family.

I regret my naivete that made me believe the biggest lie I've ever bought: "There will always be more time."

I regret the chicken wings and the belly laughs I had while my brother lay dying.

Have you ever read the verse in Isaiah 61 that says God will bring beauty from ashes? This promise of God's has come to fruition in my life; God has redeemed the October 25ths of my past.

I can now say God was generous when He allowed the experience of 10/25/96, because He knew my regret from that night would change the days of my life yet to come.

God knew my "no" on 10/25/96 would echo for the rest of my life. What I learned that night was not to wait. When someone asks for help, 10/25/96 taught me to say yes. It taught me to show up and shore up the people who matter to me no matter the request or the excuses I so quickly rationalize.

God shaped a new core value in my character through my experience of 10/25/96: the value of NOW because later doesn't always come.

A Letter to the McMullin Boys

Dear Ryan, Liam, Finn and Owen,

It's been exactly one month since you experienced the most defining moment of your lives so far. I say "so far" because I'm hoping it doesn't become THE defining moment of your life long-term; there is so much living ahead for each of you! I trust God's ability to bring beauty from ashes, and I am expectantly waiting to see how He'll continue to define and refine your lives.

But this letter isn't about what's to come, it's about what happened last month. It's about the death of your father, Sean.

One day - probably years from now - you'll read this letter. I am not sure what you'll remember from the days we laid your dad to rest, and I trust the people in your lives will be able to fill in gaps for you.

I asked your mom if I could be one of those people and write this letter to you, and she gave me permission to do so. She also gave me permission to take photos at your dad's visitation and funeral, knowing one day you might want to see the honor that surrounded your dad's farewell.

It has taken me a month to write this letter to you. I have been waiting for the shock to subside because I didn't want this letter to be about your dad's death. I want this letter to be about Sean's life; THAT is worth writing about! But, of course, I have to start with his death or, rather, the days we said our formal goodbyes to him.

Before I get much further, I'm going to ask your forgiveness. I know parts of this letter won't make sense, because I'm struggling to make sense of your dad's death. I should wait even longer to write this letter, but then it won't ever be written because I'll never make sense of Sean's death! I'd love for this letter to flow nicely, but it's going to be scattered and sloppy because the memories are so intense.

Boys, please know this before you read any further: your dad was so deeply loved. The loss we all felt when he died was more than an emotion. It was a physical presence. It's as if the Loss has become a person who pulled up a chair in each of our lives and has refused to budge no matter how desperately we've been ignoring it. Then Loss invited Shock to the table, and Grief became the hostess.

Everyone who knew and loved your dad has been walking around with these "companions" for a month now. I can see it when someone posts on Sean's Facebook page, telling a story about him or simply saying how much he is missed.

We can't shake the grief, because we can't shake the love either.

When I left your dad's visitation and funeral, I jotted notes in my phone because I knew I wanted to tell you about these days - one day in the future. Here are the things I don't want to forget:

On the day of your dad's visitation, hundreds of people showed up out of respect and love. There were so many people, we ran out of parking spots at the Stygar funeral home. There's an unused furniture store next door, so people started parking there and walking over. The parking lot is enormous but when I pulled up that night, it was already half full. Overflow was overflowing! I parked (illegally - it would have made your dad laugh) and hugged some friends in the parking lot. I looked at the fire trucks and the flag flying from the ladders, and started choking back tears. I've seen fire trucks and flags like this before, but never for a friend of mine.

Dan, Jackson, and I started walking towards the front doors of Stygar. The firefighters in their uniforms stood with each other, talking quietly. I wanted to pretend they were all friends of someone else, but I couldn't pretend once I recognized some of their faces. When I saw Nick Hercules in his uniform with Christina by his side, the reality of our shared loss unraveled us all.

In the lobby of Stygar, there were so many people it was hard to walk. The line of people who were waiting to speak to your mom and your dad's parents and siblings was so long, it wrapped around the perimeter of the funeral parlor.

In the middle of the hardest days of her life, your mom's grace was tangible and fierce. I watched her comfort the people who were supposed to be comforting her, the people who meant to give sympathy but instead received it. Your mom was wrecked, but she wasn't destroyed. I can't explain what it was like to be a witness to her dignity and strength.

Liam, every time a friend arrived at the visitation, you played host and made sure the friend got to see your dad and say hello/goodbye. You also wanted your buddies to see the firefighters who were standing guard over your dad. When you made sure your friends had greeted your dad, you carried on and went about the building in a way that showed your understanding and acceptance.

Ryan, I watched you become a leader for your brothers. You walked with courage through an experience no one could have prepared you for. For years now, your parents have been laying a foundation for your character. When your dad died, that character went from invisible to visible. We saw the heart of a boy who is becoming a man.

At the end of the visitation, everyone who was still there took a seat. You boys sat with your mom, waiting for the firefighters to file past the casket and salute your dad. In the silent waiting, Finn and Owen’s voices could be heard asking your mom things like, “Does Daddy like my picture?” and “Are we going to have fun tomorrow?” Everyone in the room fought back tears as best as we could, but it didn’t help because the firefighters’ goodbyes made the tears flow again. When that was finished, all of our hearts ached when Ryan grabbed Owen and Finn’s hands and led them to your dad’s casket. When Ryan and Finn turned to sit, Owen stayed. The entire room gasped, then sobbed, as we watched Owen salute the casket then make the sign of the cross before folding his hands into prayer. He stood like that for just a moment, then turned to join your family.

When the visitation was over and almost everyone had left the Stygar funeral home, I was standing with Nick and Kevin. One of the Stygar employees walked over to talk to us. She didn’t know your dad, but wanted to share the grief she felt being present during the visitation. Then she looked at Kevin and Nick, locked eyes with them, and thanked each of them for their service as firefighters. It touched me to see the way a stranger could feel the depth of love for your dad and take the time to share it with someone else.

The funeral was on Thursday. Your family met at Stygar to escort your dad to the church. One of the ladder trucks from your dad’s firehouse was draped in black, and all the other trucks followed behind it on the drive to St. Joseph’s.

As we drove closer to the church, the bells rang long and loud in his honor. The firefighters stationed at the firehouse across from St. Joseph’s stood on their driveway, saluting your dad.

Outside the church, firefighters stood at attention to welcome your dad and family.

I remember sitting in the back of the church, looking at the crowd of people gathered in respect for your dad. During his homily, Monsignor invited Owen and Finn to stand so he could tell them about a stained glass in the sanctuary. Owen and Finn, you stood on your seats and all I could see was your heads popping up above the crowd like prairie dogs.

When we left the church and drove to the cemetery, the funeral procession stretched for two miles.

Traffic came to a standstill. Some people even got out of their cars to stand on the side of the road to honor your dad’s service.

We passed another firehouse, and another team of firefighters stood in their driveway to pay their respects.

When we parked at the cemetery, Dan and I realized we parked by the bagpiper. He was preparing for the funeral, and I heard his warm-up notes before I even opened my car door.

During the burial ceremony, your dad’s partner from the firehouse (Kim) rang a bell three times. The tones went off and your dad’s last call was announced by the fire district dispatcher. We couldn’t stop crying.

When the ceremony was over and people started hugging and consoling each other, we didn’t quite know what to do next. It was like nobody wanted to leave, but we knew we couldn’t stay. After one of the firefighters alerted the other first responders that someone had fainted and an ambulance arrived, we all scattered. Some people said their last goodbyes, and some went on to the reception at the union hall.

Before Dan and I left, we watched your McMullin grandparents, aunts, and uncles as they went to your dad’s casket one more time. Your Casner aunts and uncle did, too.

Later that evening, I drove back to the cemetery to visit your dad’s grave. It isn’t far from my house, so it was the first of many visits for me. I sat by his grave to cry and think about his life and all the things I already missed about him: Adidas and karaoke and mix CDs and singing Eminem together and touring the firehouse and Smithwicks and St. Pat’s parades and Sigma Derby in Vegas and beach volleyball in Jamaica. I thought about one of my first memories from the beginning of our friendship, when your parents were the first people I shared our new pregnancy with. Even if I knew then that I would sit by your dad’s grave now, I wouldn’t change anything – except telling him I loved him more often and responding differently in the last texts we shared. When he texted, "Let's get together soon," I wish I had responded with more than, "Yeah, we should do that."

Sitting by the grave, I also thought back over the last six days since your dad died. So many new memories came to mind: the memory of your McMullin grandparents, aunts and uncles holding each other tightly and carrying one another's burdens. They allowed us to share their loss, graciously acknowledging Sean’s reach went beyond the roles of son and brother.

I thought about your Casner family showing their love through their presence. Your mom was never left alone, and every meal and bath and clothing item was handled by your uncles or aunts. Your cousins gladly took you under their wings, giving you a place of normalcy and safety.

I thought about how the loss of your dad affected our whole community. On Wednesday, Thursday and the following days, I noticed flags flying at half-staff at local schools, police stations and fire houses. When I passed the flags, my heart was heavy with a mixture of pride and sorrow: pride that I got to call Sean my friend and sorrow that I won’t get to hug him or laugh with him again this side of heaven.

I thought about you four boys. Over the past few days, all eyes were on you because the four of you are your father's legacies. You are the last - and lasting - gift he gave us. When we look at you, we see Sean. We see his eyes smiling after a good joke. We hear his voice in the way Ryan or Liam phrase their words. We see his lips when you smile, because you have the same light in your face that he did. Even now, it makes me ache to see the echo of your dad in you – but it makes me so tremendously happy, too. As you live, so does he.

There will be hard days, and there will be easy days. There will be days you feel like things have gotten “normal” again and you’ll be lulled into thinking the hard days are past you. And then somehow, things will feel hard again and you’ll remember life in two parts: life before and life after September 24, 2016.

You have a heavy load to shoulder, but I believe in you. You are Casner-McMullins, and your lineage is your best defense for the road ahead.

And even more than that? You have some deeply good-hearted people on your side, and I’m not talking only about your relatives. You have a community of first responders who want to take you under their wings. You have friends, neighbors, school alumni, church members, and random people your dad helped rescue during his career – people who want to help you succeed and are willing to carry your grief with you.

I am one of those people. Although my individual impact is very small in the grand scheme of people who support you, I’m praying for God to bind all our small hands together so we can carry you and your mom through these days.

Your dad's death took us all by surprise, and it reminded us to love deeper and better and more fully. Your mom told me you've been talking about keeping your eyes open for the helpers when tragedy happens, and I hope compassion and empathy help your eyes stay open through the coming years.

Never forget how loved you are, Finn. You have your dad’s wit and straight-shooting character, never mincing words and always “telling it like it is.” You made him laugh. A LOT!

Owen, I hope you never stop hearing your dad’s voice calling you “Owie.” Don’t forget the memories of him letting you sleep on his belly. You were his little guy, and he protected you and carried you close.

Liam, you are like your dad in the way you march to the beat of your own drum. You aren’t afraid to stand out, and you stick to your convictions. It’s like your dad listening to crazy music no one ever heard of or shopping at British clothing stores. He loved the unusual and unique, and you are so like him in that way.

Never stop seeing your dad’s smile in your eyes, Ryan. You are his first child, and firstborn sons get special blessings from their fathers. Your blessing is in the character your mom and dad handcrafted and labored over these last 12 years. He was always so proud of you.

Each of you are so loved and precious to countless people, including me.

I love you boys!
B-Beth

Sean-size Hole

Sean was a man full of life and laughter. He was a tender-hearted giver, and made a living serving others as a firefighter/EMT and in the CPR training business he owned. He was a loyal friend; it only takes a glance at his Facebook page to know he made everyone feel like his best friend. (Sean is the kind of guy who made friends with our resort’s activities director in Jamaica, and still kept in touch with him!) Sean was generous and lived sacrificially: he would give anything you asked for simply because you asked. He loved and lived well.

Aaannnd…

I need to stop this right here. Here’s the truth: I hate writing this in past tense, because my friend Sean died Saturday at age 46. I hate that I’m describing him by what he did instead of what he’s doing or has yet to do. I’ll never again be able to think of him in current terms, because he’s no longer here. His wife and his four sons don’t get to grow old and grow up with him, and they’ll only see his smile in fading photos.

And I’m sorry to complain or sound whiny, but fading photos can never capture the light that lived inside Sean McMullin. Photos are an empty substitute for a man who made us love him and laugh with him. I can’t make sense of his loss, although my mind keeps trying to shape and polish it in hopes of understanding it. It’s not working because it simply doesn’t make sense.

There’s a Sean-size hole in my heart, and the hearts of his wife, sons, and family: his parents, brother and sister. He has a slew of in-laws who adored him, and countless coworkers and friends – friends like me.

I loved Sean. I *still* love him. I wish I had told him that a lot more.

God, please be with the McMullins. Hold them close and comfort them. You keep track of our sorrows and collect our tears because You know they are precious, as the depth of our grief shadows the heights of our love. May we carry Sean’s memory so we can help his sons know who he was and remind them how loved they are. Show us how to love Beth and the boys well, and bear their burdens with them. Give us strength, God. And please take care of our friend now that he is Home with You. Amen.

15 Years and the Morning After

What do you do in the moments after the shock of a trauma have passed?

This morning, I think back to the day after our nation's terrible losses on 9/11. It was fifteen years ago, and that day lives in my memory as a feeling, not simply an event.

Time travel IS possible; all it takes is one photo to deliver me back to the shallow breathing and staggering disbelief of that morning. I still physically react to the photos of the airplanes hitting the Twin Towers, and the aftermath.

My memory is so intense, I feel 9/11 instead of simply recalling it: the crisp newly-autumn feel in the St. Louis air that day. The feeling that I forgot to breathe and needed to gasp in order to catch up with the four heartbeats that just pounded through my chest. The woozy waves of disgust that churned my stomach as I realized human beings willingly did this to other human beings. The tightened shoulders that intangibly grabbed the weight of grief for survivors who started posting photos of missing family and loved ones in New York City - and grief that dog-piled on when I realized two more planes were involved.

My mind raced, too: the topsy-turvy doubts because what I believed to be safe was called into question. The human instincts of fight or flight that took over as I swung between wanting to kick someone's tail and wanting to run to the arms of my family and neighbors so I could again feel the safety of community.

I was afraid. We were afraid.

Mercifully, 9/11 ended and the sun rose on the morning of September 12. As a nation, we weren't capable of comprehension yet. It would be months and, for some, years before we would reach that point. And to be honest, on yesterday's 15th anniversary, there were still pieces missing for me in the puzzle of comprehension.

What did we do between the trauma and the comprehension? How did we face the morning after?

I remember doing the same thing then that I find myself doing today: I watched and listened and felt and held and prayed and learned.

I was hungry for stories that would help me own the grief. And even though the grief was not a burden I wanted to carry, I knew turning from it would mean allowing evil to cozy up close to me.

This is why, fifteen years after the day after, I am still seeking stories. I want to feel the heaviness again, because I want to remember the feelings and not only the moments as detached events. Remembering the loss and the incredible compassion that came after it is how we fight back against the darkness and evil.

Our enemy wants us to forget how we felt fifteen years ago. Our enemy wants us to be numb to the pain; numbing equals a lack of feeling which equals inaction which - to our enemy - is just as good as getting permission to stir the chaos all over again.

NOT on my watch!

So, even fifteen years later, I seek and I feel and I pray and I learn. I hold space for sadness to come sit with me again, and I don't push it away prematurely.

This year, I invited sadness to come sit with my kids for the first time, too. This wasn't like in years past, when I glossed over the details to spare them pain. This year, we watched the videos of what happened on 9/11 and I retold them stories of sacrifice from Flight 93 and New York City and Washington, D.C.

Grief and remembering are intertwined like the arms I wrap around my kids at bedtime. I won't forget the losses of 9/11, and I won't stop spending my September 12s learning and seeking and listening and watching and telling.

If you would like to join me, here are just a few of the stories and tributes I'm watching and sharing with my kids:

• This music video helps me remember the day's extreme evil and extreme goodness.
• The Man in the Red Bandana tells the story of Welles Crowther and his heroism in the South tower or the World Trade Center.
• Todd Beamer was one of the heroes of Flight 93. His oldest son is playing football at his dad's alma mater.

And here's a video of my own, taken last Friday at Art Hill in St. Louis, MO. A group called America's Heartland Remembers placed 6,783 flags with dog tags and photos to commemorate the military members who gave their lives in the war on terror since 9/11. The video shows the wind blowing through the flags and shaking the metal dog tags, each representing a life that ended too soon. The dead still speak, if we stop long enough to hear their echoes. #FlagsOfValor #HonorTheFallen

September 7s

September 7th is a day that has the entirety of life embedded in it.

It is the day I celebrate the birth of the most important human being in my life, my husband Dan.

It is also the day I mourn the single most influential person in my life: my mother, who went Home on my husband's birthday.

Ever since 2004, September 7 has been full of conflict in my heart. I celebrate his presence and mourn her absence, which is the truest reality of ALL our lives as we live each day "in between."

On any given day, we ride the spectrum between highs and lows, joy and sorrow, dancing and mourning. I choose to face the September 7s of my life as a reminder of God's fulfilled promise in Isaiah 61:3, when He replaces despair with praise, mourning with joyous blessings, and ashes with crowns of beauty.

Happy Homecoming anniversary to my mom, and happy birthday to my best friend! Thank you both for giving me the best reminder of God's goodness.

God, thank You for the gifts of September 7!

Finding My Voice

Two nights ago, on the way home from youth group at church, Katie and I were the only ones in the car. We played our favorite worship songs and held a private concert for each other.

Katie knows I'm insecure about my singing voice. After one of the songs she said to me, "Mom, you are a really great singer. You don't think you are, but I love when you hit the high notes and sing!"

I wanted to remind her of the times I've been told I howl like a hound or the time when a recording artist stood beside me in church and told me I was *way* out of my range. But I didn't, because my 13-year-old daughter didn't need to hear reinforcement about my shortcomings.

She thinks I am a lovely singer, so it must be true. Right?

The truth is I don't have a spectacular voice, but I am very good at mimicking other singers. I have an ear for subtlety, and can hear the nuances of melody or the beat hidden behind the tempo. The drawback is I am musically uneducated, so I can't explain what I hear in language that someone else or a musician would understand. But I know how to copy someone else's style pretty darn well, thankyouverymuch.

The problem with this is that being a "mimicker" means I silence my own original voice or, worse, regurgitate someone else's voice instead of the voice of my life: the Voice of my Creator.

I don't want to be a mouthpiece for anyone else but Him. I want my words to echo His voice. I want to sing songs that sound like Him. I want to drink so deeply from his well that my breath smells like His refreshment.

It's a constant refinement process, making sure I'm keeping my eyes on my Master and following His lead. Especially when I'm scared of failing or looking like a fool.

Yesterday, I faced a BIG fear of mine. I went public with my website (www.HisEchoes.com) and published my first photo devotional.

Yes, these are the same photo devotionals I dreamed of turning into a book when I went to the She Speaks conference in 2015. Only now, the "book" isn't printed on paper you can keep on your nightstand or tuck in your backpack. It lives on the interwebs, and I'm pretty ecstatic with the work my friend Ashley did to make the website a reality.

The website is a huge part of me finding my voice. It's a line drawn in the sand, marking the spot where I stop singing like other people and echo what my Father speaks to me.

If I'm going to mimic anyone, let it be Him!

Skin Color and Shame

Last Friday was the end of a week where the news was all about two black men killed by police in separate cities. It was also the day after five Dallas police officers were killed during a protest of those shootings.

I was skimming Facebook and saw the first seconds of a video about how to act when a police officer pulls you over. It was Coffey Anderson, a black man, giving the information in the video. The video has since gone viral; it's likely you already saw it.

When Jackson saw it, he made a joke and said, "Everyone knows how to do that!"

So I reminded Jackson that he has white skin and probably doesn't have to fear what might happen if he were to ever be pulled over, while some people with darker skin might.

The only thing I've ever feared is paying a fine or the chance of increased insurance rates.

I explained some neighborhoods aren't as safe as ours and sometimes people are told not to trust police. And sometimes police get so overwhelmed by their jobs they turn to violence and hurt people. I told him how two men were killed this week and someone else turned their gun on police.

I told Jackson we live in a neighborhood where we aren't afraid and feel safe, but not everyone feels safe in their towns. Some people with darker skin are afraid or dislike people with lighter skin because that's all they've ever known or been told to do. And some people with lighter skin are afraid or dislike people with darker skin because that's all they've ever known or been told to do.

That's when Jackson responded, "I wish I wasn't part of a skin color that does bad things to other skin colors."

My breath caught in my throat.

I explained he should never be ashamed about the way God made him. God gave him a specific eye color and hair color and skin color, and we won't be ashamed about that; no one should ever be ashamed about that!

I went on to tell him, "If you wish people with other skin colors didn't feel so afraid, then make them your friends. Be the reason they aren't scared of white skin!" We can help each other learn and help each other have courage.

And then I had to walk into a different room to cry.

We think our kids are oblivious to what's been happening in our country from Ferguson to Baton Rouge, and I've personally tried to shield mine from the harder horrors. This conversation with Jackson helped me realize we - collectively, WE as in all of us - can't change what's happening if we don't start talking about it. And we need to start talking about it early, even at my son's young age of nine.

I barely know how to parent on a good day, when we're facing sibling spats and chore accountability. Throw in the biggies like sexting, online bullying, addictions, porn, human trafficking, sexual ambiguity, the war on ISIS, Trump vs. Clinton, and race relations (just to name a few), and I feel downright overwhelmed.

How on earth do I parent through the things facing Katie and Jackson? I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm pretty sure I'm royally messing things up.

But when my son tells me he's ashamed of his skin color, I know it's time to dig in deep.

God, help me be a parent who can talk through the hard stuff and lean on You through all my inadequacies. Remind me that staying silent is worse than my bumbling attempts at honest and grace-filled conversations. Please put wise friends and family in my and my kids' lives - people who can help me navigate parenting and also give my children counsel when I don't know how. Give me courage to speak up, speak truth, and ask questions - even when I run the risk of asking stupid questions and looking like an ignorant bumpkin. Thank You for modeling humility and sacrificial love by sending Your Son, Jesus, to pardon all of our messes. Please take my messes, including the parenting ones, and make a masterpiece of them. Amen!

Charlie Brown Cycle

I'm currently in a Charlie Brown life cycle: two weeks in the valley of credit card fraud, virus (food poisoning?) vomiting, battling a mouse in the house, a deep clean and reorganization (thanks, ya darn mouse!) and the mid-summer throes of sibling spats.

Last Thursday I took the kids to see the Peanuts movie, and deeply related to Charlie Brown.

It isn't like things go monumentally wrong for him (no cancer or bankruptcy or abandonment or divorce), but he just never seems to get ahead. He keeps trying, but his kite crashes or he slips on a puddle or his little sister needs him so he helps instead of going his own way.

After the past two weeks, I wanted to pump my fist in the air to show solidarity with him.

I know my current Charlie Brown cycle will end, so I'm hanging on.

My favorite quote from the movie was when he said, "It's the courage to continue that counts." Amen, Charlie!

A Mother's Heart

My love for you is intense.

I will put myself in harm's way in order to save you from it.

I will fiercely protect you, standing firmly even when my fear screams I'm crazy for doing so.

I will offer myself as bait when evil comes knocking at the door, if it means protecting your innocence even one day longer.

I do all of this without financial reimbursement, monetary gain, accolades or expectation of advancement, knowing the possibility - and probability - that I won't be noticed or get a passing glance.

I have become the invisible guardian of your life.

I do this because I love you. I do this because it was done for me. I do this because it's a calling and I've been told it's the most important job on earth.

But on the days when I'm invisible, the calling feels like a curse.

It hurts to be the one acting as the Electronic Police or the catch-all for every entitled pout or the annoying mom who just wants to visit the classroom to see your robotic project along with the other parents. For the person whose life centers around yours, it hurts to get shoved out of the way.

I know it would be too much for me to expect to be included in every celebration you have, every moment you experience, every breath you take. It would be a lot for me to require manners and reverence of me at all times (even when you're low on sleep or failed a test or fell on the playground or lost the big game). I get it. So I'm not asking for monumental depths of grace and inclusion from my (new!) teenager and grade-schooler.

But here's the secret to a mother's heart: we don't need much. I don't need much!

Just throw me a bone.

Hold my hand on the way into Walmart. Turn to smile at me when you step on the bus. Tell me the funny joke that made you laugh. Thank me when you get into the car without your lunch and I remind you to go back and grab it. Invite me to sit with you on the couch.

My mama's heart is like a flower: simply shine a little light on it and I will unfold and blossom, exposing you to incredible beauty and heavenly scents.

It doesn't take much light, and the results will bless you tenfold. You'll have a mom energized and inspired to do more and feel more and be more - with you and for you!

Happy 13th Birthday, Katie!

Dear Katie,

I started this day - this milestone birthday of yours - with a full circle moment.

Thirteen years and two days ago, I spent Father's Day 2003 celebrating Daddy. He was a pre-father already, since you were so close to being born. We went to a movie with his dad and mom. I remember sitting with my hugely pregnant belly, thinking this would be the "last time" Daddy and I would get a chance to go out on our own for a long, LONG time. And even though we weren't technically parents yet, our "last time" out was a classic parenting move: we went to see an ANIMATED movie. The title?

Finding Nemo.

This morning, I woke you - my sweet teenager (!) - singing Happy Birthday To You. We ate a slow breakfast, and then headed out to treat you to a birthday movie date. The title?

Finding Dory.

For me, this was a perfect illustration of life with you the past year. Age 12 was beautifully sweet and tender, and overflowed with full circle moments.

There is one moment that is crystal clear in my memory because it is - to date - the most holy, most sacred parenting moment I've experienced.

Just a few weeks before you turned 12, you started showing signs of a struggle within your soul. I immediately knew what was happening, because it is the same struggle I started around the same time in my childhood (and I'm still in that same combat thirty years later). This struggle has been ongoing all year and hasn't ended yet. It has been the deepest ache you've faced in your life so far, and watching you flounder and fly has been one of the hardest things for me, too.

Because I've been where you are now and I've experienced what you're experiencing, I've had to be more vulnerable and authentic with you than I ever anticipated. This is what led me to that holy/sacred moment I mentioned above.

You were broken, laying in our LoveSac and crying over this struggle. Even though you'd been struggling for months, it was the first time you opened up and put words to how this pain was making you feel. It was the first time *I* had put words to what I felt at your age, too. I looked in your eyes as the tears spilled down your cheeks, and told you the words I desperately wished I had heard at age 12:

You are lovely. You are wanted. You are safe.

I told you if I had heard those words (repeated often) as a twelve year old, it would have changed my struggles. It would have healed some of my pain.

That's when YOU turned to ME and said with wet cheeks, "Mom, you are lovely. You are wanted. You are safe." The tenderness in your eyes made my breath catch in my throat, and something broken inside me started to come back together.

Thirty years after my 12-year-old self most needed to hear it, I realized a new chapter had begun in my relationship with you. This chapter is where we both lead and both follow, and end up walking side-by-side, together.

Somewhere along the way, we learned to lock arms with each other and fight the struggle together. I don't think it's anything we did alone; it's a God-given binding of our hearts. Oh, Katie! You are healing me, teaching me, inspiring me, and convicting me with your innocence, commitment, and faith.

I am in love with the young lady you've become, and it floors me every time I hear an echo of the future woman you'll be.

I couldn't be more proud to have a daughter like you in my life. You astound me with your depth of soul, compassionate heart, and the way you observe the world yet choose to go your own way. You encourage me with your faith, and I've enjoyed watching you learn your own rhythm of dancing with Jesus.

While I would love for your future to be filled with a successful career and financial gain and a healthy marriage and the proverbial two-story house with a white picket fence (and my grandkids! Ha, ha...), that's not the focus of my most recent prayers for you. For years now, since I recommitted my life to Christ, my desire for your life has been crystallized into one thought: my biggest hope for your future is that you will grow into a committed Christ follower. The rest is simply icing on the cake.

This past year, I felt vibrations and saw your faith unfold in a way that put the first bits of flesh on the hope I've been holding for your deep relationship with Jesus.

Your blooming has been breath-taking, and the roots God is growing in you have inspired me. You are a darling, beautiful, spectacular, magnificent, lovely-wanted-and-safe girl. And now, I can add TEENAGER to that list. (!)

Happy birthday, sweet Katie. I love you!

Mommy

On Arlington & Memorial Day

The car came to a stop. I looked to the right and I looked to the left, and as far as my eye could see were little jagged teeth planted upright in the grass. Knowing there were more white monuments on the other side of every hill around me added to the weight of the moment.

I stepped out of the car and my sandals sank into the wet grass and mud. It had rained buckets just an hour before, but the sky was clear now. The rain made the colors around me pop: the green grass, the blue sky, the white tombstones, and the flowers and mementos left by loved ones.

My family skittered ahead in search of a specific friend on this hillside of comrades, but my steps were slowed as the names on the tombstones whispered to my compassion: Richard. James. Bruno. John. Patricia.

A bird landed on her tombstone and I stopped to watch him tweet and flit about, as if this field of stones was like any other random field.

But this one isn't like any other.

The names kept pulling at my memories. Edwin. Carl. Robert. Don't I know someone by that name? What if this field were full of MY friends instead?

Oh, but these are my friends. These are my brothers and sisters, my human companions in this world, and my national compatriots. These are the ones who stood for me, fought for me, endured training schools for the "privilege" of standing knee-deep in a muddy field or pushing forms and paperwork through the system (if they were the soldiers who protected and processed in the administration of office duties).

I'm not going to over-romanticize and pretend every grave in the fields of Arlington holds a soldier who died on the battlefield. Some soldiers who died in battle never made it home to American soil, and are buried in Normandy and Iwo Jima and throughout the world.

We have 147 national cemeteries across America, where our brave fallen find their final rest. But these cemeteries also cradle their spouses and some children. These graves hold the soldiers who returned home from battle, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. These graves also hold people who died from other causes, like my brother's grave in Louisville's Cave Hill National Cemetery. He didn't die in a battle for his country; he died in a battle for his life, against cancer.

I stood knee-deep in the sea of Arlington's graves, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of graves around me.

It's easy to look at the tombstones and think of them as things, simple stone markers in freshly-cut grass. I refused to detach from the moment, and started imagining the people these markers memorialized. It was easy, once I started looking around and seeing trinkets and tokens left by the people who grieve for the dead.

I read a poem left at Chris Campbell's grave. It was written as a tribute to his mother, given to her just a few days prior, on Mother's Day. The thought of losing my own son and having to spend Mother's Day at his grave in Arlington brought tears to my eyes.

My family caught up to me then and my brother-in-law, Wally, pointed out the graves of some of his friends. He told us about Heath, and his personality.

Then my sister, Mary, pointed out her friend Jerry's grave nearby. Jerry died during training preps for Afghanistan, and left behind four sons and his wife, Molly. Molly is still friends with Mary and their families remain close.

It's hard to visit the grave of a close friend when all that's left is a cold stone to represent a life that was vibrant and full.

The heaviness I felt in the fields of Arlington was only outweighed by the sense of honor and overwhelming gratitude I felt - and continue to feel - for the people who paid the heaviest sacrifice for my freedom.

I owe a debt I can never repay. And on this Memorial Day, may we remember we ALL do.

"There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends." (John 15:13, New Living Translation)

Slipping through My Fingers

I slipped into bed beside Katie this morning whispering, "Good morning to my 7th grader, for the last time." I did the same with Jackson on this, his last day as a 3rd grader. When 12:20pm arrives today, I will be the mother of a 4th grader and 8th grader. *shudder*

I've been calling out these dance cues all week, reminding the kids - and even more so, myself - of the swift passage of time. I'm thanking blaming my sister for sharing ABBA's song "Slipping through My Fingers" with me when Katie started Kindergarten, after I saw it in the movie Mamma Mia! This week, that song has been the soundtrack to my wistful dance.

(Fair warning: I do NOT RECOMMEND clicking that link if you are especially weepy this week! That is, unless you like to have all-out cry fests.)

As they walked out the door to catch the bus this morning, I caught each kid's hand and looked directly into his and her eyes. I praised them both for a school year packed with growth and dedication, chuckled about a few bumps we hit along the way, then slowly, deliberately said these words to each of them: I. AM. PROUD. OF. YOU.

In their excitement to arrive at school for last day festivities, this moment was quickly shelved and they both blew through the door.

This, to me, is parenting in a nutshell: I grasp and cling in my effort to instill weight to the moments of my family's life. I lock eyes in hopes of laser-beaming worth to the souls of my kiddos, while they are busy-busy-busy in the distracted rush of living.

I'm learning that if I wait for the monumentous (new word: monumental + momentous) days to occur before I impart meaning or try to throw up a road marker to designate the milestone of my kids' lives, I've usually waited too long.

The challenge for me as a mother - and for all of us who are in the trenches of parenting - is to acknowledge the passing time of a mundane Thursday in February as well as I do on the milestone "first" and "last" days like today.

How many mundane Thursdays have I let slip through my fingers?

Today, I realized the hourglass of Katie's school years is no longer half-full. We're down to only five more First Days of School and five piddly Last Days. Jackson has nine, which lulls me into a state of comfort with the lie of "there's still time."

I know that isn't true. And I'm also not naive enough to think parenting ends when my kids get their high school diplomas.

I have a few friends who are watching their high school seniors leave for school this morning, second guessing themselves and wondering if they did "enough" to prepare their babies for the harsh world on the other side of the threshold. They vacillate between wanting to punch their cocky senior in the teeth for being all uppity independent, or wanting to tackle them and drag them to the nearest rocking chair for one more snuggly cuddle.

These moments, these nuggets of lasts: they are enough to wear the shine off a mama's soul. What do I do when I get all weepy and heavy? I remember the shine may feel like it's dulling me, but it's just part of the polishing process my Father wants me to endure.

So I carry my joyous sadness to my Him. One friend reminded me today that "He understands the transition of children leaving." He knows the ultimate price His own Son paid to fly the coop and spread His wings in a harsh world on the other side of the threshold.

My Father knows how it feels to hold on while letting go. I pray He shows me the dance moves that will help me with this process, too.

My Brutiful Visit to Washington, D.C.

Last weekend was unforgettable. Here's what I posted Saturday night on Facebook:

My heart is heavy and light, at the same time. How is that even possible? Because I opened my eyes today to witness a community of people carry each other's pain. I was reminded that my loss became dozens of other people's loss - and their losses became mine today - as we honored seven fallen men and women from the West Point Class of 1992 (including my brother Jackson). What an honor it was to hug the people who [still!] love my brother, then cry with them and laugh in the same breath as we shared Jackson stories. Tonight, I can't decide whether to smile or weep in gratitude. I guess it's both.

One of my favorite authors, Glennon Doyle Melton, describes events that are brutal and beautiful with a mash up word: brutiful.

That word is exactly the one I would choose to describe this past weekend: it dented my heart while simultaneously healing it.

For those of you who don't know where I went and what I did this past weekend, I'll start from the beginning.

My brother, Jackson, graduated from West Point in 1992. Four years later, he died of cancer. That makes this year the 20th anniversary of his death. [And I will sit here, dumbfounded, pondering that last sentence for a few moments.]

Jackson's classmates planned a wreath-laying ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery as a way to honor the unknown soldiers buried in the tomb and the seven West Point classmates who have died. As Jackson's next of kin, my sister Mary, Jackson's widow Bonnie, and I were invited to the ceremony. In conjunction with the ceremony, friends of the fallen classmates were asked to write articles telling their life stories.

I caught a flight into Washington, D.C. early Saturday morning. I knew the weekend would have its tender moments, but wasn't prepared for the entry to ramp up as quickly as it did.

Before I was in the airport even ten minutes, I came across the arrival of an Honor Flight. [If you don't know what that is, pause here and click on that link. You'll need a tissue.] I rounded a corner and found a team of people in fluorescent yellow shirts, cheering an elderly man who was walking through their mini parade. He was dressed in his military uniform, and I was stopped in my tracks by this scene.

I waited while another veteran followed the first one, then found a bank of escalators to ride to the bottom floor baggage claim. As I rode down, I could hear sounds of the next stop in the Honor Flight celebration: a female choral group greeting the uniformed veteran with the Army song, "The Army Goes Rolling Along." Of course, I stopped here too, tears welling up in my eyes.

The group sang the Navy song for the second veteran who had arrived. At this point, I realized I had to keep moving because I had my own event to attend.

I caught the shuttle to the hotel where my sister and her family were staying and she met me in the lobby with a big hug. We hurried to the room for more hugs with her husband Wally and daughter Peyton, changed clothes, then headed to the lobby to meet our lunch group.

We had fifteen people at lunch: Bonnie, my Uncle Rob and Aunt Terri, my cousins from Mom's side (John and Mike), Jackson's college roommate (Tobi and his family), and twin brothers Paul and Pete, who have known Jackson since middle school. Paul also went to West Point, so he got to play double duty all day!

We had a long lunch and I sat in the middle of the table (anyone who knows me shouldn't be surprised - it's my childhood youngest-child-issues coming to the surface) so I could hear stories from all the groups around me.

Mike, me, Mary, and John

I got the details from Tobi's wife, Kate, about their life since college and updates on Tobi's family. One of his family members is the key reason for my decision to attend Mizzou for Broadcast Journalism, which - obviously - changed the trajectory of this Georgia girl's life.

I listened as my aunt from Dad's side asked my cousin from Mom's side about his life in the military, and resisted the urge to curl up and bawl as the mantra, "Mom and Dad should be here" started playing in my head. It didn't stop repeating until I fell asleep on Saturday night.

At one point I looked around the table and realized out of the fifteen of us there, nine have grieved the loss of an immediate family member very early in life: sibling, parent, or spouse. Of course Mary and I had lost our brother (and Bonnie's husband), but there were four people who lost their own siblings and five who lost parents. Jackson is our common denominator, but grief is our shared language. These are people who get me when others look at me as an alien.

Aunt Terri listens to Mike's military stories,
while Bonnie and Uncle Rob catch up.

The best part of lunch was hearing Paul and Pete tell stories of Jackson's high school escapades. I was reminded of all the reasons I adored - and abhorred - my older brother. He was hilarious and bold and larger-than-life, and also a big pain in the rear. (Aren't all brothers?!)

Paul and Tobi graduated
from West Point together.

Paul told my Uncle Rob the story about their *almost* arrest when painting the high school logo on the road leading up to the school - TWICE. Paul also told a story of their attendance at a Bon Jovi concert, when the ride home ended with Jackson driving the car while hanging out the window and punching a guy in the car next to them. I thought I already knew all there was to know about Jackson, but - clearly - there is still so much to learn about my brother! Even twenty years later...

After lunch, we had to run an errand for Wally, then headed to Arlington.

We found our friends in the Welcome Center, and met some other classmates from West Point. As we were waiting for everyone to arrive, so did the rain outside. Uh oh!

Robert is on the left side of this photo,
wearing the lighter gray sport coat (and the boots).

My cousin Robert (from Dad's side) also arrived. At one point, I looked down and saw his snazzy snakeskin boots. I commented on them and Robert replied, "Do you know whose they were?" Immediately, I recognized them as my brother's old boots. Mary saw them too, and told us how Jackson bought them in Texas while visiting her and Wally when they were stationed at Fort Hood.

It was time for us to leave the Welcome Center and walk up the road to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The rain wasn't letting up and we couldn't wait for it to clear, so we huddled under umbrellas and started hiking. In a dress. And strappy sandals. With only a windbreaker as a raincoat to shield my camera. (You didn't think I'd leave that at home, did you?!) I was especially glad I wore my hair curly and didn't spend time making it all pretty.

After a 15 minute walk, we arrived at the Tomb as a guard changing ritual was taking place. We crowded on the steps to catch a glimpse between open umbrellas while trying to dodge the raindrops and maintain silence (a requirement at the Tomb). In the photo below, can you see the people in yellow, blue and white ponchos on the far right? It was an entire busload of Honor Flight veterans who were visiting the Tomb. Cue the tears, again.

If you've never been there, you must know the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is sacred ground.

Guards patrol 24 hours a day, every day of the year. Even during rain, blizzards, and hurricanes. The depth of commitment is only overshadowed by the ultimate sacrifice given by the fallen soldiers buried in the Tomb, whose names we don't know.

While I took photos, the crowd started murmuring as people were moving about after the guards transitioned. All of a sudden, the soldier on duty stopped his patrol and stepped off his mat to face the crowd and shout, "It is requested that all visitors maintain an atmosphere of silence and respect at all times!" Trust me, there wasn't even a slight peep after that and my nerves shot through the roof.

After a few more minutes, we went inside the museum building beside the Tomb. We were all dripping wet, standing almost in the doorway without much room to move as cemetery visitors looked at exhibits and West Point families greeted each other.

I realized my hands had started shaking and my heart was thudding, and I recognized all this as a signal that I was on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Here's the ironic thing: I started having anxiety and panic attacks after Jackson died, but I haven't had any since I finished my grief counseling thirteen years ago. I forgot how overwhelming an anxiety attack feels, but it didn't take long for me to remember.

With anxious tears threatening to overflow my eyes, I stepped over to a quiet corner and silently prayed with my eyes open. I worked on breathing and calming, and got myself back to a centered heart. My family came over to join me after a little bit, then the time came to go back into the rain for the wreath-laying ceremony.

Mary, Wally, Peyton, Bonnie, and I made our way to the bottom of the steps to stand at the railing. On the top of the above-ground Tomb, there sat the most brilliantly red cardinal bird. It was tweeting, even in the rain, and jumped off to flit around the area. Mary turned to me and whispered, "Did you know cardinals symbolize someone who has died and has come back to visit?"

Tears sprang into my eyes and I told her, "Why on earth would you tell me such a sad tale at this exact moment? Do you want me to become a complete mess?!"

The ceremony began with the guard announcing the crowd was about to witness a wreath-laying ceremony by the West Point class of 1992.

I recorded the rest of the ceremony on my phone, but the file is too big to post here. I have posted it here on YouTube, if you are interested in watching it. (It is about two minutes long, so it won't take too much of your time.)

I am proud that I held my phone relatively still during the ceremony so the recording isn't quivering like the rest of me was. "Taps" always breaks me, so I'm surprised I didn't sob audibly.

After our ceremony was finished, a second wreath was presented in the exact same way by students from a local middle school. Before I knew it, our group was stepping away and leaving the Tomb area. I followed, taking a few last photos with my phone. I was never able to use my nice camera during our ceremony, so I only have lower quality phone photos to share.

All of us walked to the back of the amphitheater behind the Tomb museum, and that's where I texted my friend Anji and finally met up with her, her husband, and their two kids.

Yes, my friend trucked her whole family 45 minutes from home so they could hike the cemetery and stand IN THE RAIN to witness the wreath laying. In order for you to fully appreciate this gift, please understand this: I have only known Anji for ten months. We met last July at the She Speaks writer's conference I attended in North Carolina. We spent three days with each other, and have been in daily contact ever since. It was so good to see her in person again!

I greeted Anji, met her family, then turned to introduce her to my family. I saw Mary talking to one of Jackson's classmates and his family. I was waved over to meet them too, and was introduced to their 15-year-old son, who is named after my brother.

All of a sudden, every emotion I was desperately trying to suppress came exploding out of me and I, embarrassingly, went into the ugly cry. I had to turn away from this sweet family in order to avoid falling on the ground and curling up into a fetal position. My Uncle Rob had a look of alarm on his face, and I knew I had to Get. A. Grip! Tobi stepped into the circle of people and hugged me and I calmed enough to gather my breath so I could turn and properly meet this young man named Alec Jackson; his middle name is my brother's middle name. I apologized for being so emotional, then thanked his parents for such an incredible honor, especially his mom for graciously allowing her child to be named after a guy she never met. Her eyes were filled with tears, too.

After a little more chatting, we made our way out of the amphitheater and started walking back to the Welcome Center.

When my sister got a chance, she sidled up to me and told me something I am GRATEFUL I didn't know when I was standing with Alec's family: he was just diagnosed with cancer two weeks ago. TWO WEEKS AGO. I winced at this news and teared up, yet again.

Sometimes your brain receives just one more piece of information and decides to shut down. My brain did that, and I was saturated with emotion. I simply couldn't take on one more drop of heaviness.

In the second mercy my friend Anji brought me that day, we began discussing life since we met in July then Anji and Mary compared notes of where they lived while being military spouses. I am grateful I had someone there to chat with because the news of Alec's cancer was overwhelming me

As we walked, I got my camera out and took some quick photos of the graves in Arlington. It is such a breathtakingly beautiful place, made even more so by the rain-saturated colors.

At the Welcome Center, I said goodbye to my friend Anji (three times!) and went with my sister's family to their car. We had a pass so Wally could go to Section 60 of the cemetery, where most of the soldiers killed in Iraq and Afghanistan are buried.

Uncle Rob, Aunt Terri, and Robert met us there, and we searched the graves to find a bunch of Wally's friends.

And, sadly, yes: there are a bunch. Wally has lost too many friends.

Section 60 is full of graves of men and women from MY generation, which means their families are still alive to visit the graves and leave mementos and flowers.

There are placards and photos...

...and stones...

...and this grave had a poem written for the deceased son's mother as a Mother's Day gift on the previous Sunday.

At one point, I turned and saw this beautiful barn swallow sitting on a headstone.

(Sidebar: did you know swallows represent hope? Some sailors believe if they die at sea, a swallow will carry their souls home. And ancient Romans believed the swallow was a "totem bird for mothers in sorrow, and that it embodied the souls of children who had been lost in childbirth." See here.)

As we left Arlington, we were passing by another section of the cemetery when we saw a man sitting in the middle of the graves. He had brought his own chair and umbrella, so I assume he had been there for a while and probably visits regularly. Once I zoomed in my camera, I realized he was sitting there talking to his wife. My heart ached for his lonesome vigil.

We were invited to a reception for family and friends at the house of two West Point graduates. It was a beautiful reception where we toasted each of the seven deceased classmates.

All the graduates gathered for a photo before we broke off into groups to talk and eat.

I spoke to Alec's family, and his parents told us more details about his recent diagnosis. They don't have a full diagnosis or prognosis yet, and aren't even sure exactly what cancer he has. They are waiting to hear if he'll start radiation or any other treatment. Before we left, I asked Alec if I could take his photo. I planned to tell my kids about him so we could start praying for him and his family.

Bonnie had to begin her drive back to Kentucky, so we said goodbye to her and her mother.

Mary and I stayed for a while to share stories of Jackson with Uncle Rob, Aunt Terri, and Jackson's classmates. Tobi and Mark told us stories of pierced ears on spring break, and the time Paul left a melting snowball on Jackson's desk blotter (which he was extremely particular about, using a ruler and highlighters to draw lines and track daily dress codes and upcoming events). It was so SO good to hear people talk about Jackson again, because not very many people in my regular St. Louis life know about my brother.

As the rain started up again, it was time for us to leave. We thanked our hosts and drove back to the hotel (and Wally gave us a driving tour of monuments and landmarks).

Now, do you see why I described the day as a healing dent in my heart? It was a really BRUTIFUL day.