Tireless Grandma Jan

Grandma Jan visited us last week. She stepped off the plane and brought a little California with her: a little sun and lots of cool, fresh ideas for entertaining a wound-up-from-winter toddler. It was like having Mary Poppins come to visit (which is fitting since we watched Saving Mr. Banks while she was here).

Grandma Jan was tireless, and when I say she brought cool, fresh ideas, I really mean it:

They made hats:

They made paper-bag armor:

For two afternoons, when Will went down for his nap, I headed out for Cameron Village and Crabtree, and I told Jan to nap while he napped (heck, it's what I do). When I got back, she had cleaned out and organized his toy basket instead. (Yeah, I was going to get around to that... uh... never.)

We lunched at Chick-fil-a:

And we finally remembered to bring carrots to feed the horses at the property:

Pay no mind to how close Will's finger is to also becoming the horse's snack.
God's grace manifests itself in so many ways! Even to beginner horse people
like Will and his parents!

And Jan was even brave enough to let Will feed himself yogurt:

A fun-filled several days, I'd say!

After we dropped her off at the airport to go home, Will and I went to the observation deck to wave goodbye to Grandma's plane. I was contemplating what to do with Will for the rest of the day when I got this text from Jan: Had a wonderful time. And I still have energy left!

Oh tireless Grandma Jan, thank you for your visit. We're going to need you to come again real soon.

Us lately

Spending cold days at Playnation. Squint and you'll see Will
at the top of the slide. The nice staff worker took him up there
and slid down with him. He loved it. He ain't scared.

Last weekend, Ryan went upstairs to get Will after his nap.
It took longer than I expected, so I looked at the monitor,
and lo and behold, the two of them.

At one point, Will decided to take a seat.

But not for long. "I want to go out, Daddy, take me out."
I can't get enough of these pictures.

Soooo, this picture might be the first of its kind. Don't judge.
Will does not sit still. Ever. Not even when he's tired. Books?
They are objects for chewing or throwing. Up until this point, we've
either had to read books to him with him in his crib and us
in the chair next to it, or with him strapped in his high chair.
Yes, we have to strap him down to read to him! But, recently, he has
started sitting in our laps before bed and letting us read to him.
We feel like we've won the lottery!

True to the stereotype, Will is fascinated by motor vehicles:
cars, trucks, tractors, airplanes. When we walk, we have to
stop and watch the tractor do its thing near our house. That's only
after he points out every "ca" we pass along the way. (Another stereotypical
thing he enjoys: Throwing his toys down the stairs and watching them
 crash at the bottom. Thrills his soul. All boy, I tell ya. All boy.)

Sweeeeeet cheeks!

 

Did I say all boy?

How about now?

 

We spend every possible minute outside. What I love
about this picture is that, again, if you squint, you can
see him running down the driveway. He is truly happiest
in places where he is smallest. Praise God for the wide
open space of the new property! 



 

I mentioned before that sticks are now his favorite toy (spatulas have moved to
second place). Rarely is there a moment when he's outside without a stick
in his hand.

 

 

Other things that have happened lately, but that I don't have pictures of include Will getting his hand bitten into like it was a chicken leg by some kid at the mall playground. Mama Bear of course rushed to the rescue. Praise God for keeping me Christian (outwardly, anyway). (P.S. His hand is fine.)

Nursery drop-offs have become quite the spectacle lately. I thought he was so mature earlier on when he'd jump out of my arms into the nursery while the other kids screamed for their moms. Turns out, immaturity was probably more to blame. He was late, but he's finally wised up to the fact that the nursery means mama leaves him for a little while. He's never been so cuddly as when I'm about to drop him off. Way to make my job even harder, kid! Sometimes I just want to tell the nursery worker to hold on a minute or two. We don't get cuddles like this at home, and I want to enjoy it.

I have winter to thank for finally pushing me to do what Will has probably been ready to do for six months now. I signed him up for preschool. It seems weird to say that after talking about his separation anxiety in the church nursery, but that's precisely why he needs it. That, and the fact that he's bouncing off the walls at home. He needs more new things to explore than I alone can provide, especially when winter weather keeps us inside. So I did it. He starts in June. (And I'm sure I'll have a lot more to say about that as June approaches. Eeeek! Am I really ready for this?)

Jan is visiting us this week, and we are anxiously awaiting our trip to Mexico in April, when we'll put Will's passport to use for the first time.

I'm thankful to say that's pretty much us lately. (Praise God for wonderful uneventfulness!)


He will be them one day

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the elderly. Something about their return to dependence produces an unfeigned humility in many of them that makes me want to help them and make them happy.

I've written before about taking Will to see my Great Aunt Dilly at the Springmoor retirement center. This week, we went again.

They were having circle time with the chaplains when we walked in:

Immediately, they wave Will and me to the center of their circle, just so they can look at the baby. Dilly doesn't recognize us when we walk in, but when I tell the crowd we're there specifically to see her, she sits up a little straighter and poofs the sides of her hair with her hands, as if to say, yes, I'm that important.

I want to see all of them, so after leaving the group and spending a few minutes in Dilly's room, I suggest we go back to the lobby where Will can look at the birds. Slowly, over the course of an hour and a half, the lobby gets full, residents, nurses, aides, office workers, all just loitering there, enjoying the sights and sounds so unfamiliar in that place. Will laughs and runs down the halls, squealing when he looks back and sees me running after him.

He pushes Nancy's walker, and he wants to feel Moppy's soft sweater, and he loves exploring Dilly's wheel chair. One lady is blind. The workers wheel her from her bedroom to the lobby. She's reclined in her chair, eyes closed, and she mutters words inaudible, in her own world that only she can see. She's wearing fuzzy red socks that Will loves. He runs over and touches them over and over again.

Moppy and Nancy and Frances ask me every 90 seconds how old he is. They call him Bill instead of Will. Some refer to him as she. I love it all. Whatever they think, in that moment, is right.

Because they are happy.

One lady throws her head back and exclaims how she's never been so happy. There she sits, in the lobby of a facility where staff members assist her with her most personal needs, where a nurse dispenses her daily medicine in a cup of Ensure and stands by to make sure it all goes down, where her access to the outside is not up to her. And in that moment, watching a child 90 years younger than her, she is happier than she can remember.

The nurse looks at me and says, "Well, you've certainly done your good deed for the day."

It strikes me because I've been thinking about that very thing lately. Do I do enough good every day? When I worked at IBM, I never thought my actual work was that important, but I found worth in my interactions with others, the opportunities I had to be Christ-like to people who had never experienced Christ, and of course, I brought home a paycheck to support my family.

These days, at the end of the day, I look at my house, discouraged at how dirty it is, and at my laundry, discouraged at how piled up it is, and I fight to tell myself: It's okay. Because you poured your energy and your very soul into your child. You were Christ-like towards him, and one day he'll impact others for good. And I am content with that because I know it's true. My calling in life is to be mom.

But I have to say, Wednesday, when we left the facility, I had one of those rare moments (especially for stay-at-home moms I'd imagine) when my soul's capacity actually felt full. Yin met yang for me that afternoon. I poured my soul into Will like every day, and I was the conduit for an almost divine connection between the young and the old. I was present for that moment when the cycle of life is tangible and visible and all participants are better for the other's company. They, unable to walk, and he can't keep from running. Their bodies, worn out from the years, and his not even two years used. They, full of life experience and yet many out of touch with present reality, and he, seeing caged birds for the first time and gleeful over fuzzy red socks. They were him once, and he will be them one day.

Yes, I think the connection between the very old and the very young is pretty close to sacred. Neither young nor old occupy that spot for very long. Connecting the two is certainly a time-sensitive ministry, and one I pray I'll be faithful to continue doing while I have opportunity.

God bless the residents at Springmoor, Dilly, Moppy, and the lady with the fuzzy red socks.

God bless them all.





(I don't have pictures of our visit to Springmoor because 1) I was too busy chasing after Will, trying to make sure he didn't unplug someone's oxygen machine, and 2) I wasn't sure about snapping pics of those precious people and putting them on the web anyway. But, every post is better with a picture, so here's one of Will and me last night after his bath. Who knows, maybe next time we go to Springmoor, I'll get some pictures. I'll be sure to post if I do.
P.S. If any Raleigh mamas want to go with us one day, let me know. Two babies (or three or four) is better than one!)

Here's to sticks!

Winter has overstayed its welcome in NC this year. Although, truth be told, one cold day is one too many for this now mama-of-a-toddler. Last week, I would have paid the Lord in cash to give us a warm, sunny day. Instead, I paid cash to Playnation and the Science museum to do for my boy what our own four walls have been failing to do for him since January.

Cash for toddler entertainment?

You betcha.

Thankfully, the money was well spent.

And even more thankfully, last weekend brought warmer temperatures, and Will (and his mama) couldn't be happier. Walking around the property collecting sticks is Disneyland to him.

Thank goodness nature doesn't charge.

Here's to warmer weather!

Here's to Spring!

Here's to sticks!

The museum

Playnation. Blurry, but you get the drift.

We even tried the infamous glowstick bath one cold, rainy day.
Good... for ten minutes! (My non blurry photos
of this occasion were...uh...inappropriate for the web.)

 

Ahh, finally.

 

Will pushing his BFF Graham

Warmer weather means time outside with friends

And of course chewing on sticks.
(P.S. A polo is not our normal outside attire, but
the warm temps were calling our name after an appt
yesterday morning, so we came as we were.
Three cheers for sticks!)

Some Amens

We could hear music playing loudly as we approached the church doors. Music that didn't fit the occasion, I thought.

My sweaty palms clutched tissues inside my pocket as I nodded hello to the welcoming ladies at the door. Mom introduced herself and then me.

Oh thank goodness for Mom.

Just inside the doors, the ladies motioned for the pastor to come over and meet us.
 
He looks too happy, I thought.

A large man barreled his way toward us, his smiling lips creating crease lines across his face and his starched white collar wilting from sweat.

"Oh, it's so good to meet Anne and Susan Hardison!" he said. "We have reserved seats for you up front."

We followed his pointing finger into the sanctuary and to our front-row seats. The room buzzed, the loud speakers played gospel, people smiled and laughed, and not many wore black.

This is like a celebration, I thought incredulously.

Mom and I eyed each other with curious, nervous glances. In the program, I was listed to speak first and then her.

How am I ever going to get through this without crying?

When the service started, I didn't even hear what the smiling, sweaty pastor said at the podium. I was too focused on the chorus of Amens from the crowd and my increasingly sweaty palms. I squeezed Mom's hand. 

I wonder if she's as nervous as I am?

Soon, it was my turn. I gave Mom's hand one last squeeze, walked up to the podium, unfolded my paper, and took a deep breath....

****************************

Daniel had been absent from class for four days, so I asked Mrs. Jenkins after class if something was wrong.

"He's not doing well," she said. "He's in the hospital."

Fear began burning a hole in my heart at the news. I went home and told Mom we had to go visit him. And I wanted her to share the gospel with him. If Daniel was going to die, he needed to know the Lord first. Mom was the perfect person to talk to him because she had brain cancer, too, and she knew Jesus.

Mom, of course, agreed to go.

With a ding, the elevator doors opened and landed us on the pediatric oncology floor. Daniel's room, the nurse told us, was straight ahead.

He looked like the boy I knew from class, just lying in a hospital bed instead of sitting in front of his computer. The starched white sheets were pulled up to his neck, and his glasses hung clumsily down on his nose, just asking for a push. His mother was in a chair next to him, and when Mom and I walked in, Daniel smiled his huge Daniel smile.

We talked about him and how he was doing, and then Mom told Daniel that she had a brain tumor, too. She told him about the comfort she received from the Lord Jesus when she underwent brain surgery and chemotherapy. She told him about the many prayers that were still being prayed on her behalf. And she told him that many prayers were going up on his behalf, too.

As she talked, Daniel and his mom nodded vigorously in agreement.

My soul breathed out the air I'd been holding in since the elevator ding.

Daniel and his Mom knew the Lord.

Praise the Lord.

I got back on the elevator relieved.

I never saw Daniel again after that. About a month later, I was upstairs in my bedroom when I heard the phone ring . A few minutes later, Mom came to my door.

"Daniel has passed.

[pause]

"The family wants you and me to speak at his funeral."

**********************************

Here goes nothing, I thought from behind the podium. Just try not to cry.

"My name is Susan, and sitting down there is my Mom. Daniel and I were in computer class together...."

I spoke and then Mom spoke, and we, along with Daniel's family and friends, celebrated his life that afternoon. It was a funeral like I'd never been to before and haven't since.

I learned a lot from Daniel. I learned to be expectant in prayer, and I learned the wisdom in befriending the seemingly weak. I have sweet memories of him, and because of him, I have another sweet memory of Mom.

And on that note, I'd like to say for the record that neither of us cried at the podium.

We held it together, and wouldn't you know, we even got some Amens.

Until Daniel

His speech was slurred, and he had a scar down the back middle of his head.

And he sat in front of me in 10th grade computer class.

If you polled my graduating class today and mentioned his name, I'm certain only a few people would recognize it.

His line on the roll said Daniel O'Neal.

His medical chart must have been a little more descriptive. Probably: 15-year-old male. Malignant brain tumor.

Daniel was a high schooler and a brain tumor patient, but few people in school knew about the second part. While the rest of us struggled with algebra, Daniel secretly waged war against cancer.

Algebra never sounded so good.

Maybe I was drawn to Daniel because Mom had been diagnosed with brain cancer the previous year, and the Lord had already begun to exercise that particular sympathy bone in me. Or maybe it was just the Lord's sovereign will that my life come in contact with his. Whatever the case, I was drawn to him, and when I think of him now, I think of two things: the first time I remember the Lord answering prayer, and Mom.

It might take a couple of posts, but I'll explain.

****************

I finished my typing exercise, flipped around in my chair, and began thumbing through my new yearbook, waiting for the bell to ring. The Millbrook High School yearbooks were works of art -- huge and hard bound, with pages so new they stuck together and that fresh-off-the-print smell that was synonymous with the end of the school year.

Everyone got a yearbook. They weren't cheap, but still, I didn't have one friend who didn't buy one.

Well, until Daniel.

He saw me flipping through the pages and asked if he could look.

"Didn't you get one?"  I asked him.

"No, we don't have the money for that."

"Do you want one?"

"Yeah, of course."

Sympathy bone engaged.

I should note how timid I was in high school. I was just beginning to walk with the Lord, so I had moments of courage, but I was naturally shy, fearful, and easily intimidated.

Right behind cheerleaders, I envied the high school yearbook staff. They worked all year on this one highly anticipated product. They had one shot to make it good. I envied those people who could handle that pressure. And to top it off, Mrs. Taylor, the yearbook teacher, had quite a reputation. She was stern and she picked favorites.

I kept my distance.

Until Daniel gave me a reason to get close.

After that conversation with him in computer class, I remember asking the Lord to help me find a yearbook for Daniel. I knew it would probably mean talking to Mrs. Taylor, and, no surprise, she intimidated me.

At the sound of the final bell the next day, I walked to Mrs. Taylor's classroom and stepped inside. She was moving around the room, cleaning up, and talking over her shoulder to a football player member of the yearbook staff. She barely noticed me walk in.

I didn't waste any time. The moment I caught her gaze, I laid it out there, like dropping a heavy piece of luggage:

"Mrs. Taylor, I was wondering if you had an extra yearbook we could give to Daniel O'Neal. Do you know him?'

"What happened to his? Didn't he buy one?"

"No. He didn't buy one, but he wants one."

"I'm sorry, but we've made the final orders on those books. I don't have any extras."

"Okay, that's okay."

I started to walk out, disappointment overtaking my courage. Lord, don't you want Daniel to have a yearbook? How are we going to get him one? You want me to give him mine? Surely You don't want me to do that?

Lost in the silent conversation inside my head, I almost missed what happened next.

I realized Mrs. Taylor was still talking.

I turned back around.

"I do have this one book that I need to return because it's damaged. You want this one? Go, give this one to Daniel."

The joy of answered prayer sprung up in me like a bubbling fountain. I remember it because it was the first time I'd really felt it. The Lord came through!

"Oh, yes, that'll be fine. Thank you so much." I tried to temper the excitement in my voice for fear she'd think I was weird.

The book was "damaged" on one corner. Same thing would have happened after two days inside a book bag.

The next day, I found Daniel and gave him the book.

"This is for me?" he asked.

"Yep. It's yours." The bubbling fountain inside of me was still brimming over.

I got on the bus that day and smiled all the way home.

Daniel may have gotten a yearbook, but I got more than that.

Before the yearbook incident, I knew God answered prayer. I knew it from His Word and from stories other people told. But I didn't know it personally.

Not until Daniel did I know it for myself.

God answers prayer.

Thanks to Daniel for the invaluable lesson.