tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17163732214666029182024-02-22T10:46:37.414-06:00Schultz Party of FourThe story of B, K, C & J and the adventures we find along the way.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.comBlogger1983125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-53062726664327543042024-02-14T18:06:00.000-06:002024-02-14T18:06:30.419-06:00Even when...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrihU2hKlXLpIKC_iO4E7AOAPxcc675qzGCwaWnfSDgc8Jj2_DA8AxjYWq8y4yQbC8R5313qEOpJM_RPh_4moZzNI0vVTU5f0OBwrQxOEgKvkftm28qKlM39YKpTRsyo0g1CIC7hPAVf2WwEiWm1-UmRKHcEPvrL-uAwhOOv1T915jRfBvDyHaHTaSITr6/s1856/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="884" data-original-width="1856" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrihU2hKlXLpIKC_iO4E7AOAPxcc675qzGCwaWnfSDgc8Jj2_DA8AxjYWq8y4yQbC8R5313qEOpJM_RPh_4moZzNI0vVTU5f0OBwrQxOEgKvkftm28qKlM39YKpTRsyo0g1CIC7hPAVf2WwEiWm1-UmRKHcEPvrL-uAwhOOv1T915jRfBvDyHaHTaSITr6/w640-h304/Picture1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>I knew this week would be a lot.<br />Super Bowl, Valentine’s Day, Ash Wednesday, Baby Shower at work.<br />We’ve got to fit it all in, these moments are important.<br />We’ve got to appreciate what it means to be alive and in
love and human.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We won!!! We jumped and cheered! Champs… again!...<br />“I’m thinking about taking the kids to the parade,” he says
as my heart sinks.<br />So many people, what if they get separated, or have to
potty?<br />I’d rather you not.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As it turns out, a fever meant everyone had to stay home. Exhale…<br />I head to work, peaking at the parade they are live streaming in the cafeteria.</p><p class="MsoNormal">We set out the cookies and await the adorable coworker who
is about to pop.<br />“Sounds like there was an active shooter at the parade,”
someone says as my heart sinks.<br />We smile and celebrate new life while we anxiously peek at
our phones, how many lives lost?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“At least 8 children shot” the broadcaster announces as I
drive home.<br />“Children’s Mercy is treating children whose parents can’t
find them.”<br />I can't wrap my mind around it. I shudder.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I spent the weekend prepping cookies and cards, but not my
heart. Not for this.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I pause before I pulling in the garage, grateful for a fever
that kept them home.<br />I text my girlfriends. We exchange digital hugs through
words and heartbreak.<br />My kids, unaware of the today’s news, smile when I walk in. “Mom!”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I knew this week would be a lot.<br />I’ve got to fit it all in, these moments are important.<br />I’ve got to appreciate what it means to be alive and in love
and human.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even when I’m heartbroken. Even when it hurts.<o:p></o:p></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-32042670632261960522024-01-01T13:28:00.003-06:002024-01-01T13:28:40.178-06:00Hope-filled ideas.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ97N8h7YZCxmBeNGJCGNeZbE-oeLiytZopcY6FyvSivEXi9S2kdpr2If2ngQ_xGsk8dT16JbASXMewjlkwZcyxSCO0y55Ug9xJplTSUkoOOPs4YJJWi-3H43dlhuDwg2C72PhU-FUarG9cnV6zEaBm9ItIDX-jjsSn1vGyF2n7ImQQ9rr6ohbFZqP_hII/s1600/i-ZZP3tMx-X3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1600" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ97N8h7YZCxmBeNGJCGNeZbE-oeLiytZopcY6FyvSivEXi9S2kdpr2If2ngQ_xGsk8dT16JbASXMewjlkwZcyxSCO0y55Ug9xJplTSUkoOOPs4YJJWi-3H43dlhuDwg2C72PhU-FUarG9cnV6zEaBm9ItIDX-jjsSn1vGyF2n7ImQQ9rr6ohbFZqP_hII/w640-h342/i-ZZP3tMx-X3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I want to write more.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I tell my husband as we
drive towards home.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is my intention for 2024.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I tell God, and now you.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to find the hope-filled ideas.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That are always sitting beside
the sadness.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to offer beauty.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To anyone who is looking.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I ache for meaning and purpose.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It seems to be in shorter
supply lately.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I fear there is too much pain now.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Too much to hold alone,
anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I offer my heart, to you and to God.<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And to anyone who is looking
towards home.</span></i><o:p></o:p></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-9286892603669462222021-12-21T07:58:00.005-06:002021-12-21T08:17:59.250-06:00Remembering Grandpa<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirIuuNHr2UG81FfTQMbCAMuaJNBWrIYf50PSHiTV--i2Omdz0k034WbukQl-4DkvRzTHojzYKQLfIoVAXtBLhW4g22Z5_YBazJy58KJMG4xY-X1iQOo-EdC8CstxUS6LbT1h4JDk13cjtGJhv5s150pZRbStBlqpo1mN9SzzjO_AJiSE5K2xsRN7gw0Q=s944" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="665" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirIuuNHr2UG81FfTQMbCAMuaJNBWrIYf50PSHiTV--i2Omdz0k034WbukQl-4DkvRzTHojzYKQLfIoVAXtBLhW4g22Z5_YBazJy58KJMG4xY-X1iQOo-EdC8CstxUS6LbT1h4JDk13cjtGJhv5s150pZRbStBlqpo1mN9SzzjO_AJiSE5K2xsRN7gw0Q=w281-h400" width="281" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">He was born on January 23, 1929. He was named Raymond Glenn
but everyone called him Tommy, if you asked him how they came up with Tommy he
would simply say “I have no idea.” He grew up in a little white house on Felton
St. where his folks kept horses and chickens. His dad knew Tom Pendergast, or at
least knew a guy who knew the guy, and so Grandpa drove asphalt trucks and
helped pave downtown Kansas City when he was a teenager. He and his friends
would pool their earnings to rent a plane and fly over Kansas City, which
apparently was a thing young boys were allowed to do in the 1940s (which is
wild to me).<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg7pc6yGXI1weOQPll1tk21Azxg_Fb9Z4hUIBEJPbo_FuaS0wOjAFUsyPk2gFM_6McaGJL0FSAw89b7sLXuWw2Faan67P3CjLglbHXbSx7xR_oF1Kxea30ctS1Agglr6RQlL0YTuAyLtWw9TPh4zHFnkFvhO4P7KXHxMb4-6y2fn15f-QEJzrB7zCdPA=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="910" data-original-width="1280" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg7pc6yGXI1weOQPll1tk21Azxg_Fb9Z4hUIBEJPbo_FuaS0wOjAFUsyPk2gFM_6McaGJL0FSAw89b7sLXuWw2Faan67P3CjLglbHXbSx7xR_oF1Kxea30ctS1Agglr6RQlL0YTuAyLtWw9TPh4zHFnkFvhO4P7KXHxMb4-6y2fn15f-QEJzrB7zCdPA=w640-h456" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">One day he walked into a soda shop in Independence and saw
Margaret Crick on the other side of the counter. He began to frequent the shop and
occasionally would bring his sister, whom my Grandma mistook for his girlfriend
and teenage antics ensued I’m sure. Before long things were sorted and they
were smitten, a love that would last his entire life.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivYhw4KdAxtlibvT1SeHw-4PxBipm3XqRZUI8vzCkQ20BCATpY1cwnxWy8RTh3ozFq5n0VZxxisynjc15j-MvdaDjNxr5eLcTzSl-66nFyysagbnglPDJmNw1qPg-U02KPxbSdJg-CDpEqgoM5-ltzHqvYpZIw2VEsn5R-aUcVJNcS0rVVgnATSBfiFQ=s1012" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1012" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivYhw4KdAxtlibvT1SeHw-4PxBipm3XqRZUI8vzCkQ20BCATpY1cwnxWy8RTh3ozFq5n0VZxxisynjc15j-MvdaDjNxr5eLcTzSl-66nFyysagbnglPDJmNw1qPg-U02KPxbSdJg-CDpEqgoM5-ltzHqvYpZIw2VEsn5R-aUcVJNcS0rVVgnATSBfiFQ=w640-h608" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">He had enlisted in the Navy and was often out at sea, but
Grandma would make the train trip to the coast to see him when she could. They
planned a December wedding while he would be home on leave, and Grandma wrote the
invitations by hand… twice, because the date got changed due to Navy stuff.
They were married in Independence, Missouri on December 21, 1952 where they
would settle down and raise their family.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5zbI83cS486vsI5n0AiQcKJ0941kJ_MHngbh9KD9MKzBB7cXk6-Pdk4NLr9QYXTcXnV7vTLkE81c0iD5VVs82qrp9zLJ-f59NKmPong-C2zo24HKpFhGeaS45hRDg8j5coT31LntEZY9NQjc0Of8QJWt-xmACMzxB3_-OMQF6pYgrCY4OnjFXm4_WPg=s1255" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1255" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5zbI83cS486vsI5n0AiQcKJ0941kJ_MHngbh9KD9MKzBB7cXk6-Pdk4NLr9QYXTcXnV7vTLkE81c0iD5VVs82qrp9zLJ-f59NKmPong-C2zo24HKpFhGeaS45hRDg8j5coT31LntEZY9NQjc0Of8QJWt-xmACMzxB3_-OMQF6pYgrCY4OnjFXm4_WPg=w640-h490" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">When he got home from the service Grandpa learned to build
homes. He started R.G. Construction and built many of the homes up-and-down 39<sup>th</sup>
Street and the surrounding areas. He built Grandma their first home on Overton
which has a big picture window in the front, “Because she’d seen it in a
picture from California and really wanted it – so I figured it out.” In a few years’
time they built their forever home on Christopher Circle just off 39<sup>th</sup>
Street. To my mind, there are few better places then that home my Grandpa built.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgS_boZ_fkc-HLQIOnXCJMXr8osXXq3NIuuGmbTiri6o_Oy6YqmGiWrz8PjP2beq6CFD4d93bo9xdB9JpVGlYLl8iHlYSkoNx2Cnt5NAoRAdS2VOhW0omXXBa9rTiOu7YxwPmR4Njc9YPVCmcsw2L4G5K2dvIyzCAR-BsBYzqGP3oOHJdVVHtncssmJFg=s961" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="961" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgS_boZ_fkc-HLQIOnXCJMXr8osXXq3NIuuGmbTiri6o_Oy6YqmGiWrz8PjP2beq6CFD4d93bo9xdB9JpVGlYLl8iHlYSkoNx2Cnt5NAoRAdS2VOhW0omXXBa9rTiOu7YxwPmR4Njc9YPVCmcsw2L4G5K2dvIyzCAR-BsBYzqGP3oOHJdVVHtncssmJFg=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">They welcomed four children: Jill, Chris, Ray and Pat. Grandpa
was a great dad. He coached football and helped decorate the Truman gym for
school dances. He built a swimming pool in the backyard when the kids were old
enough to be strong swimmers, and he always balanced his business with his
family to ensure he could be there for them for whatever they needed. He took
them on epic vacations, including the time he rented an RV to go to the beach
and parked too close to the water – the family woke up during high tide and nearly floated off to sea.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTDTPRq0xGoGjkHXKr9SLPAQDuuLu4fK2XsViaLPkdIu557B-OrLgZlnWwd7Z1JcSL60YhjHqVPBC7FkvU7i8KhJr3kgSB47q5yjim1c9rgRcE0URaYCbXbubwd3Fjb0fc2jT7iFc3nvRWmB_PQgTGyvWv2ihQxeQxKJVwCUIXDz3NzL7qt8HrMuIAOQ=s960" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="913" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTDTPRq0xGoGjkHXKr9SLPAQDuuLu4fK2XsViaLPkdIu557B-OrLgZlnWwd7Z1JcSL60YhjHqVPBC7FkvU7i8KhJr3kgSB47q5yjim1c9rgRcE0URaYCbXbubwd3Fjb0fc2jT7iFc3nvRWmB_PQgTGyvWv2ihQxeQxKJVwCUIXDz3NzL7qt8HrMuIAOQ=w608-h640" width="608" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">As time marched on he became a grandpa, my Grandpa. When I
was two I nearly choked to death on a piece of chicken and he saved my life by
sticking his fingers down my throat – a heroic act I rewarded him for by nearly
biting off his fingers. No matter how far away we moved, he would make the
drive to Grandparent’s Days at our schools and recitals – all the way to
Albuquerque if that’s what it took. He had a great smile and an easy presence, very
assuring and gentle. I don’t remember a harsh word from my Grandpa, no matter
how much of his adding machine tape I wasted pretending to run the business, no
matter how many games we drug out, no matter how many of his secret stash of
cookies we discovered.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgk3c-Tei1UY53MGs9dgNKCcG0-BwR4gtmycBf7a7JR7Szemke6CwpA_KXKHzQqvQfABSYUupPz-xw_WH1WRtu5qqFopTvEvD47SQmKtEeBgff58ZxlquQxAYajmrPRXGGhGN4hotUO5fyTzg1ZlSf5w5u_9b1NtcyWTX32WEjyw36SIe_IyeMSF_6SaQ=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="481" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgk3c-Tei1UY53MGs9dgNKCcG0-BwR4gtmycBf7a7JR7Szemke6CwpA_KXKHzQqvQfABSYUupPz-xw_WH1WRtu5qqFopTvEvD47SQmKtEeBgff58ZxlquQxAYajmrPRXGGhGN4hotUO5fyTzg1ZlSf5w5u_9b1NtcyWTX32WEjyw36SIe_IyeMSF_6SaQ=w514-h640" width="514" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When my Grandma died unexpectedly his world was turned
upside down. For thirteen years he visited her grave daily, regardless of the
weather, regardless of the holiday. Even in the midst of a big Christmas celebration
he would stand up around noon and say, “I’ll be back” and drive over to sit
with her for a while. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One summer evening several years ago I happened to be giving
him a ride home from a family dinner and asked if he’d show me around his old
stomping grounds. He showed me his house in Sugar Creek, and the house my
Grandma lived in on Main Street, and the house he built her on Overton. As I
pulled in the driveway that night he said, “I know some folks think I shouldn’t
be going out to the cemetery every day, but Kate, she made me who I am – she was
my everything.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even as his body and mind grew tired, he enjoyed his eleven
great grandchildren. He attended ball games and concerts, and especially liked
to have Gwyneth sit next to him on account of her red hair and the fact that he
and his sisters had all had red hair when they were young. I am forever
grateful that my kids got to know Grandpa and see his wonderful smile and lovely
blue eyes shine at them, the way they’d shone at me when I was little.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8h12am1bh9xgkXqSR_u2Dvavqxz4Q9zL3LHy56r0mvGl_wD_J5IMb7euhi7X4ZdtjoeIyjW6WkQ9bVt_lMGAlbNdvaqwGpM8uafDpZO_CC8dqmGYbZnwwnlg8qV9Nz2Vk4QO9YYPJYpAGs1WZZnlGQ3nQV8vDvjCCBcE9Ta_fB9CuDTRrS4JXswQ0qA=s960" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8h12am1bh9xgkXqSR_u2Dvavqxz4Q9zL3LHy56r0mvGl_wD_J5IMb7euhi7X4ZdtjoeIyjW6WkQ9bVt_lMGAlbNdvaqwGpM8uafDpZO_CC8dqmGYbZnwwnlg8qV9Nz2Vk4QO9YYPJYpAGs1WZZnlGQ3nQV8vDvjCCBcE9Ta_fB9CuDTRrS4JXswQ0qA=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On December 20, 2021 my Grandpa went to be with my Grandma
where they can together know God’s perfect peace. He was gently and well cared
for at home until the end by my Aunt Jill and her wife Suzanne, who made many sacrifices
to ensure his wishes of staying at his home on Christopher Circle could be met.
We’d had dinner with him just last week and though he was having a hard time
knowing who we were, I’d always tell him I loved him when we’d leave and he’d
always pat my back and say “I love you too babe.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When Grandma died Grandpa asked me to think of what to put
on the headstone. I came upon a saying that I hold in my heart this cold
December morning as the world marches on without my beloved Grandparents in it:
“In our hearts there is a promise that says death can never win, and a hope
that will sustain us until we meet again.”<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgx_Hqw8JoB7YBfNSN41HCBuSv5ih7dv3upjngz0eCzUrV43ZmfzQfPWyRz7GmEFfZ3qqTv_4lKmJ_2x7eDTW8u13PbUfTULuy4BpJDXFRFt1qXm4eJLIH0D0sc9qyj61rWEX-pWanfcQeaplfmeUqA6ZrLjX7EsYKHPnGJtXT6cmQxy6wbVl-mI7YOjA=s1279" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1279" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgx_Hqw8JoB7YBfNSN41HCBuSv5ih7dv3upjngz0eCzUrV43ZmfzQfPWyRz7GmEFfZ3qqTv_4lKmJ_2x7eDTW8u13PbUfTULuy4BpJDXFRFt1qXm4eJLIH0D0sc9qyj61rWEX-pWanfcQeaplfmeUqA6ZrLjX7EsYKHPnGJtXT6cmQxy6wbVl-mI7YOjA=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I love you, Grandpa.</p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-83163706723470301802021-11-23T08:51:00.002-06:002021-11-23T08:55:15.230-06:00Fragile Miracles: reflections for Thanksgiving week<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjJm1RmkCwYEOkAVCWHez3q-cAa63eafm5sr90YpH5Kvwi2chA1lz_3kTHyY7MFmnPxMpLVNEssmwb7ER7Y8qmbHUzUdjHX5vj8FJ2fIF145dbroTXeIdZOtLLbP7EwnvCZFTQayP4KUg/s1334/IMG_3445.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1334" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjJm1RmkCwYEOkAVCWHez3q-cAa63eafm5sr90YpH5Kvwi2chA1lz_3kTHyY7MFmnPxMpLVNEssmwb7ER7Y8qmbHUzUdjHX5vj8FJ2fIF145dbroTXeIdZOtLLbP7EwnvCZFTQayP4KUg/w640-h360/IMG_3445.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I sat on a dear friend’s hospital bed on Friday. We held
hands as she told me about the tumors they’d found throughout her body. My
tear-soaked mask concealed the contorted face that one makes when the despair is
so heavy. My brain begged my heart to be steady, but the sobs broke through and
my broken heart took the reins. I couldn’t comprehend how her strong body could be riddled with cancer, or how the world could go on without her in it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just weeks earlier I’d stood in disbelief as nurses hooked
my husband up to machines and drew copious amounts of blood, suspecting a heart
attack but discovering a stroke. Through confusion and numbness I texted my
children words of encouragement, and where to find their socks. He lay with his
eyes closed for a few days, mostly processing what had just happened, and the
realization that this is how life goes sometimes – one minute you’re playing
pickleball and the next you’re facing the fragility of this human experiment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The list goes on, of course. My colleague just lost his
mother. My beloved grandpa is on hospice. And one of the smartest, funniest,
kindest people I know is coming to the end of his fight with cancer entirely
too young. I can only imagine the countless other stories playing out amongst
my friends, colleagues, and the stranger in line at the grocery store. We all come
to realize, sooner or later, that this human business is fragile and must be handled
with care.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet... in a few short days we will sit down to tables filled with food and family and we will give thanks. Our bodies will be nourished to continue on this journey for as long as we each have. And we will be thankful. We will laugh and be filled and know that this is the best day, because this is the day we were given. If we're lucky, and paying attention, the sun will catch the leaves just so and time will stop for a moment as we stare. We'll take a bite of pie or stuffing (or green rice if you're an Allen) that will remind us of Grandma and we'll feel her with us. We'll eat until we're stuffed full and then laugh until our stomachs hurt and realize that these bodies are miracles, even if fragile miracles.</span></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-61157793357836026592021-08-01T12:10:00.001-05:002021-08-01T12:10:09.813-05:00What is your Rabbit Pose?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHor4U75COieO9BxNQTALiaHwZH8On2JX0d12O6CQVUUsVB8Dc7h55Pf6T4uU1jvAOLw3XaMziG-fNR0tLK-GE082jui6-xiTJg2MR4qoIJmIoRIgNTwj2gC4lmLsdLdmXmTLrob1JzHQu/s1280/RabbitPose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHor4U75COieO9BxNQTALiaHwZH8On2JX0d12O6CQVUUsVB8Dc7h55Pf6T4uU1jvAOLw3XaMziG-fNR0tLK-GE082jui6-xiTJg2MR4qoIJmIoRIgNTwj2gC4lmLsdLdmXmTLrob1JzHQu/w640-h360/RabbitPose.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>As a child of the 80s I experienced a particular dread when
it came to the annual Presidential Fitness Test. This physical fitness program
conducted in the U.S. from the mid-1950s until 2013 was designed to increase
strength and flexibility, the latter of which was nothing short of humiliating
for my long-legs and stiff muscles. Needless to say, by the time my education
was complete and I found myself in my early 20s in a suburban yoga studio I did
not expect many accolades from the ever-observant instructors. I needed blocks
to simply sit in a Lotus position, and don’t even think about an elegant Forward
Fold. However, the most unexpected thing happened one afternoon when the instructor
began introducing us to a new pose, Sasangasana or Rabbit Pose. My instructor
stopped the class and asked everyone to look at me. She said with astonishment,
“That is the most perfect rabbit pose I’ve ever seen.” I thought to myself, “Well
this doesn’t even hurt.” I wouldn’t have thought much of my momentary Rabbit Pose
fame except that it happened again, and again, at any studio I practiced at. And
I came to realize that everyone has a rabbit pose: the thing which they were
uniquely designed to do, so much so that “it doesn’t even hurt.”<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My second public confession is this, it took me 20 years to
find my career rabbit pose. I majored in Engineering because math comes easily
to me, but I quickly found that running calculations, conducting site walks,
and reviewing shop drawings was more akin to touching my toes than a rabbit
pose. I began a quest to align my skills to a role that I could call my rabbit
pose and traversed project controls, project management, program management, and
even a brief stint in proposals on this quest. I am incredibly grateful for
each of these roles and the ways they grew me and continued to hone my
direction towards the north star that was my purpose, my rabbit pose. I learned
about clients and the complex challenges they face. I learned about project
financials and the careful balance of schedule and quality and scope. I met
many professionals along the way who have found their rabbit pose, designing
and executing in alignment to their skills and their passions. But I also met
many who, like me, had not quite found their purpose. And, to my surprise, I
found that what I enjoyed most was helping them on that quest. Suggesting
roles, making connections, and speaking truth into their incredible strengths
so they could say “yes” to a stretch assignment or a role they would have never
thought of before. I also noticed that I especially enjoyed taking complex
ideas and making them simple, whether for a client seeking Earned Value Management
reports or a professional who was struggling to grasp the meaning of EBT, I
could build a simple graphical approach that “didn’t even hurt.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">After twenty years of stretching and straining, I
am excited to have recently moved into the role of Director of Talent
Development and Management at Black & Veatch. While it isn’t effortless and
no one need stop what they’re doing to observe my contortion, I do have a deep
sense of assurance that I have arrived very near what I was meant do – my rabbit
pose. For years I have read Leadership and Talent books for fun, like <i>on
vacation</i>. And I can’t resist asking everyone, from my esthetician to loan
officer, “How did you decide to do this for a living? Do you love it!?!” My
deepest hope every day that I log-on is to help my fellow Black & Veatch colleagues
realize their best selves, find their rabbit pose, and help us collectively add
the most value possible to our clients.</span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-1658639812583385032021-03-13T11:18:00.000-06:002021-03-13T11:18:08.786-06:00Forty Things I've Learned in 40 Years<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChQpWVIcOCVCGWjopAWeGZ3JekMYyZF3ZRi2LM1aD7vVQDWrAPNDxeHcHLBlsUrAWjWRa9ML8JwtQcizCBItXobvLH1iTmZwv5PsXqr8DWNtNR3BGbCFDnWkM6_Xrhtf_qvDm7A3bAvtO/s2130/IMG_9242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="2130" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChQpWVIcOCVCGWjopAWeGZ3JekMYyZF3ZRi2LM1aD7vVQDWrAPNDxeHcHLBlsUrAWjWRa9ML8JwtQcizCBItXobvLH1iTmZwv5PsXqr8DWNtNR3BGbCFDnWkM6_Xrhtf_qvDm7A3bAvtO/w640-h338/IMG_9242.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="text-align: left;"> If you buy an “I’m sorry your Dad
died” card at the same time you buy a “I’m sorry your dog died” card, take
great care putting them into their respective envelopes before mailing – though
your boss’s recently widowed mother will get a good laugh from the whole thing.</span></li><li>Always end a visit with your
grandparents with “I love you” – linger a little longer – you never know when
it will be your last goodbye.</li><li>Make a budget and stick to it,
trust me on this, it is no fun but the alternative is worse.</li><li>Breastfeeding is challenging, like
whoa. Some babies just get it, some don’t, all moms are rock stars regardless.</li><li>If you think breastfeeding is
challenging, wait until you teach her to drive!</li><li>Delivering a delicious, homemade
meal to someone is the best way to improve your mood and theirs.</li><li>In a moment of utter despair and
crisis, kind words and prayers make a difference – offer them generously and
receive them with gratitude.</li><li>Set two alarms, otherwise you’ll
find yourself standing in a college campus intersection, sobbing and begging
the first car you see to drive you to your Calculus 3 final that starts in five
minutes.</li><li>If you’re 39 weeks pregnant and
suddenly think you’ve peed your pants – your water just broke – trust me on
this.</li><li>Unless you want to be hospitalized
and lose a significant amount of weight, do NOT brush your teeth with tap water
in Mexico.</li><li>Before signing your child up for a
youth sport… like ice skating, as an example… do a tad bit of research on the
cost – some things escalate quickly.</li><li>Take pictures – lots and lots –
your children will grow old someday and want to recall your smile.</li><li>If your car slides off the road on
an icy night, get everyone out of the car and far from traffic. More cars will
hit the same patch of ice and you’ll watch your brother get pinned between them
and you’ll regret not taking better care of your little brother.</li><li>When opening a can with a pop top
lid, do not hold a crying baby on your hip whilst trying to negotiate teenage
emotions with your tired brain, otherwise you will end up in the ER for 5
stitches.</li><li>If, while getting a pedicure, you
note that the establishment you have found yourself in has a very dirty fish
tank – put on your socks and leave immediately. Toenail health is a rather
precarious thing that is very, VERY hard to regain.</li><li>A true friend brings you a bag of Peanut
M&Ms, or a frosted sugar cookie, when you need it the most – treasure these
people.</li><li>If your child receives a large
amount of cash for Christmas – do not let them carry it around IKEA for an hour
only to discover they think they set it down somewhere. You will backtrack that
irritating maze for hours only to conclude it was stolen.</li><li>Choose your battles very carefully.
It is easier to effect changed behavior through praise and by example than by
punishment – this applies to children, spouses and coworkers.</li><li>Life is uncharted, the future is
what you make it. A hard, sad, discouraging chapter is not the end – mourn, lament,
breath and believe there will be better days ahead. If you find this hard to
believe, find people who will convince you and treasure them the rest of your
life.</li><li>Phases of the early years with
little ones can be tough but they are always short-lived. The same goes for the
fun stuff, too. Everyday is a challenging gift with kids, grace upon grace as
you struggle to enjoy and endure all at the same time.</li><li>Always tell the truth. Always.
Your integrity is worth protecting.</li><li>Never ever, EVER send an unkind email
response to one person about another person – you absolutely will accidently
send it to the unintended audience and you absolutely will feel bad about it
ten years later.</li><li>Planning ahead is lovely, but you
really learn how ingenious you can be when you have to fashion a baby outfit
out of a swaddle because someone’s had a blowout.</li><li>There are only one or two dusks a
year when the cherry blossoms gently fall into the tidal basin in Washington,
D.C. If you happen to find yourself anywhere near the East Coast on one of
these evenings run, don’t walk, to this glorious event and soak in the Narnia
that it is.</li><li>No one comes through forty years
of life unscathed. Therapy works. Everyone should have a good therapist. If the
therapist knows EMDR, all the better.</li><li>Michigan beaches are better than
ocean beaches. No salt. No sharks. Don’t DM me.</li><li>Life is not a race, or a contest. You
can only pick two or three things you really care about at any one time. If
you’ve chosen something different than someone else be happy for them, not
jealous or judgy – neither are a good look.</li><li>Confirm your flight the night
before, otherwise you might miss your dinner with Micky Mouse.</li><li>If a group of all-male students
insinuates that the only way you earned an A in your Circuits class was through
unbecoming behavior, do not quit engineering school – just look forward to the
day you can enjoy your well-earned spot on the stage at graduation.</li><li>Vacations with children are so
much work and a lot of money – but when your little boy lays in bed on a cold
winter night and drifts off to sleep by saying, “Mom, remember Colorado? I
really liked Colorado. We should do that again” you will know it was worth it.</li><li>One day the doctor will call with
bad news – your head will jump to terrifying thoughts that do you no good. Be
sure you have some truth in your back pocket that can be the pillow you rest
your tired head on – God is near, she is loved, you are strong, God is near,
God is near, God is near. </li><li>Have cash on hand, especially if
you are going to Santa-Cali-Gon Days (or Missouri Town Fall Festival) (or Weston
Apple Festival) because you ARE going to want kettle corn and an Artic Lemon
and possibly a turkey leg or a craft.</li><li>Don’t spend too much time wishing
things were different, especially the things that are out of your control. Focus
on making the best of it, seeing the best in them, and being grateful for the
good that can be found.</li><li>If you notice a coworker crying on
Christmas Eve, don’t ignore or pretend not to notice. Ask if everything is
alright, and then sit for a while as he tells you about his wife’s sudden
passing and how he’s facing his first Christmas without her. You’ll become his
go-to for mom advice as his kids get older and when he retires he will thank
you for being a true friend.</li><li>If you find yourself in an
impoverished border town as a young missionary who thinks you know a whole lot,
buckle up because the world is bigger and far more complex then you could
imagine. God has work to do on your closed-mind and heart.</li><li>Your children and your spouse will
find interests, and haircuts, that you don’t particularly care for. Listen to
the weird music, ignore the hair, watch the TikTok – lean into the things you
don’t understand and love their core.</li><li>If you interview with a
construction company on a bitterly cold day, don’t leave your coat in your car.
They will think you want to walk around in a hard hat in the out-of-doors, the
audacity! You will freeze.</li><li>When the fire alarm goes off at
work, grab your car keys. It will be days before they let you back in.</li><li>Pay close attention to what you are
uniquely good at. Leverage and capitalize on it, it’s what the world
desperately needs.</li><li>It all boils down to a choice
between love and fear. Choose love. In the end, love wins.</li></ol><o:p></o:p><p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-35816261166377983242020-07-09T08:06:00.000-05:002020-07-09T08:08:06.103-05:00The Saint from Mumbai<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoz85SocqaWN_D6knB2t6XxyFLmby17lTJBOGU_A8an0vNJgAxY8fIpctRCzIY__sy2uo065duOfLnVCKGSgWmE6_7L3U3NqBniY0DxoYT_0TnCkg-kIWZPan5xrVRe_LxzNSUuw34hyx/s1600/Aloshe1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="919" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoz85SocqaWN_D6knB2t6XxyFLmby17lTJBOGU_A8an0vNJgAxY8fIpctRCzIY__sy2uo065duOfLnVCKGSgWmE6_7L3U3NqBniY0DxoYT_0TnCkg-kIWZPan5xrVRe_LxzNSUuw34hyx/s640/Aloshe1.jpg" width="550" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There once was a remarkable man who stood in my kitchen and
told me stories of God. He was as unlikely a saint as any corporate colleague
who finds himself on a business trip, sitting through days of meetings, and
invited into a teammates home for dinner. Yet, he was a radiant beacon of hope
and encouragement and belief – and his presence warmed my entire home one bitter
January night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He had traveled from Mumbai through the most auspicious
circumstances which he relayed with such glee that you couldn’t help but nod in
wonder and belief yourself. He relayed the story of his visit to a visa office in
India where he had nervously watched countless people denied visas to the
United States. He earnestly prayed that God’s will be done and decided to march
around the visa office seven times – Joshua style – before entering for his
visa appointment. Inexplicably the woman at the desk smiled and handed him an
approval. He headed directly to the church across the street and gave thanks to
God who had surely made a way. At the conclusion of his story he was so overcome
with joy that he threw his arms around my husband saying, “I just need a hug!”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My children were drawn to him just as readily as the adults,
and they drug him by the hand to their playroom where he knelt and admired
their treasures. After many minutes of genuine interest in all that they had to
say and share, he graciously turned in my direction and commented, “This is
remarkable, in India children often have only one toy.” I was struck by his
delivery, not a measure of malice or irritation, only wonder and gratitude for
this moment – these children – this place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As we sat for dinner, he welcomed our children’s prayers for
grace, so simple and short, and he asked to take their picture so he could
share this moment with his church back home. He listened to their stories from
school that day and shared his own stories from home in India where he lived in
a small apartment with his brother and parents. He praised the meal and took
two more plates full, saying it reminded him of his mother’s cooking. His mother’s
cooking, he shared, is her ministry. She always makes enough to share with
neighbors or his coworkers. When his coworkers ask what her secret is to such
delicious food, he tells them it’s the prayers for those who will enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">His faith poured out of him like pure light. Not in dogmatic
rules or judgmental dualism, but in genuine love and joy and peace and hope. Every
story he shared was strung with a thread of God’s goodness and when he listened
to others speak his eyes were full of grace and patience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Before departing that evening, he insisted we pose for
pictures. Though their encounter had been brief, he and our four-year-old
daughter had made fast friends and he asked for a picture to remember her by.
Only three months later she would be overcome with months of medical challenges
and he would send beautiful messages of encouragement and prayers from back in
India.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The short visit was over in a matter of hours. Over the
coming months he would send greetings and well wishes for our daughter’s
health, and prayers. His emails were a bright spot in my inbox, a little light
of joy through the wires across the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">Eleven months after he filled our home with so
much warmth I received a call that he had been killed in a train accident in
Mumbai. As with all tragedy, I could not understand why this would happen to someone
so pure of heart. I was devastated to think of the light that had been
extinguished, a light the world needs so badly in this time. I was also so
grateful for the few hours my family had experienced with him in our home. I
will never forget Aloshe and the glow he brought to our home one cold January
night. I pray a bit of the light he radiated can be reflected in his memory.</span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-60033279221494377872019-06-20T20:39:00.000-05:002019-06-20T21:13:11.479-05:00Thirty-five years after cheating death<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thirty-five years ago this week… “Four persons, including a
Kansas woman and her two small children received injuries of varying degrees
when a truck tractor pulling two semi-trailers careened out of control Tuesday
morning on Interstate 40 and struck a small foreign-made car head-on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thirty-five years ago this week my mom and dad, in their
mid-twenties, had loaded all that they had into their two small cars to start
their post-graduate school life in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My one-year-old brother
slept in his car seat, me asleep in the hatchback of our brand-new Nissan
Sentra driven by my Mom, as Dad led in another car a few hundred feet ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was the early 80s and truck driver safety regulations had
not yet evolved to require adequate sleep breaks. The driver had probably been
pulling his rigs all night and by the time 6:30AM rolled around he had gotten
drowsy. Heading down Interstate 40, just east of the Washita River bridge, the
truck crossed the center median. Mom remembers thinking, in that brief second
before the impact, ‘Why is that truck taking a left turn?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My memory of that moment consists of a few scant details. I
know my dad watched the entire horrific collision in his rearview mirror. When my
own children were one and three I finally gained some understanding of what he
must have endured in those moments – walking up to a car containing your young
wife and two babies, crushed to an unrecognizable heap, dreading what you might
find. I remember that he lifted me through the broken window and placed me in
the grassy median. I remember my brother sitting beside me, probably bleeding
from the head injury he’d suffered, though I have no recollection of blood that
entire morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My mom, who was trapped in the car for over an hour before
the fire department used the ‘jaws of life’ to remove the roof of the car and
extract her – suffered deeply gashed legs, badly bruised face and broken arm
but was miraculously alive. She remembers simply asking one question of my dad,
over and over, “Are the kids ok!?!” The sensation of being trapped, hurting,
and not being able to hold your crying babies must have been excruciating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The emergency crew determined my brother needed to be life-flighted
to Oklahoma City. It would be 24 hours before he would see another familiar
face, as my Dad stayed with my Mom and me, and in the absence of cell phones it
took several hours before our Kansas City family would hear the news and make
their way south to the Intensive Care Unit where Christopher would grab my
Grandma’s neck and not let go for days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I rode along in the ambulance with my Mom. In the small-town
hospital my few scrapes were examined, and it was determined that I had escaped
virtually unscathed. Mom’s arm was set, her gashed legs bandaged. The next day
the newspaper headline read, ‘Quartet cheats death in car-truck smashup.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thirty-five years ago this week we all should have died. A
semi-truck, barreling down the interstate, crossed a grassy median and hit our
car head-on. I did not have on a seat belt. The roof collapsed on my brother’s
head. The steering column crushed my mom’s legs. The car was unrecognizable. The
highway was shut down for hours. And yet, we lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thirty-five years ago this week, at three-years old, suddenly
awakened from my un-belted sleep by an abrupt jolt I came to know one thing for
sure – there is MORE. It was a deep knowing that I didn’t have language to
express for many years. But when I was asked, at twenty-five, about the start
of my faith journey I found myself suddenly back in the crumpled hatchback of a
1984 Nissan, gasping in the unknown of what-just-happened!?! And every crevice
of fear that had been cracked open by this life-changing moment was filled with
a knowing that no matter what there was MORE. Did the MORE save our lives that
day, or does the MORE also visit the child who doesn’t make it out alive –
filling her with peace, too? I have wondered about this a hundred thousand
times, as I gave the wreck far more of my thoughts growing up then I ever let
on. But the MORE has always stayed close and brought me deep comfort. Even as
we recently received difficult medical news for our own young daughter a few weeks ago I
could feel this knowing, “Katie…” it whispers, “You are not alone, I am here,
there is so much MORE.” More to come, more to love, more to trust in and hope
for and MORE than I could ever imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6cXOS5NmjOiZxWi0k355K6FxkPVW5dE47yEtLJ6IaV1yYVzOK8Nsxrsq-R5jqcrXKNv3K07UQhKY7ywnw_IqhrE4obyftWswNe50wId97vzg5UlF4vQ6TXUonA1QedNoTsoCwJHGQX0fZ/s1600/Wreck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6cXOS5NmjOiZxWi0k355K6FxkPVW5dE47yEtLJ6IaV1yYVzOK8Nsxrsq-R5jqcrXKNv3K07UQhKY7ywnw_IqhrE4obyftWswNe50wId97vzg5UlF4vQ6TXUonA1QedNoTsoCwJHGQX0fZ/s640/Wreck.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-27544840073973893232018-03-23T20:41:00.000-05:002018-03-23T20:41:24.832-05:00You can be a person of hope
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgYIEauwxkk3zfRM9ANE6sjksF7mHFReaHuJ4j5NM8YsXo1mX_vtgp8Mn4datR6NeuU5VsNSfsMEfPscvjuBedJCjHPJf58MCNfwWIVaWIHH6tFBllvUQ_79WkBjoudY5xJp7ZJFsdyDz/s1600/pexels-photo-205342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="940" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgYIEauwxkk3zfRM9ANE6sjksF7mHFReaHuJ4j5NM8YsXo1mX_vtgp8Mn4datR6NeuU5VsNSfsMEfPscvjuBedJCjHPJf58MCNfwWIVaWIHH6tFBllvUQ_79WkBjoudY5xJp7ZJFsdyDz/s640/pexels-photo-205342.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This would probably be easier if I was a person of faith.”
She’d just described one of those difficult life situations that plague us all,
a situation none of us imagined when we fantasized about adulthood. I knew what
she was asking for and I also knew that any words I could muster at the end of
that long day would not rightly honor the depths for which she was yearning. “Keep
moving forward, things will work out,” was all I offered.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I’ve got plenty of religious
clichés in my back pocket. Was I really honoring her question by keeping those
tucked away or was I cheating her on an invitation? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have told her about the dream I had a few years ago:
I was standing in a hotel lobby and Jesus (the one and only) walked through the
sliding doors. While others reacted in awe I ran. I ran from room to room of
the hotel looking under beds to find the scared ones. I coaxed them out, I held
their hands, I brought them to him with assurance, “It’s ok! He can’t wait to
meet you! He loves you!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have told her about the NPR story that took my
breath away. The one where a scientist described the recording devices that are
able to pick up a whole world of sounds no human has ever heard, the sounds
insects make by vibrating branches to communicate with one another. If there
are whole symphonies happening around us, what other imperceptible possibilities
must there be!?!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have told her about being in junior high, sitting in
the sanctuary, listening to the nun presenting to our confirmation class. When
the elderly sister spoke of God in the feminine we all shuffled uncomfortably
in our seats. As her talk concluded and questions began the first one was obvious,
“Why do you call God ‘she’!?!” And like the Grinch’s heart, my mind grew ten
sizes that day as she replied, “Why not?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have just told her the truth, “It wouldn’t be easier,
but it would be different.” When suffering is framed in a grand, loving
narrative it finds comfort. When the chaos of the unknown has a master
conductor of unheard symphonies, it finds purpose. When fear is met by a creator
beyond the limitations of our very language, it finds love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Or I could have kept it simple… “Faith means
hope – you can be a person of hope. In fact, I think you’re already well on
your way.”</span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-5012666892338012082017-11-05T01:00:00.000-05:002017-11-05T01:05:18.169-06:00November Regret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9JH2vTn-G7enoVdm_tVtcgFwlLlUZiYJJvAG1dky3uUv0W0nxbkqui7aYfywnThkyGRZQ3jeYuEaXePlT-yHeEP-euDs9muoHEQfAp06IDlFKPtBYTKiigebepNMimnp5ebbAIaHF0f-/s1600/forest-meadow-leaves-autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9JH2vTn-G7enoVdm_tVtcgFwlLlUZiYJJvAG1dky3uUv0W0nxbkqui7aYfywnThkyGRZQ3jeYuEaXePlT-yHeEP-euDs9muoHEQfAp06IDlFKPtBYTKiigebepNMimnp5ebbAIaHF0f-/s640/forest-meadow-leaves-autumn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I read about grief recently, how it comes in waves. The
waves are strong and overpowering at first and you feel as though you’re
drowning but in time they settle down and only come around in smaller and less
frequent intervals. The reader was urged not to resist these moments but rather
let these waves wash over you with the assurance that in time they will pass
and you will not drown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For me the waves come mostly in the fall. Or perhaps they
are most notable in the fall because this when they are accompanied by the
sharp pains of regret.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In high school I had a friend who was diagnosed with cancer.
He and I had done theater together and I completely adored his gentle, funny
demeanor. We had bonded over a few plays but we weren’t terribly close so I
never inquired too deeply into his diagnosis. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did know he had gone through treatments and
was in remission when he graduated a year ahead of me, and in a pre-Facebook
age I assumed he had gone off to college to enjoy a wonderful life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The following fall I ran into him at a sporting event. It
still stings to recall the moment because his smile and words were so kind and upbeat,
“Hi Katie, it’s me!” He opened his arms and I hugged him, gingerly. It was
clear his cancer had returned and the young man I had laughed with backstage
during many a dress rehearsal was hardly recognizable.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At this point I’d like to say I was mature beyond my 18
years and grabbed his hand and sat beside him and listened closely to his
story. If I had a do-over I’d have looked him in the eye. If I had a do-over I
would have let him make me laugh, he had a brilliant dry humor. If I had a
do-over I would have told him how much I admired him, how much I treasured his
friendship, how grateful I was that we had run into one another that night. If
I had a do-over I would have treaded tenderly into the “how are you doing”
conversation and if he was ok to talk about it I would have listened, bravely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Unfortunately, though, I was not courageous. His bright
smile, excited to see a friendly face, was met by my fear. I didn’t know what
to say. I stammered. I made very lame small talk. I told him it was great to
see him, because it truly was. But I begged off quickly. One last tender hug
and that was it. ‘He’s probably going through treatments again, he’ll be fine’
my ridiculously naïve eighteen-year-old self thought.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A month later I learned he had passed away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I never cried so hard in my life. Certainly there was deep
mourning for a precious, young life lost to a hideous disease. But also, there
was intense regret. How could I have been so heartless, so fearful, so unkind?
How could I have missed it so entirely, a chance to be a friend in moments that
must been so lonely and terrifying?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I went to the funeral. I wrote his mom a letter. I told her
how wonderful he was and how he would never be forgotten. I told her about how
he would make us all laugh and how he would save my place for curtain call. I
told her that I know someday we will meet again and I look forward to finding
that same smile awaiting me at the final curtain call. She wrote me a long
letter back and told me it meant a lot to her. I didn’t tell her that I had
been a coward just a few weeks before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">For the next several years I would find the changing leaves
always brought on a huge wave of sadness and regret. I would call my mom on a
long drives and just sob, “Why didn’t I just TALK TO HIM!?!”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">With time and years, the waves diminished, but the lesson
was not learned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In early November of 2008 I had a birthday party to plan and
work to do and two little ones to care for so when I ran by my grandparents’
house I didn’t have much time to chat. My grandma asked me how the party
planning was coming and I sat down for a few minutes to tell her all of the
details. She had thrown some noteworthy parties in her day and it made me proud
to be following in her footsteps. But when I got up to leave she urged me to
stay. I remember thinking it was odd how much she kept insisting, “Just stay a
little longer Kate.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At this point I’d like to say I stayed. If I could have a
do-over I’d have sat for hours. I’d have listened to her stories of when she
was first married, of being a young mom, of starting a business, of when I was
born. If I could please have a do-over I’d have thanked her for making my
childhood magical. If I could have a do-over I’d have held her hands and
listened to her voice and soaked in every last second.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But I didn’t take the invitation. I said I had to go, I’d
see her soon. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Two days later I got a call that she’d had a massive stroke.
I cried hysterically the entire way to the hospital, “why didn’t I just stay a while
like she asked!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She would never regain consciousness, though I begged her,
and God.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">My grandma had been a pivotal figure in my life and losing
her, especially so unexpectedly, felt like a loss I could never fully recover
from. And, once again, the loss was compounded with the deep regret of our last
conversation being cut short by my busy-ness, and the assumption that we’d have
more time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
...<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was nine years ago tonight that I left her house too
soon. The wave hit me as I sat at an intersection near her house looking at the
beautiful fall leaves. “It was tonight…” the wave crashed in. “You should have
stayed….” regret quickly followed. “She kept asking you to stay, remember?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I remember.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And regret still stings, and I am still so sorry that I didn’t
stay. The same way I regret that I didn’t treasure the chance meeting with my
friend with cancer. But, I am also slowly lessening the grip that regret has on
me every early November.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Tonight I realized that the self-loathing ‘how-could-you-be-so-stupid/selfish/fearful/busy’
part of regret only serves to shame me for being human. In its place I must
insert grace. No matter how much I try to be present and connect and listen
well I will never feel that I have done any soul the justice it deserved when
it departs this earth. It will never be enough.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The truth is that life is busy and hard and we are all doing the best
we can with the skills and courage we’ve been given. We can all strive to get
better and do better. But there will always, always be a gap. I was once asked
by a wise friend, who had surely realized all of these things long before I
ever did, “what do you think your grandma would say if she heard you beating
yourself up so much about leaving that night?” It took no time for me to hear
her voice, “It’s alright Kate, don’t worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So, as the early November memories wash over me this year I
am trying to experience the grief without the regret. There are so many good
memories to treasure; I cannot let the last one hang round my neck so
heavy any longer.<o:p></o:p></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-40613203564591033612016-12-26T20:29:00.000-06:002016-12-26T20:34:00.471-06:00Rudolph Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3EjnBzX8A2xlOi3rqH6RrEc2Av-Y34t5TIjtVoV8i0fP0N7gWzXSJF69S_8kNUHct8eUckVs31x71G_mzdlbsYru6dI-uC4yWZBrf-tO7Mb7qDg19M-mXPlbzFEWEECXDb5sIn6oRuDq/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3EjnBzX8A2xlOi3rqH6RrEc2Av-Y34t5TIjtVoV8i0fP0N7gWzXSJF69S_8kNUHct8eUckVs31x71G_mzdlbsYru6dI-uC4yWZBrf-tO7Mb7qDg19M-mXPlbzFEWEECXDb5sIn6oRuDq/s400/1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
For those of your who have followed our very drawn out house hunting process, you know that I had a specific list of house qualities. A great yard for the kids to play, four bedrooms, a nice kitchen, move-in ready, those were all things I hoped to find. But whenever we walked into a house the thing I was really imagining was a big Christmas gathering and whether we could host LOTS of friends and family comfortably. Back in February my Aunt told me about a house that was in the process of being flipped that had four bedrooms and might be just the place. I drove by that very day and KNEW it was the house for us (before I'd even gone inside... seriously). I've only felt that "knowing" one other time: the day I met my husband. Thankfully we were able to purchase this perfect-for-us home in July after it had been completely remodeled by the most meticulous and kind older gentleman and his family. It was a tremendous blessing.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to Christmas Eve and at last the house that was in much disrepair a year ago was brought to life in the fullest. My poor Aunt was suffering with a terrible cold that was going to make hosting a big family get together very difficult. At about eleven that morning my Grandma called me to ask, "do you think you might be able to host tonight?" I felt like freaking Rudolph, and YES I would be happy to guide the sleigh tonight! Brandon and the girls sprang into action, sweeping and putting away toys, prepping for the forty guests we would soon have the opportunity to host! We rearranged some furniture, set up tables and spread out table clothes.<br />
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I felt like a kid on Christmas (I mean, I was literally an adult on Christmas so it's not a tremendous leap). And as the guests arrived and I got to see the kitchen full of food and conversation and plenty of space for everyone to sit and laugh and enjoy I was full up with gratitude for this perfect-for us house! For those few wonderful hours I felt as though everything was just as it should be.<br />
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-35726626421223275682016-11-30T21:51:00.001-06:002016-11-30T21:57:21.537-06:00Anapra Visit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In 2013 we opened a library in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anapra">Anapra</a>. It sits on a corner of two dirt streets in the center of this 10,000 person neighborhood of Juarez. Most people in Anapra survive on around $70 per week for six days of factory work. Public schools are not free, nor do they have libraries. Books are rare. Except at this library where the shelves are filled with over 1,000 titles covering everything from llamas in pajamas to what to expect when you're expecting. This corner of Anapra has become a portal to adventures and to learning. This little library tells a story, too; to the single mother, the elderly grandmother, the tired father, the confused teen, the curious child - that they are valued, worthy of investment, and have a place to belong.</div>
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Over the last six months we have added another large space in an "L shape" to help with the library overflow. The building sits back-to-back with the library with a door between the two. The main room is ideal for tutoring and game playing and crafting. The smaller room is great for guests to sleep or potentially a quiet place to read, when needed. For the first time we now have a safe place to stay that does not require inconveniencing our friends or crossing back to the U.S. at night. The space is bright and welcoming, though it is not yet fully finished. The floors are still bare concrete and the walls need paint. One thing at a time and patience, these are things Anapra has taught me.</div>
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The library, the new expansion, the books, the activities, none would be possible without Estela. She, and the small group of women she has empowered and entrusted with this ministry, are some of the most incredible leaders I have ever met. Despite their own personal challenges, despite the daily struggle to make ends meet and just stay warm, these women serve selflessly. They show up to open the library. They greet the patrons with hugs. When someone new comes they get to know them, they ask about their story, and they listen. Despite only having a sixth grade education Estela manages the library and the volunteers and the programming like a seasoned pro. She laughs about the unlikely role of 'librarian' but it fits her talents perfectly.</div>
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It comes as no surprise that Estela spends her time pouring into others. Glancing around her living room there are photos everywhere of family and friends. Her story is as rich as the array of photos on her walls. Someday I'd like to do it justice by taking the time to really write it all out. But again, one day at a time... one project at a time. For now she is busy running a library among other ministries, and taking care of her grandchildren. She has 17.<br />
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In the early days of ministry in Anapra Estela learned of a young mother whose palette house had burnt to the ground and left her and her five children homeless. Estela worked with her contacts in the US to build this mother a new cinder block home and they soon became close friends. Bertha and her five, now-grown, children continue to help Estela with ministering to the needs of others. Bertha hosts Vacation Bible School every summer which has grown to serving over 200 children on most days of the four-weeks that it runs. Two years ago Bertha suffered a debilitating stroke that left her badly crippled and blind. The people of Anapra and local nuns went into downtown Juarez to tell Bertha's story and request donations for a much-needed surgery. Donations received, along with those from the US, enabled the surgery to save her life and some of her sight. Recently Bertha worked with Estela to begin a Pajama Club at the library. Though she struggles walking long distances, and only has partial sight, her enjoyment of the children is all that is evident when she sings songs and reads stories to the little ones cuddled up on blankets in their pajamas.</div>
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Though much has been done in Anapra in the twenty-plus years Estela has been doing ministry to her neighbors, there is still more that is needed. As winter set in last year Estela visited an elderly woman who was living up on the mesa above Anapra. When she arrived at her house she was surprised to find the woman living in a palette house with her six grandchildren and no blankets on the beds. The woman explained that they had hung the blankets on the outside of the walls to try to keep out the bitter wind. Estela reached out to us and shared the story. As a minimum they needed a heater and blankets, but ideally we'd get a house built. We shared the story, we found donors, and a house was built. During our visit we piled into Estela's van and headed up the mesa to see the new house and to meet the woman and her grandchildren.</div>
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Lorenza is a petite woman. She was quite but grateful. Her six grandchildren sat quietly and watched as we stood in their 10 ft. by 20 ft. home, beds in each corner, neatly swept. Two more babies lay sleeping, more grandbabies who need watching while their mother is at work. The home sits a stones throw from the edge of the mesa, which is how one granddaughter ended up falling down the steep hillside and breaking her leg several months ago. Estela points to the granddaughter and notes that her leg is healing well. Lorenza tells us that she prays often for those who help the poor, then asks us if we would like to take a look inside of her old house, which she now uses for storage.</div>
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Entering someone's home is so personal, especially when they've built it with their own hands. When I was younger, before I had babies of my own and bills and real life experiences, I avoided looking inside a palette house too closely for fear of making the owner feel shame or embarrassment for their fragile dwelling. But Estela started in a palette house. When Anapra was first settled 30 years ago everyone lived in palette houses and those houses meant hope and space to raise kids and having your own plot of land, it is what drew Estela and her husband to this place. Now I know that putting a roof over your children or grandchildren's head is admirable, no matter how meek.</div>
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Before we leave the mesa Lorenza comments on William and his size. She tries to hold him but he is overdo on a nap and wants his mama. We walk to the mesa edge and take in the view. Lorenza tells us the best night is the 4th of July. The children line up along the mesa edge to watch the fireworks that light up the sky in the US. The proximity of such severe poverty against the green grass and malls and fireworks of the US has always bothered me. It is the accepted reality of life in Anapra.</div>
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Saturday is the busiest library day. The shaded patio out front is quickly filled with readers. A few children grab a game from the shelf and take it outside to play quietly together. Inside many mothers have found their book on the shelf, bookmark right where they left it. The elementary-aged children head to the new space where a long table awaits them. They line up for 90 minutes of tutoring from a local teacher. Nearly 100 people will visit the library from 10:00 to 2:00, and yet it is never chaotic.</div>
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After the majority of the patrons have left for the day we sit down to a lunch of homemade tamales and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Champurrado">champurrado</a> - a truly special Christmas treat. Several similarly delicious meals were served during our visit including empanadas, burritos and flautas. All wonderful and filling. But knowing the amount of work it takes to make tamales they were extra special.<br />
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Estela's son wants to make the visit extra special, so he offers to drive the big girls up to a new scenic overlook that was recently built in Juarez. Walking out to the domed portion of the overlook requires a special amount of bravery as the grating you walk on reveals how high above the road you are. Everyone wants to see the view so they are brave.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Border towns are unique in the blend they find between the two cultures they share. Juarez is no different. Estela and her family celebrate Thanksgiving every year, though they wait until Saturday since the holiday is obviously American and no one has Thursday off work in Mexico. This year was no different, and we gladly join the festivities. Rather than turkey we are served delicious grilled chicken with tortillas and mashed potatoes. For our part we bring chocolates to share and a store-bought tres leches cake.</div>
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Sunday morning and seventeen hours of driving await us. We know the line at the bridge could be long so we should leave early. We give hugs and promise to return soon. And we take pictures, to remember.<br />
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-61593222748744232802016-07-03T22:33:00.000-05:002016-07-03T22:33:41.667-05:00We've Moved<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We signed the papers last Wednesday. The day before Brandon
had been utterly wiped out with a horrendous stomach bug so he was pale and
weak but the papers got signed. I had to hurry right back to work but met up
with the kids and unlocked the doors to our new house by 6:00 that evening. By
6:01 Julia had vomited all over our new kitchen floor – and just like that the
house was so, <em>so</em> ours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first few days were a mix of packing and loading and
unloading and holding of babies, keeping a toddler from running through doors
that were left open and changing lots and lots and lots of diapers. Wipes were
sought but not always found. I may have used wet leaves in the yard in a moment
of messy desperation to clean a baby’s bottom. It was a long couple of days.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At least a dozen generous, strong humans came to our aid by
way of lending vehicles, moving boxes, painting, installing, advising and
gifting us meals, childcare and general kindness. It was incredibly humbling
and filled my soul way, way up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first night went smoothly, with everyone in their new
rooms all tucked in and happy as clams. I, however, wandered aimlessly in the
dark for a good long while trying to take it all in. About midnight a wave of
intense anxiety washed over me as I blankly stared into the darkness of our new
living room. A host of unhealthy and useless thoughts raced through my mind
questioning all aspects of life and houses and finances; I decided it was
probably a very good time to go to bed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the next several days Brandon and I spent a spattering
of hours going back and forth to get the odds and ends we had left at the
duplex; the fossilized shark tooth from the museum gift shop and other items
that don’t really have a proper place in the general packing of a home. After
everything was out and it had been vacuumed and wiped down I drove over and
walked from room to room to say my own little good bye. Most rooms were so
different once empty that I kept it together, but the bedroom that had served
as a school room for so many years choked me up as I stared at the wall where we
had hung bulletin boards and alphabet posters and imagined our little eager
learners and I got very sad. I decided it was probably a very good time to go
to Starbucks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It has now been a week worth of sleeps and this long-awaited
and much-anticipated place is beginning to feel very much like home. The park
behind our house gives us gorgeous views of deer in the mornings, the rooms are
spacious and inviting, and the kitchen has already hosted many good
conversations. I am overwhelmed with gratitude and full up with love. I hope to
have a talented photographer I know snap some pictures to share very soon!</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-67457100936516871162016-06-17T15:39:00.000-05:002016-06-17T15:39:24.167-05:00Six-Months-turned-Ten-Years<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Julia and Carolyn in the living room 2008</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Brandon and I got married we did what many young, eager
couple do and promptly bought a dog and a house. It was a perfectly wonderful
little house and when we quickly found out we were expecting our first baby we
prepared a perfectly wonderful nursery inside our cozy home. A little over a
year later, with new jobs and new baby, we decided it was silly for us both to
be driving 40 and 60 miles (each respectively) to work every day and we decided
to sell our house. I cried, a lot. I did not want to leave the place I brought
my first baby home to, where she learned to walk and had her first Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, it was inevitable and thankfully we got a fantastic
offer (literally months before the whole housing market crashed), with only one
stipulation – a very quick moving date.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Left in a bit of a lurch with a toddler (and another baby
now on the way) we scrambled to find a new home in Kansas City. As luck would
have it my Grandma called and let us know she had a duplex that had just come
available. Her renter needed to break the lease and would be moving out the
following Saturday, which was precisely when we would need to be moving in. It
was a convenient coincidence that we worked for the good of all involved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember that Saturday, we were bringing our things in the
garage as the former renter took things out the front door. With only a few
years of marriage and one baby we didn’t have much to move, though undoubtedly
I was overwhelmed. My Grandma offered to have new carpet put down but I
reassured her that we would not be staying too long. I distinctly remember
telling her “we’ll probably only stay for six months or so.” That was 2006.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I could not have foreseen the ten years that would
unfold before our fledgling family. Bringing home baby number two, starting a
new job, cars needing replaced, cavities needing filled. I could not have
anticipated standing in my tiny kitchen answering the phone call that would
inform me that my Grandma had suffered a massive aneurism, or <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2008/11/my-grandma-very-unexpectedly-passed.html">saying goodbye</a>
only a few days later. The holidays of that year were bleak and are now blurry,
but the days continued to roll on. Then my <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2009/07/my-aunt-sat-looking-at-my-blog-you.html">gallbladder went bad</a> and the mailbox
seemed to bring a new bill on a daily basis for what seemed like a year. Meanwhile
my babies <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2009/01/cs-four-year-checkup-results-healthy-30.html#">kept on growing</a> and now they had surely hunted hundreds of Easter
eggs in the living room, carved more than a few pumpkins in the kitchen, and
not only learned to walk but could now <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2009/05/she-now-scales-walls-quite-literally.html#">climb the door frames </a>and slide down the
staircase. At some juncture in it all I saw a dermatologist about some pesky
acne which led to a mole removal which led to a phone call informing me <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/07/about-two-months-ago-i-started-getting.html#">I had amelanoma</a>, which inevitably led to a lot of scars and more bills. By now it was
2011 and five years had flown by.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With more debt than I care to think about and hoping for an
adventure we took a year-long assignment with my work to open an office in the
Baltimore metro. Packing only what could fit into our four-door car <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/09/lets-pause-for-moment-to-remember.html#">we headed East </a>and let our duplex serve as an over-sized storage unit as we recalibrated
life. It was an incredible experience and gave us a lot of time to think about
life, what we wanted out of it, and how we might get there. As we rolled back
into Kansas City and climbed back into our familiar beds we had a renewed goal
to buy a home, eventually… someday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After returning home from Baltimore we would occasionally stop
by an open house or <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-our-realtor-know-that-he-had-mowed.html#">wander some acreage</a> and imagine what might be, but the
right place and the right timing did not come. Simultaneous to keeping an eye
out for our perfect home we made a fairly <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2014/06/so-was-this-baby-planned.html">substantial decision</a> to have another
baby (or two). This decision both stalled our house hunt and made it all the
more urgent as we were quickly outgrowing our duplex. Once <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2014/11/gwyneths-birth.html">Gwyneth was born</a> we
<a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2015/03/i-stopped-at-lowes-on-saturday-some.html">set out in earnest</a> to find a perfect home for our family, and even made an
offer on one we especially liked. But, as we had seen many times before, life
intervened as we were surprised to learn that we would be welcoming a fourth
baby a bit sooner than we had expected. The house hunting stopped and we
recalibrated once again. 2015 came and went with no new house, but<a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2016/01/williams-birth-story.html"> a beautiful baby boy</a> instead, amen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here we find ourselves… ten years later. Until recently I
had this idea that if my overly optimistic twenty-five year old self was
sitting in front of me now I would shake her and say “get a clue!” I imagined
lecturing her on the importance of health insurance benefits, personal finance,
and cherishing that last visit with Grandma that you never knew would be the
last. But… I’m softening on twenty-five year old me lately. I am getting
comfortable with being grateful for her optimism, appreciating that her naïve financial
mistakes were lessons that are shaping the next twenty-five years of life
rather than ruining it. And that last evening at Grandma’s house, it was a
Tuesday, when I hurried out to soon – <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/11/dear-grandma-its-been-three-years.html#">I will always regret it </a>but I learned. I
try so much harder now to slow down, admittedly not always well, but I try. I
learned. I am learning, and progressing and trying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our six-months-turned-ten-years in the duplex are quickly drawing
to a close. Soon we will be moving to a house that I am totally convinced is
exactly where we are supposed to be for this next chapter of life. I am both
crazy-anxious to start painting, organizing, and making new memories and yet
incredibly sad to say goodbye to a home that has held so much meaning for us. Easter
mornings, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2009/12/we-went-out-in-ice-blizzard-mind-you-to.html">Christmas Eves</a>, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2010/08/this-is-summer-via-handsome.html#">sunny days</a>, cook outs, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/01/someday-snow-will-mean-long-commutes.html#">blizzards</a>, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/03/now-if-only-you-could-hear-michael.html#">dance parties</a>, long talks with
friends, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2010/02/i-was-completely-motivated-after.html">four years </a>of <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/01/i-remember-when-she-learned-to-walk.html#">homeschool</a> <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2010/09/clouds-are-on-learning-menu-this-week.html">lessons</a>, three new babies home from the hospital,
first steps, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/03/there-are-many-things-i-love-about-our.html#">paper airplanes</a>, <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2011/07/do-you-remember-when-we-fixed-up-office.html#">lots of messes</a>, and <a href="http://schultzpartyoffour.blogspot.com/2008/12/much-fun-has-been-had-in-last-twenty.html">so much love</a> – all inside these walls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a bittersweet few weeks ahead but, ten years later, I
think we’re finally ready.</div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-24748083648408412042016-01-04T12:12:00.000-06:002016-01-04T12:12:35.594-06:00William's Birth Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhexMqxkuV6FK4Hj2iGgtellTw5HljopH9U_iNqR53Q1LOy7f4kAImscBAYP93z4nahIqbwlO0FqJL7CIXnNvmvhI4Kndvsb5F5dD81ZvXDZiNceVbyG8bYa8uMCN8LyZ7P4xry3kqp2_av/s1600/William%252520Birth-15-XL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhexMqxkuV6FK4Hj2iGgtellTw5HljopH9U_iNqR53Q1LOy7f4kAImscBAYP93z4nahIqbwlO0FqJL7CIXnNvmvhI4Kndvsb5F5dD81ZvXDZiNceVbyG8bYa8uMCN8LyZ7P4xry3kqp2_av/s540/William%252520Birth-15-XL.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">William’s birth was so calm and uneventful that I feel a bit
odd about sharing it. I had hoped for something exciting like my water breaking
in a theatrical fashion during an important Corporate America meeting, or a
dramatic (but safe and healthy) home delivery as many of my amazing friends
have experienced lately. But alas this was not our story. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I lamented the lack of excitement as we drove to the
hospital at 5AM to be induced on the Thursday before Christmas. Brandon, likely
just ready to be done with the whole final-weeks-of-pregnancy part (which is
the WORST) assured me that this was the right timing for our family. After all,
I was the one who had asked the doctor about a pre-holidays induction;
having three excited little girls at home while I am stuck in the hospital over
Christmas did not seem doable for my emotional well-being. Besides, the doctor
suspected this baby boy would be big, and my body was already in disrepair from
last year’s delivery of his hefty sister. Thus, on the Thursday before
Christmas we arrived at the hospital in the wee hours of a quiet morning to
welcome our baby boy via induction and I am still coming to terms with that so
please be kind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From there, as I mentioned previously, it was very calm and
uneventful. The previous two weeks of on-again-off-again contractions had done
their work and I was already at 4cm when we arrived. The doctor broke my water,
a light Pitocin drip was started, and the epidural was begun. Julia had opted
to miss school in order to be there while I labored, so we held hands and
watched the Food Network. I progressed nicely and by 1:00 it was time to push.
My sister had gotten off work just in time to walk in as the final preparations
for William’s arrival were made. Remembering a few previous uncomfortable
pushing moments from other deliveries I told my doctor that “I hate this part”
but she assured me that this boy was not far off and if I gave it a few good
pushes he would be here quickly. Not believing her, because I get VERY nervous
and emotional when it comes to the part in life when you push a baby out, I
said “are you SURE?” and she, having never delivered any of my babies answered “unless
you suck at pushing, I am sure.” My type-A don’t-want-to-suck-at-anything
personality was completely motivated and sweet William was out very (very)
shortly thereafter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As my doctor had suspected, he was a big healthy boy at 9
lbs. 7 oz. When they laid him, fresh from heaven, on my chest I realized that adrenalin
and emotions and epidurally things make you a bit of a space cadet in these
moments. I simultaneously wondered “does this goo come off the hospital gown,
and my hands, very easily” and “are they sure it’s a boy” and “darn, that went
so fast I kind of am sad it’s over.” The nurses began giving me elaborate
instructions about his blood sugar, which would need to be tested at feeding
intervals because of some concern about his size. As I lay there nodding but
only taking in about 10% of the instructions I remember thinking “it is really
odd that they think I will remember this, I hope someone else is listening
because I do not understand a thing they are saying.” And then I held my sweet
baby boy a little longer, and nursed him, and admired him, and was thankful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After we had time to give him many good long looks and
cuddles his sisters came to meet him, followed by grandmas and grandpas and
aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. It was the most peaceful and serene of my
deliveries, perhaps an indication of this sweet boy’s demeanor – or simply a Christmas
blessing to a tired type-A mama. Either way, I’ll take it.</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-6197637864182020852015-09-09T16:31:00.000-05:002015-09-09T16:38:56.464-05:00School: An Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In order to protect my nerves and sanity I hadn’t let myself
imagine it too much. My preconceived notions of what the girls’ first days of
public school might include were largely shaped by my own experiences some 25
years ago plus a few good and bad stories I’d heard from experienced teacher
friends. I acknowledge that this apprehension about something so daily for
millions of children is ridiculous, akin to a mid-westerners avoidance of the
ocean for fear of a shark attack. So on that first day of school I dove in and
nearly forgot to watch for looming fins or ominous music, and no sharks have bitten
as of yet.</div>
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My socialite, Carolyn, came home with a catalog of friends
and very little recollection of any learning taking place. A big fan of the hot
lunches, as well as the accompanying lunch room drama, she is LOVING school.
Despite being stung by a wasp on recess, rehearsing the intruder drill (this
terrifies me), and having to make friends with a sea of new faces she remains
unruffled. To her, the biggest challenge thus far is in solving why one of the
boys in her class doesn’t seem to enjoy her company. Day-after-day she makes a
point to compliment his outfit or ask how he is enjoying his lunch and she
seems to be met with eye-rolls and short responses. This will not do and thus
she is on a personal mission to get to the bottom of his contempt; and I’m
fairly certain she will (it might hurt a little). She has a fantastic teacher
who appreciates her outgoing nature and free-spirit, not to mention having a
host of fun activities planned for the year that kind of make me want to go
back to fifth grade myself.</div>
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My introverted-academic, Julia, has struggled just a bit.
She is not a fan (at all) of recess. By the fourth day of school she was a
puddle of tears at the thought of braving the asphalt for twenty long minutes
of friendship attempts. Her teacher and librarian worked together to find a
solution in which she volunteers in the library during recess and she couldn’t
be more pleased. By the ninth day she was doubled-over in tummy aches with
anxiety yet again. This took a bit more digging, but with the help of wise family
members and her fantastic teacher, we discovered that her perfectionism does
not like the long wait between taking a test and seeing the results. This
unknown waiting, coupled with the fact that her math assessment test was
computerized and became harder the better she did, she had contrived a story in
her sweet, anxious mind that she had failed her very difficult math assessment
horribly thus the tummy aches and tears. Once we were able to talk through her
results with her teacher her shoulders relaxed and her smile returned. Now we
know: it’s hard to wait for test results when you’re a perfectionist!</div>
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Thus far I’ve observed several things:<br />
<br />
<b>1. School is really very different from when I was in 3<sup>rd</sup>
and 5<sup>th</sup> grade.</b> Obviously Oregon Trail has come a long way, but
seriously the integration of technology is super exciting to me. Gamification
for learning spelling words, exploring far-away places on Google Earth, even
the adaptive testing all engage their learning so much more deeply than I
remember. What’s more, the classroom is much more autonomous, with options to
explore multiple avenues of learning and interests rather than being glued to your
seat for the duration of the day. (I feel like my elementary education was a
bit dull with the exception of Exchange City and that time our teacher read us
the Orphan Train Quartet by kerosene lamp which I thought was all things that
school should be and more, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please also
note that</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I fully acknowledge my
memory could be extremely jaded and amiss</i>).
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<b>2. I am not as worried about their grades as I thought I would
be.</b> This is probably one of the many blessings that homeschooling bestowed, because
there were no grade cards I just enjoyed watching them grow as learners and
seeing their enthusiasm for certain (but admittedly not all) subjects. Carolyn
was riveted by Greek Mythology and World History, she begged to do science
experiments even when it wasn’t school time. Julia flew through her math and
loved to master the next problem or skill, she could write a poem or story that
made her proud and want to share it over dinner or display it on the fridge.
Brandon did grade tests regularly, but without a permanent record in some dusty
school file it didn’t define them and only reflected progress rather than merit
or worth. For me, a recovering perfectionist myself, grades are still important
especially as they progress to higher levels, but I am not going to freak out
about B’s (maybe even C’s) like I thought I would. In fact, my brother once
told me that he would hate to be my kid because he was sure I’d be a tyrant
about grades, and I agreed with him. I'm a growing learner too it seems.</div>
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<b>3. It is exhausting.</b> While homeschooling is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whole lot</i> of work, Brandon bore the
brunt of it and everything was generally wrapped up and put away before I ever
got home each night. The flexible schedule allowed for piano and skating
lessons to take place during the day as well, so our evenings were free. Lunch
was at noon at home, no pre-packing or planning required on my part. Matching
outfits were not necessary, nor shoes. There were also no backpacks filled with
forms to fill out or homework to review and sign on a nightly basis. While
Brandon was planning and executing the hard work of daily lessons I was
blissfully unaware of the ins-and-outs of daily education and now I see that
It.Is.Exhausting. To all of the teachers, homeschooling parents, and single mamas
out there – kudos and a deep bow. I am impressed and in awe and exhausted just
thinking about it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Generally I am really impressed and grateful at the start
the girls have had this year. They are excited, they have fantastic teachers,
and there have been very few tears. The children in their school are all very
kind, no bullies, no shark attacks. And they are growing as learners and
friends. To everyone who has texted, called, and prayed – thank you. I am
amazed by the friends and family who care so deeply for my girls and for their
worried mama!</div>
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-55822509221756915162015-08-11T09:17:00.000-05:002015-08-11T09:18:42.906-05:00An Awfully Big Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlncmZWa-tuNYpx9NzP9-SBllWm6_8b7YdFB2bFRQJFUSafAvTHuR6UpTZ3C4hbPQjm8G6lztn6Bae_Fcl2xJjW5LZkoLXDeN24-mP9NC1HmI6HFoTY5UFOSH268QKyPhliq53sKFPa806/s1600/CarolynAdventure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlncmZWa-tuNYpx9NzP9-SBllWm6_8b7YdFB2bFRQJFUSafAvTHuR6UpTZ3C4hbPQjm8G6lztn6Bae_Fcl2xJjW5LZkoLXDeN24-mP9NC1HmI6HFoTY5UFOSH268QKyPhliq53sKFPa806/s640/CarolynAdventure.jpg" width="520" /></a></div>
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<br />
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My definition of “adventure” is broadening. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a young mom, and even still admittedly, I longed to give
my children ADVENTURE. I wanted (er, still want) to show them ancient ruins and
yummy foods and fine art. I envision a scrapbook full of ticket stubs and
photographs that they can tote off to college and adulthood full of memories. <b>I
want their heads to be chocked-full of knowledge of a great big world and their
hearts to be full of compassion for all of its inhabitants</b>. But, alas, I also
want to save for their college and pay for their braces and keep the darn
lights on. So, adventure to faraway places is not as easy as Pinterest makes it
appear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet still, I am realizing, adventure is not so far away. Even
in my own memories I had some of my greatest childhood adventures taking walks
with best friends, swimming with cousins in imaginary underwater worlds, and eventually
falling madly in love with my future husband. Certainly vacations, honeymoons
and epic road trips have made their marks, but I don’t want to short-change the
everyday adventures that happen while we are longing for the next big thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This broadened idea of adventure is indeed how I have viewed
the decision to have another baby, and another. Where my first two babies were
tasks to accomplish and life-altering daily challenges (I’m being brutally
honest here), I have embraced Gwyneth differently. With the benefit of
experience and invaluable therapy (more honesty) I welcome the daily needs of
my baby girl as a delight, mini-adventures in wonder at her growth, curiosity
at her crying, joy that she even IS; and to get to do it all again with a baby
boy this December, what an amazing ADVENTURE.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So too, I am convincing myself, must be my view of the
adventure that starts tomorrow as the girls attend their first ever day of
public school. Our journey with homeschooling has been rich and rewarding,
affording the girls the opportunity to travel on work trips to Baltimore and
New Orleans and Augusta. They will always treasure the fact that their dad
taught them to read, to multiply and divide, to make a hypothesis. They
discussed Marie Antoinette and Martin Luther King Jr., geography and geology,
and countless other important facts that have made them strong learners. But
now they embark on a new adventure as they take their seats in third and fifth
grade to encounter more of the world, new viewpoints from classmates and
teachers, new facts, new experiences. Their bags are packed and they are very
excited to embark first thing tomorrow morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a whole slew of reasons, some rational and some not, I
am more nervous about this than most anything they have done so far. “They will
be fine” echoes off of every kind-hearted, knowledgeable friend. I am sure they
will be, but I hope for more than “fine” in this next big adventure in their
education. Just as with any great place they may go -<b> I want their heads to be
chocked-full of knowledge of a great big world and their hearts to be full of
compassion for all of its inhabitants</b>. I hope and pray that tomorrow begins
just such a journey for them, I trust it will.</div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-50520975473667028022015-04-27T15:56:00.000-05:002015-04-27T15:56:53.712-05:00The House in the Orchard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwzkaqDc-XEhbc8bpYPfHXMiMvpDCtzh3PbBgRMeOMyr9Rh-Ff5ebLB-mfRIUs7TH1xJr1iGmU8DLx8XeLlB9POKfj8abvtqPivgRL14OTjrv28UPc5dUtPcY3CfqdbFqyZgfP-s9Eo4S/s1600/augusta_april_2015-29-XL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwzkaqDc-XEhbc8bpYPfHXMiMvpDCtzh3PbBgRMeOMyr9Rh-Ff5ebLB-mfRIUs7TH1xJr1iGmU8DLx8XeLlB9POKfj8abvtqPivgRL14OTjrv28UPc5dUtPcY3CfqdbFqyZgfP-s9Eo4S/s1600/augusta_april_2015-29-XL.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve read the entire Little House on the Prairie series to
my girls twice. The first time they were four and two and I would lie in bed
with them each night reading a chapter or two before they drifted off to sleep.
I was drawn in, night-after-night, to the struggles and triumphs of the Ingalls
family with their tiny daughters and big dreams. As Laura grew and fell in love
I joyfully read of her courtship with Almanzo and the beautiful life that lay
before them. And then I continued, unknowingly, into the final book of the
series, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Four Years</i>. I only
later found out that this book was never intended to be a part of the series,
its content too painful and sad for many young readers. However, since I was
not aware of this fact, I began merrily on my way one evening into the first
four years of Laura and Almanzo’s marriage, I read it straight through, aloud,
sobbing the whole way. With all of the anticipation and excitement that came
with their new life together, there came much tragedy. [Spoiler Alert] Almanzo
becomes sick with an illness that leaves his strong body debilitated. Their
baby boy dies. And the beautiful home Almanzo has built for Laura in an orchard
he has planted burns to the ground. We end with Laura sitting in the grass,
cradling her daughter, watching her house and all of the hopes for her future
burning. Truly depressing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The problem with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
First Four Years</i> is entirely the problem of real life. One needs only
scroll through their Facebook feed for a few minutes to read of the heartbreaks
of everyday living; infertility, illness, accidents, not to mention jobs that
don’t satisfy, spouses who leave, parents who become ill, and loved ones who
die. It’s nothing anyone should be reading to their children at bedtime… aloud…
sobbing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course before the age of social media we all could come
up with our own host of stories to tell of the proverbial burning houses amidst
a hopeful orchard; My grandmother’s father was killed in a car accident when my
mother was just a toddler, my brother suffered with a bone tumor before he had
even started school, a coworker lost his son to an accident, another lost his
wife to an aneurism, my brother-in-law was sent to Iraq, and all of our
grandparents could tell of living through a World War and the terrors that
brought even in the middle of the United States far from the front lines.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think it was summarized most poignantly at my five year
class reunion when I stood awkwardly beside a fellow classmate who just said, “Damn,
this whole life thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be.” Indeed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here’s the thing I want to do about it: wrap the entire
world in a protective bubble wrap ala Danny Tanner when DJ learned to walk,
according to his own account. Or, another option I’ve considered, preferred by
engineers and the generally analytic: bury my head deep in the sand, far from
Facebook, friends, news and any pain I may myself be feeling. Of course I could
always cover my eyes with other distractions besides sand, such as
wealth-chasing, game-playing, or child-raising (which, if you know me you know
is my current favored option).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Until recently I was satisfied with my daily distractions
from life’s deep struggles. I have been on a good run of health, paying off
debt, birthing more children… praise be to God. I discontinued my listening to
BBC World News and its brutal stories of struggles around the globe, and I’ve
become so entrenched in my work life that I’ve let friendships dry up to the
point of simple pleasantries but not too much difficult sharing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then my friend got sick, terribly sick, and his wife
listened calmly as she heard news that will change her life. And his children
played sweetly waiting for daddy to get home. And the First Four (err nine or
so) Years of a life together are beginning to look like a burning house in the
middle of a once-pleasant orchard. And I hear my classmates words “this whole
life thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be.” And I want to sob, but
I’ve become quite out of touch with my feelings since feelings are painful, and
this is especially so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve sat in this spot for ten days, wondering how to respond
both to the immediate needs and to the larger looming reality that life is
difficult and sad and can surely overwhelm if not careful. I continue to wait
on a divine revelation that makes everything clear and gives me answers to each
pain and struggle and hurt. And truly I tell you the answer only comes in
echoes bouncing off of simple, everyday things like a caring smile, a baby’s
belly laugh, a hug, a prayer, a text asking “have you heard anything new today?”,
and post after post uniting a body of believers in a single task of crying out
to God on behalf of a friend. I’m beginning to understand that connections to
one another, hearing each other’s stories, bring tremendous pain but even more
profound joy. That it is worth wading into the struggle because the load is
lightened for us all when we share the journey. This is why Jesus found a group
of twelve, and commissioned a church, because we need one another – it is part
of the redemption plan. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Life is much harder than Laura or I ever expected. We live
in a broken world full of sin and illness. But we are Easter people. Our hearts
ache for a world that is made new because it is so very near, until that time
we must lend a smile and a prayer and hold a baby now and again for one
another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The real things haven’t changed.<br />
It is still best to be honest and truthful;<br />
to make the most of what we have;<br />
to be happy with simple pleasures;<br />
and have courage when things go wrong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Laura Ingalls Wilder</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-26793719518865654442015-03-09T10:29:00.000-05:002015-03-09T10:30:11.172-05:00#SchultzHouseHunt has Begun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />
I stopped at Lowe's on Saturday for some odds-and-ends. I let the girls stop at the paint chip kiosk to consider bedroom colors for their new room. It may be putting the cart before the horse a bit, since we have not even made an offer. But alas, the #SchultzHouseHunt has officially begun.<br />
<br />
I've been dreading this, to be perfectly honest.<br />
<br />
We owned a home once before, it was the first order of business when I got my first job. It was a beautiful little townhome in Lawrence with a sweet enclosed patio and warm kitchen. We brought Carolyn home from the hospital to that little house. She learned to walk there and posed for her first and second Christmas card photos in the make-shift photo studio Brandon had created in the kitchen. She ran naked from the bath to her beautiful nursery with wide blue stripes and white furniture. She bounced in her Johnny Jump Up in the living room. I loved that house.<br />
<br />
Then Brandon got a job in Lee's Summit and I was commuting to Lenexa everyday so we decided we needed to move. When the full-priced offer on our beloved house included a very quick moving date we were left in a bit of a lurch, but conveniently my grandparents had a duplex coming available that we could move into while we figured out a housing solution.<br />
<br />
I had just found out I was pregnant and I remember the time being a bit hurried and stressful. The morning we were moving into the duplex the current renters were moving out. We would come in the front door as they were going out the garage. The poor woman who was leaving was very pregnant and had not been able to give the kitchen and bathrooms a good scrub, so we unpacked boxes and scrubbed simultaneously. My Grandma was down on the kitchen floor with me, prepping for our family's transition to Kansas City, making us feel comfortable and welcome in this new place.<br />
<br />
For many months we considered the duplex a temporary solution. Then we brought baby Julia home to the duplex and we celebrated a Christmas, and then another. I quit my first job, stayed home for a while, then started at Black & Veatch. The memories began to pile up.<br />
<br />
And then in November of 2008 on an ordinairy Thursday night, my phone rang. I stood in the kitchen staring at the cluttered refrigerator door... the memory is still very clear... and my mom told me that they thought my Grandma had had a stroke. I tried staying calm, Brandon was somewhere not at home, I called him and asked him to come home quickly so I could go be with my Grandma. Then another call, I was on the couch, it was not a stroke, it was much worse, I should hurry. My in-laws came right over, I sobbed the whole way to the hospital. Brandon drove. In three short days my Grandma was gone.<br />
<br />
For a while I marked time with that Thursday. "She was still alive last week right now" I would think to myself, then "last month right now", then "last year right now." My sister gave us all a beautifully framed photo of my grandparents on their front porch and I hung it in one of the most traveled spots in our home, in <em>her</em> home technically. At the urging of my Grandpa I took her clothes, I hung them in our spare closet. In the meantime I subconsciously hunkered down emotionally and financially to stay put in the duplex, right where she left me, as <em>completely odd</em> as that might sound seven years later.<br />
<br />
I did not connect all of these pieces at the time, of course. It took a move to Baltimore and many hours with an exceptional therapist to truly appreciate the important roll my Grandma had played in my life and why her sudden death was still having ripple effects years later. When I confessed to the therapist, in a moment of complete emotional honesty, that I could never leave the duplex because my Grandma "<em>couldn't find me if I did</em>" I realized that I had emotional work to do. Healing.<br />
<br />
So, I have, I<em> think</em>. I have thought often about Grandma and what she had hoped for me, for Brandon, for our girls... even the little one she never met. I have cleaned out the closet in the spare room. I have parted with toys she gave the girls that they had long-since outgrown. I have saved money, rather than spend at-will, in order to be ready to make the monumental move. And, nine years after moving into this "temporary" duplex, I think we are ready to start another chapter of home ownership.<br />
<br />
In April it will have been nine years since we moved into the duplex. This is the longest I have ever lived in one place at any time in my life. We brought two babies home to this house, started a business in this house, played countless games of Catan in this house and the girls went from Kindergarten through Fourth Grade in this house. It will be hard to leave our cozy little duplex, I'll probably cry a little, but it's time. Let the #SchultzHouseHunt begin!Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-29006769671586653602014-11-24T10:48:00.004-06:002014-11-24T10:53:25.356-06:00Best of Baby Gear (lately)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When my first two girls were born (in 2004 and 2006) I found the selection of baby gear to be overwhelming... but when I re-entered the world of babies in 2014 it was clear a number of designers have been expanding the world of baby gadgets and gizmos to all new proportions.<br />
<br />
Here are five items that have come along since my older girls were born that have made the first month so much easier...<br />
<br />
1. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/green-sprouts-Brights-Organic-Muslin/dp/B00FLYT4WU/ref=sr_1_1?s=baby-products&ie=UTF8&qid=1416846442&sr=1-1&keywords=green+sprout+burp+cloths">green sprouts Burp Pads</a> - while burp clothes are nothing new, these "burp pads" are new and improved. The size is perfect, larger than the traditional cloths I used with the first two, able to catch any unexpected eruption. The kidney bean shape means it drapes over your shoulder brilliantly. And the organic muslin fabric means these pads are super soft and gentle on baby as she rests on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
2. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/aden-anais-Classic-Swaddle-Blanket/dp/B00KY3XQ3G/ref=sr_1_10?s=baby-products&ie=UTF8&qid=1416846710&sr=1-10&keywords=aden+and+anais+swaddle+blankets">Aden + Anais Muslin Swaddle Blanket</a> - it seems muslin fabric is the new "thing" in baby products, but there is a reason... it is light and gentle but has enough give that is can wrap a baby up snug as a bug in a rug. When she was brand new these blankets were perfect for a tight swaddle and now that she's growing the large size of the swaddle make it perfect for a cover for breastfeeding and a light blanket for napping.<br />
<br />
3. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fisher-Price-Little-Snugapuppy-Newborn-Sleeper/dp/B00DEI6MMU/ref=sr_1_4?s=baby-products&ie=UTF8&qid=1416846964&sr=1-4&keywords=rock+n+play+sleeper">Rock n Play Sleeper</a> - seriously, seriously this is a must-have. The hammock shape of this (what I call) bassinet makes new babies feel snug and cozy. It is super light weight and portable so it can move from beside the bed at night to the school room during the day. Many other mamas have told me their little ones used this for naps well past the earliest (sleepless) days.<br />
<br />
4. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/WubbaNub-22352-Giraffe/dp/B003CK3LDI/ref=sr_1_1?s=baby-products&ie=UTF8&qid=1416847305&sr=1-1&keywords=wubbanub">Wubbanub</a> - This is one of those products that you look at and wonder "why is that necessary, is this just another infomercial gimmick?" I assure you it is not. The brilliance behind the Wubbanub is that it lays gently across baby's chest and even at 4 weeks our little one instinctively grabs on and gently cradles. Plus it is easier to keep track of and it's adorable.<br />
<br />
5. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Kiinde-TG-N-001-NA-Breastfeeding-Gift-Set/dp/B00CXTWJAA/ref=sr_1_3?s=baby-products&ie=UTF8&qid=1416847507&sr=1-3&keywords=kiinde">Kiinde Breastfeeding System</a> - Thankfully I have two more precious weeks before my maternity leave ends, but I have already found this system to be ingenious. The concept is basically that you pump into a twist-lock bag that is then transformed into the "bottle" through a nipple attachment, meaning no pouring between bottles and hardly any parts to wash.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-48178239486453656742014-11-08T19:04:00.001-06:002014-11-08T19:09:41.215-06:00Gwyneth's Birth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And so it happened that at my 39 week appointment my blood pressure was a little high. It was decided I should go to the hospital to be monitored and the doctor ultimately decided to keep me for induction the next morning. I had taken myself to the hospital, fully expecting to be sent home (this had happened with Carolyn 10 years ago), so when she told me I would be staying I got a bit weepy and texted Brandon that it was "go-time." There was much excitement (read: coordination of childcare and dog, grabbing of hospital bag, etc.) and the long afternoon / evening wait began.</div>
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The girls came to visit and were impressed with the IV, the contraction monitoring and all the rest. It was fun to have them see it all and be able to ask questions and get acclimated before the actual hard laboring started. It was not fun to be cut off from food for over 24 hours, but then the handsome photographer found the stash of popsicles and fetched them for me whenever I got hungry/ weepy/ stressed/ happy.</div>
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The evening meds had done their job and I was pretty uncomfortable as the sun was coming up and chasing away the heavy fog that had settled overnight. By mid-morning the incredible (and I mean incredible) anesthesiologist had administered the epidural, with Brandon by my side. I was comfortably ready for the girls to return for the rest of the labor party. Julia seemed especially nervous; when I asked her what she was worried about she said, "you."<br />
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My sister Emily, an ICU nurse and calm cucumber under pressure, came to be Brandon's back-up support should anything unexpected happen. Emily was there when Julia was born as well, and I am incredibly grateful. There is something reassuring about having your sister there when you give birth (especially a sister who knows about medical whatcha-ma-call-its).</div>
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The girls were very interested in the whole process, and our nurse (also very incredible, seriously the whole staff was a dream) answered all of their questions... no matter how obscure. Finally, at 3:10 the doctor came in, the audience went out (except Brandon and Emily) and at 3:19 Ms. Gwyneth Elizabeth Schultz entered the world fresh from Heaven. For the first few minutes she kept her eyes squeezed close tight, as though the new light of life was assaulting her eyes, which I guess it kind of was. Brandon was happy to have won the pool on her weight, Emily won the guess on the time she would be born, and I won because the baby was O-U-T!</div>
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As soon as the doctor gave the green light the girls were brought back for a quiet hour of family time... they were over the moon. Well, we all were.</div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-87222780506257083682014-06-16T21:55:00.001-05:002014-06-16T21:55:26.235-05:00Thousand Hills - Lake Weekend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's become a great summer tradition - a weekend away at the lake. This year was monumental because the girls both learned to water ski. There was a bit of drama as Julia tried...and tried... and tried to get up to no avail. Carolyn, on the other hand, popped right up on her second try and left Julia steaming mad at her sister's skills. She was determined that we were not leaving the lake until she could count herself a waterskier. So Brandon spent Father's Day morning in a chilly lake under an overcast sky, helping his determined daughter fulfill her water skiing destiny. At last she did, and we left sunburnt and satisfied.</div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-89528201919501104332014-06-12T21:06:00.000-05:002014-06-12T21:06:20.664-05:00Drumroll please...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">We had our sonogram</span>, the long awaited moment when we finally got to see our wee one on the big screen (seriously they had a big screen at the doctor's office, things have sure improved since the girls were born!) Carolyn called out the sex before the sonogram technician even said it, clearly the iPad app is informative! We are over the moon to be welcoming our third princess to the Schultz castle. She is beautiful, though bashful, and only 20 weeks to go!<br />
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We had a few family members over for a balloon popping "gender" reveal in the driveway, it was just as the girls dreamed it would be - a big surprise and lots of hugs all around!Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-31976643753988951272014-06-10T18:01:00.000-05:002014-06-10T18:10:14.132-05:00SO... was this baby... planned?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently in Cubeville a coworker stopped by my <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=officle">offical</a> and leaned in close, she half-whispered “so... was this baby... <em>planned</em>?” I get this a lot lately, it makes sense and I know that I would totally wonder the same thing. “Yup” I always reply, “Crazy, huh?”<br />
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I don’t think I pride myself on being odd, but probably couldn’t hurt to explore that with a therapist in the near future. Nevertheless the fact that my husband is a stay-at-home dad, we homeschool, and now this strange baby news has many people scratching their heads in our general direction. As she shook her head in delight/concern/disgust/confusion I joked “Actually, we just thought we’d hit the biology lesson right out of the ballpark with this one, the girls are getting a full 9 month crash course on fetal development and pregnancy!” She laughed and left, still shaking her head.<br />
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Of course we didn’t plan this pregnancy to be a glorified homeschool lesson (but it is surely a pin out in the Pinterverse somewhere!), though watching the girls learn and absorb all of the happenings has been nothing short of educational and highly entertaining.<br />
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I let Carolyn be the first to see the pregnancy test results, her eyes got wide and she stammered “M-M-Mom! There’s two... There’s TWO lines!” Since that night she has followed her Baby Development app religiously, able to quote current baby size whenever asked. The girls have accompanied me to each doctor’s appointment, ready with their questions when the doctor asks if I needed anything else? Julia asks me daily “how many more days until <em>our</em> sonogram” as they count down to find out if baby is a brother or sister. They have been planning a gender reveal party for weeks, with backup plans in the case we find out it is twins. And they argue over which days of the week will be each of their responsibility for full baby care.<br />
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After reading the description of the hospital’s “Sibling” class online I’ve decided I’m going to enroll them in the “Newborn Care” class instead. They would be offended to be told “not to poke the baby’s eyes”, after all, Julia has been serving in the nursery for nearly a year, and she’s practically ready to run her own daycare. Brandon and I will accompany them if for no other reason then to remind them to let someone else ask a question or have a turn with the diaper-changing-doll. I find I spend as much time daydreaming about what kind of big sisters they will be as I do wondering what this baby will be like. I catch myself thinking “7 and 9 are the BEST ages” but then I remember that I thought the same thing when they were 1 and 3, 2 and 4, 3 and 5... you get the idea.<br />
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And this is why we’re diving into parenthood for a round 3. Because when they are yours they drive you mad, both in love and insane. Carolyn gave me a glimpse of adolescents Saturday morning when she huffed “you never think of my needs!” because I had not planned a full day of pool play and macaroni-and-cheese eating. And then she returned to me within an hour to say “sorry” and climb up in my lap. It’s an adventure that brings all of the highs and lows that any good adventure should, and I’m incredibly grateful that these two girlies will be along for this one, as fantastic siblings to be sure, sideline entertainers when need-be, encouragers always, and just plain kids as their primary jobs should be for the time being.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1716373221466602918.post-41932440557141184392014-05-09T16:43:00.004-05:002014-05-09T16:46:58.126-05:00Motherhood: Lessons from the first time around<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>My first few minutes as a mom: November 7, 2004</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This fall my husband I will welcome our third baby into our
family. My daughters will be celebrating their 8<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> and 10<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
birthdays with a very new little sibling. When I was their age I was sure I
would have at least four kids, maybe more. Shortly after they were born I was
quite sure two was plenty. Things change. Last summer we felt that our family
needed to grow, that we have room in our house and hearts for another and maybe
more. As winter turned to spring we learned that we were expecting; the
familiar but long-dormant feelings of pregnancy set in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With two pregnancies under my belt, the sensations and aches
are often familiar but the accompanying feelings and thoughts are very
different this time around. What I would have misunderstood as apathy ten years
ago, I now understand is surrender. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">This time I have
surrendered the past</span></b>. Before I had even left the hospital with my first
daughter I remember sobbing at the realization that my whole life had changed.
Never again would I be able to plan an impromptu roadtrip, sleep-in, or make
any decision ever without giving thought to her needs. In all honesty, I sobbed
“my life is over.” I had wanted a baby to dress up and bring out for play times
but I had not understood that to become a mother meant that the past must
become a closed chapter. Now I know. I know that life will not look the same when
this baby arrives. I know that our life as it is right-this-minute seems pretty
darn great and to change it will feel a bit absurd at first, but this baby
deserves to be born free of that burden, free of the need to maintain a reality
that cannot be maintained. This baby will have needs that will demand changes
in our schedules and commitments, but it’s going to be a new beautiful life.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">This time I have surrendered my body</span>.</b>
It really would not be sufficient to express the feelings I had about my new
body after baby without incorporating a number of expletives. The places the
nurses put ice packs was unheard of, the way they rammed their hands around my
gelatinous belly was agonizing, the fact that my lactation consultant was an
undercover torture agent that left my tender mommy-bits severely bleeding was
the last straw. Around day three I stood under a hot shower as my milk came in,
doubled-over in pain, certain I would never feel normal again. Now I know, I
will. I know the discomfort won’t last, the odd shapes won’t last, and let’s be
real the bladder control has been gone for quite some time. I know that my body
is strong and I am fortunate to have it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">This time I have
surrendered my baby</span>.</b> With my first I wanted a girl, a beautiful healthy
little girl which is exactly what I got. For the second I absolutely wanted a
girl and breathed a deep sigh when she emerged a ‘she’ so my first could have a
best friend for life. I then went on to want them to be smart and congenial and
ambitious. But as I’ve leaned into motherhood I have realized that what I want
more than anything is for them to be who they were made to be, not by me but by
God. Whatever it is they are going to become I pray they pursue it
passionately, and that I am there to encourage rather than strong-arm. I know
this baby could be a girl or a boy, could be brilliant or slow, could be
healthy or maybe not. I know that he or she will be perfectly made as God has
planned for him or her to be, and that’s what I want.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">This time I have
surrendered the future</b>.</span> When my first daughter was only a week old she was
re-admitted to the hospital for a few days under the lights for her jaundice.
When my husband and I were not sitting beside our sunbathing baby, we would
take walks around the hospital halls. One afternoon a very elderly woman was
wheeled by us and I began to cry, “Someday Carolyn will be very old. I cannot
stand the thought that she will be on a cold hospital bed without anyone to
care for her.” And thus I not only fretted about how her liver would become
strong in the next few hours, or where she would attend Preschool in the coming
years, but I worried about eight decades into her future and who would hold her
hand on a cold hospital bed. Now I know. And all I really know now is that
whatever the future looks like, for both our family and this baby, it is going
to be just as it should. I know that this baby will be loved and cared for by
me, but even more so I know that this baby, and our family, is loved and cared
for by God. This does not mean a divine force-field from cancer or car
accidents or loneliness in a far off hospital bed. It does mean that our future
has divine hope that can fill all of the hurts that a broken world brings.</span></div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09013456276161177979noreply@blogger.com2