Dedicating The Last Mile

Hands, put your empty hands in mine
And scars, show me all the scars you hide
And hey, if your wings are broken
Please take mine so yours can open, too
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you

--Rachel Platten



ON MARATHONS:

Back in May of 2005, Ben ran his first (and only--so far) marathon.  He read a couple of books on how to train, and he successfully ran it with his sister and my brother by his side.  He had been a runner for years, but not this extreme distance.  Though he trained, prepared and finished, it was still incredibly difficult for him to do.  His stomach had revolted during the race which held him up for 20 minutes, and for about two weeks after the race he hobbled around like an old man, the sides of both of his feet bruised and painful from swelling inside of his shoes during the 26.2 miles.  When he finished the race, we both cried as we hugged, celebrating his victory.  The entire process of it all was extremely inspiring and emotional.

Ben told me after the race was over that in one of the books he had read to prepare, it shared a tip to maintain motivation during the race by dedicating each mile he ran to someone significant in his life.  He said he dedicated all of his to different people; his parents, his friends, his teachers, his siblings, to me, to our unborn son (who would be born 2 weeks later) and to the other children who would follow, to God, to himself, to his sister and my brother.  He said thinking of who he was running for kept him focused, pushing through the exhaustion and pain.

Oh, tears make kaleidoscopes in your eyes
And hurt, I know you're hurting, but so am I.
And, love, if your wings are broken
Borrow mine 'til yours can open, too.
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you

Last weekend found us in the kitchen, once again crying as we held each other.  We are on the final mile of the marathon he has been running for the past 8 years.  You would think being at the end of this grad school process....being able to see the faces of loved ones come into focus through the crowds....the color of the finish line ribbon brightening as it nears.... knowing these are the very last steps he would have to run before finally being done would bring some sort of relief just because he is so close.

Instead, the fear of falling and not making it back up, the worry that he may cross too late to be awarded the accolade for starting and finishing this near-decade journey has gripped him.  The terror that the voice in his head that has tried for eight agonizing years to convince him he will never be Good Enough has finally become so loud that it is all he can hear, it has stopped him in his tracks.  He is frozen and immobile.

Even if we're breaking down, we can find a way to break through
Even if we can't find heaven, I'll walk through Hell with you.
Love, you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna stand by you.

I am not, and never have been, a runner.  However, I am a pretty great cheerleader.  I've been given the Gift of seeing the best in others.  I'm great at motivational speeches and finding a silver lining, at seeing Gifts of others no matter how deeply buried they are, and doing all I can to bring them to the forefront.  Somehow when the mountain becomes steeper and the path more rocky, I can summon Faith, Courage and Belief in the Good that it could overcome anything--especially when it comes to those I love.

Oh, truth—I guess truth is what you believe in
And faith—I think faith is having a reason.
And I know now, love, if your wings are broken
Borrow mine 'til yours can open, too.
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you.

I'm sure being on the receiving end of me as a cheerleader could potentially become extremely obnoxious to someone who just wants to hear the words "It's okay to give up.  You've done enough, you can stop running now.  Just sit down and rest, breathe.  Don't push yourself anymore."

The thing about the marathon of grad school is that there have been so many times through this process I have felt God inside of it--writing this story, molding and shaping both Ben and I to become who He wants us to.  With each hurdle that has been put along the miles Ben has run and I have cheered along by his side, I have the sense that there is a greater purpose at work.  So the blistered feet, the scrapes and stumbles, the mistakes and disappointments we have continually faced have not devastated me, but only caused me to feel this purpose even more intrinsically than before.  My push to finish the race, my belief in the Good, my motivational speeches--they're all extremely sincere.  Where they come from inside of me, I can only describe that place as Truth.  Something I know without knowing how I know it.  It's just there, existing as honestly as something I can actually see or touch.

I'll be your eyes 'til yours can shine

And I'll be your arms, I'll be your steady satellite.

And when you can't rise, well, I'll crawl with you on hands and knees
'Cause I... I'm gonna stand by you.

Aside from potentially driving a runner crazy, another problem with being a cheerleader is that there is only so much I can do when it really comes down to it.  Ben is the one reading, training and running.  No matter how many speeches I yell from the sidelines, how many cups of water I hand to him as he jogs by me, no matter how much I can feel that he can finish this, I have no control over how much he feels it.  I cannot physically move his legs for him, breathe more air into his lungs or transfer my adrenaline into his veins.  If I could--believe me, I would.  Over and over again, no matter what that sacrifice might to do my own body.  I would do it.

You're all I never knew I needed
And the heart—sometimes it's unclear why it's beating.
And, love, if your wings are broken
We can brave through those emotions, too.
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you.

When we stood holding each other last weekend in the kitchen while our baby girl slept above us in the crib on the second floor and our two middle girls played together above us in their bedroom and our son cheered and yelled at the game system above us in the loft, I felt this as a Moment for us.  Time slows, and I'm keenly aware of all of my senses, combined with the feeling of him with me.  We've had several of them in our marriage--most of them happening during the past eight years of this marathon we have been participating in together.

"Do you remember telling me when you ran your marathon you dedicated each mile to someone, to help you stay motivated and to finish?"  I asked.  "Will that help?  I want this last mile to be for you, for you to feel your worth and acknowledge all you've been through and how hard you've fought."

"No," he replied.  "This last mile is for you.  I would not be here if it weren't for you, I would have quit long ago.  This last mile I dedicate to you."

I hugged him tighter and cried harder.  "Don't give up.  You finish this." I whispered, handing another metaphorical cup of water to my weary, incredible runner.

After a few minutes we separated, Ben picked himself back up and began running his last mile again.

Much later that night, while the kids were asleep and Ben was downstairs working, I prayed.  "Please, please, please," were the only words I could say as tears streamed down my face.  Even though I couldn't say any more, I silently finished my prayer.  Asking directly for the things Ben and I were both fighting for, even if that required a miracle happening.  Pleading for that miracle to come to pass.  Also adding in though, that if that miracle is not part of the story He is writing for us, to be able to withstand the blows.  As much as I really, really want him to receive the certificate he has been working for years to receive, I care more about the state of my runner when this is over.  

"Miracle or not, this will end regardless.  Just please give us the strength to still stand whatever the outcome is."  These were the words I silently ended my prayer with.  I felt immediate reassurance from that Truth place, that my words were heard.

It was then that I decided.

Ben may be dedicating his last mile of this marathon to me, but I am dedicating my last mile as a cheerleader and a support of this marathon to God, because without Him urging me and strengthening me so I could encourage Ben, I would not still be here.


And now as the finish line approaches, and Ben gives the last of this marathon everything he has,  and I yell my words of encouragement while he makes his way down the final path, and God continues to write Our Story,

we wait.

All you can take with you is that which you've given away.

This is a true story about Prayer, and one written to inspire Hope.

This is one of those miracles we hear about that can either be acknowledged as coincidence, or luck, or the Universe, or karma--or it can be acknowledged as a direct answer from God given to two people who were at their breaking point last Christmas.  While this isn't how every story goes for every person, I share this for our children (or anyone else) who will find themselves at their own breaking point in life.  It is written as a reminder that when they think they have done all they can, they may realize there is more they can do.  

They can Ask.  

"Hello?"  I picked up Ben's phone call.  It was close to midnight, one week before Christmas last year.  I had just finished feeding and changing 3 1/2 week old newborn Claire.

"Hi.  Ummmmmm, do you know how much money is in our bank account?"  He sounded really frustrated.

"Not the exact amount, but it's not much," I answered.

"I'm here in Ohio at the car rental place, trying to pick up the car I reserved.  They're telling me I can't get it."  He said.

"What?  Why?  You've already paid for it!"  I replied.

"I know, but you have to have at least $200 in your bank account in order to pick it up, they put a hold on that money in case something happens to the car."

"Oh.  Oh no...."  I trailed off.  I didn't know the exact amount in our account, but I did know we did not have $200.

"Yeah.  Tomorrow is pay day, but they don't deposit the money in to the account until like two in the morning.  I don't know what I'm going to do.  I'm stranded in the car rental place.  It's really late here, and the people I'm staying with tonight--I would feel awful having to wake them up.  I barely know them and they're letting me stay as a favor to a mutual friend!  And they would have to bring me back by 6:00 in the morning so I can come and pick up the car in time for my interview.  This is so humiliating."

"I am so sorry Ben.  What are you going to do?" 

"I don't know," he paused, and I could hear it in his voice, and in the silence following his answer--it was the sound of someone broken.  "I'll figure it out and call you back in a little bit."

"Okay.  I love you."

"I love you too," his voice was subdued, the life having gone out of it.

I hung up the phone, leaned over, put my head in my hands, and began to cry.  This was not the first time in the past couple of months our bank account had been almost completely empty and we had held our breath until payday.

I knew he had several more upcoming internship interviews.  I also knew rent was due in 2 weeks.  I knew the amount of money coming in from pay day, and I knew that it was not enough to cover our rent as well as cover the traveling expenses of the interviews.  I knew we would have to make a decision.

My chest felt tight. I could picture Ben there in the car rental place, defeated.  I knelt down and prayed.  For me, for Ben, for the ability to endure this emotionally taxing time.

When he came home from his trip, we sat at the table and talked.  It was the most weary, humble, worn-down place I had ever seen my husband.

"I've looked at flights for the next interview, and there's just no way it's going to happen, " he said.  "We just don't have enough."

"I know, " I replied softly.  "I've been thinking though--do you remember what Paul said to us during their visit a month ago?"  My mother in law and her husband Paul had stayed with us for a few days after Claire had been born.

"No, what?"  Ben asked.

"He asked us if we had ever prayed and asked God directly for what we need.  He asked if we had ever prayed for money.  At the time I thought that sounded so...wrong to do.  It felt greedy and selfish and temporal.  But maybe it's not?  I've always prayed and asked for extra strength to get through financially hard times, or for the ability to find more work to pay the bills, or to be able to find someone we can sell some of our things to.  God has always answered those prayers...maybe He would answer this one?"  I explained.

Looking at me from across the table, Ben shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well it's worth a try I guess.  We know right now we're doing everything we can to get through this.  We're both working, we're both trying to raise good children, we're both consecrating the time that we can to God and serving others.  We're not asking for money for a boat, or more jewelry....we're literally asking so that we can further our chances of getting out of this financial situation, and to finish school." 

"We know our hearts are in a good place, and God does too," I agreed.

So that night we knelt down together and again separately, and asked God directly for money.

The next day my mood was somber.  I began opening the mail, looking forward to the Christmas cards of friends that always make me so happy. 

In the pile was a letter from one of Ben's aunts.  I opened up the card, and gasped as money floated out of the card and rested on the counter.  I picked up the money and stared.  We hadn't heard from this aunt in several years, and she had never sent us money before that I could remember.  Goosebumps lined my arms and tears filled my eyes.  I could feel God telling me this was a direct answer to the previous night's prayers.  

I continued going through the pile of mail when I came across another Christmas card--this time from Ben's grandma in Indiana.  When I opened up her card to find a check written from her, with enough money to completely cover one month's worth of rent, I went straight into what I like to call The Ugly Cry.  I read her words as tears poured down my face, with her explanation that she and her husband had worked very hard to earn that money and saved it for years, but that she realized it might be needed in our lives.  She asked us be wise with it--if it was needed then to use it, and if not, then to put it in an account for our children's college funds.  

I could not stop crying, and I'm crying again now as I'm writing these words.  I took pictures of the money sent by Ben's aunt and the check sent by his grandma, as well as pictures of the words of love and support they sent along with them.  

I sent the pictures to Ben while he was at work, saying that our prayers had been answered.  Within seconds he replied, saying he couldn't believe it and could not stop crying either.  After texting him, I went into my bedroom, dropped to my knees and cried through my spoken words of gratitude to a God who had answered my prayers, and asked him to bless the lives of those who had allowed Him to work through them.  

For the rest of the afternoon my heart felt so full.  My eyes were puffy from crying every time I thought of the cards we had received.  

Ben called to tell me he wouldn't be home from work until about 10 o'clock, so after dinner I started the bath/bedtime routine on my own.  Claire would not stay asleep unless I held her, so I tucked her tiny body into the baby wrap and walked around until I had bounced her to sleep laying against my chest.

I put Leah and June in the bath and they immediately started fighting.  Leah (who was having a rough night) began screaming and crying, which woke up Claire who also began crying.  

I was trying to lift a dripping, refusing, screeching Leah out of the bath when I heard a knock on the front door.  I set Leah back in the bath and tried to calm down Claire.  I was flustered and slightly embarrassed to know whoever knocked probably heard the insanity going on inside.  

When I opened the front door, there stood our bishop and friend Jon Mabb.  My hair was everywhere, my clothes were wet from the shenanigans with Leah in the bath, Claire was crying against my chest and I could still hear screeching from the bathroom.  I gave a little laugh and a look like "Well, this is my life!  I'm a mess!" 

He smiled and said simply, "Merry Christmas.  This is from the ward."  He handed me a red envelope and turned to walk away.  

"Oh, well thanks!"  I said, thinking the envelope must be a Christmas card the bishopric was doing for the members of the church. 

And then, I remembered.  

A few weeks earlier I had seen an email from Bishop Mabb to our ward members, saying there were some families in need for Christmas and to let him know if anyone would like to anonymously donate to them.  Ben and I had talked, both wanting to give something to people we loved so much, especially during Christmas.  As we talked we realized we sounded nuts--we couldn't even afford our own lives at that point!  What were we thinking?  "There will be a time and season we can donate money...right now is not our season," we told ourselves.  Still, it was hard for us to not do something, so we picked a couple of families we knew could use some help and decided to serve in other ways.  

As I held the red envelope in my hand I realized what it was and began to cry again.  I had not considered the fact that our family might be one of those he was mentioning.  I could barely open the envelope because I was so overcome with emotion.  I slid down against the door and sat down on the cold tile floor with Claire still attached to me.  I opened the card to find more money, generously donated to us by those doing the work of God.  I sat there for several minutes letting the tears fall again, feeling so completely undeserving yet so completely grateful at the same time.  I texted the bishop to tell him what this meant to us, I texted Ben to tell him of the third miracle of the day, and I offered another prayer to God, thanking Him for showing us of His awareness of us as individuals, and His love for us as His children.  

Growing up, my family used to watch the movie "It's A Wonderful Life" every Christmas.  I found it incredibly dull and boring.  But about 7 years ago, I bought it and began the tradition of watching it every Christmas Eve while I wrapped presents.  

Watching it as an adult was a different experience.   I began to completely understand and relate to every emotion George Bailey felt.  I watched as his shoulders grew more hunched and the furrow in his eyebrows grew deeper, and I knew that weight and worry.  So did Ben.  I watched as he almost threw the broken piece of the stair banister and Ben and I knew that inner rage and desperation.  I watched as he pretended to fix Zuzu's petals in order to preserve his daughter's innocent happiness, and I knew that feeling of love and the need to protect.  I watched as he yelled at the teacher for being the culprit of his child's illness and I knew that feeling of the need to find blame somewhere, anywhere.  I watched as he stood on the bridge staring into the dark water, and I knew that feeling of wondering if the lives Ben and I have lived really even mattered, or if somehow we were just doomed to feel like it would always be this excruciatingly painful uphill struggle with ridiculous hurdles that continued to land in our paths.  

But it's the final scene of that movie, that makes me Ugly Cry no matter how many times I watch it.  George, Mary, and their children, surrounded by those whose lives they have affected by love and service, being lifted from their darkest moment by those who could give their love and service in return.  

As I sat on the tile floor leaning against our front door, I knew it was only myself and my baby in that room but I also knew what the Bailey family was feeling as I wept, surrounded by the knowledge that our lives do matter, and though monetarily we could not show up for others...that the ways we had shown up, for each other and for others, in the eyes of God, had been enough.  

This was a life-changing day for Ben and I, and we both know we will never be the same.  Because we asked, God answered.  We were able to pay our rent and Ben was able to go to the rest of his internship interviews, specifically to the interview that brought us to San Antonio.  Our financial struggle did not end that day, but our needs were taken care of.  It was enough.  It was so much.  

We are forever grateful.   

"All you can take with you

Is that which you've given away."

It's A Wonderful Life.

Lucky number 13.

I remember all of the things that I thought I wanted to be
So desperate to find a way out of my world and finally breathe
Right before my eyes I saw, my heart it came to life
This ain't easy it's not meant to be
Every story has it's scars

When the pain cuts you deep
When the night keeps you from sleeping
Just look and you will see
That I will be your remedy
When the world seems so cruel
And your heart makes you feel like a fool
I promise you will see
That I will be, I will be your remedy

No river is too wide or too deep for me to swim to you
Come whatever I'll be the shelter that won't let the rain come through
Your love, it is my truth
And I will always love you
Love you

--"Remedy"--

A couple of months ago we had an honest, vulnerable discussion about walls built within marriage.  

I knew when he spoke, he saw me--for one of the first times in a long time, I felt understood on a deep level.  I knew when he saw me, it was a cross roads.  I could either admit the hard things I didn't want to admit, or pretend they didn't exist, hoping for them to disappear.  But I know things like this don't just "disappear."  

I see couples in Hollywood crumble all over the place.  Sometimes I wonder about them--why can't they hang on?  Is it because they didn't know each other well enough?  Is it because they didn't know themselves well enough?  Is it because their work requires them to be apart for long periods of time?  Is their foundation not strong enough to withstand the distance?  Or did they merely stop needing each other, because they couldn't--because physically they weren't there to BE there for one another?  

Ben and I are no Hollywood couple, far from it.  But we are a couple built inside of 2 years of a solid, happy, loving foundation followed by 2 years of extremely stressful, fearful parenting, followed by 1 year of traumatic, chaotic group home managing, followed by 7 years of separating grad school living combined with three more amazing, yet needy children.  

These things take tolls on individuals, which in turn take tolls on marriages--there is no way around that.  Our needs as humans had been put on the back burners for so long there have been days/weeks/months/years we had forgotten we even HAD any needs.  Our marriage also had needs we had forgotten, not because the love has not been there....they've been forgotten more because there had not been the space to take care of it.  And honestly?  We took for granted the two solid years of foundation we had built in the beginning.  Our love, happiness with each other, and strong friendship and respect for one another could withstand any storm, we believed.

So far, that has worked.  I truly feel if our foundation had not been as strongly built from our beginning, we would have crumbled like so many we see and hear about.  

Yet we remain standing, though the stress and time apart has taken its toll.  

I am a firm believer when the rope of marriage begins to fray, it takes each person to work individually on their end of the rope before they can work on things together.  We are complex humans, bringing lives together that are full of two entirely separate experiences, strengths, weaknesses, needs and emotions.  

But individual work is scary, isn't it?  It's so much easier to blame the whole of the sum instead of the parts, when those parts are made up of yourself and the person you love most in the world.  It's easier to blame a baby with seizures, and teenagers with rage issues, and grad school with its so many demands, and financial struggles leading to multiple jobs, and young children with their neediness and moving 14 times.

I know what it means to look in the mirror--really look--and realize I have personally contributed to my own unhappiness, my own loneliness, my own fears.  It is extremely vulnerable, painful, honest work.  Ben also knows  this individual work and what it means to look in this same mirror, owning his parts.  

As painful and scary and hard as this work is, it is also the work of Healing.  

I have seen the ends of our individually frayed ropes begin to heal, as we each pulled apart layer after layer of our own experiences to get down to the core.  I have never been more proud of myself, or Ben, than when we are working this way.  We have allowed one another to see each other in our most vulnerable places, and a love I never could have imagined has grown from seeing each other like this.  As individuals, we watched ourselves begin to Rebuild, and we were each other's cheerleaders and best support system.  Once the two pieces of our marriage had begun healing, we then needed to work on the sum of our parts.

So when it came to that crossroads a few months ago, looking at him in our dimly lit kitchen around 2 am, I chose to let him see me again.  

As much as I want to be that perfect wife, I know I never will be, because I am not perfect.  As much as he wants to be that perfect husband, he knows he will not be.  

But that night we laid our offerings of who we actually ARE, on the sacrificial table of marriage, again.  With our strengths, weaknesses, hopes, needs, and love for ourselves and each other.  

We promised during our 13th year, it was no longer the time for rebuilding ourselves individually, it is now the time for Rebuilding Our Marriage.  We have talked about what that looks like for each of us, with an understanding that it will take time.  As quickly as the Crumbling appears to happen--it doesn't, not really.  It's something that is slowly picked apart and chipped at, until finally a cornerstone has been worn thin enough to fall, taking the entire structure with it. 

Rebuilding is a process of picking up one piece at a time, with the hope there will now be extra support built in surrounding it now, after we know better, after the individual Healing has taken place.  It takes patience, and heavy lifting at times, and always--that constant self-check of fear and needs and individual vulnerability and honesty.  

Some may read this and think it might be a depressing Happy Anniversary! post.  But I feel the complete opposite.  I am so proud of us, and of our marriage.  Weaker people and weaker love would not have been able to even get to this point.  We are still here together, after the dust has settled, picking up our pieces and Rebuilding.  We are still laughing and holding hands, and looking at each other with a newfound admiration and strength in our love that did not exist before the Crumbling.  

Thirteen years of being married to this incredibly strong, good man.  Thirteen years of being the one he comes home to.  Thirteen years of feeling his warmth on the other side of the bed, of wrapping his arms around mine.  

I love you, Ben Strader.  Ours is a courageous Love Story.  And I'm so grateful we have chosen each other all over again.  Here's to our 13th year.  

The Unseen Disability, and The Hike.

"To believe I walk alone

Is a lie that I’ve been told

So let your heart hold fast

For this soon shall pass

Like the high tide takes the sand

At the bitter end

Salt and liquid blend

From the corner of my eye

All the miles wrecked

Every broken step

Always searching always blind

Never fear, No Never fear

So let your heart hold fast

For this soon shall pass

There's another hill ahead"

--Let Your Heart Hold Fast

Last year, on an overcast but warm afternoon in February, the front door of the Grey House swung open, then closed with more force than usual.  Caleb was home from school.

"Hey buddy, how was the hike?"  I asked.  Today was the 4th grade hike he'd been looking forward to.

"It was HARD.  I'm never going hiking again!"  he replied, with a lot of emotion behind his words.

"What happened?"  I asked, but wasn't too worried.  Caleb is an emotional kid, and sometimes just needs to get the big emotions out by venting, then can see through them a little more clearly.

"It just was hard, and I hated it.  And I'm never going again!"  he repeated, yelling this time.  I asked a couple more questions but he still didn't open up, so I dropped the subject and moved on.  Today was Leah's 6th birthday, and we were going to go out to celebrate.  I asked Caleb to get his homework done and clean his room, then get ready to go to the restaurant.

Normally he would react well to going to his favorite place to eat, it would be a motivator to get him to stay on task and move quickly.  Not today.  His foul mood continued and affected anyone who crossed his path.  He complained with the small things I asked him to do, he purposely looked for ways to bug his sisters, and he wasn't just teasing Leah--he was picking on her and criticizing her.

Each time he did, I stopped him, telling him to change his behavior or earn a consequence.  When he continued, I pulled him aside, reminding him of how he had treated Leah last year on her birthday.  He had been so kind to her, and so thoughtful and fun, and it had meant the world to her.  I asked him to try harder to remember this is the one day a year that's just for her.  I also asked him if anything else was wrong--did something happen with his friends?  Did he do poorly on his spelling test?  Was he tired?  He said "No" to all of these.

In the past when Caleb has treated her this way, we've been able to trace it back to an experience that's recently happened that has made him feel really insecure or embarrassed.  He takes those insecurities out on her until we can get to the root of the problem and talk about what is really bugging him.

"Okay, well  I'm here to talk with you if you want me to.  But if you don't want to that's fine, but we do not deserve to be treated the way you're treating us.  If there isn't anything else wrong then your behavior needs to change.  Now."  I said firmly.

We all got in the van and drove to the restaurant.  While we were being seated, Caleb refused to sit by Leah, saying she always had to sit next to him.  The look on Leah's face was enough, she was devastated.  I gave him the stink eye and told him with a low voice to sit down and knock it off.  He stayed quiet, but inched over to the edge of his chair.

We ordered our food and while waiting for it, began the tradition we have on birthdays, to go around the table and everyone says what they love about the person we're celebrating.  We went around, and then it came time for Caleb's turn.  He gave a half-hearted, generic answer, and wouldn't look at Leah when he said it.  I watched him inch away from her again.  That was IT.

Ben was talking with the girls when I leaned over the table and with my voice two octaves lower than normal said,

"One more thing, Caleb.  If you do or say one more unkind thing to your sister on her birthday, you and I are taking Dad's car and you're going home to bed.  I have been as patient as I can be.  If this weren't her birthday, I would not feel so upset right now.  But she does NOT deserve this and you are not stopping.  When you act this way and can't control it, you're telling me you're too tired and you just need to go to bed."

Then.

He looked at me from across the table, and his face just crumpled.   Tears spilled onto his cheeks and he began to sob.

"Buddy, come here,"  I said with my voice softened.  He walked around the table and stood next to me.  "What is it?  Please tell me, I'm here for you."

And then it all came tumbling out, in between sobs.

"The hike was so hard, Mom.  SO hard.  My legs ached and kept shaking so hard that I kept falling, and my group left me--the only one that stayed with me was the mom of one of the kids, because she felt bad for me.  I was so slow, I could barely make it.  I was the last kid up the mountain.  By the time I got to where we were supposed to eat lunch, everyone was already eating and most of them were finished.  I was so tired and wanted to turn around but I couldn't.  I fell over and over again, even wearing my good shoes.  It was so embarrassing, and I felt so stupid and slow."

My heart broke.  As he cried, I did too.  I hugged him tightly, saying,

"Oh Caleb, I am so sorry and am so glad you told me.  I had no idea.  I don't know why your group didn't stay with you, and I wish they had.  But more than anything?  I am SO proud of you.  So, so proud.  (I could barely speak because I was crying so hard at this point.) The other kids don't know what it feels like to be in your body, with your muscles.  They don't know what it takes for you to make it up that mountain.  But I do, and your dad does.  We know the tightness of your muscles that makes it so much more difficult, and that your legs tremble when they're working hard.  We know how far you've come, and how you have to work twice as hard to keep up with others.

The thing is?  You don't look different.  And while that's a blessing most days, today made things more lonely for you.  If you had crutches, or a wheelchair, or were still wearing the orthotic casts you used to have to wear, people would know, because they would be able to see the difference.  And I'm guessing that if the kids in your group knew, then they would have stayed with you.

But the fact that you didn't quit--that you finished, you got up to the top of that mountain and you made it all the way back down, it proves again to me just how strong you are on the inside, regardless of your body's strength on the outside.  You did it, without the help of anyone.  Just you and God, getting up that mountain together.  

I know today feels like it was an awful day (Caleb nodding his head fiercely), but I have a feeling that you're going to look back on this day as one that was a turning point for you.  One where you can feel proud of not quitting, regardless of how hard it was.  You have yet again made me feel so grateful, and lucky, and blessed, and proud to be YOUR mom."

I held him while he cried for another minute, then calmed down.  The rest of the night he was back to his normal happy self and treated Leah amazing.

Watching his tears fall in the restaurant, I found myself in a strange place as a mother of a kid with an almost unseen disability.  For over two full years, Caleb's disability was obvious.  But once he learned to walk and his seizures stopped, he just kept moving forward.  He's on the small side still, but unless you look closely or know what you're looking for, you can't see his struggle.  Physical therapists spot it right away and ask, but other than that, most are surprised to find out he has Cerebral Palsy.  I have been amazed at how his body has grown, and how he has compensated from his earlier days.  I've been grateful he hasn't had to live life in casts, or with his walker.  But with this hike, I realized I was almost wishing he did look different, and stand out in some way, so others would know and be more sensitive to it.  Then I caught myself--what kind of a mother wishes for their kid to have more challenges than they already do??  

After we were home and the kids were in bed, I told Ben about Caleb's hike.  As I told him, I could feel the Mama Bear in me rising.  I had purposely written on Caleb's consent form for the hike that he has CP--even though his teacher already knew that, I wanted to give her a reminder.  I wrote that he tired easily and had less endurance than the other kids his age.  Why didn't she give him a hiking buddy?  Why wasn't there more supervision over the groups staying together?  Why didn't they start out with the slowest kids in the front, like they do in Boy Scouts?  I wanted to protect him from feeling the way he had that day, but I couldn't--it had already happened.  So getting angry seemed to be the best secondary option.  I wanted to write her an email that night, giving her my very strong opinion of disapproval at the way my son had been treated.

From the time we first knew something was wrong with Caleb, I worried about moments just like this one.  I did not know how I could bear having him hurt, or made fun of, or left behind.  I wanted to protect him from any heartache.  A few years ago, I realized that if I did protect him from all of it, I was holding him back from the opportunity to grow.  I knew the best thing I could do for him was to let him fall and teach him how to get back up, and support him by being there for him, loving him, and teaching him how to love himself.  

I believe every moment--good and bad--is a teaching opportunity when it comes to my kids.  And I know my son.  He was born with a fire in his belly, a big fun personality, and a spirited, competitive side.  He was also born with a body that has set limits on what he can do, so his spirit and his body are in a constant state of battle with each other.  The problem is, he's so competitive with himself that when there is a physical feat standing in his way, he just wants to avoid it all together.  If he can't physically be where he pictures in his mind he should be, or if he's set up to compete one-on-one against someone bigger/stronger, he doesn't want to try.  We have been through this many times.

If he's on a team, he'll go for it because the spotlight isn't on him.  But if he could potentially fail on his own, or look slow or weak--then he digs his feet in and refuses to budge.  Ben and I have had to learn how to navigate this.  We are still learning.  We want to work within his limits and be sensitive to them, while also pushing him to just do the best he can do and not give up.

I didn't send the email.  Instead I decided to sit with all of this for a couple of days and see how I felt after the weekend was over.  The more I thought about this hike, the more important I felt mine and Ben's reaction to it was.  We could either make this a big Victim moment for Caleb, or a big Victory moment.  If I really believed the words I had told him--how proud I was of him, then I wanted to focus on that.  I wanted this hike to be known as a victory.  The Mama Bear inside calmed down, and my anger and protectiveness melted away.  I did want to mention it to his teacher, but more to help her be aware of what had happened, so that maybe they could do things differently for next year.

We've talked about the hike, since that day.  We focus on the getting up part, not the falling.  We focus on the finish line, not the part where he was left by his peers who didn't know what he was experiencing.  We focus on the courage it takes to keep going, one foot in front of the other up the mountain, driven by this God-given gift of his big personality that pushes his tight, but weak muscles to move forward.

And every dang time I talk to him about it, I cry.

I am so grateful I get to be this amazing boy's mom, and watch him learn how to pick himself back up, focus on the victories, and keep going.

Introducing....

Claire Edith Strader

Born 11/17/14 at 4:08 pm, 8lbs even, 21 inches

Birth story to follow, for now here are

pictures from Claire's first 24 hours.

We love you, baby girl!  Happy Birth Day.

Motherhood, take 4.

“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did - that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that - a parent's heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.” 

― Debra Ginsberg

this Mother's day weekend, 

i'm focusing again on the choice and privilege i have of being their mom,

all four of them.  

due november 27th,

we're trying to wrap our brains around

how one more member of this family will change us.

and can't wait to find out!

the power of words, and muffins.

{this is my friend kelly, who will probably kill me for posting this picture of her cleaning my house.}

“In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it's wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices.” 

― Elizabeth Gilbert

what a difference one week can make.

i don't often reach my breaking point.  i'd like to believe it's because my rope has a longer tolerance than most, but unfortunately it's more likely because it's hard for me to recognize my own needs and emotions.  this is something i've been changing for the past 4 years, but sometimes i fall back into old habits of pushing my needs back down and shouldering on through whatever difficulty i'm treading water in, carrying the emotions of others and answering those whose needs feel more urgent than my own.  i have a tendency to shut down and isolate, and though i'm getting better with this, i'm still a work in progress.

after my last post, i realized as the words flew through my fingers without stopping, they were serving two purposes:

1)  to update friends and family.  i'm not great at talking about it unless asked-- it's a complicated situation without a clear answer yet, but i knew there were a few people wondering what was going on with ben's school situation.

2)  to recognize i do actually have a breaking point, and had reached it.

after posting the words, i found myself wanting to take it all back--to say life is fine, and i am fine, and what's going on will be fine.  i felt vulnerable--or embarrassed?  a little?  that i was weaker than i wanted to believe, or wanted others to believe.  i worried i would be perceived as searching for attention, and began to minimize my feelings, questioning why i was having such a hard time with all of it, when i genuinely find so much happiness in my life.

i thought about re-writing, making sure to end it wrapped up in a nice, neat package with an inspirational quote about perseverance or not giving up.  because that is what i actually know, and who i am, most of the time.

instead, i decided to let the words sit where they had been placed, and find peace inside of not always having to be fine.

it's okay to not have to always be okay,  

was the phrase that continually rolled through my mind on wednesday.

and then,

comments and texts in response to my post began showing up... extending love, kindness and validation.  i read them, letting them sink in as i went throughout my day, feeling my weariness lifting.

ben was interviewing in ohio at the time, and would be driving to pennsylvania that night for another interview, not to come home for 3 more days.  a friend of ours had found a family willing to let him stay in their home, which blessing came when we needed it most--checking our bank account daily with the hope of seeing a student loan deposited, and biting my nails off when each day passed without it happening.

he called me on his drive to pennsylvania, telling me of the family he stayed with, who had opened their homes as well as their hearts.  he was given food that lasted him the entire day so he didn't have to spend money we didn't have.  he was taken care of and had been treated as a friend instead of a stranger.

his interview in ohio had gone really well.  at one point, all of those being interviewed were in the same room together, and began talking.  out of the entire group, only ben and one other were married while in school, and ben was the only one with children.  "my wife and i have purposely waited to have kids while i'm doing my dissertation and interviewing--we're too stressed out, " he was told by the other married man.  ben was asked how he was surviving a doctoral program with three children and a wife, while also working for almost the entire 5 years.

"i told them," ben said through the phone, "it was because of my amazing wife."

as he spoke those words, his voice cracked and he began to cry.  and oh boy, nothing makes me cry more than when someone i love is crying.  we both sniffed as he continued to tell me how grateful he is for my support and efforts in this much-longer-than-planned journey of school.  i didn't know how much i needed to hear him say that, but i did.  and let those words sink even further, as more weariness lifted.

the rest of the week was full of family and friends extending more love and kindness.  as hard as it was, i forced myself to accept help, and by friday morning i was feeling much better emotionally, ready to handle life again.  there were dishes and laundry and sweeping to be done.  also?  it was mid-january and my christmas tree was still up, though i had pulled the empty tubs waiting to be filled with holiday decorations out over a week ago.  for some reason i had a mental block about taking it down by myself, but finding a night where both ben and i were together wasn't happening.  i had decided this morning was it, and resolved to take it down alone.

then there was a knock on the door--my dear friend kelly, who showed up with muffins in hand.  "i made extra this morning and thought you might need some," she explained as she and her adorable daughter vi walked into my disorganized home.

three hours later, we hugged before they walked back out.  as i closed the door behind them, i turned around to see an empty and scrubbed kitchen sink, swept kitchen floor, vacuumed living room, and--most importantly--the christmas tree taken down and the holiday tubs filled, ready to be carried into the garage.  we talked as we had worked together, and i realized again how important good friends are when family doesn't live close by.  those three hours may not have been a big deal for her, but i felt overwhelmed with gratitude.

just then, ben called to give me details of his pennsylvania interview.  as i answered i began to cry, explaining what kelly had just done for me, and all of the other kind things that had happened at the hands of others while he had been away.

once the phone call was finished, i sat down in the quiet, thinking back through the past week.  i've heard those who say they cannot see God during their trials, only after they are over--only during the times when things are going smoothly or miracles are taking place can they recognize His goodness and love for them.  yet our trial with ben's school was not over, not by a long shot.  not much of our situation had changed at all, in fact.  we know there are still mountains to climb.  but by allowing myself to not be okay, i allowed others to love and take care of me, and i found God again, through them.

and was (and still am) so, so grateful.

thank you.

sometimes a little Katy Perry is a good thing.

{ben on the airplane--how many photo bombs can you see? i spy 3, with a potential 4th}

I used to bite my tongue and hold my breath
Scared to rock the boat and make a mess
So I sat quietly, agreed politely
I guess that I forgot I had a choice
I let you push me past the breaking point
I stood for nothing, so I fell for everything

You held me down, but I got up
Already brushing off the dust
You hear my voice, you hear that sound
Like thunder gonna shake the ground
You held me down, but I got up
Get ready cause I’ve had enough
I see it all, I see it now

this past wednesday morning found all five of us buckled into our dark blue minivan, driving along highway 60, heading west toward the phoenix airport.  only one small suitcase was in the back and the clothing inside didn't belong to me.  i looked around my shoulder to see the two girls happily munching on snacks.  caleb was further back, with his seatbelt on but laying down with a garbage bag resting next to him because he'd been complaining of stomach pains--something we straders have learned not to take lightly.

the song changed on the radio, and the beginning of katy perry's "roar" came through the speakers.
 
"oh mom, this is my favorite song!"  leah squealed with her cute lisp.  "PLEASE turn it up!"

as much as my alt-indie-music-loving side wanted to protest, i turned up the volume for my beaming 4 year old.  within a few seconds, all of us began loudly singing along to the words, caleb included.  even i had to adimit the song is catchy.

ben and his suitcase were packed in our van for texas, heading there to meet with the court he's working with for his dissertation research project, as a last-ditch attempt to save the ability to write his dissertation this next month and go out for residency next fall instead of waiting another year.

when i wrote a blog post about this, i assumed it was over for us.  i had found peace in the idea of staying in arizona for another year, even if it wasn't what we had planned or hoped for.  ben had been given the date of when he needed to have his approval letter from this texas court, and as the due date grew closer i began looking for the positive in our lives--trying to soften the blow i knew this was going to be for him.  that week was emotionally taxing.  i was recovering from a miscarriage while trying so hard to be the cheerleader and positive force to pick him up and motivate him to keep going.  and he kept going--in every way possible.  physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally.  he pushed through and refused to quit.

as we talked more and more, our perspective on the situation began to shift.  we spoke of looking forward to enjoying december together, spending quality time with the kids and their needs, possibly traveling a little, and then finding a new job in january while we waited.  we actually became excited with the idea of staying.

on the due date of his approval letter, i sat down in the early afternoon and opened up the computer.

and there it was.

the court in texas had months to send this letter, but now, just a mere three hours before ben was scheduled to meet with his advisor with the sad news that he hadn't received the acceptance letter on time, it showed up.

i sat still for a moment, rereading the words, trying to believe it.  and then, i could feel it--Him, there with me.  because i had learned to recognize God's voice when He speaks to me, i knew it was Him.  it was not me who made my back tingle, and goosebumps cover my arms and legs.  it was not me who caused a feeling of overwhelming Love and Peace to wash over as tears filled my eyes.  as He made me aware of his presence, i knew He was saying that the timing of this email was because of Him.  i can't explain it any other way--except knowing this.

"thank you," i whispered as those tears spilled over, down onto my cheeks.  i reached for the phone and called ben.

"DID YOU SEE WHAT JUST CAME THROUGH THE EMAIL?!"  i screeched when he answered.

"no, what?"  he replied.

"THE ACCEPTANCE LETTER!!"

"are you SERIOUS!"

ben took that letter into the meeting where his advisor had been planning on telling him he needed to wait another year, and promised to call me afterward.

i wanted to shout from the rooftops that the approval letter had been sent just in time, but i knew the fight wasn't over.  instead i sat by the phone, nervous but hopeful --this advisor is known at ben's school for being tough, and ben has felt disapproval from him several times as they have worked together the past couple of years.  he is the one who required ben to re-take one entire year of school initially, and had made it clear that his intention this year was to do the same with having him wait to apply for residency until next fall.  i worried that even though ben had what the advisor asked for, he would find a way to tell him no.

the phone rang, and i listened as ben told me his advisor had allowed him to continue, but only on the condition he would now need to have all of the data for this research project from texas in his hands by november 15th, otherwise he would still be held back for the year.

they had given him two weeks.

inwardly my hopes sank, knowing the two-year-long history we've had working with this court in texas.  their severe lack of communication, along with doing anything in a timely manner was the reason ben had to be held back for the second year, and was all i could focus on.

"welllllll," i said hesitantly on the phone, "we're still in this fight.  it's not over yet.  you have two weeks, so let's do what we can to get this to happen."

which is what brought us to wednesday morning, driving to the airport, all of us singing katy perry at the top of our lungs, in a desperate attempt to show up in person and light the fire under the rear ends of the people at the court in texas.  we knew it would take a miracle for this to come together, for them to actually be able to hand it over to him by friday, but we promised to do our part to make it happen.

as embarrassing as it is to type, while we were mid-family-sing-along, suddenly i became emotional, and looked at ben with tears in my eyes.

"this is it, this is your theme song.  no matter what happens, this is what you're not only teaching others, but teaching me, your children, and yourself.  you're going to do everything you can and not quit, even if someone tells you no.  you're not giving up.  and every time that lame advisor says something that makes you feel like you're beneath him, or a loser, i want you to stand up and start singing him this song at the top of your lungs!"

we laughed about that visual, and i said maybe instead he could just to have the song run through his mind when his advisor was hard on him.

i kissed him goodbye at the airport, and waited.

this morning, just after i dropped caleb off for school, he called.

"I GOT IT!!  I GOT THE DATA!!!"

and he texted me this picture:

today is november 15th, the due date for having the data in his hand.  and he has it.  if it wouldn't take days to write out the details of the journey of the past two years--all of the bumps in the road and soul-wrenching moments we have both had, i would do it.  but since i can't, please believe me when i tell you the tears of gratitude we both shed during our phone call this morning were justifiable.

i felt Him again, with us as we cried and spoke to each other.

i know in the grand scheme of life this will probably be a minor deal some day to us.  today though, it is not minor.  i write these things down to remember Him.

this is obviously not really about an approval letter and data.  for ben, after years and years of being told he was not smart enough for school, and entering a doctoral program anyway, this is material evidence that fighting through those lies are worth it.  we both felt this is God's way of telling him to keep going.

i'm sure i could dismiss this as mere coincidence.  that the timing was just because of one thing or another--but i won't, because i undeniably know He is the reason this came to happen.  i have the choice to recognize it, and i do.

so, the journey for us continues.  i'm crying again as i type those words.  ben will now work his tail off to write and complete his dissertation by the end of december--while also flying around the country interviewing at potential residency sites at the same time.  i will do my best here at home trying to hold it together.  i'm not going to lie, it's going to take more miracles for him to finish in time, pass his dissertation, and match with a residency.....but we're grateful we're still in the fight.

and i know
with God's help,
miracles happen.