A decade ago, my son moved out on this date, and broke my heart into a million pieces.

I wasn’t surprised, but it wasn’t expected. It’s hard to join a blended family when you’re 16. Hard to deal with a father that is in and out, after almost a decade of being absent. Hard to deal with yet another stepdad.

I get it. I understand it all, in my logical mind.

When my post about my son moving out came up on my past posts app from a decade ago, I remembered the pain, visceral and fresh.

And breathe.

Ten years later, I can’t be prouder of my son. He’s married his high school sweetheart, he’s a talented and successful photographer and artist, and he works full time at a day job to provide for his family, which now includes my six month old grandson. He just moved into his new home.

Ten years ago, a lot of hard feelings. Hurt hearts. Dismay and discouragement. Uncertainty.

Time is on the side of the blended family when God is the center of it.

We are not exactly where I want us to be as parents and the kid pack, but. for the most part, we are all growing together…at our own pace.

I’m grateful my son and I are close, and have a loving relationship. Having an amazing daughter in love and sweet grandson just make my heart full.

God is good.

Happy birthday tomorrow, son. I love you.

I’ve been a daydreamer for as long as I can remember.

As a child, stories were always spinning through my head.

A child of the 70’s and 80’s, I spent a lot of time outside, by myself.

I was there in body, just like I was in elementary school, but my mind was often far away.

I can remember clearly traipsing through the neighborhood as a very small child, caught up in an adventure in my mind. So caught up one time that as I spun around, eyes closed and head back, caught in the moment, I was brought quickly back to reality as I ran, face first, into a swing set. Stunned, I felt the blood pouring from my nose. I went home, a stuttering sob erupting from my mouth.

I knocked on the screen door, and was told to stay out until lunchtime! This was the norm back then. Insistently, I kept banging. My exasperated mom answered the door, only to be horrified by what she saw.

Minutes later, cleaned up and encouraged I was okay, I went right back outside again.

Hours and hours of my childhood were spent laying on my back on the sweet, soft grass, staring at the clouds. I would see figures and animals and people in the ever moving sky. I spun stories out of silky cloud tendrils.

Early in my teenaged years, I’d lie in bed and transform my world. My room butted up next to a bank of iris blooms and lilac bushes, and I would open my window, even on the coldest nights in the Wasatch Front, just to smell the sweet blooms as I nodded off.

I’d pick up where I had left off the night before. My running story was of a secret world outside my window. It became a portal to another world, a world of sidewalks that opened up to hidden stairways to an underworld. I’d be walking along, carefree, and then the sidewalk would slide open, and I’d drop into the underworld. Dark, but not ominous. I’d spend time imagining how to get back.

Even now, and for the past decade at least, I daydream myself to sleep. I’ll imagine I’m in the crows nest of a great sailing vessel. Or on the deck of an ice cutter, shaving its way to the North Pole. The peaceful waves, or the movement and noise of the cutter, rock me to sleep.

I hope my daydreaming continues…and I’m grateful I wasn’t discouraged from doing it when I was growing up.

Suffering.

It’s on my mind a lot.

I am not the one suffering, but a dear friend is. She has ALS, and it is progressing rapidly.

With a completely intact mind, a nurses knowledge included, she has a body that is failing her. She cannot walk. Talk. Eat or drink.

She is beloved by so many. The prayers of hundreds are covering her.

I don’t want her to suffer.

I know she is suffering.

Her army of friends, many nurses, go visit her. Tell her stories. Make her laugh. Cry with her. Look into her eyes and say things we hope help her.

Ten years ago, my best friend at the time died.

She had devoted her life to service of others. First as a neonatal cardiac nurse, then as a stay home mom to her five kids when she remarried.

Following an ugly divorce and situations beyond her control, she lost custody of her two small children. Rich husbands tend to win in court.

Shortly thereafter, she got breast cancer.

She died of metastatic cancer within a few years.

She suffered. She knew she was leaving her kids, and she was an amazing mother. And sister. And daughter. And friend.

I don’t want anyone to suffer, and especially not those I love.

It’s not easy to watch – but it is nothing compared to what they are going through.

It’s hard to be with the suffering. Be there anyway.

I’ve hit it.

There comes a time when you hit a certain age…and your body just won’t cooperate like it used to.

I’m thinking if you’ve reached a half a century, this is true.

My rotator cuff has decided to start paining me. A lot. What injury, the doc asked? Life, I responded.

I started PT. I think it may be helping. Due to the nature of the exercises, it has flared up the tendinitis in my opposite elbow. That pain kept me up all night.

I get on the floor to play with my grandson. Getting back up…well, give me a minute. Or few.

I’m not going down without a fight!!

I’m still out there, running or walking 3-4 times a week. I’m in here, on my rebounder, daily.

I’ve decided yoga might help. I’m looking into that.

I drink my 80-100oz of water a day. I count my carbs, I eat purposefully most of the time.

I can’t imagine getting to this milestone and being in poor health, or overweight. It’s a struggle enough as it is.

I got the warning flag that life was changing when I was in my 40’s. I immediately repented for my years of high carb, sedentary lifestyle, and started making changes.

I’m so glad I did! It’s evident that staying healthy isn’t a given. It must be worked at…and the earlier, the better!

Don’t take your health for granted. It’s a gift.

My son called me this morning to tell me he is symptomatic.

Even though I’ve been dealing with this autoimmune disorder he has had since he was seven – twenty seven years ago – I still get that knot in the pit of my stomach. My head spins. I’m nauseous.

Then I get practical.

We talk about how he is going to handle this episode. We review what symptoms he’s had, and whether he should go to work.

When my son was seven, he came home with bruises down his forearm. I asked him if he has been kicked by a horse. He didn’t know what he had done.

For years he was in and out of the hospital, he had his spleen removed, he had countless IV infusions.

I managed his care until he was 18. Then he took over.

Except he doesn’t have insurance now. He doesn’t go to the doctor, unless he reaches symptoms we know are more ominous.

I hate this. I’ve hated it since day one.

For the most part, he does well, and things are manageable.

Any time he gets a cold or virus, his body will attack his platelets, and it’s off to the races again.

Many years ago I realized that if my son is destined to live to be 100, he will…regardless of his autoimmune disorder.

It doesn’t make it any easier for Mama on days like today.

I just want my son healthy.

I went for my morning warm up walk this morning. As soon as I got up, I ate a protein bar, paused my insulin pump, and headed outside, water bottle in hand.

It’s July. In the South. I am a Western girl – I love mountains. Cool breezes. No humidity!!

Alas, I live in satan’s armpit, so if I’m going to exercise, I have to get out early, and do the hard thing.

Real feel 94°. High humidity. The sun beating down.

Out I went.

If I waited for nice weather to exercise, I’d have about a 4 month window annually. Maybe.

I have to do the hard thing- get out there when it’s miserably hot.

I tried to distract myself. I counted the different bird species I saw. I marveled in the summer assortment of flowers that were everywhere to behold. I listened to a podcast.

I melted.

I also got the lesson, again, that it’s important to do the hard things.

Tired and worn out from your weekend and don’t want to go to work? Go forth with a grateful heart.

Being treated hatefully by someone who is family? Forgive. Just as others forgive you.

Love the unlovely – the really unlovely, who treat you with continuous disdain? Love them. It may take a lot of prayer and faith – it sure does for me – but put in the effort.

Passing up the yummy carbs so you can live a long and healthy life? Do it. Deny yourself.

It’s not easy doing the hard things.

It is necessary, however, if we want to continue to grow as healthy human beings, physically and spiritually.

Children’s children are the crown of old men,
And the glory of children is their father. Proverbs 17:6

We are fully into the grand-parenting years…and loving it.

Our adopted eldest son has a seven year old son, and we have four more grandsons, down to two grandsons born in January.

We are blessed, indeed.

I grew up in a military home, and family was few and far between. I always longed for a big family. I have picked up friends that are as close as family, but I still want a close big family of my own.

The three kids I brought into our blended family, and the bonus son we added as well, have brought us these five blessings…and one to come in September!

My wish for a big family is coming true!

My daughter in law’s family has become a part of our big family, and we celebrate holidays together.

I heard all the sappy things people said about grandchildren, and I would nod and smile. It seemed a distant thing.

Time moves quicker when you hit middle age. Suddenly we went from no grandsons to one…then five!

Our eldest is now talking about wanting kids someday – my heart leaps with joy, because kids are a blessing, and a joyful journey I want them to experience. For many years he talked of never having kids…I’m so glad he’s changed his mind.

This Nana is grateful everyday for her grandsons. I wish my 4 grandsons with military dads lived closer, but we try and visit as much as we can.

We look forward to the day all these little boys are running around together, growing up together, in this big family the Lord has brought together.

We are cherishing every moment!

Writing has always been a healing thing for me. Catharsis. Peace.

It also helps me work through issues or quandaries I am struggling with.

I keep a journal, although I’m more sporadic than I’d like to be.

I feel I have a lot of wisdom to pass on. I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve learned a lot.

I start to write on these subjects, and I have to stop.

The ground is too tender. The air is too thin.

Bottom line, it’s not time.

There will be a time, though. So I record my thoughts elsewhere. I edit them, and clarify. I keep it factual, even though it is loaded with emotion.

I file it away. For another time.

Soon.

These lessons were hard fought.

They will benefit others.

My son said the saddest thing last week.

Being a new dad, he said “you know, this is the first Father’s Day that will have meaning for me.”

He’s almost 28.

His father made a series of poor choices 25 years ago that led to our divorce. I stayed in a state I hated, far from my family, to facilitate his “liberal visitation” – and he didn’t see his kids. His choice.

From the time the kids were 12, 6, and 2, he had nothing to do with them at all. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Finally after he got married the fourth time, his wife found the kids on social media. They were 22, 16, and 12. A lifetime older.

He blustered in and got a court order for supervised visitation. Spent a weekend with them, and disappeared.

Sporadic visits since. Tens of thousands of felony level child support still owed.

My Dad stepped up years ago and has been a rock to the fatherless kids in the family.

Many other Godly men at churches I have attended have been there to mentor my boys and give them advice.

That’s still not their father.

My eldest son calls me every Father’s Day to thank me for filling both rolls.

I never did, though. I never could.

I’m so proud of my good kids, and the great fathers my two sons with children have already proven to be. Despite having no father, a deadbeat father, and a father that abandoned them, they have stepped up, determined to be there for their children.

I remarried eleven years ago to a great husband, who is becoming Dad to the boys, at their pace.

They’ve been hurt. I’ve made bad choices, too.

But they rose above it.

My grandchildren have great parents. My son in law, also from a fatherless background, is one of the best dads I know.

The cycle can be broken.

Happy Father’s Day to J, J, and N.

You make a mother proud…

And more importantly, your children know their father loves them. In word and deed.

You’ve broken the cycle.

Happy Father’s Day.