Dear Les,

You’re 40.  40.  40.  (I can’t type with echoing effect, but that was meant to echo in your head as it settled in your brain that yes, indeed, you are 40).

And to think we used to dissolve in a puddle of disbelieving giggles when the show Thirtysomething would come on.  We’d look at each other and exclaim, “30!  That’s so old!”  Well, dear sister, according to that logic, you must be ancient.

Except that you’re totally not.  Except maybe in the wise advice you give me because sometimes your advice seems to channel a very wise old being inside of you because surely someone as young as you could not possibly be so wise!  (Yet you are.)

Other than that (and the few gray hairs I lovingly pointed out to you a few weeks ago), you don’t seem a day over 16 (or 20 or 25 or whatever your magic age was) cause you’re still my sister.  And I still adore you.  And I still want to be just like you when I grow up.

I remember being little and thinking that if there was one thing in the world I wanted to be it was a big sister.  Not so much because I’d really thought it through and thought about what all that might entail.  Like having a shadow follow me around day and night.  Or having someone beg to borrow my clothes or fix my hair.  Or having someone in my life that I’d have to drive around til she could get her own license.  I definitely didn’t think about having to share a phone or shampoo with a younger person.  I surely didn’t think about having someone younger than me make silly mistakes and having to try to save her from herself on many a near occasion.   And good gracious, I never considered the prospect of having a younger sibling only for it to turn out to be (gasp) a boy!  Nope, none of those things crossed my mind.  I just wanted to be a big sister because you made the job look so cool.

You shared your toys.  You shared your friends.  You shared the phone.  You shared your car.  You shared advice.  You shared your life.  You invited me in and held me close.  For all those years.  For all these years.

Our relationship evolved over time.  We were always friends.  Best friends.  There’s hardly a memory in my mind that doesn’t involve you.  But life changes and sometimes life changes people.  Yet our relationship, though changed, has only gotten better.

You got married.  And still you kept me close.

You had a baby and you lost a baby.  And you held me closer still.  You let me share in your grief.  Your pain was my pain.  Your emotions have always been my emotions.

I got married and you stood beside me.  You sang joy when I sang joy.

I had a baby and you were there, welcoming him into the world, sharing my moment.

Then we journeyed the path of pregnancy together.  What joy to have you beside me, wailing about morning sickness together, giggling over round belly bumps together, delighting to feel life inside of ourselves together.  We brought babies into this world 7 weeks apart and we journey that trail together every day.  We share our triumphs, our struggles, our joys, our frustrations.  There is no one I’d rather share it with.

But I still haven’t shared with you my 40 reasons.  My 40 reasons why I LOVE the chance to celebrate YOU on this special day…

1.  You rock the words “big sister”.
2. You listen.
3. You have incredible hair.
4. You make delicious cupcakes.
5. You always know just the right thing to say.
6. You treat my kids as if they’re your own.
7. You ask me how my day has been and really want to know.
8. You drove an electric blue car and looked cute doing it.
9. You get me.
10. You always invited me to tag along with you and your friends.
11. You watched Anne of Green Gables with me millions of times but told me our life wasn’t complete unless we read the books, too (you were right).
12. You shared your Barbie house with the elevator with me.
13. You logically convinced me that I needed to push the wagon while you sat all comfy so you could steer.
14. You invited me to stay at your apartment time after time after time during my college years.
15. You made wedding favors with me without a single complaint.
16. You respect my fears.
17. You encouraged me to put my arms up when we went down the big hills on the roller coasters.
18. You never told on me when I ate more mini-candy bars out of Grandma’s candy bar stash than I was supposed to.
19. You convinced me (or did I convince you?) that duct taping my bra cups to myself for prom was a good idea (which, in theory, it was…nothing popped out that night; the removal, however, well, that was a painful story).  And you were kind enough to help me rip it off after.
20. You call me just to hear my voice (you know I do the same thing, too, right?)
21. You support me no matter what insane idea I come up with (or what dorky outfit I wear).
22. You didn’t hold a grudge for long when I shut the trunk on your head (I promise it was an accident…like a natural reflex).
23. You shared Marley with me.
24. You visit us even though the humidity makes you want to scream.
25. You aren’t afraid to get out in the Texas heat and work up a sweat while we get the kids out in nature.
26. You are willing to drive 4 hours just to surprise my kid on his birthday.
27. You like my cooking.
28. You knew me before I was wife, before I was mother.  That makes it feel a bit like we knew each other in another lifetime.
29. You are privy to my secrets which essentially means you are my secret keeper.
30. You actually chose to hang out with me when you could have been doing way more exciting things.  All throughout your life.
31. You were the shoulder I cried on.  Whether it was when I fell off my bike or fell in a trash can (oh wait, I think I only cried then because we laughed so hard) or got my heart broken, you were there.  To listen.  To hug me.  To be my friend.
32. You strapped me to the back of your bike in the days before you had a car so that I could tag along with you (now that’s love).
33. You snuggled with me when I was little and we were at Grandma’s and I was scared.
34. You climbed in my crib with me when I was a baby to comfort me when I cried.
35. You infuse my life with hope, reason, and gratitude when I feel down.
36. You are incredibly fashionable (and extremely forgiving that I am not).
37. You encourage me.
38. You talk reason when I talk crazy.
39. You like pink.  And purple.  And boots.
40. You make me want to be a better person.

I’d like to think that your life was empty for the 4 years before I arrived, but the truth is, my life would be empty without a sister like you…”I thank my God always when I remember you in my prayers.”  Philemon 1:4

I love you,

Stace

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I am an addict.  I’m addicted to the finer things in life…books, chocolate, pretty journals, puzzles. 

I inherited my puzzle addiction from Mom.  Few things from my teen years stand out clearly in my mind but puzzles on the dining room table?  Those mark the years for me. 

Mom would open up a new puzzle and spread the pieces out on the dining room table. It was an ideal place for a puzzle as the puzzle only took up a small space (our dining room table could easily have been considered for The Last Supper) on a table we only occasionally used (we had both a kitchen and dining room table) so we didn’t have to move it at the end of the day. The dining room table was always in the center of the house, a passing point for wherever I was going or wherever I’d been (and I have never been able to pass by a puzzle without trying to put in at least one piece). 

The puzzle just sat, inviting each of us to join in.   Friends would come over and pitch in.  It was a meeting point that allowed us to chat with Mom without feeling the pressure of a formal conversation.  Talk was easy, the puzzle was challenging. It’s not easy being a teen.  Somehow the symbolism of the puzzle made life seem less confusing.  As if all the things I was working out in my head just needed to be twisted and turned until it all fit just right.  Having a place to sit and chat made life feel less stressful.  Sometimes just being present with one another, even if in silence, made the world seem just right…even if only for a moment.

I remember one Christmas Mom and Dad rented a cabin in Burnet for us all to meet at.  Bet you can’t guess what was set up in the middle of the room?  A puzzle, of course.  And we all sat around it, jostling pieces from side to side, chatting, laughing, sometimes just enjoying the silence of the company around us.  It’s not the cabin I remember.  Or the delicious food served.  Or even the presents waiting under the tree that I remember.  It’s that puzzle.  And the time we all spent in front of it. 

I want to breed that some atmosphere in my house, so the dining room table is now home to a puzzle.  Let’s hope the boys get sucked in just as I did.

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Homeschooling can sometimes feel a bit lonely.  While surrounded by bright little minds all day long, with never a lack for conversation, I’m clearly not pining away for human contact.  No, I’m talking about lonely in a bigger sense.  There’s a big world out there and going against contemporary culture can easily leave one feeling lonely and like an outcast.

Add to that the idea to school according to Charlotte Mason’s principles and the world gets a bit lonelier mostly because people don’t understand what you’re doing.  They can’t fathom why you are obsessing about living books (what’s wrong with the latest contemporary fad in twaddle-like reading, they wonder) or habit training (aww, let up on them a little, they implore) or nature study (isn’t it a bit hot to send your kids outside in this deep Texas heat, they question).  They don’t understand that your home is a domestic church where contemporary culture attacks on all fronts.  They don’t understand that it’s not just about the hours of official schooling that matter because, as you know, Education is an Atmosphere, a Discipline, a Life.  But they don’t know that.  So it’s lonely because, despite the conviction in your heart, you’re on a road less traveled.

Until that blessed moment when you manage to find a person who is like-minded.  Then suddenly your little corner of the world brightens and the road doesn’t seem nearly so lonely.  Now you’ve got support.  Encouragement.  Accountability.  Understanding.

I consider myself incredibly blessed.  While toeing the line between the world of contemporary culture and a CM inspired culture, and trying to find a balance, I have always had my sister, Leslie, my sister-in-law, Jessica, and a dear friend, Lori, close by who all homeschool and are undeniably supportive.  Their children are the threads that are woven into my children’s memories.  They encourage me, understand me and support me.  They boost me up when I need it and their words are a healing salve on the days when this journey of mine feels impossible.

But one can never have enough support.  Especially when traveling a lonely road.

Back in June I was blessed, again, and in abundance, with finding not just one local Charlotte Mason homeschooling family but a whole group of them.  How incredibly lucky was that?  I imagine luck had nothing to do with it.  It was more of an answered prayer.

I joined the group’s Mom’s Study Group that meets once a month (we’re using Brandy Vencel’s Start Here CM guide).  I don’t even know how to describe the amazing group of women that I have the privilege to meet with and learn from every month.  This is a group of homeschooling moms who aren’t just satisfied with good enough.  Following CM is a bit of a challenge for anyone…it involves a whole lot of self-evaluation especially in habit training (it’s hard to train a little person in good habits until you look in the mirror and see where some of those bad habits are forming).  I love that these women keep it real and they are all open to learning and growing.  I love that I have someone to be accountable to.  I love that I have a whole group of moms who understand the trials and tribulations of the road less traveled.  I’m lucky to get to grow along with them. 

Then during our first week of school, we joined up with the CM group at the park for a book club discussion on the book Babe: The Gallant Pig (which the boys seriously loved!) and then had a grand time playing at the park.

Joey came home inspired by the book and made a Tangram lesson to share with the other kids.

I came home, inspired not by the women this time, but by the children.  These were children immersed in the same culture my children are, so there was a connection.  An understanding.  Like looking in the mirror.  They don’t know it yet, as my kids are still so little, but one day in the future, they may feel the sting of social nonacceptance and if that day ever comes, I want them to feel the weight of an army of like-minded people standing at their side.  They need to be surrounded by other kids who march to the beat of their own drums.  Who read classic stories and find pleasure in doing so.  Who can quote Shakespeare because it’s beautiful not because they were forced to memorize it.  Who can identify the lark of a bird.  Who can sit quietly and draw the beauty that God has set before them.  Who can understand that their education is not just about the books, but it’s about the Atmosphere, the Discipline, the Life.     

This fall, we managed to snag a spot in the group’s co-op.  We attended our first meeting last week.  Success in our house is not measured by grades or test results, but rather by the sheer enjoyment and attainment of knowledge.  Joey and William have not stopped talking about the co-op.  The beauty of the Mona Lisa.  The delightful idea that Mozart was 8 when he composed his 1st symphony.  The thrill of reciting lines from Hamlet with other Shakespeare lovers.  The experience of sitting with friends to draw their found objects in nature.  The opportunity they had to relish the beauty.  To observe the details.  To listen attentively with patience and respect.  Success is a beautiful thing.  I’m so grateful that we have an entire community of like-minded people to experience it with.              Just when I thought my cup could not possibly get any fuller, our CM leader arranged for a world-renowned Charlotte Mason expert to give a series of lectures to our group about Miss Mason and her educational theories and practices.  Dr. Benjamin Bernier is an enlightening speaker who clearly knows his subject well.  I loved the inside look into Charlotte Mason and the times in which she lived. Dr. Bernier was kind enough to allow us to peek through his personal collection of Charlotte Mason books.  To say I was inspired is a bit of an understatement. 

Dr. Bernier shared a personal letter of Charlotte Mason’s with us and while inspired by the entire letter, I was mesmerized by this particular quote that she shared from her friend Mr. Huston, “Choose no friends but those whose society you would like to enjoy through Eternity.”  I am thankful to be surrounded by so many people, old friends and new, whose society I would thoroughly enjoy through Eternity. 

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I used to be a good traveler.  At least as far as the actual flying went.  I would get on the plane, find my seat and then I’d buckle up and relax.  I’d grab my book and immerse myself in a good story.  With the plane high above the Earth, soaring through the clouds, I’d often close my eyes and doze off.  For a natural born worrier, it was nice to have a few hours worry-free.

It seems almost ironic that something so big could give me relief from a life of worry.  The plane could crash at any moment.  Terrorists could be on board.  The pilot could have a heart attack.  But none of those things registered in my mind because THEY WERE OUT OF MY CONTROL.  Once I stepped foot on that plane, there wasn’t anything I could control anymore.  I was at the mercy of the pilot, the weather, God, whatever being was, at that point, greater than me.  I relaxed and let go.

Parenting isn’t so easy.

Often, I offer up a prayer to God and then just as quickly, I snatch it back.  Surely, I, as a mother, need to help God out.  God often humors me, allowing me to rest in the illusion that I have some control over the fate of my children.  But more often than not, God gently reminds me that it’s in His control.  Not mine.  His children.  Not mine.  His divine plan.  Certainly not mine.

Six years ago, William had a cyst on his eye that had to be removed.  The surgery itself was no big deal but, because of his age, it required general anesthesia.  I fretted.  I prayed for the cyst to just disappear.  I worried.  God gently led me through that experience and He was kind enough (as He always is) to offer his unending support, a fatherly embrace to fall into when it felt overwhelming.  And I clung.  Until I could offer prayers of thanksgiving after the surgery, I clung to the reality that God has a will and it is not within my mothering powers to always be in control.

It’s easy to forget that reality.

Now fast forward 6 years.  After discovering a bit of an abnormality with William’s, ahem, boy parts, Dax took him into the ER one Saturday afternoon.  I didn’t worry (okay, I worried a little).  I tried my best to let God handle this one.  I prayed.  After 4 hours of waiting and testing and waiting some more, they returned home.  He had an inguinal hernia with a hydrocele which would need to be repaired and drained.

So now 6 years after his first surgery (to the exact day), William was going to have surgery again.  Again, it was a minor surgery, but the thought of general anesthesia is enough to make any parent panic.  Plus this surgery presented quite a few more possible complications than his last one did.

After two weeks of setting up appointments, visiting with the surgeon and answering the millions of questions my naturally curious children have, I thought we were ready for the surgery.  By this point, I remembered my reality and I wasn’t worried.  I knew if I tried hard enough, I could find something to worry about.  But then I remembered flying and letting go and how good it felt to just let God handle it.  So that’s what I did.

There’s a plan for each of our lives and while it may not always feel easy or right, it’s His plan.  He’s the great author and the story is always so much nicer when we allow the author unrestricted access to the storyline.

William, on the other hand, is just beginning down the long, paved path of worry.  His mind works overtime trying to explain everything that happens and the reason for it.  His heart wants to trust, but his mind wants to understand.

He spent the days playing and the nights worrying.  He worried about the possible complications.  He worried about the recovery process.  He worried about how he got it.  He worried about whether he’d get it again.  You name it, he worried about it.

The week before his surgery, William requested a visit to confession and a blessing from the priest.  He received both.  His worries lessened.

The day before September 1st, William was nervous, though.  So very nervous.  He was worried.  I reminded him that if he wanted peace, there was only one place to go…straight to the Prince of Peace.  He mulled it over and quietly asked to be taken to Adoration to visit our Lord.  He knelt down and quietly prayed, “Dear Jesus, please guide me to have no worries and no complications.  Please bless the doctors’ hands.  Help me to give it all to You, Jesus.  Amen.”  And he was filled with peace.  No more worries.  No more anxiety.  We returned home, peaceful, in anticipation of the next day.

That night he asked for his prayer blanket that he had taken into surgery with him 6 years before.  I had told him he could take something else soft with him to surgery if he’d like, but he replied that what he really wanted to take wasn’t soft.  I asked what it was that he wanted to take.  “My rosary,” he replied.  Granny offered to sew a pocket onto his blanket and we found a plastic rosary to put inside.  He was ready.

Thursday morning came early.  William woke up at the touch of my hand, quickly crawling out of bed, eager to get dressed and be on his way.  We arrived at day surgery and were quickly processed and put in a room.  William changed into his gown and snuggled under his prayer blanket.  Chipper, alert and peaceful.  I took my cue from him.  He was peaceful so I was peaceful.  He was trusting so I was trusting.  He was relaxed so I was relaxed.

They wheeled him over to the holding area where he was given his happy medicine and we visited with the anesthesiologist.  For a minute, as I listened to Dr. Velleman explain the anesthesiology procedure, doubt began to nibble away its way in.  Then William pulled out his rosary to show Dr. Velleman and Dr. Velleman, in return, showed William his 4-Way Cross that was hidden beneath his shirt.  An inspired moment.  My fears faded away.

William’s doctor came in after that. William had written a note to Dr. Cruz-Diaz the night before explaining to him that if he noticed William’s two missing teeth, he should not worry.  William was convinced that Dr. Cruz-Diaz would assume he knocked them out and they’d be frantically searching the OR trying to find them.  I handed Dr. Cruz-Diaz the letter and in his typical humor, he read it very seriously, making a show to the OR nurses surrounding him that they should all be aware of the tooth situation.  William giggled.  My heart smiled.

And then, just like that, it was time.  As I gave him a kiss, I let go.  This wasn’t my deal anymore.  From this point on, it was just like being on an airplane again.  It was out of my control.  Lucky for me, I personally know the man in charge up there and I was more than willing to let go of the control I so naturally crave (I am human to an embarrassing degree).

Surgery went fine.  Hydrocele is drained.  Hernia is repaired.  Recovery is happening day by day.  I can’t predict the future.  Maybe there will be complications. Maybe there will be other surgeries, more serious ones.  Maybe there won’t.  Either way, I’m ready to surrender.  Turns out flying is good for my soul.

*An important note: It helped tremendously (with both this surgery and his last) to have an amazing team at Driscoll Children’s Hospital, from the check-in receptionist to the nurses (both the nurses in the OR and the recovery room) to the doctors, at our side, guiding us through the entire ordeal.  The team of OR nurses were both kind and considerate, and patient enough to answer my few remaining questions.  Dr. Velleman was soft-spoken and reassuring as he explained the entire process, his faith shining through in his regard for the patient as an individual.  Dr. Cruz-Diaz had an amazing bedside manner, joking with William, which instantly put him at ease.  He was patient and thorough in his explanation and consultation after the surgery, with a respect for privacy.  Many of the doctors came straight into the waiting room and explained the surgery in front of whoever was waiting there…I appreciated that Dr. Cruz-Diaz made use of the Patient-Surgeon Consultation Room.  William’s Recovery Room nurse, Mindy, was amazing!  She was kind and compassionate and so cheerful.  She went out of her way to be sure William was comfortable and well taken care of.  Her smile lit up the room and made William feel special.  No hospital procedure is successful without a team of compassionate caregivers and, lucky for us, ours was bursting with compassion!

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