The Bumper Sticker

It's just before 7 a.m. and I am driving to work.  The sun is peaking from behind the mountains.  My car stops behind a pick up truck at the intersection.  I wait to turn right.  I am third in line.

I read the bumper sticker on the back of the the tailgate -"Defeat DIPG".  It takes but a moment to realize I am behind my neighbor. 

How many people have followed behind him unaware of the meaning behind the bumper sticker?  How many have thought it was nothing more than a $1 purchase slapped onto the back of a tailgate?

Maybe it cost a dollar, but the adhesive in which it sticks to the tailgate came at the cost of his 6 1/2 year old daughter.  A bright, beautiful light snuffed out by an incurable and cruel disease.

It wasn't just a bumper sticker.
It was a proclamation of the wounds he bore.

I think about the wound losing a child brings.  A pain so sharp, the wound is that of a bleeding gash in which you do everything to stop the bleeding.  Eventually, slowly, the wound begins to heal.  The pain shows itself as a cut.  Yet a single word, a smell, a memory opens  the wound wide and once again all energy is devoted to stop the bleeding.

Those are the dark days.  The days you wonder if you'll ever see a sunrise again.

I glance to my left at the mountains and the still rising sun.  The sky is alive with color.

There were many days I had wondered if the sun was rising.
It was. I just couldn't see it.
The wounds from those days are scars now; never gone but a very near reminder. 

Not a single one of us doesn't have a cut in need of healing.  
Maybe it's a wound bleeding uncontrollably.
Maybe it's a scar.

But it's there.

You know what else is there?  The sunrise.
There may be days the clouds are so thick, you can't see it.
But it's there.

It just may be tomorrow before you can see the colors the sunrise brings.

Football Whistles

Despite the euphoria from running my trail race the week before, my motivation to get out and run was non-existent.  I drove to town, parked the car and began running the streets of my hometown.

The miles took me past my old high school.  A Saturday morning and the parking lot was filled with cars.  The familiar sound of a football whistle filled the air and tumbled me back into old memories.  Suddenly my boys were in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades and I was the cheering mom running up and down the sidelines with each play. 

The days of fundraisers, practices and football board meetings were no longer a whisper of yester-years but as real as the moment I was in.  I remember the parents I still call friends and the football coaches who taught our boys how to push harder.  I witnessed grown men pour love into all those boys and I watched those very boys grow stronger.  I remember chain gangs, bear crawls and constant encouragement from the parents and the coaches.

I don't remember the last whistle.
I walked off the sideline and didn't know football was finished in our home.  My boys didn't want to play anymore, and we supported them.

It is by God's grace sometimes that we don't know the lasts.  With my youngest becoming a senior this year, I've pondered "the lasts" a lot these last few days.

By God's grace I didn't know the last time I would pick up my boys into my arms.
By God's grace I didn't know the last time I would tuck them into bed for the night.
By God's grace I didn't know the last time I would read them a nighttime story.
By God's grace I didn't always know the lasts.

And I am so thankful for that.

Looking square in the eyes a year full of lasts, I find myself often these days with a tear or two rolling down my cheek.  Although a parents job is never finished, it sure feels like a big door is closing and sealing itself shut. 

Don't get me wrong, I look forward to the day my summer doesn't end with a school bell ringing or having my vacations dictated by a school calendar.  I look forward to the great big world that awaits my boys and the adventures they choose.  I look forward to the new chapters that await all of us.

But for right now, this mama is thinking about tiny bodies crawling into my lap, kissing the boo-boos away...and football whistles.

You Never Know

A festival brought thousands into my hometown.  The main road through town closed and hot rods of every make and color lined their way up and down the street.  Folks passionate about their cars, and restoring history, showcased their hard work for everyone to see.

My husband Dennis was wiping down our friend Dan's 1949 Chevy pick up truck which he had driven to the festival.  I make my way over to find the guys sitting in the camp chairs, chiding each other like all car guys do.

The band played in the background and played some of my favorite songs.  It was easy to sing along.  Talking with the guys about everything and nothing; Kevin made his way over to say hello.

The talk was light and we talked of his beautiful red 1967 GT 500 Mustang parked with the hood up.  We watched as others admired his car.

"It's been 3 years since I've taken that car out." He tells me.
 "You need to change that.  Toys are meant to be played with." 
I smile.  
He smiles.

"My brother committed suicide 4 months ago."
 
In an instant, we had dove into the deep end of the pool.  Truth be told, he was probably just as surprised at saying it as I was at hearing it.

"Oh Kevin, I am so sorry.  I am so, so sorry."
"Yea.  It's fine.  I'm over it."
"No you're not."
"You're probably right.  I yelled at everyone in the office the other day."
"That's grief," I say.
"My wife said the exact same thing."

He recounts the time leading up to the day his brother took his life.  He shares details, worries; concerns.  I listen. 

"I had no idea he was struggling." He turns and looks at me, "I just didn't know."

"You're a man and you are wired to fix things.  If I could be so bold as to guess, I would guess your biggest struggle with your brother's death is you can't fix it.  You didn't know what led to what he did. Now, because he's gone, you'll never know.  You can't fix it and that difficulty is overwhelming."
He nods.  
He studies the people around us.  "Sometimes you just never know."

"Yea, sometimes you just never know."  I share my own story.  I share losing mom to cancer and dad to a car accident within a year of each other; both at Christmas.  I share how the doctors didn't know what caused dad to lose consciousness and veer off the road.  I share watching them work fervently on dad 48 hours later as his blood pressure dropped once again and they fought to keep him alive.  I share I watched them cry as he succumbed to what they fought so hard against.

"We'll never know why dad lost blood pressure.  The brightest minds couldn't figure it out that day.  Sometimes, you just never know."

He nods in agreement, "Sometimes you just never know."

Our conversation had been a better part of an hour.
"Why don't we go get ourselves some raspberries and ice cream?" I suggest.  

Somehow it just seemed appropriate.  Raspberries were the reason for the festival and Dad always felt better after ice cream.

We eat the ice cream and berries.  Laughter once again fills the conversation.  

The truth is, you never know the day God will use your story and your struggling climb up to the mountain top as a beacon into the valley below.  

You just never know.