Faith

The Space Between: A Farewell to 2022

/ Kayleen Terrell / 1 Comment

Ending the year with COVID is not how I pictured the finish line for 2022. Without a sense of smell and very little taste, I am surrounding myself with the known and steadfast certainties. I know my lavender lotion smells good and it calms me as it absorbs into my skin, even if I can’t smell it right now. I light the candle in our bedroom, because the familiar, fresh scent brings me joy even if I can’t detect its presence.

With the Christmas decorations still up, new toys sprawled out across the house, I found myself the day after Christmas wanting it all down. I was ready for that clean, fresh start feeling you get once all the Christmas decor is put away. Plus, I get my kitchen side table space back again. 

Then, as the week progressed, I fell into a sort of peace with everything still up. Maybe getting sick will do that to you, everything just comes to a halt anyway. I settled upon throwing away the gingerbread houses and recycling Buddy, our elf’s playground that Hadley had made out of cardboard. I left up everything else.

I remembered the sacred space between Christmas and the New Year when all is possible ahead on the horizon and yet being still is permitted. The fresh slate is coming, plans can be made, but there’s consent to relax. No one will fault you for wearing your pajamas until noon and eating chocolate covered gummy bears immediately following breakfast. 

A couple weeks ago after dinner one night, I got the sudden urge to take small videos of how things were around the house. It was a peaceful night with Christmas music playing, decorations up, kids playing and getting along, but with little messes everywhere. Really, it was just our life everywhere and I felt I wanted to somehow capture it and keep it forever. 

 “What are you doing?” Jordan asked me curiously. 

“I feel an overwhelming desire to film our house as it is right now. I want to remember this.” I said as I proceeded to record a small video of the kitchen sink. 

“You know they recommend taking video and pictures of your house and belongings in case it burns down.” he suggested with a teasing grin. 

“I did that as a kid.” I  turned to him, setting the phone down on the kitchen counter.  “I did. I took pictures of all my possessions in my bedroom. I took pictures of all my Beanie Babies.”  I flashed a smile back at him. “But that’s not what this is. I just felt like I wanted to capture things now as they are.” I let out a sigh of nostalgia as I picked up my phone and walked towards the entryway where our snow boots and pile of wet snow clothes sat.

I haven’t done much writing this year except little snippets of ideas or things I want to remember or could perhaps use later for some great masterpiece essay. Some years are like that, a collection of memories not yet formed into a finished product, but a necessary part of the process. 

I wrote a few ideas on what I like to call, “the space between.” It was what I was trying to capture when I recorded videos of my home, it’s what I feel between Christmas and New Years. It’s the feeling of the unknown paired with what is certain. The space between has defined the most memorable moments of this past year, because perhaps that is where subtly, the most occurs. 

My favorite memory of 2022 is on the Gamble Sands putting course at sunset with Jordan. We witnessed the transition from the end of the day to the beginning of night.  With the Cascade mountains and Columbia river as a backdrop, we putted and laughed along the course as the colors in the sky melted into purple, pink and orange. Following a FaceTime phone call with the kids, who were happily with Nana and Papa, Jordan and I felt the weightless effects of being in a moment of carefree joy and fun. Or, the space between.

When pressing onward and thinking about the year ahead, I plan to look for the moments in the space between. I’ll try to recognize when I’m in that place and take it for what it is. It’s a place to grow and thrive in unison with peace and stillness, a place of transition, a place of creativity and time. 

I know eventually my sense of smell will return. This COVID space between is not as fun as Gamble Sands at sunset, but it’s a space between nevertheless. It’s a time I recognize I am in. In the space between 2022 and 2023, the possibilities are at their peak and contentment with what has been is crucial. 

Here’s to finding the space between in 2023. 

“The space between,

In your heart and mine,

Is the space we’ll fill with time.” 

-Dave Matthews Band 

When Failure is Not an Option

/ Kayleen Terrell / Leave a comment

You know the story.

A family gets their first dog. Initially, having the dog is tough and a lot harder than anyone thought, but then the family goes through some kind of hardship and the dog is there to help them through. 

The family has moments of joy with the puppy. There is music playing in the background with all kinds of cheerful and funny scenes; from giving the puppy a bath to it sneaking a lick off the kid’s ice cream cone. 

There are “cute,” little scenes where the puppy causes mischief. It pees where it shouldn’t, digs up the yard, and tears up the furniture in the house. So funny and adorable, right?!? (Cue exaggerated eye roll). 

There’s that moment where the dad in the family almost gives up the dog and drives it angrily to the pound, but the kids and wife convince him not to. 

You know the story. The family keeps the dog. They live happily ever after. 

This is not that story. 

Before she was Summer, our puppy was identified in her litter as “Miss Orange.” I thought it so fitting that we bring home a puppy with an orange collar to a house with an orange door. It’s like she was meant for us. 

I could go over the details of what happened and someday I will. I could write a book about this summer with Summer and it would certainly be entertaining. But to make a long story short for now and to get to the point, let’s just say that Jordan and I came to the decision that having a dog (specifically a puppy) was not the right fit for our family at this time. 

Hadley is the dog lover in the family. She’s the one that wants to be a vet, dog walker, dog trainer etc. She really is the one Jordan and I got Summer for. We thought that would be enough of a reason to trudge on when things got really difficult. Turns out, it wasn’t enough.  Turns out that while Hadley did have a puppy, she also had a mom who felt stressed, angry, tired, and was suffering from emotional breakdowns. She had a dad who didn’t look forward to coming home from a long day at work and having to take care of the dog. 

There was immense relief when we made the decision to take Summer back to the breeder to find her a new home.  Both Jordan and I felt a weight lift off us. We all shed tears, an outrageous amount of tears for a puppy that caused so much chaos in our lives. Even John, who insisted the whole time we had Summer that he didn’t like her, cried much more than we anticipated after she was gone. Jordan and I are confident we made the right decision and did what was best for our family, but there is that small part of me that still hears a whisper saying, “You failed. You couldn’t do it for your daughter. You failed her.”

This is not the first time failure loomed its ugly head into my life as a mom.

>>>

I don’t remember breastfeeding Hadley for the first time. I don’t remember the last time either, but I remember some of the times in between.

One time in particular, around nine months of age, as Hadley was getting to know her newly sprouted teeth and human bite force, she bit me. Hard. 

I screamed in panic and pain. Hadley’s jaw immediately unclenched, letting my nipple free from her toothy grasp. She recoiled in horror and curved her lips down into a deep frown. With a wrinkled chin and her eyebrows scrunched, she let out a wail of regret. 

I tried again to breastfeed after the crying had stopped. I sat back down with Hadley and tried to get her back in position. She turned her head away so fiercely and with such utter disgust, I thought she’d never look at me the same again. She refused me. 

I couldn’t even get her near my breast without her starting to whimper and pull away with Hulk-like strength. I thought we might be done breastfeeding at that point. 

“Okay, well we got nine solid months in.” I said to myself. “Nine months with no biting and no tears.” Then, I did get bit, screamed horrifically, and traumatized my daughter beyond repair. “Maybe we call it. Maybe that’s it for breastfeeding.” 

I looked down at Hadley who had cried herself to sleep, exhausted and laying against me with her chin tucked down and eyelids closed. I noticed her wispy brown hair had started to fill in on more parts of her head. Another thing about her that was changing. The change was constant. 

“No.” I said firmly. “I’m not done. We are not done breastfeeding.” I nodded at her as if this would convince her, and myself.  

I called the lactation nurse and I’m glad I did because she said, “Just keep trying. Don’t give up. She’ll come back around.” 

I was pretty sure I had traumatized Hadley to the point of no return, but she did eventually come back to nursing. It took 24-48 hours, I don’t recall completely. But I kept trying. I didn’t give up on her or myself.  I did it. We got back in sync. I am so grateful we did because I was able to breastfeed Hadley for the first two years of her life and those were very precious moments to me. 

If I hadn’t continued to try to breastfeed, would that have been failure? 

No. It wouldn’t have been a failure. However,  breastfeeding Hadley was important enough to me that I refused to quit. I wanted it to end on my terms and I wasn’t ready for it to end.  Granted, it was only a couple days before Hadley was back to breastfeeding, but a trial can be any length of time, it doesn’t have to be weeks on end in order for it to have significance. 

>>>

Summer bit me too. I had bites and scratches all up my arms and mainly my left hand. But Summer is not my daughter. There was no connection, no innate desire to continue to provide or care for her like the desire I have for my children. I knew this puppy phase would not last forever, and yet, I didn’t feel the strong pull to keep working at it or push through like I did with breastfeeding. 

Summer did bring us some small amounts of joy. For example: her excitement in the morning when she’d see us, taking her for walks, petting her, and feeling her soft ears. The way she would follow the “sit,” command and look up at you with those adorable puppy eyes. Although Jordan still  insists she had “dead eyes.” 

You could get a puppy hug anytime you wanted with Summer around, until she started biting you which was about three seconds into the hug. She also was super cute. However, there comes a time when the puppy being cute, is simply not enough. 

We could have done it. We could have kept Summer knowing the hardest parts might end eventually. I could have lived as a stressed, exhausted, short-tempered mother, but I chose not to. I chose to live my life with more purpose than just “getting through a tough phase”. 

This whole ordeal got me thinking about the hard decisions we have to make as parents. Initially, I felt that in giving Summer back to the breeder, I was giving up on Hadley. That I had somehow failed her. But the more I’ve had time to process, the more I realize that is not so. In finding Summer a new home, I chose to not give up on Hadley. I chose her. Just like when I made the choice to keep trying to breastfeed. I chose to be the mom I want to be. It wasn’t a failure. It was a learning experience to be sure, that I know one thing from and that is:

 I will always choose my daughter.

I will always choose my family. Over anything. Sometimes this means to not give up and keep trying, like in the breastfeeding strike of 2014. Sometimes this means knowing when to quit, when to make the change, when to do the hard thing. 

I still get sad when I see a puppy. I look at Hadley and wonder what she’s feeling and if she feels sad too. When I see an adult golden retriever, I often think, “ I wonder if that’s what Summer will look like?”

I see other moms doing it. They have the dog, the kids, everything. It’s as if they are on a whole other level, which I can only dream of ever attaining. I still feel a sense of failure lurking near me, like that spider who sits in that super hard spot on the wall making it almost impossible to kill. But I kill it. I squash that thought as best I can. Even if I have to slam the shoe ten times, just to make sure I got it. 

As a mom, failure is a constant threat. This is something I am working on. Because, turns out, I fail all the time. Thank the Lord for his grace and mercy because I can’t be the perfect mom, even in this season of being a SAHM (stay-at-home mom). There is a reason my blog reads, “motherhood requires grace,” because it does. 

You know the story. 

The family gives up the dog and finds it a new home. The family lives happily together without the dog but instead with one another, knowing they picked sanity over the stressful, chaos that would maybe, one day subside (but maybe not). They chose not to wait for that day, they chose their story, now. 

You know the story, or maybe you don’t. But either way, it’s ours.

The Ultimate Act of Bravery

/ Kayleen Terrell / 2 Comments

We didn’t even know she was on the swing. It wasn’t until she made the walk from the tree swing up the stairs to the top of the deck and burst into tears, that we learned she had fallen off of it. She held in the pain and emotion the  whole walk up to us. It was only when she saw us that she quickly sputtered out the words, “Mom, Dad, I fell off the swing. I hurt my back and my wrist!” Hadley’s face reddened, lips quivered, and huge crocodile tears filled her sweet eyes as soon as she knew she had reached the safe place with us where we could help. 

Jordan scooped her up and held her on the outdoor couch. I immediately wanted to see her wrist and get some ice. Her little brother John, along the same lines as me, wanted to “take action,” and brought her blankets for her to hold. 

It made me grateful for my daughter. Her bravery, her vulnerability, and how she was surrounded by people who love her more than anything. 

I was five months pregnant with Hadley and teaching second grade, when an excited student ran up to the front of the classroom to tell me something at the end of the day. “Mrs. Terrell, Mrs. Terrell!” Right before she reached me, she tripped and fell right into my stomach. Hard.  

Panic rushed over me and my eyes widened but I quickly assured her, “it’s okay!” Although I wasn’t sure that it was. How hard of a hit is too hard on a pregnant belly? Had the baby felt anything? Should I go to the doctor?  I didn’t have much time to think about it because dismissal had come. I hurried kids to their buses and the parent pick-up area. 

I felt the tears stinging my eyes as I quickly rushed back to the safety and solitude of my after-school classroom. “Not at work, not at work. I will not cry at work.” I repeated to myself. Weakly, I forced myself to smile as I walked by parents, coworkers, other teachers hoping they wouldn’t notice. I was scared something was wrong and that the baby got hurt. I was also fearful that this may seem irrational or silly to some people, so I wanted to just be alone. 

Once I made it back to my room, I allowed the tears to come. One coworker had followed me back and came after me. “Kayleen, are you okay? I saw you walking back to your room. You looked upset.”

I had tried to walk bravely, to save face, but she knew. She noticed the facade. I was only trying to be brave to save face but I did not truly feel courageous.  Not only had my coworker noticed, but she then turned around, followed me back and spoke words of comfort and gave an encouraging hug. I hadn’t walked as bravely back to my classroom as I had wanted, although I tried. But my coworker did. She bravely turned around knowing all was not well, and came to check on me. 

After a call to my doctor and an explanation of the situation, all was okay. I didn’t need to come into the office. Hadley was born four months later, healthy as could be. Then almost seven years after that, she made that brave walk up to our deck and into our arms. 

Walking brave can look different for each person. Hadley walked to get to a safe place where she knew she’d be taken care of and loved. My coworker walked bravely following a hunch that I wasn’t okay and came to see me. Even though I couldn’t keep the tears away or keep a poker face down the school hall, I had walked bravely too or at least tried to. Walking brave doesn’t mean you don’t show emotion, but maybe it’s more about finding that place you can be vulnerable and let it out. Even if that place is simply inside you.

My Dad recently wrote regarding a writing prompt on bravery no less, about his battle with depression. He said, “Perhaps the most courageous thing I’ve ever done was come to face to face with my depression.” Although he had equated bravery with heroism, noting his ideal image of bravery was his father, my grandfather, who fought in WWII. However, he then came to the realization that bravery can take many forms and is experienced or traveled through varying ways in a person’s life. And while my grandfather had exuded bravery at what seems like it’s finest, and the men and women who daily put themselves on the line to protect our country are indeed courageous, what makes someone else’s battle or overcoming fear less so? 

I started reading The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis, to Hadley. I had found the book rummaging through a box of books in the garage and remembered how much I loved the story. I got excited to reread it and thought Hadley might like the story too. 

I remember the part where Aslan, the mighty lion walks bravely knowing he must die and sacrifice himself to save Edmund and ultimately everyone else. Parallels have been drawn between Aslan and Jesus. Jesus walked bravely to his death. He absolutely showed emotion. He showed vulnerability. Arguable, his walk to the cross was the ultimate example of “walking brave.”

I’ve thought a lot about how we’ve had to walk bravely these past several months. How brave Hadley has been embracing distance learning, not seeing her friends as often, not experiencing the typical back to school excitement. How I’ve tried to walk bravely for my kids and family, even though I face fears and anxiety planted by the uncertainty of the times we are in. 

I find a deep sense of relief and praise in knowing that Jesus was and is brave, and that is one less thing that I have to strive for or yearn to be. Because He is, I am.  

John will be the first to admit, more admittedly so at bedtime, “I am not brave.” 

He says this because he wants to sleep in our bed with us. Even after he is surrounded by stuffed animals, his blankie, and hallway light, he tells us,” I am not brave,” because we try to tell him he is. The other night, Jordan was having the same conversation with him that we tend to have most nights convincing him of his bravery. “Captain America is right here, Iron Man is right here…” Jordan lifts up each super hero stuffie and places them next to John. “Mom and Dad are right here, just in our room. Hadley is right here.”

“Jesus is right here.” John says pointing up to the ceiling. 

I think about the other times in our kids’ lives that they’ll need to be brave. C.S. Lewis said that, “Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point.” Hadley and John will have many testing points and many opportunities to walk bravely. I hope they will come to learn they can lean on Jesus in uncertainty. What was the testing point of God’s love? When Jesus died on the cross for us, the ultimate act of bravery.