We Can Always Come Back To This

I write this not to share sadness, but to share hope. For it is only when we spread the seeds our loved ones left behind that we find life, not lose it.

Last weekend, the kids and I walked through the yard at the farm and stumbled upon some old relics; pieces of the farm in its former glory.  A dilapidated wagon and a broken plow were among the treasures.  I imagined the years of work they each represented, the soil they’d sown, the calloused farmer’s hands that worked them each day, the countless tables holding the fruits of their labor.  I saw what they once were, and how, under many years of rain, snow, and sun, they had endured.  They still stood, another representation of their former selves.

When we lose someone that comprises a large part of our heart, our heart become as broken as the plow in our yard. How do we find who we are again?  How does the sun still rise each morning and the moon still come out each night?  When our world ends, shouldn’t life stop?

When we knew my mom was dying, only the machines granting the rise and fall of her chest, we knew there was only one thing left to do.  We stayed with her.  As she had once been there the minute we began our lives, we would be with her as she left hers for Heaven. Abby and I didn’t look at her face.  It was swollen and was unrecognizable due to total organ failure.

We buried our heads in dad’s chest.  We wanted to remember her in life, beautiful, graceful, joyful, seemingly eternally young.  As we, her closest loved ones surrounded her, we sang to her.  She had sung her entire life.  To her children, to her church, to her dishes as she washed them, and her food as she cooked it.  It was our turn.

To the old rugged Cross, I will ever be true
Its shame and reproach gladly bear
Then He’ll call me some day to my home far away
Where his glory forever I’ll share

So I’ll cherish the old rugged Cross
Till my trophies at last I lay down
I will cling to the old rugged Cross
And exchange it some day for a crown

As we pulled away from the hospital, it felt like we were leaving her behind, venturing into a world we no longer knew.  The following years have been a mixture of sadness, memories swirling, a search for the light in a very dark room.

And, at some point, we find the semblance of a light.  We understand.

We can always return to the same soil.  Dig deep into its grains, establish roots in the ground we’ve cultivated.  We can always come back to this.  If we are going to be alone, let it be with the memory of our loved one, planting new seeds.  As our life continues without them, let those seeds be scattered and shared.  We will never fully heal, but we will always enjoy the new life we grow as a result of our brokenness and our ability to, despite every weather, look up not down

and stand.

We Can Always Come Back To This

So Many Rocks

Yesterday, we spent most of the day at the farm.  While Kelly worked on the house, the kids and I took full advantage of the beautiful weather and ran wild outside.  It was almost fall-like, the leaves crunching under our feet and the cool air swirling around the sun’s rays.  Our never timid Grace took off through her expansive new yard, darting here and there as she ran, too excited to pick one direction in particular.  Several bird houses were placed around the yard, and Grace checked each for “Buds” living there.

Eventually, we sat down in the grass and leaves and let the sun keep us warm. I watched Grace as she searched through the leaves for rocks.  Each time, she would return to me, open my hand and shout, “Rock!”

Rocks have long been Grace’s favorite thing to collect. The pure joy that fills her eyes when she finds a rock is like heaven to witness! This love first began on a camping trip we took in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  On one of the days we were there, we drove to Whitefish Point.  The cool air that came off of the water that day made the hot sun bearable.  The beach was covered in every color and shape of rock, each glistening from the waves rushing over them.

We set Grace down, and she, completely oblivious to the fact she was walking on rocks barefoot, clapped with glee and began her collection.  Kelly and I joined her, showing each other each time we found a keeper.  We spent hours there that day, soaking up both the sun and our daughter’s happiness.  Everything in the world slipped away in those moments except for our little family and those rocks.

As we left, Kelly grabbed Grace, and I grabbed the diaper bag.  It felt like a crate of bricks!  What the heck is in here!?  I peered in its many pockets only to find Grace had stuffed them with countless rocks.  I laughed and saw that she didn’t choose them all based on beauty. Some were plain and grey, but to her, and to Kelly and I, they were beautiful.  I carried that diaper bag of rocks through the sand to the car. Today, those rocks sit on our table in a huge mason jar.  And every time we see them, we smile.

They may seem like rocks to most, but when we see them, we know they represent life’s true treasure.

Abraham Lincoln once said, it is not the years in your life that count.  It is the life in your years.  Today, I not only dream of all of the happy rocks we have collected thus far, I dream of all of the rocks that are to come.

The future holds so much to dream about.  The past has given us the ability to dream.

And in my dreams…

I see so many rocks.

Every 98 Seconds, an American is Sexually Assaulted.

I am one of them.

Guest Post by: Sarah Leitz

What is it about sexual assault that just makes everyone shut down? They either protest that it didn’t happen, that the victim is a liar or they just pretend it doesn’t happen at all – not to them, not to their friends, not by anyone they know.

 

“It’s someone else’s fault!”

“These women have to be lying. He would never do that!”

“Why are they just coming forward now?”

“She just wants attention.”

“What did she expect dressed like that and out drinking?”

“It’s just feminists blaming men again. No way is it this big of a problem.”

It does happen. In fact, it happens A LOT. I’m not the only one who has been through this. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimates up to 3,000,000 women are raped every year and most go unreported. They go unreported, not because it doesn’t happen, but because we blame the victim. Our first inclination is to say it was her fault.

That’s how I felt. If I only wouldn’t have gone on that trip, if I wouldn’t have let my guard down, if he wasn’t my friend, if I would have seen the signs,  if I wouldn’t have worn a bathing suit on a beach…and on and on. It wasn’t until years later that I realized the only person to blame is the guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer and forced himself on me.

Let’s think about this in a different, easier way. Do we blame people for being robbed? Do we say to everyone who is ever robbed “well, I guess you just shouldn’t have had nice stuff. Then no one would want to take it.” If everyone who was ever robbed is told that it’s their fault for having anything of value, do you think robbery reports would go up or down? It’s so much easier to think that if a person would have just done one thing differently they wouldn’t have been hurt. It’s hard to realize how little control we have over other people’s actions and to realize that there are some things we just can’t prevent. Whether it’s fate or providence, sometimes bad things just happen to good people. Sadly, there are many people out there that can, and are allowed to, do horrible things.

To put this into perspective only 6 out of every 1000 perpetrators of sexual violence are ever convicted and go to prison.

.

Compare this to other crimes:

And

 

I have a hard time understanding why so many people don’t see this as a problem. Maybe you can’t understand until it happens to you or someone you know. Men get away with rape and women don’t report it. I was one of those who didn’t report, and I wonder everyday if it would have even made a difference.

Often media and people say that men aren’t convicted because women falsely accuse men, that they are lying, and it didn’t happen that way. However the data contradict this. The small number of women who do come forward and report a rape or tell their story are rarely lying. Sexual assault has the same, or lower false reporting rate than any other crime. Only 2-8% are false claims according to many sources. However so many people are under the impression that HALF (or more) of reported rapes are false.

When women report, most people are first concerned about the damage the accusation will have for a perpetrator, rather than the horror of what the victim went through or the bravery of her coming forward. There are no parades for victims, rarely any monetary gain, and at worst coming forward may result in death and threats of additional rape. Women who accuse celebrities or other prominent men may face intimidation, being black-balled in their careers, and having their private lives dissected in the media. Just look at the nation’s reaction to the women who came forward as victims of sexual assault by our current president.

It is important to acknowledge that rape isn’t just a women’s issue. First, since women aren’t the only ones who suffer from rape. One out of every ten rape victims are men and 93% of those men were raped by other men. Second, men have a responsibility to end rape. That is not to say that all men rape because again that is not what the statistics show us. The majority of men don’t rape and are generally good people; only about 3-6% of men will ever rape. Unfortunately, the majority of perpetrators are repeat offenders.How are so many men ok with standing by while such a small percentage of their ranks are ruining their reputation, are making women everywhere scared of them?

I can give you more statics that you would ever want to know about rape, but why do I care so much about the truth on sexual assault? Doesn’t it make it worse for me? Well, many people who go through traumatic experiences tend to find learning about the subject and volunteering can feel empowering and can help normalize the events that they went through. I’ve spent the last year or so learning and training so I can help those like me. It helped me to understand that I wasn’t alone in my struggle and my silence.

The CDC estimates that 19% of undergraduate women experience attempted or committed sexual assault since entering college. I’m one of those statistics. My senior year of college I was raped by one of my best friends. I was a virgin, saving myself for marriage, and that was taken from me. At first, I could only remember bits and pieces of it. I remember him being on top of me and telling him no over and over again, but not being able to push him off. I was so confused by that, why were my arms betraying me? I didn’t have that much to drink, how did I end up in here with him? I’m stronger than this, surely I can push a drunk guy off of me? But I couldn’t, I was barely there. Barely aware of what was happening. It was like I was floating above myself and watching it happen. He kept saying “Why won’t you let me give it to you?” and it didn’t stop until my roommate walked in.

I couldn’t think about it until days later. As I pulled the details back together, I was numb at first. It was not until after I talked through what happened with my best friend and she helped me put a name to it, rape, that I truly understood what happened. I pieced it together at home before going back to college and my mom could tell something was wrong. I felt so much guilt and shame when I told her. My first thought was that I couldn’t do this to them again. My oldest sister was also raped while in college, and I saw the pain that it caused not only her but our entire family. My mom wouldn’t give up because she knew that something was really wrong. Once I told her, she took me to the hospital.

You have no idea the nightmares that rape exams can cause victims. I understand that it was necessary to get the care I needed, but it was like having my power taken away again. To have to tell your story and be laid bare in front of strangers. To be in an examination room, with your legs spread apart, while nurses are around you, swabbing, taking pictures of the bruises and having you sign a bunch of papers for the pills that they are giving you. As I found out much later, most rape kits don’t find much useful physical evidence, especially if time has passed and if the victim tries to shower/bathe as most want after such an assault. Often the perpetrator argues that it was consensual, so even if semen or hair evidence is found, it fits with the perpetrator’s version of the story. Bruises, tears, and cuts are explained away by rapists as rough, desired sex. Sometimes I wonder if I could have avoided the additional trauma of the rape exam by not going. I can’t keep looking back though, it will drive me crazy to think about the what-ifs.

For years I just didn’t want to think about the rape at all. I wanted to pretend it never happened. I didn’t go to counseling or talk to anyone about it. If I ignored it, I hoped it would go away. Our brains are amazing, and it’s fascinating how your mind can protect itself by shutting down or pushing memories into a deep dark drawer. However, it doesn’t work forever, and over the past few years it’s all come back with a vengeance. I’ve had to go through it all again because I could no longer hide from what happened. Until the past year I have only told about four people outside of my family but today I’m telling anyone who will listen.

You see, I blamed myself for everything. I thought I was damaged, sullied, impure. I was devastated. I drank heavily, eat everything in sight, and stared blankly at the tv; doing almost anything to try to stop feeling. I started hating myself. I couldn’t look in the mirror without being disgusted with what I saw. I felt alone, isolated. When you don’t talk, you can never get the support that you really need. I started crying a lot. I had good months, and I had bad months, but the bad months started to outnumber the good. I smiled and put on a happy face when anyone was around, but it was exhausting. I started planning suicide about three different times. In one particularly low point I even had the pills counted out on the counter, telling myself I just wanted to see what that many pills looked like. I started pushing away my friends and family. I was worried that my sadness would affect their happiness. I felt that they deserved someone better. I thought my husband deserved someone better. Even though he’s been with me the entire time, I started to wish that he would leave me, because he deserved someone who was less damaged, who could be happy and make him happy. I went through a period of almost six full months of being sick constantly.  I realize now that it was my body crying for help. I knew then that I needed to talk to someone who deals with this type of pain. What’s worse than what I went through is knowing that I’m not alone in my experience:

^[1]

After years of repression, I couldn’t stop thinking about my rape. It was taking over my life. I kept thinking that I could have stopped it, that I should have known better, or that I somehow caused this. Not until I put the blame squarely on my rapist’s shoulders did I realize how wrong I was. I’m stronger than I thought, I’m starting to heal, however slowly. I know now that I didn’t do this to myself, I didn’t climb up on top of a severely incapacitated woman and force myself on her while she was saying no. I didn’t choose for this to happen to me, and neither does anyone else. If I felt this way, how many more women are right there with me? How can we let our culture continue to let us, our friends, our sisters, our daughters, our wives, our mothers,  think that WE are the ones responsible?

My entire life I’ve been taught to forgive and that God says “vengeance is mine.” But it’s so much easier said than done. People act like forgiveness is a one-time act, but it’s not. I have to forgive him every time I think about the rape and how it affected my life. I have to forgive him when someone says his name and I feel like I’ve been punched. Forgive him when the pain is so bad it’s hard to get out of bed. Forgive him for raping me, forgive my friends who should have known for doing nothing and most importantly – forgive myself. I forgive for me. Not to absolve him of his guilt, but to let me move on with my life and to hopefully help others.

I have to believe that if we all could truly understand the pain that rape and sexual assault causes to the victim, their family, and their friends, that maybe we could work together to put an end to this epidemic. Maybe we could stop blaming the victim, and maybe it wouldn’t have to just be women’s voices joining together to stop this. Maybe we could all join together. This isn’t just a women’s issue. It’s men’s issue. It is a human issue. There are so many good men out there. How can anyone sit by and let 3% of the male population ruin so many lives? To let 3% of the population make the majority of women live in fear, to feel unsafe when they are walking to their car, living alone, wearing a short skirt or at a bar having a drink is ridiculous. How do we still have a culture that continues to see women as objects and something to be dominated? That perpetuates and often celebrates this type of behavior? How are we arguing that this is an issue? There are societies where rape isn’t a major concern. So we know that rape isn’t in men’s nature, and it’s degrading to say so. This can be stopped.

Leaders stand up when then see something is wrong, and I’m tired of sitting and being silent. I hope ending my silence will in some way help. I don’t want this to happen to anyone else. So please, be a leader and stand up with me.

^[1] https://www.rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence

Choosing Joy

When I first began to write my blog, one of my main goals was to be a shoulder, by means of my words, for those traveling through a rough season in life. Cancer, the loss of a loved one, and many other hardships are a part of life no one is immune to. What I have learned though is that we have the ability to choose joy in both times of happiness and during the storms. What I have also learned is that joy can almost always be found when we slow down and savor each moment. It is hard for we humans, yes, but believe me, it is worth it!

Many people finally understand how to savor life once they’ve experienced firsthand how fragile it is. Truly and wholly fragile. That cliche saying of live everyday as if it is your last?  It bears great truth.

At an early age, I became a go getter. I sought to be not only good at what I took on, but the best. I joined an organization and quickly wanted to be helping to run it. If I set my sights on a goal, I would accomplish it. Then, my dad received a heart transplant. A new lease on life. Shortly later, my mom died very suddenly. Next came my diagnosis with breast cancer at 24. My definition of success and accomplishment changed.

Success once meant studying 4 hours a day for the LSAT so I could get into the best law school. It meant leading an organization. What we realize when fragility overtakes our lives, is that success is represented by who is in our lives, not what. My resume didn’t guide me through the loss of my mom or surviving cancer. My loved ones did and my ability to choose joy, something that is learned.

When my mom was dying, we sought out the person in charge of organ donation. In those moments of despair, we chose joy.

When I sat hooked up to chemotherapy, I thought not of destruction, but of life. I thought about how thankful I was for science and medicine in those times. I chose joy.

Since then, I’ve slowed down. I’ve chosen joy all the time. It may seem morbid to many, but I think of the end of my life often, whenever that may be. My goals have changed. I think not of what high powered career I had or what organization I ran. I think of what impact I had on people’s lives.  I think of the memories my children will have of me. I have been extremely blessed to be able to stay home with my children, something that isn’t always easy financially, but something that is without a doubt worth it. I chose joy!

When I look back on my lifetime in those last moments, I won’t think of what career move I made that got me to the top. I will think of fishing with my husband the day he proposed to me. I will think of feeling my babies kick inside me. I will think of the days we spent playing at the park or building a fort.  Watching them grow each day into loving people.

Joy. Those are the moments of joy that will bring me Home. Today, may we all seek to slow down and choose joy. Let’s choose joy in both happiness and sadness, times of bliss and times of grief.

Choose joy, and it will choose you.

Darling, You Are My Greatest Adventure

There are many new things happening with our family, new dreams and adventures we are making a reality.  Kelly and I have always been dreamers, but even more importantly, we dream together and work together to make those dreams reality. It is a true joy to work alongside my husband as we embrace life and do so doing things that we love.  We compliment each other well and give each other the energy we both need to succeed. I am excited to take you all with us on our journey!

Today, we accomplished one of our goals for our growing family.  We will be giving our children roots and wings.  WE BOUGHT A FARM!  Kelly and I were both raised in the country where time moves a little more slowly and the beauty of God’s earth is cherished just a little more.  Everything, from the rustling of a wheat field to the picture perfect fishing stream will be Grace and Huck’s to explore.

When we first toured the house, I fell instantly in love.  It wasn’t only the picturesque silo or the charming bright red barn that captured my heart.  When I walked the floors of that old time house with its dark wood trim and exposed brick, I could also hear the laughter and pitter patter of my babies’ feet as they ran through its airy hallways.  I could see serving my family dinner at the big farmhouse table Kelly will be building us (thanks hunny!), playing board games as a family by the fireplace, and gosh almighty…the LIBRARY!

When I looked out the window above the kitchen sink, I could see Grace and Huck running through the yard under its canopy of mature trees, sitting on the white fence watching the sun go down, and coming home absolutely filthy and completely happy.  It makes me reminisce about my mom brushing the burrs out of our hair after a day or evening of running wild!  It also invites happy tears to my eyes that my kids will experience life in all its glory.  We will definitely need railing up in that sweet barn of ours, because what kid could ever resist haylofts?!

I am excited to watch my kids in 4H, gather eggs from our chicken coop, and raise a sweet little calf.  Who knows what other animals I will talk Kelly into!

So, in addition to my posts about life, childhood, and food, I will be sharing our farmhouse renovation journey! #joannagainesismyspiritanimal!!!  In all seriousness though, I am so blessed to have such an amazing craftsman/engineer as my husband because shiplap, farmhouse sink, and refurbished old wood floors here we come!

We are off on another exciting adventure, and Lord am I blessed with have my Kelly, Grace, and Huck with me along the way!

A Love Letter to My Breastmilk Donor (each of them)

“A mastectomy will be sufficient to remove the cancer, but if your test returns as BRCA positive, you will need the other breast removed.”

I was told many times the reality.  My type of breast cancer was so aggressive, we scheduled the mastectomy the day after diagnosis for a week and a half following.  The BRCA test would take another few days to a week past that.

For many, the logical thing would’ve been to perform the double mastectomy.  My wish to breastfeed my children was so strong, that I was willing to take that chance.

I would keep the other breast.  I would face another severe and painful surgery and recovery for that chance, that sliver of hope that I would have that bond with my future children.

I would not give up this dream because of cancer.  It was my way of saying fuck you to that which was trying to kill me.  Even if I tested BRCA positive, at least I tried.  And that was worth it to me.

I remember when they first pulled back the bandage after my surgery.  The large scar was covered my chest like a misshapen C, a reminder always of the big “C” that once lay beneath it.  It was blood red, the stitches holding the sides of my skin together.  My ribs shown through the skin, and I could see my heart beating.

My breast was simply…gone.  I cried silently as I sat in the chair waiting for my dad to pull the car up.  My tears fell down to my chest and stung the incision.  I tried to remember what it had looked like.  I was angry that I had thought it to be so normal.  Now that it was gone, I realized it was not.

The day they called me with my results, I was in a chair at my grandparents recovering from my mastectomy.  I held my breath, although I really felt confident I’d known the truth all along.

I was positive for the BRCA 2 mutation.  I heard the nurses voice faintly, “You have an overall 89% chance of breast cancer, a 30-40% chance of ovarian cancer, a higher chance of melanoma, pancreatic cancer, esophageal cancer, stomach cancer…”

She was still talking, but I just stared down at my left breast, still in tact, and I knew then that I would never breastfeed my children.

I hung up the phone, and my grandpa and grandma waited silently for me to speak.  I managed to tell them I was positive.

My grandpa, who is the toughest man I have ever known, walked over to me, fell to his knees, laid his head on my lap, and sobbed.

I felt angry.

I felt scared.

I felt so very helpless.

When I am having moments of pity, I remind myself that I am resilient.  I always persevere.

I write all of this so that my breastmilk donors know what a gift they have given me.  They are the light, the hope that I did not have for so long.

Although I will never share that bond with my children, although I will still feel great sadness every time I feed them, and although that sadness will never go away, they have given resilience back to me.

Because of them, I am still able to, in my own way, say fuck you to cancer.

Every time you pumped your milk to share with my babies, you also stood up to cancer.

Because I will never find the words to thank you, dear breastmilk donors, please look at my children and know that you have helped me nourish them in a way I cannot.

And the gratitude I feel for you only grows, along with my children.

May God bless you richly for the hope you have planted in our hearts.

 

The Best Day

I have written a lot about simple, special moments and how those moments become the most beautiful of our lives.  One of my biggest goals in my lifetime, whether I live to be 30 or 100, is to pause during some of those small moments and bask in all their glory.

This past Saturday, I had the best day with my sweet Grace.  It was really nothing out of the ordinary that made our day together so wonderful; and perhaps that is what made it special.  I do know that every day since then, I have stopped and smiled while thinking about it.

Our town’s grand opening of a large fresh food store, Fresh Thyme, was taking place so Grace and I left the men at home and took off together to check it out.  It took us a very long time to find a parking spot, and I realized I must’ve been muttering my goodness! a lot because Gracie started repeating it over and over as we searched, my goooo-ness, my goooo-ness!  

Finally, we parked, and we both squealed as we walked in.  If you love food, rows upon rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, like Grace and I do, you would understand our excitement! We were instantly met with the sound of a cover band playing.  Gracie’s eyes lit up and she started clapping and laughing.  I could’ve watched her all day.

We walked down the rows and rows of reds, greens, oranges, blues, yellows; God’s full rainbow of colors of fruits and veggies galore.  I saw a line of excited kids with their moms, at the front of it a lady making balloon animals of all shapes and sizes.  Grace followed my gaze, pointed her tiny finger, and said “Yesssss!”

Out of the small booklet of options, Grace confidently pointed out a flower.  While we waited in line, Grace said hi about 50 times to the little boy sitting in the cart in front of us. He finally smiled shyly and said hi back.  Gracie giggled happily.

We finally reached the front of the line, and Grace watched the balloon artist’s hands move quickly, shaping a beautiful purple flower.

She handed Grace the balloon, and Grace just stared at it for a second.  She gently ran her hands over each shiny, purple petal and down its green stem. She clung to that balloon the entire rest of the day.

After she got her balloon, we saw the fresh juice bar was handing out juice samples.  I got a little cup of  orange juice and took a sip.  It was amazing!  Grace slowly brought the cup to her lips and took a little sip.  Then her eyes widened and she took another.

She looked up at me and all that she said was, “Whoa…”  We got a little jug to bring home for daddy to try.

We loaded our cart up with all sorts of fresh fruit and veggies and practiced their name and color as they went in the cart.  As I was choosing the best red pepper of the bunch, I heard Grace say, “Mama!”

I turned around to her little lips puckered out ready to give me one of her sweet little smooches.  She wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my neck, sighed and said “Mama” once more.  Quietly this time.  A few tears ran down my face, and I breathed her in.  She smelled like baby shampoo and peanut butter.

How did I ever get so blessed?

As we drove home that day, I kept stealing glances in her rear view baby mirror.  She sat quietly with her blanky on her chest, and ran her fingers over her flower balloon.

I doubt she will remember this day together, but I know I always will.  It was one of the days I was blessed with the presence of that sweet angel.  And, as far as days go, it was the very best.

 

 

Pretty in Pink and Oh So Sweet

The moment I found out I was having a girl, I became excited to help her become each and every thing she set out to be.  My sweet Grace is such a mixture of girly perfection.  She is wise beyond her age and embodies everything pure that is left in this world.  My excitement for my little lady was only amplified having just lost my own mother.  I felt so honored to get to experience that bond like no other again with my own daughter.

Many days, Grace loves to wear her dresses and twirls endlessly around the house and the yard. These are the days I find her wearing her pink princess heels  and asking for mommy to put a bow in her strawberry blonde hair.

Other days, she is a country strong tomboy!  On these days, she loves her button ups and jeans, complete with her pink camo hat worn backwards.

Whatever the day brings, I hope to help her stay happy, free, and full of adventure!  It was shortly after I had Grace that I discovered Matilda Jane.  Their clothing is whimsical, fun, and truly captures the joy of childhood. Adorned with beautiful colors, flowers, bright buttons, and frills galore, it is the outer expression of the beauty inside.

My love for the company only grew when I read about its founder.  Denise was a young mom with a huge heart for sharing her love and talents with others. Her love spread to Africa as well as here at home.  She also made certain to include little sweeties born with down syndrome as her models as well.  Sadly, Denise was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer. After beating it once, it reoccurred, and she passed away in 2015.

After my battle with cancer, I was incredibly inspired by this strong mom who had successfully captured innocence and beauty while facing something so cruel and ugly.  I was and am proud to purchase her clothing.  And, boy, has Grace loved it from the very beginning.

Matilda Jane has only brightened so many of our memories so far.  When I picture Grace at the zoo petting that stately giraffe, I think of the bright pink dress that she loved running her little hands over and pointing out its colorful buttons.  I think about her twirling in endless circles, the colors of Matilda Jane twirling right along with her.

When I think of her sweet face lighting up at the fair this past summer, I think of how her MJ dress made her look like a flower blooming among the cows and hay.

I smile as I remember Grace picking out her very first pumpkin, the beautiful fall colors of her MJ outfit keeping her comfortable and sweet.

And when Joanna Gaines partnered with the company?  I was in Heaven!  Grace was too!

Finding companies we are loyal to and proudly support feels amazing.  Finding one that accomplishes those things and brightens your little girl’s smile all at once is rare.

I am excited to watch Grace grow up and wear a lot more Matilda Jane.  Someday, I will tell her about the founder and that even though she went to Heaven, her designs left a little bit of Heaven here on earth.

In the spirit of Matilda Jane, I invite all who read this to join me online for my Trunk show.

Let’s all twirl together, brightly, happily, and with the joy and innocence of a child!

TO JOIN US:

Here’s how to place an order ONLINE toward my (Emmy’s) show!
1. Click on the link to my wonderful trunk keeper’s site matildajaneclothing.com/meganhammond
2. Click on Shop Now first!
3 Add all your pretties into your cart
4.Go to checkout & Log in (create an account if Matilda Jane hasn’t already sent you your info)
5. Select “Emily Rickert” at checkout as your JANE
** Before completing your order, double check that Megan Hammond is your Trunk Keeper (my name&picture) is in TOP LEFT CORNER of shopping site!

I HOPE YOU AND YOUR LITTLE LADIES LOVE EVERY COLORFUL MEMORY IN MJ!

Time in a bottle

In 1973, Jim Croce sang the words dancing on all of our hearts.

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day
‘Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you.

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I’d save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you.

This morning, I watched Grace twirl around the living room in her pink heeled princess shoes, placed over her pink footie pajamas.  I wanted to capture that moment in my mind and replay it forever.  The color of her hair in the sun shining through the windows.  The smile of pure delight on her face.  The way her hands danced through the air with her tall skinny little body.  How Huck’s eyes followed her every moment, an occasional gurgle erupting from his chubby face.  I cherish each of these moments.  These less than one second long glimpses of pure beautiful life.

And then, I am three years old holding my dad’s hand, walking down the hallway of our first house.  We turned the corner into the bathroom, and my mom lay in the bathtub, her giant belly peeking above the water.

“Emmy, come here!”  Her blue eyes smiled along with her mouth.

She took my small hand and placed it on her belly.  I felt Abby dancing in there. Life.  I felt life dancing.

And then, I am standing by my father’s bedside.  He was pale.  So skinny.  His blue eyes were so very tired.  He has been fighting his dying heart for years.  There was always a next step.  That day, I sat with him at U of M Hospital.  The doctors told us if they didn’t put in an LVAD Heart Pump, he would die within 48 hours.

I ran out of the room and fell onto a heater vent that was connected to the wall.  I cried silently.  I too was tired.  So tired of watching him suffer.  Water dripped from huge icicles that hung from the roof by the window of the hospital.  How could water keep dripping when my dad was dying?

Then, I am in our kitchen.  Mom and I are making peach jam.  The smell overtook the house.  We danced to Nicki Minaj while we took turns stirring the sweet orange mixture. She was wearing her turquoise cardigan.  It matched her eyes.

Then, I am standing with my sister looking into the doorway of our mother’s hospital room.  Her head was wrapped with gauze, but her face was untouched.  Beautiful.  I just looked at her in that bed, and she looked so small.

Then, I am in the small village cemetery in my hometown.  Her casket stood ready on the hill. It was covered in the brilliant pinks and purples of fresh flowers.  They cascaded over the casket in every direction. The smell of pine trees flew through the breeze and surrounded us.

I see so many moments.  All of which represent time.  Both happiness and sadness.  All seconds that make up the whole of my life.  Fireflies shining brilliantly in the night.  Just for a second at a time.  Forming one sweet symphony.

That is what life really is right?  Many countless moments.  Beautiful moments.  Sad moments.  Simple moments.  All of which we want to forever capture in a bottle.

I am filled with gratitude for each and every firefly.