Brothers and Sisters Archives

May 29, 2015 by Karin Leave a Comment

The Dance

I was the only girl.

An entire generation – on both sides of my family. I could look for miles and miles – across an ocean – and I was the only one.

I suppose that’s one thing that brought me right up against my mother’s hip most of my childhood.

I could hang with the boys and I never felt a lack for anything girlish. My time with dolls and tea sets was just a little time all to myself. And I’ve always liked a little time to myself.

The only girl.

And then He gave me four daughters. How funny He works things in His own time.

But before I had daughters, I had the sisters my brothers brought into my life.

And then the babies. My nieces. One by one – I wasn’t the only one anymore. The scale seemed to settle while my heart filled. We women need each other.

My mother. She went home to Him just 21 days ago. And I’ve counted every one. I can see the minutes etched into my dad’s sorrow-filled eyes.

But there will be time for those words later. Sometimes thoughts need time to simmer. The words floating around find each other and make sense eventually. But, not yet. I’ll etch those words a little bit later.

This is about the women. The ones who trickled into my life one-by-one. One generation at a time.

And this day is about the next generation. The ones my mom is smiling on this very moment. She is beaming. Every time she looked into the faces of her grandchildren, she was beaming.

This is the season of change. Graduation time.

Nieces and nephews, these delights of our hearts, are walking the stage one-by-one. Diploma in hand – beaming.

More overwhelming than the pride I take in these souls is the gratitude. The gratitude for the gift of daughters and nieces who saw the woman I saw when I looked into my mother’s eyes.

There is nothing in this world more binding than sharing this love with my daughters, and my nieces.

These are the words penned by my beautiful niece Caroline. Our Mutti is smiling on her and her sweet sister, and all the rest of us – from Heaven. This I know.

Dancing With Großmutti

Drop. Kick. Smile. Every time the yo-yo drops to the floor she attempts to kick the string. Each attempt brings a smile to her face. Drop. Kick. Smile. Drop. Kick. Smile. When her foot actually makes contact with the string, the yo-yo clatters to the floor, and she begins to laugh. I squeeze my eyes shut, hiding the salty tears that threaten to spill onto my cheeks, and I laugh with my eighty-four-year-old grandmother, cherishing this simple moment.

Großmutti suffers from senile dementia. My moments with her are rarely simple. In one moment, she will be regaling me with tales of her childhood, her eyes devilish as she remembers young mischief. In the next moment, she will not know if she’s speaking to me or my mother. My heart breaks when I see a new wave of confusion cross her face, crushing her train of thought. The flow of conversation halts in its tracks, and soon Großmutti begins jabbering at me in German despite my insistence that she must speak English. English. Was? English. Was? English. Was? The German jargon continues as do my pleas for English, but, then, as suddenly as the wave of confusion came, coherence returns, and Großmutti laughs at herself, exclaiming that she merely forgot for a moment that I do not speak German. This pattern continues. Conversation. Confusion. German. Gespräch. Verwirrung. Mehr Deutsch. Großmutti’s moments of confusion are increasing in number, but, unfortunately, I am not becoming any more fluent in German.

Interspersed with Großmutti’s instances of bewilderment are instances of sheer genius. Not even the most difficult of Sudoku puzzles stands a chance against a spectacled Großmutti and a freshly sharpened pencil. Not even the most keen, most clever, most determined challenger can dethrone Großmutti, the queen of chess. Großmutti may not be able to recall the names of the neighbors, but she can certainly name their birthdays, their children’s birthdays, and their children’s children’s birthdays. Großmutti’s true genius, though, lies in dance.

Großmutti and dancing. Dancing and Großmutti. They are truly one in the same. A visit to Großmutti’s house would not be complete without a twirl around the living room, gliding through the steps of a Viennese Waltz. She can teach me the steps to every tango she has ever tangoed and every Foxtrot she has ever trotted. Her heart pumps to the beat of a lively German polka, and her eyes shine bright with the excitement of watching her grandchildren jig the jitterbug. No medicine can make Großmutti feel the way that a good waltz can. No pesky clouds of confusion can interrupt Großmutti in her recollections of dance darling-hood.

The joy of dancing with Großmutti is infectious. No one can escape Großmutti and her polka music. If the cheery beat of an accordion does not draw you to the dance floor, then Großmutti certainly will. Whether you are marching to the music of a polka band or jiving to the music of laughter, you will be dancing.

Großmutti’s polka music has led my happy feet to a happy place – a local senior retirement home. There, I play the piano for the residents. As my fingers dance across the keys, I imagine Großmutti dancing in the audience. The same upbeat tunes that tickle the ears of my audience guide the quick steps of the dancing queen. As the familiar melodies swirl about the room, bringing happiness to my little audience, Großmutti twirls across the shiny, wooden floor, finding her own inner peace. Her white orthopedic sneakers are replaced by a pair of shimmering high heels, and her bulky wool sweater transforms into a long, flowing gown. In the soft glow of a spotlight, Großmutti glitters, dazzles, she enchants. Long after the final note of the piano rings through the air, long after the audience has vanished, Großmutti continues to dance. Step. Spin. Dance.

Caroline

Yes, sweet Caroline. Step. Spin. Dance. No longer a captive to her confusion. No longer confused about who does and does not speak German in this crowd. She is dancing. She is applauding – as you dance and spin across that stage and onto the next dance floor of your life.

She is beaming. And I can almost hear her whisper,

Remember to dance…

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die; A time to plant, And a time to pluck what is planted; A time to kill, And a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance…

October 15, 2014 by Karin 2 Comments

When You Wonder If They Will Stick Together

I can see it like it was yesterday.

The scene in the back seat of my truck. A screeching baby and a fidgety toddler.

It was dark and after a long drive to I-don’t-even-remember-where, we were nearing our home. Our home for the moment anyway.

The wails from the backseat can grate on the very last nerve you have left when you are sleep deprived and trying to relish all the parent-of-little-kids moments. And our nerves were shot.

I tried every trick up the mommy sleeve, but baby girl wasn’t going to fall for it anymore. She was plain mad, plain tired, plain done. Just like her parents.

The kicking legs of toddler boy against our seats was the only rhythm we could seem to find. Ker-chunk, Ker-chunk. Little legs kicking to remind us the journey wasn’t over yet. We faced the joys of bath and bedtime after the long trip. Our night wasn’t over yet.

My warrior and I stared into the distance, worn weary by our little charges. And who would have guessed such small packages can fill your heart and drain your body all at the same time? Onward we drove. Ker-chunk, Ker-chunk. And the wailing resumed.

I don’t remember where we were when I noticed. I don’t recall what pulled me from my mama trance. But suddenly it was quiet.

Oh, maybe they fell asleep!

I whispered to warrior Daddy.

I craned my neck trying to avoid eye contact. You know, eye contact is just asking for more,

Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…

That’s when I saw it. The snap shot burned to memory.

My toddler boy had taken his baby sister’s hand to calm her. Sucking away at his binky, he grinned from beneath the round blue plastic pacifier. His dimpled fingers clutched baby sister’s small hand as he turned his gaze to the window. And baby stopped crying.

I wish I had a photo of this moment, but it was long before iPhones were a glimmer in our moment capturing minds. I stared long at the small hands clutched together in comfort. And I think the best memories are the ones burned on our hearts. I rotated to the front and smiled in the peaceful silence. I was sure it would always be a little like this.

But time passes and babies grow. Big brothers find joy in tormenting little sisters, and siblings spar. Giggles and jabs turn to tears and anger before we can get to the kitchen. We watch as they grow and know that part of growing up is learning to battle, and find peace – under one roof. Part of growing up is standing our ground and finding new paths all at the same time. Part of growing up is growing close, then growing apart, and praying to God we find each other again. I have big brothers, too.

Through the sparing and battles with the ones who share our blood we find a new branch on this rapidly growing tree. A place to sit together a while. And sometimes Mom gets to watch.

It’s been ten years since that ride in the car and the paths have been winding. The sibling peace has intertwined with sibling feuds, and sometimes I’ve wondered if my boy would ever reach for his little sister’s hand again.

And then he did.

She had been crying. It’s not easy sometimes – this military life. Just when we feel at home, just when we fall in love, just when we find that perfect friend – it’s time to go again. And my girl misses her home. The one that feels more like home than this one. More than that, she misses her bestie. The one who lives states away. I suppose we all miss at least one good someone in our lives. Sometimes more. So, she cried.

And it doesn’t matter how many times Mama’s arms wrap around her neck, or how many times I whisper,

It will be ok. It will get better. I understand…

Sometimes it takes more than Mom. Or Dad.

She hunched her shoulders and drew her knees to cover her eyes. The shaking shoulders gave way to wracking sobs. And this is when a mother’s heart breaks. Because there is nothing I can do about it.

Baby sister, only sixteen months younger slipped over and touched her leg,

I know, sister. It’s hard sometimes.

Funny to hear those words from a ten-year-old. And I watched the scene unfold.

That’s when I saw his face. His eyes softened as he slid next to his not-so-baby-anymore sister,

It’s ok.

Not another word came from his lips as he pulled my girl into his arms and squeezed.

And just like all those ten years ago. She stopped crying.

Because here is the thing. There is a bond between siblings that is stronger and deeper than we can put into words. These branches from the same roots – spreading to the skies before our very eyes.

When we look closely, we can see – the branches reaching for their freedom find each other and touch. Blown by the same winds of change.

Even when decades pass and we wonder if any roots remain; we dig our hands into the common soil and find our roots have only grown deeper and stronger with the trials.

1 Peter 3:8-9

Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing.

June 6, 2014 by Karin 8 Comments

When The Storms Gather

Here I am.

I’m not really even sure I want to be here, but I knew something was missing when I stopped showing up in this place.

It all just gets to be too much sometimes. Sometimes we have to stop and slide into the shadows. Sometimes we have to hide, or wait – I’m not certain which one is the right word. Are we hiding? Or maybe we just sense in our spirits it’s time to stop and… wait.

Sometimes when we stop, even for a moment, we find that another moment comes along – and passes. And before we know it time keeps going and going, and we wonder how we ended up this far down the road.

The phone rang. I saw his name on the caller ID and I knew a little bit how the conversation would go. His voice has become gravelled with time. In his voice I can still hear the voice that welcomed me into the world. I can still hear the voice I remember from all the days that have slipped into memory – the one who whispered warnings or laughed at the dinner table. The one who snapped for silence after a long day’s work. The voice who told me I could even when I thought I couldn’t. The one I really didn’t know very well – until I became a parent myself.

I answered though I knew the news would likely not be good. These conversations go this way when there’s only one of the pair who can remember anymore. This is what happens when the memories start slipping away, and there is only one left trying to keep them alive.

It’s getting very hard. I don’t know what to do.

And the voice is 3000 miles away. And I feel – helpless. And here I am.

The phone again. And the caller ID. Sometimes you know it’s your voice that needs to speak truth to lift a falling soul. But, sometimes all we need to be is the ear on the other end of the line. No words. No words can come in to bridge the gap between broken and whole. Just an ear to funnel the flowing words until they come out the other side – and, then, we can see. The breath of air on the other side becomes suddenly clear. And all we have to do is… listen.

I listened to her voice break time and again. The ebb and flow of an aching heart racing to the shore, and just as quickly retreating to this sea of confusion and chaos and questions. And sometimes we find ourselves drowning in it.

The words swirled around us, until they gathered in the storm cloud over our heads – and fell. Feeling like hail, until the relief of releasing every last fear and ache became a soothing rain – washing it all away. Sometimes we just have to be the umbrella in the storm. We let the downpour ricochet off our backs while we cover this soul seeking a break from the stinging rain.

It’s so hard. I don’t know what to do.

The pain and the words sometimes pelt us, but if we stand still long enough – we’ll see the sun break through the clouds.

The voice is 3000 miles away. And I hug the phone tighter. And here I am.

The phone. He walked into the other room and I drifted behind him. You can just tell, can’t you? When that voice you know so well changes its tone, and the light-hearted rhythm becomes a chilled whisper. I could see my warrior’s shoulders drop, and with it – my heart. I drew a deep breath and braced for the storm.

And if I never hear that diagnosis again – it’ll be too soon.

Cancer.

His eyes met mine, and sometimes you need no words.

I sank to my knees and prayed. It’s all I know to do anymore.

That voice on the phone – 3000 miles away. And here I am.

And sometimes God feels a million miles away.

The storm clouds gather around our craning necks, but here we are. Instead of standing our ground in the sand too soft to hold the weight of all of this – we kneel on the Rock.

It’s here on this Rock – under the gathering storms 3000 miles, and sometimes 3 feet, from these voices we love – we can hear the still small whisper,

Here I AM.

Revelation 3:20

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.

November 8, 2013 by Karin Leave a Comment

You Just Never Know…

31 days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 27 ~

It looks like summertime. You’d never know it is fall in the middle of the sunny desert.

My eyes scan the horizon for any glimpse of fall leaves in this sandy town. Nothing. This place of perpetual summer leaves and green cacti.

I’m left to close my eyes. Behind the lids I see the glorious gold. The rusty orange, raging red, and luminous yellow blaze in my mind’s eye.

The leaves will fall and again I’ll close my eyes to see the thick pillow of snow cascade across the landscape. This, I think, we might miss the most. The winter snow. There is just something about snow that makes everyone feel more like a brother, or a sister. Like we are trapped in a down comforter together. The snow feathers all around while we gaze in amazement and offer hands of help. There is something about the snow that quiets the earth and fills in the lines of division with white goodness.

We can look into the distance here and see the white caps of jagged mountains. These hills that surround us now will soon be covered in a white blanket. Almost close enough to reach, but not near enough to our front door step.

I remember the scene. My front door step just three years ago. I didn’t glimpse the stone of those steps for months. Two blizzards raged outside, back to back… just after he left. I watched the wind whip the branches around as the ice thickened and grabbed hold of the fast falling flakes.

The mounds grew and grew. By morning all we could see was white. Like a ski chalet somewhere on the other side of the world. While my warrior, green bags in tow, flew far away… somewhere to the other side of the world. Deserts far away from the white down on our front stoop.

He loves this stuff. I wish he could see this…

The shrieks and jubilant hollers from our, then, pack of five filled the cozy rooms. Some of the glee came right from mama’s mouth. There’s just something about snow. It brings me back to childhood memories while holding me in the present moment – all at the same time. Nothing else quite does that.

Weeks and weeks went by. Snow does begin to wear on mama bear somewhere between the soaked suits and wet boots. Many times I thought,

This would be so much better with two. He would just love this.

Friends with warrior hearts and pastors with servant’s souls came day after day to make sure mama and babies had supplies and a shoveled driveway. We just can’t make it through the cold days without our brothers and sisters. The white goodness in the hearts of friends and neighbors quieted and warmed our souls in the middle of missing daddy.

After months of snowy ground cover, the walkways seemed to transform to a slick glistening path of reflection… and danger of broken bones.

I don’t remember quite what I was doing, but I know just where I was standing when I saw her carefully climb those slick steps. My mind quickly made the judgement call,

Who on earth tries to sell stuff door-to-door in weather like this? Just nuts…

Her hand went to the door and she knocked briefly. She was dressed for the weather with a hat that capped what I was sure was plum craziness.

I opened the door anticipating,

No thank you, we aren’t interested.

It just goes to show you… not so fast. Not so fast with that judgement thing. You never know… you might just being opening the door to a gift.

She smiled at me,

Hi. I’m your neighbor down the street.

She pointed to the house. Oh, I knew the house. We all knew she was a hoarder. Not in the sense that all of us have trouble letting go, but in the true definition of hoarder. The house seemed to slowly disappear behind overgrown shrubs; and any glimpse into the cracked garage door bore witness to years and years of newspapers… and so much more. Stacks and stacks piled behind the darkened windows. Occasionally we would see a car come and go.

What could bring a person to this place… hoarding? The stories swirled of sadness… the passing of her husband was said to start it all. But, who knows where it all really starts?

My eyes widened as a smile crept to my face,

Hi. How are you? I’m Karin.

She smiled, shook my hand, and went on,

I heard your husband was deployed. I know you have a lot of kids down here and that you probably can’t get to the store. I was at Home Depot and grabbed the last two bags of rock salt. I want you to have them for your walkway. It can be dangerous with all this ice and I don’t want you guys to get hurt.

Just when you think you know a story… grace comes crashing in.

She went on to tell me about her daughter and grandchildren. She even offered to watch my children should I reach the brink of madness home alone with five of them.

We laughed and talked; and finally she went on her way down the icy path.

I watched out the window until I couldn’t see her anymore.

I felt His love and protection, and at the same time I heard Him whisper,

You just never know…

And, we don’t.

We don’t know the whole of any story.

We know pieces and parts. We form our opinions on shards of information… on slivers of truth.

We form our opinions on sheets of ice only to find grace and humility melting them all away.

Sometimes we don’t know the white pillows of goodness that are hidden in a heart.

The woman who hoarded things we couldn’t understand, freely gave what a stranger needed. You just never know.

You just never know what you’ll find on your front step… if you are willing to open the door…

and your heart.

Revelation 3:20

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.

October 24, 2013 by Karin 12 Comments

When We Begin To Get Over Ourselves

31 days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 19 ~

I’ve been a mother for 12 years today.
Really, though, motherhood began 9 months before that (ok, we all know it’s actually 10). When you carry the weight of the future on your bladder for any amount of time, you know the exact amount of time. Down to the very minute.

What I didn’t know… the weight of the future was the very thing that would begin the release of the weight of my selfishness.

Motherhood. The vessel He uses to get us over ourselves.

We enter into this place with a million preconceived notions of how we will play this whole thing out. We step through the door holding this perfect breath from God and we think we might have a clue. This is where it all begins. We have no idea. The thoughts in our minds give way to the crashing wave of pure love. This love washes any idea of who we think we are… away. We come face to face with someone we want to die for – again and again. But, first, we have to die to ourselves. And this is the rub.

The battle – my thoughts, my ideas, my wishes, my dreams collide… with His.

Holding tightly to the holy moment of birth is just the beginning of letting it all go.

This is when our hearts begin to take residence – outside of our bodies. With each baby, over and over again, we die to ourselves… and open up to Him. Only God would begin this slow and often painful death to our selfish natures through the birth of something so breathtakingly exquisite. New life wrapped in the sweet aroma of innocence cradled in our unsuspecting arms. The best of us is yet to come.

Sometimes, though, he lets us begin our journey into selfless love much earlier. Sometimes He allows to exercise these muscles of you-before-me when we are much younger. Perhaps even as young as 11… soon to be 12.

And, sometimes He surprises this unsuspecting mama with a story of an unselfish good deed. A good deed that mama didn’t have to prompt or prod or produce. Sometimes He lets us know we are doing this motherhood thing a little bit right.

I was away on a trip (a small miracle in itself, thanks to my gold-hearted warrior). Dad decided to take our six pack to a carnival. The bravery in that task is another story entirely.

The pumpkins, rides, and treats thrilled this young crew of ours. Most of all, of course, the rides and slides were mission number one.

Tickets bought, treats ingested, it was time. The kids rode and squealed and lived it up.

Our four-year-old discovered quickly that some thrills look better from the ground up.

It’s too scary! I don’t like it!

Our red-headed summer warrior shrieked.

Sometimes bravery is just knowing what you’re not ready for. And saying so.

Tickets dwindled and energy faded.

With only a handful of tickets left to thrill these little ones, my warrior offered them one more ride.

The big kids, ready to tackle the most thrilling ride, grabbed their chance and took off.

Our normally brave little summer girl exclaimed,

But, I want to go on those swings. I’m too scared of that ride.

Daddy stood holding the baby, knowing the only way she would go was with a companion. We don’t really want to go this alone, do we? It’s always better with two.

The kids want to ride that one, sweetie.

Then, the part that bursts a mama heart. All these years of do-this-don’t-do-that-be-nice-share-love-each-other. All the refereeing of siblings. All the times of it’s-not-about-you. Then, this one time. It takes root… and I wasn’t even there. I can’t take credit (but, I can give plenty to my warrior). I can’t even begin to think it had anything to do with what I told my boy to do. He just did it. And my heart explodes.

I’ll go with her, dad.

C’mon, little sister, I’ll take you on the swings.

Now, the swings… they go round and round, not up nor down. Pretty lame for an 11, almost 12-year-old.

They spun in circles, she squealed with glee, and my heart melts.

We teach and train and cajole and plead. We bark and bellow and beg. We hold and hug and pour ourselves out… day after day. Then, God. He gives us a glimpse. A momentary whisper of,

Job well done.

The pouring out… from a big brother to a little sister. This.

This whole new soul dying to self and giving to love. And my heart wholly fills.

2 Thessalonians 3:13

And as for you, brothers, never tire of doing what is right.

The Dance

When You Wonder If They Will Stick Together

When The Storms Gather

When We Begin To Get Over Ourselves

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