[you can say yes today...]

3 weeks ago this evening, Luke handed me the phone and shrugged. Anyone who knows me doesn't call. They text. I was confused.

I answered and heard, "Sister Reynolds, this is President Keller..." and then I think I stopped listening for a minute because I couldn't hear over the rapid fire pounding of my heart.

Eventually I heard, "...tomorrow, 8:00? Will that work?" 

Um....sure?

Fast forward to the next night at 8. I'm sitting at the stake center facing President Keller and he is telling me that they're calling me to be [you can laugh here, I did - because this is not a calling I have ever heard of!] the stake girl's camp food coordinator.

We chatted for a minute and then he said something that I keep thinking back to.

"You can accept this calling and say yes right now. Or you can say you'll think about it and come back tomorrow to talk to me and say yes then. You are the only one for this calling."

The funny thing is, I didn't feel pressured to accept that calling. Just reassurance that it was, indeed, my calling.

Now, this post really has nothing to do with [ahem] being the stake girl's camp food coordinator, and everything about those 5 words - YOU CAN SAY YES TODAY.

This grief road is a tricky one to navigate. 

There are pitfalls and hidden traps that suck you in without warning and take away your ability to think, to breathe, to move forward for a while.

There are moments of brilliant, heart soothing comfort that give you respite and help rebuild the foundation of your faith.

And there are moments in between. I sometimes wonder if those in between moments are the hardest. They're the ones where you aren't sure what to feel. Are you sad? Angry? Happy? Confused? Unsettled? Anxious? Okay? Worried? More than likely it's all of those all at once.

You start to doubt just about everything about yourself.
And you can feel yourself pulling away from the people who love you and want to help you.
You feel yourself pulling away from the things you love to do.
Why? Because in those in between moments, you can't make things matter.

But here's the deal.
Those things do matter.
Those people matter.
You matter.

What is it that you need on one of those in between days? Is it a nap? Is it a chocolate bar? Is it a milkshake or a big cheeseburger or a little retail therapy? Possibly, yes. And if that's the case, I highly recommend getting that. Within reason of course.

Here's where, at least for me, those five words - YOU CAN SAY YES TODAY - come in to play. 

I can say yes to prayer.
I can say yes to scripture study.
I can say yes to a friend asking if they can help [oh is this ever a hard one for me!!!].
I can say yes to a hug.
I can say yes to Luke bringing dinner home instead of me feeling beaten down because I couldn't manage to get dinner on the table that night. Again.

But here's the biggest one...
I can say yes to service.
I can say yes to helping someone else.
I can say yes to sending a text or a card or a pizza to someone that is struggling.

Because in doing that, I'm saying yes, I see you. 
I understand you.
I'm not judging you.
I love you.

We all need someone to see us.
To love us.

Once in a while, those around us ask for help.
Most of the time they don't.
We have to be listening. 
That's my calling.

So when I'm listening and I get that prompting to just be nice...
I CAN SAY YES TODAY!
And so can you...

[In the arena]

Wow, guys! I didn't realize that so many of you were still here. My heart smiled with each comment you left, whether here, on Facebook, or in a text. Thank you for loving us still.

My heart has been pretty tender this week.

Mother's Day does that more than most other days.

I see post after post of Skype calls home from missionaries.
That still really rocks me to the core.
I try so hard not to be jealous.
Or angry.
Sometimes I'm successful.
Usually I retreat for a while instead.
Allow myself to just feel.
Eventually, I can be happy for those moms that get the phone call home.
It just takes some time.

On each of the past two Mother's Days, I have one friend who, in the midst of her excitement to talk to her own missionary, has taken a moment to text me - a simple text - "I wish they had Skype in Heaven so you could get a call today too." The text that always brings me to tears. Tears of gratitude for her concern, her friendship, her love, her unselfish heart.

Other texts come - they range from long thoughts to simply "Love you - thinking of you - praying for you" kinds of texts. Texts from friends who have lived our story with us.

And this year, two new friends touched my heart so profoundly. One simply wrapped her arms around me and said, "I just love you." The other pulled me into a hug and said, "You're so brave." And while I certainly didn't feel completely brave - I felt exposed and scared and angry and sad - I showed up at church anyway.

Because that's what we do.
We show up.
We show up when we feel brave.
We show up when we feel scared.
We show up when we feel angry.
We show up when we feel sad.

Some people see only our brave, but seem to instinctively know that there is fear under that bravery. Fear and anger and hurt and grief. And sadness. They encourage our brave by allowing those other feelings a place as well. By not walking away when those other things show up so much more glaringly.

Others choose to only see our sad.

I know that's the easiest to see.
It's so much more visual than brave.

You know what I've learned though?
It takes bravery to be sad.
No, that's not quite right.
It takes bravery to show sad.

"I've learned that the people who love me, the people I really depend on, were never the critics who were pointing at me while I stumbled. They weren't in the bleachers at all. They were with me in the arena. Fighting for me and with me.

"Nothing has transformed my life more than realizing that it's a waste of time to evaluate my worthiness by weighing the reaction of the people in the stands. The people who love me and will be there regardless of the outcome are within arm's reach. This realization changed everything." - Brene' Brown

So why do we do it?
Why do we allow you to see these parts of us?
The parts that are terrifying and uncomfortable for both us and you.
Why don't we choose to show only the brave?

"We simply can't learn to be more vulnerable and courageous on our own. Sometimes, our first and greatest dare is asking for support." - Brene' Brown

I have a friend who is going through a very deep and personal trial right now.
It would be so much easier for me to stay on the sidelines and allow someone else to fight with her in the arena.
But she needs me.
She needs what I've learned.
What I've experienced.
And so, I'm stepping into the arena.
I'll stand with her.
I'll fight with her.
And for her.
Because she shouldn't have to do this alone.
None of us should have to do this alone.

Are you willing to step into the arena with someone?
To stand with them instead of walking away?
It doesn't have to be a grand show.
Choose to engage instead of disengage.
To love instead of judge.
It's hard.
Sometimes it's dang hard.
Chances are you'll probably cry.
I can almost guarantee you'll be uncomfortable.
No one ever grew without a little bit of discomfort.

Please pray for us.
For me.
For my family.
And for my friend.
The story is hers to share when and if she chooses.
But I'm pretty sure that Heavenly Father will know who you're talking about when you ask for strength, guidance, courage, peace, and comfort for "Deb's friend."
He's pretty great that way.

Guys, we need each other.
We all need each other.
You can give someone courage by standing with them and fighting for them.
And in the end, you'll be surprised by how much that act of standing changes you too.

[Daring Greatly]

For a few months, close to a year now, ever since I decided to take a leave of absence from teaching, Heather has been hinting flat out telling me that I need to read a few books - Daring Greatly, Rising Strong, and Big Magic.

I don't like to be told what to do. ;)
So I resisted.

Until now.

Yesterday afternoon, knowing that I couldn't do much of anything since my back is still being super awesome, I went to the library and picked up Daring Greatly. I thought for sure it would be good and would give me something to do while I sit around recuperating, but questioned whether it would be that good. Like, do I really need to fork out ten bucks for a book on being brave?!



Came home, had dinner, and posted on Instagram and Facebook about my library choices. Immediately, friends started posting how much they adore Brene' Brown - how she just "gets it" - how "life changing" her books are. 

I was still skeptical.

Bedtime - Luke heated up the big heat pack for my back and I crawled into bed with this book (and a super awesome headlamp, but hey, ya gotta do what ya gotta do!) thinking I'd read a few pages before falling asleep...

56 pages in and I could have kept reading. The problem was - this was not my book. I couldn't write in it. I couldn't highlight things. I couldn't tag pages. 

I ordered my own copy this morning. :)

What's so great about this book? It's hard to pinpoint for me right now. There are phrases that jumped out so strongly. Paragraphs that spoke to my heart. 

Phrases like this one...

Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage.

Heather warned me to be prepared to feel all the feelings. She wasn't wrong.

I had tears. I smiled. I cringed. I was encouraged. I was scared. 

For a long time, I have felt that I needed to return to this blog - Kerry encouraged my return several months ago, but at that point, I was not ready. 

Now, I am. I'm ready to share more of our story. More of our healing process. 

To say that this isn't scary to me would be less than true. But I'm ready.

We get from a lot of people that we should be past this. That we should be happy all the time (which, really?! - is anyone ever happy all the time?!). That our grief timeline has closed.

Truth? You never get past something like this. 
Anyone who says they have is lying.

But how can you know that about us if we don't let you see it? How can you relate to us or to anyone who has had to bury a child if we don't share those parts of us that make us who we are now. We're different than we were before Kenton died. And yet, in some ways, we're the same.

Kenton is such a part of who we are as a family. He is our boy. Forever our boy. And missing him is something we will always feel. 

Some days that grief is like a sliver that only hurts when you pick at it. Some days, that grief is like a stubbed toe that is a dull ache. And some days, that grief is still blinding - hurting so badly that you can't catch your breath.

It's normal. 
We're not crazy. 
We're not focused on our grief. 

We are still living. We work, we play, we serve, we love. But that sadness is part of who we are.

And so, I'm back. You're welcome to stay. Pull up a chair and stay. Or, you're welcome to go. I won't be offended. Sometimes, the story being shared isn't a good fit for where we are in our lives. I get that. 

If you stay, please talk to me. Or don't. Maybe you're not in a place where you're ready to engage in conversation about any of this. Maybe you just need to see my openness for a while. And that's okay.

If you're ready to engage, please leave a comment, a question - let me know that you're here. What of our story touches you? What scares you? What makes you want to be better or stronger or more gentle?

This is our story. This is our life.