Stupid tumor

"Stupid tumor" is my umbrella catchphrase of a curse that I say mostly in my head, sometimes out loud, when a situation is frustrating or sad or just plain awful AND it's related to Steve's absence. It's about the closest I get to cursing, though I occasionally have fun with our last name. (As in, "this is a Damm happy place" or "I'm here to pick up the Damm kids.")

I just had another "stupid tumor" moment.

Katie has strep throat, diagnosed this morning. (On my fourth day of work at my new job. I'll blog more about that later, but for now I want to express thanks for very flexible working conditions.)

She's taking antibiotics and pain relievers and should feel better midday tomorrow. Tonight, about an hour after going to bed, she woke with a night terror. It's the second this week, after going months and months without them.

Then I started to wonder: Was her most recent bout of night terrors last spring, when she was constantly fighting ear infections? It's the kind of question that I would ask Steve. Between the two of us, we had a great collective memory. Left on my own, there are some holes.

I can't ask Steve, of course.

Stupid tumor.

Instead, I sent a text to one of my best friends, asking if she could recall the timing of Katie's last night terrors. Liz called back right away, and we talked about it, concluding that maybe it's pain and/or fevers that contributes to the really bad dreams.

I am absolutely thankful that I have friends and family to call on, people who love Steve and me and our children. In moments like these, I am intentional about finding silver linings and unexpected blessings -- after I say or think my little curse.

Wit

Cooper definitely has Steve's humor gene. Dry and sly.

On Friday afternoon, Boy Scout Troop 51 gathered to load up gear and head out on the March camping trip. It was Cooper's first as a Boy Scout. We stood with our Cub Scout families.

Rodney, who was one of Coop's Cub Scout den leaders, stood nearby and said, "Cooper, I think you grew some more."

Cooper didn't pause before he replied: "Or you're getting shorter."

(When he's wearing his hiking boots, 10-year-old Cooper is as tall as I am.)

As starfish returns to the sea, wave of sadness rises and falls

From today's Briefing:

My Katie is a sensitive soul.

It’s difficult to know how much of her tender heart was there at birth and how much was created by the crises she’s lived through — her father’s cancer diagnosis when she was 2, his treatment and illness, his death when she was 4.

The mix of nature vs. nurture doesn’t matter so much as the reality. I’m constantly learning how much to shelter her from unnecessary sadness — and even how she defines sadness.

This means that I sometimes have to curtail Cooper’s conversations and table them for a time when Katie’s away. There’s only so much she can handle related to the Civil War (too many young men dying), cannibalism (constant worry about where they might lurk and how she can avoid them), Anne Frank(there’s no way to explain the evil of the Holocaust).

She has empathy for almost every movie character, making almost every film a guaranteed emotional experience.

She’s aware of current events because we talk about them — not because of media. She doesn’t watch television news or listen to the top of the hour on NPR.

Of course, the realities of life can’t — and shouldn’t — be avoided altogether.

In the waning days of vacation last week, Cooper spied a treasure on the seafloor: a living starfish.

He ran to shore to grab a Frisbee, ran back into the waves and gently scooped up the starfish, along with some sand and salt water.

“I want to keep him as a souvenir,” Cooper said.

“That means he would have to die,” I said gently.

“No, Cooper!” Katie said, not so gently. “God created him for a purpose. He needs to live!”

She pointed out that one leg was shorter than the other four. Where it had been cut or torn, new growth was spreading. She pleaded with her big brother to return the starfish to its natural home, to give that shorter leg more time to grow.

Cooper relented.

During these negotiations, a little girl hovered. She asked about the starfish and our intentions. I told her that Cooper was wading back out with the creature.

“Then I’ll take it!” she said. “I want to take it home!”

And with that, she was off, running in Cooper’s path. Moments after the starfish was settled back in sand and water, the little girl scooped it up and sprinted ashore to show her family.

Katie, meanwhile, ran to me and sobbed.

“That curly-haired girl from Iowa took the starfish,” she cried. “It was saved, and now it will die.”

I held my 6-year-old’s sandy, damp body close to mine and let her sob.

And then the curly-haired girl, directed by her family, returned the starfish to the sea again.

Katie was relieved but still shaken.

“I don’t like knowing that someone is dying,” she whispered.

She was quiet for a moment.

And then she asked what she’s never asked before.

“Did anyone see Daddy die?”

I told her yes, that I was there, along with Grandma and a nurse. That I was holding his hand. That he wasn’t hurting the moment he died.

She cried some more and then shared a little of what she remembered from that day more than two years ago. She told me that she loves everything about life except death.

And then she wiggled free of my embrace and headed for the water. She danced in the waves, and her laughter drowned the sound of the surf.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Waving hello

I love the beach. I fell in love with the mix of water and sand and wind and salt in my mid-20s, when Matthew and Gretchen introduced us to Sarasota and Siesta Key. Steve and I visited as often as we could.

I was a few weeks pregnant with Cooper on our last visit before Matthew and Gretchen moved to Baltimore. I remember resting on the sand, closing my eyes and wishing for our child the same kind of peace and happiness I had found at the beach.

Yesterday, Cooper and I were riding rented bikes along the same Siesta Key beach. We stopped for a short break.

I took a photo of the coast. And then I felt compelled to turn my camera straight up to the sky. I snapped a photo. We moved on.

This is the image I took without understanding why.

I feel certain that that blue heart, shaped by clouds, was Steve's way of waving hello.

Peace and happiness.

Change

The past four-plus years around the Damm house have been capricious:
Healthy mom and dad and two children.
Onset of odd symptoms.
Month of medical mystery.
Risky biopsy.
Devastating cancer diagnosis.
Chemotheraphy.
Radiation.
More chemo.
Glimpses of hope.
Tumor growth.
Loss of mobility.
Countless doctor and ER visits.
Hospice.
Death.
Mourning.
Grieving.
Growing into a new routine of a healthy mom and two children.

The constants that have seen us through such tumultuous times:
Love.
Support.
Friendship.
Faith.
Strength.
Hope.
Laughter.
Prayer.
Joy.
God.

***

After Katie was born, Steve and I took a huge leap of faith. I quit my full-time job as an editor at The Dallas Morning News. I left my dream job.

I learned to read when I was 4, reading the Dallas Morning News with my dad. When I was 8, I decided I would be a writer. When I was 21, I wrote a list of career goals that was tacked to the fridge for years. At the top of the 10-year plan: Editor at a major metropolitan daily.

Though I quit, I never really left. I started freelancing almost right away, often for various departments at the Morning News.

In the past six years, I've written and edited for just about every DMN department. I have been fortunate to be able to work from home. That huge leap of faith in 2005 allowed me to care for Steve while he was ill, no matter where he was. It has allowed me to care for Cooper and Katie during Steve's illness and after his death.

I've also worked for other clients, sometimes balancing eight or 10 deadlines a week for seven or eight different bosses.

In the past six months, I've added nighttime copy-editing shifts. Still from home, but from 7:30 to 11:30 p.m. three nights a week. It's work I enjoy, but it's an exhausting schedule, affording not enough sleep for this single working mom of two active children.

My goal for 2012: To find work that better fits for our family and that allows me more sleep.

In a couple of weeks, I will have reached that goal. I am happy to report that I will be writing and editing for Prestonwood Baptist Church, one of my longtime freelance clients. My boss will be a longtime colleague and friend.

At the same time, I'll be able to keep the weekly family column I write for Briefing and a couple of other small weekly projects for the Morning News.

It's change that we need and change that I'm looking forward to.

This job was nowhere on my list of goals, written way back in 1993. Then again, in 1993 none of us knew what 2012 would bring.

As I wrote in my Briefing column last week: There's no step-by-step script for life. There are many opportunities for improv.

Absence

One of the defining characteristics of a blog -- at least this blog -- is that it offers snippets. This blog and the Damm Spot don't offer a complete picture of my life or Cooper's life or Katie's life. They are moments that I choose to share.

Sometimes I hesitate to share snippets because to the casual reader it could appear that everything is super sunshiney or that everything is gloomy all the time. In fact, life around the Damm house is mostly sunny with occasional cloud cover. Sometimes there are unexpected storms.

With that in mind, tonight I'm sharing recent moments when Steve's absence has felt heavier than usual -- small clouds in our mostly sunny world.

• When praying for a friend, before, during and after her breast cancer surgery
• When I gave Cooper his Arrow of Light, signifying completion of his Cub Scout journey
• When I really listened to the lyrics of an Avett Brothers song and realized how much Steve would have enjoyed the words, how much we would have enjoyed discussing them together
• When I watched Bottle Rocket the other night and wanted to laugh with Steve over some of the most ridiculously funny lines
• When reading almost anything related to the 2012 presidential campaign
• When sculpting 16 miniature dolphins with Katie for Daisy Scouts (Steve loved working with clay)
• When the children and I woke this morning to a flood in their bathroom and continuing over the next six hours when I was dealing with the beginning of restoration of four rooms in the house
• When sitting in Cooper's middle school orientation tonight

Valentine's gifts

Steve and I were never huge Valentine's Day people. We celebrated, but nothing fancy or over the top.

Among our most memorable: 1993, when we got back together after a brief breakup (a story that alarms many of my friends). And 1999, when Steve was working in St. Louis and I was working in Dallas. I was a semifinalist in a Hallmark writing contest, earning roses and chocolate-covered strawberries for my Valentine. I flew to St. Louis to visit for the weekend and we took swing dance lessons.

Despite my ambivalence toward Feb. 14, when the person you are meant to spend your whole life with is no longer here on earth, the day can take on more sadness than a run-of-the-mill day.

Unless you're surrounded by a different kind of love.

Today I was spoiled. Flowers from Liz W. and Jim and Betty. Surprise dinner from Julianne. Card and gift from Katrina. Gifts from Cooper and Katie, courtesy of Aunt Ami, who was here last weekend and bought exactly what the kids asked her to get. Texts and phone calls and emails from other dear friends who know me well.

Plus, I was able to spend time in Katie's classroom, leading her Valentine's Day party.

And I am blessed with the very best perennial Valentine's gift -- the presence and life and light and love of Cooper and Katie. They represent so much of Steve and so much of Steve and me -- our values, personalities, quirks. And yet Cooper is his own young man, Katie her own girl.

Before school this morning

Cabinets and shoes and snoring

Today I attended a luncheon for widows.

(It was at a church that I do contract work for. I sat with my friend who works at the church and who is not a widow.)

I was not the target market. I can't say with certainty that I was the youngest widow there, but I can say that the tables surrounding me were filled with grandmothers. Who had perfectly arranged hair. And brooches. And apparently received the same memo to wear red or pink.

My hair was typically slightly askew. No costume jewelry. My clothes were blue and black.

I did listen to the speaker (not a widow), though. One anecdote made me cry.

She said that when she was newly married, she was attending a Bible study populated by mostly older women. Many were widows.

During one session she was complaining about her new husband and his tendency to leave open every cabinet door. His pathway through the house was clearly marked by open doors.

She ranted for a while.

Then one of the older women spoke during the study. She described similar frustration with her husband, who left his shoes throughout the house. She'd trip over them all the time.

Until he was no longer alive. When he was gone, she said, she would have done anything to see his shoes littering the house.

That's when I started to cry.

Steve would sometimes snore. Before he was diagnosed with cancer, this habit would exasperate me. If I didn't fall asleep first, I would have to bury my head under two pillows to soften the noise. If the snoring woke me, I would often nudge him to move to one side or the other, hoping that would stop the ZZZZZZs.

After he was diagnosed, this habit would soothe me. Because a snoring Steve was an alive Steve.

I would lie awake at night, listening to him snore, thanking God. I was thankful for another day that Steve was alive and for my good fortune in sharing life with him. I didn't know how many more nights we'd have left together. I knew that one day our room would be silent.

Today I would love to walk around a house with cabinet doors wide open and Steve shoes scattered in every room and the promise of snoring at night.

Band

Cooper visited his future middle school today for an instrument fair of sorts. Fifth-graders were invited to try out all the band and orchestra instruments in order to make a decision about which, if any, they want to play in sixth-grade.

Cooper has planned to play trumpet for about six years -- long before Steve was sick. Steve played trumpet not just through college (where he was a member of the Michigan Marching Band) but continued to play occasionally at church.

Knowing how important this was to Cooper, I emailed the band director in advance, explaining that Cooper would be open minded about the options but that his first (and emotional) choice was trumpet. I thought better to warn her in advance than to have a breakdown in the middle school cafeteria.

This afternoon we headed first to the band section and then to the brass section. Cooper was the first person to try out the instruments.

He was able to play the trombone. He was really good at the euphonium. The trumpet? Not a sound.

The instructor was very patient, explaining the process to Cooper.

Cooper tried again, and very little sound came out.

The instructor shook his head. "You can't play trumpet." (He clearly didn't get the please-be-kind-about-the-trumpet memo, which I completely understand. He was one of many instructors working the tables. I'm certain that if he had known, he would have handled the situation more gently.)

I stayed quiet and waited for Coop's reaction. In typical fashion, he stoically nodded his head. His face started to turn red, and I could see signs that he was doing everything he could to not cry. (In turn, I was trying not to cry, no small feat given the general emotion of being on a middle school campus for the first time with your child who started kindergarten, oh, last week. And the sadness that always comes with milestones without Steve.)

The instructor went on to explain that the shape of Cooper's mouth and lips would make it difficult to work with a trumpet-size mouthpiece.

In the notes field by trumpet, he wrote "Nah."

He did encourage Cooper to consider the euphonium.

Cooper and I walked away from the table, toward the percussion section. I wrapped my right arm around his shoulder and told him that it would be OK. That no one will be disappointed if he can't play trumpet. That he doesn't owe it to Daddy to play the same instrument.

Percussion didn't go well. (Those screening exercises are difficult! I am now 100% certain that I did not miss a calling to be a world-renowned drummer.)

We waited for the woodwinds next. There were friends waiting, too. I found Chris, whose youngest daughter is moving on to middle school. We commiserate often about our babies growing up. And she knows how much Cooper wanted to play trumpet.

I shared with her the trumpet trouble.

Cooper didn't have much luck with the flute. But one try on the clarinet -- bam! It was a beautiful sound. The instructor remarked that he had "a good chin"and was impressed that he could hit a high C. He also did well on the oboe and bassoon.

Meanwhile, Chris returned to tell me that she had visited with the band director, who encouraged us to stop by.

She was wonderful with Cooper. She never mentioned Steve, just said that she understood why the trumpet was important. She asked him to try again, and he was able to make some noise.

She told Cooper that some people are naturally gifted at certain tasks. But that if we work hard, we can also do well at anything we try, gifted or not. She would totally support his trumpet choice, but he would need to know that he would have to work harder than most other trumpet players.

He and I walked around. He tried out the harp in the orchestra section. He thought about it, asked my opinion, thought some more.

We sat back down with the director. She and Cooper visited some more. And then he declared clarinet his first choice.

And he was genuinely happy, which is exactly what makes me happy and would have made Steve happy.

Soccer

Today is one of the best days of the year: The beginning of a new soccer season.

Cooper has played on the Dolphins since fall 2005. He was 4. Katie was just a few months old. I was a mostly stay-at-home mom with a few freelance projects. Steve was healthy, working more than full time.

The core of that team has been together ever since.

I love those little preschoolers who have grown into tall young men. Coach Phil likes to say, "They're not a team of soccer superstars, but they are a team of future CEOs."

And I love the Dolphins parents. Some of the moms I met way back in 2005 are among my dear, treasured friends. We have all cried together, but we've laughed together more.

We were all reunited at 5:30 this afternoon, for the first practice of what will be the final season for the Dolphins.

My heart leaped to spy Austin, who still wears to practice the fall 2009 jersey, the one with Steve's initials on the chest. (When some of the Cooper's teammates walked down to the altar for the children's portion of Steve's memorial service, they were wearing these jerseys.)

Austin after practice, wearing Steve's initials

There are some new families, too. Some from Bledsoe, with boys Cooper has known for years.

And then there's Connor.

Connor's dad, Greg, worked with Steve at Arthur Andersen in the late '90s. They served on the same long-term engagement with Los Angeles County hospitals.

Greg and his family now live in Frisco. And Greg's son was placed on the Dolphins.

I was able to visit tonight with mom Lauren, who has had her own share of heart-breaking loss and health struggles. I had never met her until tonight, though long ago I read her daughter's CaringBridge journal entries. Lauren and Greg and their family were on our prayer list for many, many months.

And now, 15 years after Steve and Greg worked together, their sons are playing together.

There are incredible gifts along this circuitous journey. Unexpected moments and little blessings. I am thankful for them all.

Legacy

I met a woman last week who had been a colleague of Steve's. She hugged me tight and told me that she loved Steve. That everyone loved Steve.

Never underestimate the power of kind words.

***

We've lived without Steve for almost two and a half years. And yet there are little moments when I somehow forget.

Like today, when I was grocery shopping, and I spied Spicy Hot V8, which Steve loved to drink. For a tiny second, I thought, "I should buy some of that. I haven't in a while." And then, of course, I remembered that no one in the house drinks Spicy Hot V8 anymore.

So I took a photo ...

and headed straight for the floral department, where I bought myself some roses.

Today that seemed the logical thing to do.

***

One of Katie's sweet first-grade friends played at our house Saturday. I was downstairs, they were upstairs, but their conversation was clear.

Katie showed her friend something.

"That was my Dad's," she said.

Her friend, in reply, "You don't have a dad."

Katie, without drama, just the facts, "Yes I do! Everyone has a dad. Mine died. But I have a dad."

Katie and Steve, October 2008, eight months after diagnosis

Village

Nothing about being a single mom is the way I envisioned life for our family. There are moments, sometimes hours that stretch into a day, when I feel fully the weight of being the only living parent to two wonderfully wise (and active and inquisitive) children.

Parenting -- whether with an involved spouse or not -- is emotionally draining and emotionally rewarding work. Parenting children through various stages of grief on top of various stages of typical development is even more so. Parenting when you're dealing with your own grief adds a little more complexity.

And then there's the business of running a household and working and exercising and volunteering. Juggling all of that -- well, when I think about it, that's when I feel fully the weight.

But I'm never carrying the weight all by myself, because Cooper, Katie and I are members of an incredible village of folks who are in the business of love and support and practical help.

I hesitate to make a list for fear I'll forget someone, but I do want to share a snapshot of just the past week or so.

Katie, Cooper, Mike and the banjo

• Neighbor Mike opened his garage workshop to guide Cooper through the creation of a handmade banjo. (Cooper's science assignment was to create a musical instrument. He had ambitious plans.)
• Sarah spent one of her rare weekdays off at the house, cooking, playing and visiting. 
• The Chollicks brought Cooper home from a party while I was working.
• Jim and Betty cooked and delivered dinner and visited on a particularly busy day.
• Kristin shared homemade spaghetti sauce and pasta. 
• Sharon took care of Cooper and Katie so I could attend a church committee meeting. (And brought with her two books that are now in heavy rotation.)
• Melinda shared chicken tacos. 
• Scout dads shepherded Cooper through a winter Webelos campout.

Some of the help I ask for. Some of it is offered out of the blue. All of it is sincerely appreciated and helps keep this little family running smoothly.

I often think of the families who don't have so much help, the single moms who don't live in a community surrounded by folks with time and resources to offer. I know that, despite our heavy loss, we are blessed.

No one would choose these circumstances. But I would choose this village every single time.

Cooper and Katie at the Steve Damm Spot, Jan. 8, 2012

Good morning

I'm having email trouble, so I rebuilt the inbox, which means I rediscovered some old emails.

One was a simple note from Steve: "Good morning."

Along with this photo of the sun rising over Lewisville Lake.

Steve took the photo on Nov. 3, 2007, at Hidden Cove Park. He and Cooper were at a Cub Scout overnight camp. It was the first camping trip that they took together. We had no idea that it would be the only camping trip they'd take on their own. We had no idea that there was a tumor lurking in Steve's brain stem, on the verge of showing symptoms impossible to ignore.

This photo breaks my heart. Steve and Cooper were an incredible team. As Cooper finishes his last few weeks of Cub Scouts and begins the process of becoming a Boy Scout, I can't help but wonder about what could have been had incurable cancer not invaded Steve's body. I've done my best in helping Cooper in his Cub Scout journey, and we've been blessed to have help from Jim and Jim and Greg, plus Bill and Wade and Layne and Brian and Rodney and other awesome dads. But, gracious, I wish Cooper had had Steve helping him all along.

And yet I love this photo because it's another tangible reminder of how much Steve loved our children and the earth and beauty. Of how thoughtful he was.

And it's a tangible reminder that the sun comes up every day, that every day we have a new opportunity to make life better for ourselves and others. 

"Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord;

his appearing is as sure as the dawn;

he will come to us like the showers, 

like the spring rains that water the earth."

(Hosea 6:3)

Happy new year!

Happy new year from our family to you!

2012 Head for the Cure: Register now and save

Last May about 80 people joined the Run for Steve Damm team and participated in the inaugural Head for the Cure 5K in Frisco.

It was an inspiring day! Cooper, Katie and I loved being surrounded by so many family members and friends in an effort to raise money to defeat brain tumors.

Registration is now open for the 2012 Head for the Cure 5K. I have already registered me, Cooper and Katie on the Run for Steve Damm team, and I hope at least 100 folks will join us.

If you register before this Sunday, you'll save $5 on registration.

The details:

• Head for the Cure 5K (and fun run for children)
• Money raised goes to Brain Tumor Trials Collaborative in an effort to defeat brain tumors.
• 8 a.m., Saturday, May 12, 2012 (with separate start times for runners and walkers -- you don't have to be a runner to join us!)
• Frisco Square, Frisco, Texas
• When you register, choose the team option and choose "Run for Steve Damm"
• Click here to read more about the event.
• Click here to begin registration.
• Email Tyra at tyradamm@gmail.com if you have any questions!

Merry Christmas!

The perfect antidote to missing Steve on our third Christmas without him: these two spirited, joyful, sweet souls. Eighteen years ago today, Steve asked me to marry him. I thought his proposal was the best Christmas gift I could ever receive. That was before we had Cooper and Katie and the realization that children are perpetually the best gifts.

***

We discovered this note and a stocking filled with goodies for me on the front porch this morning. Thank you, mysterious elf!

***

Cooper this morning: "I wonder what Christmas in heaven is like." (pause) "I'll bet Daddy is dancing right now."

Worldly wise

This blog launched four years ago today.

Thank you, dear blog readers, for being a part of our lives the past four years. Thank you for praying with us and for us, for voting on names for the despicable tumor and Steve's snazzy walker, for posting notes of encouragement and advice.

***

Last night I was working on deadline from home, waiting for a certain football game to end so that I could copy edit a news story about the (ultimately disappointing) game. While waiting, I exchanged text messages with Julie.

I noted that exactly four years ago at that moment, I was on the phone with someone -- could have been one of any number of kind people I called to "interview" that night -- to gather information about what to do about a mass in Steve's brain stem.

I talked to doctors and journalists and cancer survivors and brain tumor survivors. Not a single one a stranger. Everyone of them a friend. (One of countless signs of God in the midst of the crisis.)

Cooper was 6. Katie was 2.

Katie at 6 now is so different than Coop at 6 then. She is exponentially more wise to the world now than he was then.

She learned at a young age how to adjust to changes -- different people helping with preschool drop-off and pick-up, nap and bedtime routines. Our circle of caregivers necessarily grew to trusted folks -- family members and friends who are family.

Her memories of life before Steve's cancer are fuzzy, mostly limited to family stories and photos.

She grew up thinking that it's normal for a parent to spend days at a time in a hospital or weeks at a time in a hospital bed at home. And that it's typical for a parade of generous people to deliver dinners and pecan pie.

She's learned that in crisis, we rely on strength from within and on help from loved ones and on strength from God.

She knows that death is inevitable. That death is permanent. That life is extra special.

My friend Kerith reminded me tonight that while Katie is more worldly wise, she's also stronger than she would have been otherwise.

To be honest, I would have preferred she gain her strength an entirely different way. But I'm also thankful that of the many possible directions our lives could have taken after Steve's death, this is the direction we're in. That I get to be Katie's mom and Cooper's mom. That I am allowed to guide these two worldly wise and strong souls.

Cooper & Katie, Dec. 11, 2011

On Steve's bench, Holy Covenant UMC, Carrollton

Strength

Looming on my calendar: Dec. 11 and the words "First MRI day."

Dec. 11, 2007, was the day that Steve and I stood next to a radiologist in a dark room at Baylor Frisco and stared at an image showing a lesion in Steve's brain stem.

Since that day I have had a handful of breakdowns -- moments in which I was unable to function. These breakdowns lasted at most 20 minutes.

The first was just after Steve's biopsy, when the neurosurgeon explained to me and Steve's parents and brother that preliminary results indicated a grade IV glioblastoma, a diagnosis that offered very, very little hope. My sobs in the middle of an M.D. Anderson waiting room were uncontrollable.

The last (so far) was in the moments after Steve died. And a few hours later, when I woke from an involuntary nap and realized all over again that Steve had died.

I've made countless mistakes in the past four years. I've cried more days than I haven't. I've complained to the folks who I know don't mind listening to my complaints.

Still, I marvel at the strength that has propelled me through the past four years, more than half of it now without my person, my Steve, by my side.

It's strength that I know, without question, comes from God.

This morning I led my junior high Sunday school class through a lesson on prayer. We talked about the power of prayer, not in terms of what it moves God to do but what it moves us to do.

We talked about a two-way conversation with God, in which we pray and then listen for God's response.

Of my many prayers this week, one is thanksgiving for a never-ceasing supply of strength. Another is thanksgiving for God's steadfastness and consistency and endurance while we struggle with turmoil and tragedy and uncertainty.

I hope to do a better-than-usual job of waiting for God's reply.

"I can do all things through Him who strengthens me."

(Philippians 4:13)

Couples bunco

I've been part of a neighborhood bunco group, started by friend Jackie, for more than six years. 

2008 version of our group

Twelve women meet in someone's home once a month. We visit, eat dinner and then roll dice. Winners and the biggest losers take home prizes.

It's been a wonderful way to turn neighbors into friends. (In fact, this circle of friends was integral in supporting our family while Steve was ill and while we mourned his death.)

December is always couples bunco. Husbands come along for the feast and stay to play, with spouses alternating turns at the table.

Steve loved couples bunco. He loved visiting with neighbors and being silly and working hard to roll three sixes.

I no longer love couples bunco, in the same way that I don't love parties at which I'm the only one without a significant other. Steve was definitely the more social member of this marriage. He thrived on interaction with lots of people, whereas I'm often exhausted by it. (In Myers-Briggs lingo, he was an E and I am an I.)

But I don't dread it this year like I did in 2009. I really am happy to go and visit and eat and roll some dice.

As I was pushing Cooper toward bed tonight, I told him that bunco is tomorrow night.

"Is it couples bunco?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"Oh, Mommy, I'm sorry."

"Why? I'm looking forward to it."

"Well, 'cause you know, Daddy. You don't have Daddy to go with you."

At this moment I was thinking of how sensitive my 10-year-old son is. And then ...

"I mean, everyone else will be hugging all the time and you won't have anyone to hug."

At this moment I burst into laughter, imagining what Cooper must think couples bunco is all about.

Steve would have laughed, too.

Found

We spent most of Thanksgiving break at Rich and Ami's home in Austin. (You can read about our traditional-yet-evolving feast here.)

On Friday we were joined by Tim and Cheryl and most of their crew of (adult) kids and grandkids. It was wonderful to spend time with family members we hadn't seen in a while. Cousin Jamie gave me an old photo (circa 1999, we think) that I'd never seen. 

The photo was taken in the Morgan's Point Resort living room of my beloved grandparents. Our theory is that we were playing charades -- it looks like Melane is writing phrases and Steve is thinking of phrases to write. (Games were a big part of life at Gramma and Grandpa's house.)

I love the photo for so many reasons, including some noted here. (You'll need to click on the photo for a larger view to appreciate all the details.) (And I've labeled the dolls as Barty & Batista, but that may actually be Antonio, not Barty.)