Searching for resolve.


“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

A passionately distressed father said to me today, “I will not let the mistakes of adults bear weight on my children. My children should not have to suffer for the mistakes of adults. It is not going to happen, not in my house!” I stared at him and I could feel his anger. I could hear fatherly concern for the wellbeing of his children and the impact adults do have on them, their future kind of lies in their hands. As I listened and felt absolute compassion for him, I couldn’t help say to myself, ‘but it is too late’. Our ancestors made mistakes, mentors have made mistakes, trusted ones have made mistakes, and we have all made mistakes. We have all been the mere product of humanity trying to not be influenced by the things done to us, but we remain bound to a mindset, not completely our own, for it has been bred through the lineage of mother and father, grandmother and grandfather. We want to break free from the cycle, but brokenness lies somewhere in the depths of all our beings. It can’t be escaped, but it can’t be ignored. I saw the love this man has for his children and for children in general. Pain is a beast, but it is also strength. It is a willing of improvement and a promise for betterment, if not today, then perhaps tomorrow.


Some days we have nothing more to say other than the word the baffled King himself would say, “Hallelujah.” We carry questions around our necks like precious, sacred jewellery. Sometimes these questions overwhelm, overtake, and over restrain us in a way in which we become stricken by the jagged burden of the deep pain done to a loved one, done to us. We can become possessive, protective, and even particular with this undistinguishable heaviness. Sometimes this piece is not ours to carry, or wear. Actually, it never is intended for us to claim ownership of. We must return it, to give away that which was never meant for us to take in the first place. We can do this with our children, our parents, our friends, our community, our nation, or our world. We fight ourselves with indignant weaponry. Is it for survival or for death? The only answer is love. Love outside. Love inside. Outside of our thickened walls of protection and inside the most vulnerable places unshielded to self. Deep sadness, fear, disbelief, and disappointment has no echo, only a constant sound than can be hindered by the gentle whisper of hope.




The definition of special is better, greater, or otherwise different from what is usual. Some synonyms would be exceptional, unusual, singular, uncommon, notable, noteworthy, remarkable, outstanding, and unique. Every day I realize that my third is growing more and more into just that, special. Sean and I have joked saying to each other how special he is or wow! that is so special, a very special choice you made there, putting a bobby pin in the car’s ignition. He is special. He is unlike his brother and his sister. I get frustrated with him, but mostly at myself thinking what right do I have to put him in a box or mold to be like someone else? He is his own unique, outstanding, remarkable self, with some pretty far out ideas, and does some pretty wild things that get him in noteworthy situations. And this is why I am dedicating this time….not sure how long it will be, but some time for sure, to put some of his awesomeness down on paper. I love this little kid, my little Dennis, I call him. He is special.
My morning was no different than any other morning, just I had gone to bed too late for my 35 year old frame, so to have him tell me at 6:30 it was time to go down-dairs and watch Paw Patrol, I was just not feeling it. He jumped out of my bed and ran into his room and I drifted back into sleep world. However, I woke up to him again staring at me. “DOWN DAIRS.” Soon, soon, I promised. Again I opened my eyes to see him staring at me, but in and out of consciousness I hear him tell me about a toy in his nose. I close my eyes again. Then I hear a noise in the bathroom. That is never a good thing with him. I do a supersonic flip out of the bed and run into the bathroom to find both drawers pulled out, scissors, toothpaste, make-up, and q-tips all over the floor. Grumble, grumble. I picked up the items with a foggy grace and stared at my ploughed through eye shadow, a beautiful array of shades of brown, stabbed to death by its loyal friend, the eye shadow brush, which is broken in half, as well. With a roll of the eye, insync with the roll of my head, I stare at myself in the mirror and realize how old I look and I really don’t want to watch Paw Patrol. I brush my teeth, as sweet little 3 brushes his, excited for this day.
Being that it is a Saturday, this means that child 1 and child 2 both have soccer games, but at different times. My mom came to meet us at the field and while we watched child 1 play her game, mom cuddled with little Dennis. She asked him if he was stuffy, for he seemed to be and when flipped his head back to tell her something and she instantly saw what appeared to be a fluorescent green bead stuffed up his nose. I went in MOTHER mode and grabbed his head a put my mouth over his, plugging his free nostril and blowing with all my might, which freaked him out, but did nothing for the green bead. I remembered when child 2 put a fistful of popcorn in his mouth last year, but somehow inhaled a kernel into his nose. It did go away in a couple of days, so the panic subsided, just not 100%. When we got home, he said how he wanted to get into his “yammies.” He ran upstairs to get his pajamas on, but while I was going to the bathroom, I could hear him screaming, thinking to myself his head is probably just stuck in his shirt, but no. He decided to go into our upstairs bathroom and shave his lips with a pink razor.
The special little boy with the band aid on his bottom lip and bead in his nose was just getting started, for it was just noon by this time. A half of a bottle of ketchup on the carpets going upstairs, a flooded upstairs bathroom sink, with soap suds covering the mirrors, nighttime was not coming soon enough.
My husband and I decided though, to try to once again to attempt the bead in the nose. So as I held him and tried to tell him stories or ask questions, Sean held a flashlight and a toothpick up his nose to maneuver the wee piece of plastic. When 3 had enough, we asked if he would want to try to blow his nose one more time, I held his free nostril again and like a rocket ship, that green bead shot out of his nostril in full force! FREEDOM!
Tomorrow is church. Lord keep us safe, especially our little Dennis.

River's bead