Author amykoehn

Smells Like Home

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I normally have several pictures from the annual event.  Pictures of apples on trees, pictures of LM picking his first apple. Pictures of LM eating his third apple.  Pictures of bushels and bushels of apples. 

But when we went to the orchard this year, it was raining.  Not just raining, pouring.  Not just pouring, but it had been raining for more than 24 hours and would continue to rain for another 24 after that.  It was a muddy, mucky, rainy mess.  Fortunately for us, it wasn’t cold.
We could have waited another weekend.  We could have gone this past weekend instead of the one before when we needed Noah along to help us navigate through the flood.  But the 13th is when they were opening the orchard to pick Honey Crisp apples.  And we only wanted Honey Crisp apples. And if we didn’t pick on the 13th, they would be gone.
(I took this picture just this weekend.  Not in the pouring rain, obviously.  But you can see the varieties of apples available and that the honey crisp are long gone.)

We weren’t the only crazy ones.  Our car was 20 cars back in line just to get in to the orchard.  But we came prepared.   With a borrowed wagon and bags from last year’s pick, we were in and out in less than a half hour.  Out with 140 pounds of apples.  
And we were soaked.  But we were laughing.  And I wouldn’t trade the memories for the world.
In a week’s time, I canned 49 jars of applesauce and baked one apple pie (by request of LM).  
I cannot put into words the joy I get from canning.  I love it.  I love the smell in the house.  I love the feeling of accomplishment, slow but sure.  I love lining up the jars in my pantry.  I love peeling apple after apple.  I just love it.  Maybe it makes me feel like a good mother.  Maybe it makes me feel like a good wife (lacking the husband).  Maybe it just makes me appreciate God’s creation.  Short of digging in dirt in the spring, there is nothing that comforts my soul like canning applesauce.

Thank You

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For all the prayers, for the concern, for the love, for the kindness.  Thank you for those who have supported Pam who didn’t even know her.  Thank you for those of you who donated to the Light the Night Benefit that LM and I participated in on Saturday.  Your thoughtfulness means the world to me.
The Light the Night Benefit for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society was
hard to participate in without Pam
But there were so many of us there including two of her brothers in support of her,
honoring her memory and hoping to help find a cure and to help support those fighting the disease.  
The Kalamazoo/Battle Creek walk raised over $122,500.
As I stood holding a gold balloon – the color that honors someone we’ve lost – I told LM that I hope when he is my age cancer is something old-fashioned, a disease people used to die from but one that we have since found a cure for.  
I hope.
I pray.

In Memory Of Pam

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LM and I will be walking in the Light the Night walk for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Cancer Society on Saturday evening.  

I have a donation site if anyone is interested, but in no way should you feel an obligation.  I just wanted to make it available for anyone who wanted to contribute.
I know Pam benefited from the research and assistance this organization provided for her.  While her life was not spared, perhaps we can spare others.  
My friend Julie has a little one fighting leukemia as well.  I’m sure you know of others, too.

Do You…

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…know how much it meant to me that you dropped everything to come keep me company even after I said no, stay home, even after I reminded you I’d be miserable company, you still came.

…know how sweet it was that you brought me flowers, gave me a huge hug and asked so many times how I was – really – ?

…know how much I appreciated the gentleness and tenderness that you treated me with when my heart was breaking?

…know how touched I was that you sat and played poker with a reluctant risk-taker, and a horrible bluffer when you could have been home enjoying the games?

…know how wonderful it was for me to see the Rentals? To hug them both and hear their giggles when LM read them Cat in the Hat with an English accent?

…know how nice it was when you cooked dinner?

…know how much I absolutely love the jersey, even though it somehow feels inappropriate to accept it now? My favorite boy on my favorite team.

…know how much I worry that you’re doing all this to win me back?

…really believe me when I say I care about you but I can’t date you now?

…understand why?

…think we can really be just friends or is the only end to this a broken heart and bitter feelings?

…know how scared I am of becoming ‘that girl’? The one who takes advantage, who has no regard for the feelings and desires of the other, the one who will take in all the kindnesses without seeing or addressing the underlying message?

…know how relationships got so complicated in the first place?

…know that I do care – so much, in fact, that all of this worries me and makes me think I should close the door, even if you insist on leaving it open?

Dear Pam

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I came to see you today.  We haven’t talked since Tuesday and I missed your voice.  I knew there might be a lot of people there but I was taken back by how crowded it was.  It seems everyone wanted to see you today. 

While I waited for a moment to talk to you, I looked through your scrapbooks.  If I didn’t know how much you loved teaching, it sure shows in all the albums of all the years you’ve taught first grade.  Some of the pictures were hard to look at.  The ones from two years ago, when you were first diagnosed.  The ones where you had lost your hair and it was just beginning to grow back.  But the thing I noticed was how happy you were in every single picture.  Whether it was in your classroom or out with friends or walking at Relay for Life, or playing board games with your family, you are always smiling.
It had occurred to me over the weekend that I don’t have a single picture of you.  All of our time together was just casual fun and nothing that was camera worthy at the time.  When I looked at the boards full of pictures, though, I saw the one that you had taken of all of us at Relay this year.  It’s not just of us, but it’s of a group of your friends, which seems appropriate.  I bet fifty people consider you on of their best friends.  I know I do.
I saw Samantha there.  I wonder what she might think.  She was so cute in your classroom last year.  Now a big second grader.  Did I tell you that I see Zoe every day getting off the bus?  She helps her little brother Gabe get to Kindergarten now.  She’s as adorable as ever.  Always reminds me of you as she just epitomizes your class last year.  
When I did get a moment with you, I wasn’t alone.  Michelle wanted us to see you together, and it seemed like she needed someone to be her strength, so I did.  I know you would have, too.  She talked about how you came to her room that Thursday and asked for a hug.  It’s so like you.  It’s the only thing you ever asked for.  
I have to apologize, I didn’t speak with all of your family that was there.  They don’t know me, and I am sure that my words have been repeated over and over all day.  I actually was trying to leave, not that I wanted to leave you, but all those people, all that crying, I’m sure you would have been uncomfortable there, too.  As I left I saw our principal.  She hugged me and we talked for a moment, but I was losing control of my tears and so I left.
Which is when I saw Sue.  I know you told me to look out for her.  You said on Tuesday that she was taking all of this so hard, and I promised you I would be there for her.  But she was the one who held me up in that foyer.  I met her parents and her stepkids.  I know I should have stayed to be there if she needed me, but I wasn’t strong enough today.  I will keep my promise to you, though, and I’ll be strong enough when she needs me to be.
I guess I’m just writing because I had things I wanted to say that I didn’t get a chance to.  I wanted to see you last week but this cold kept me out of the hospital room.  I know that was the smart decision at the time, but it makes me ache now.  Today I just wanted a great big Pam hug, but you couldn’t give any more hugs.  And I couldn’t even give one to you.
Pam, all those people in that room have known you for years.  Your siblings, your parents, your fellow teachers, even students.  I have only known you this past year.  I can’t even remember the exact day that we met, or when our relationship changed from me being your sub to us being friends.  I think with you, you’re already friends with someone whenever you meet them.  You have been my biggest supporter this past year; my biggest encourager.  You’ve demonstrated to me what a great teacher is, and what a great friend is.  You’ve been the role model for me that has shown me how to blend my Christian faith into my friendships, my teaching and my professional life.  You were the first person to tell me of the openings at school and the first person to call and ask how my interviews went.  You were unabashedly honest with me when I interviewed elsewhere about your hope that I get my own classroom but your selfish desire that I get one at your school.  
And I did.  Just down the hall from Room 3.  Pam’s room.  
Tomorrow I would have taught your class for the first time.  I know we were both looking forward to that.  And our every other week lunches together.  I will miss those.
I know why you can’t be here for me to talk to.  I know where you are and I am truly so very happy for you.  I know that God’s arms opened wide when you arrived and I  know without a doubt that while you weren’t rewarded here on earth with a longer life, a loving husband, or children of your own, I know that your blessings are eternal ones and God has great plans for you in Heaven.  
But I want you to know how much I’m going to miss you.  How much I was looking forward to our friendship growing this year.  How much I still had to learn from you.  
I will keep an eye on Sue.  And on Room 3.  I will try my best to love all my students with the heart you loved your students with.  And I will try to remember how selfless you were in this life and to be much the same.
I love you, Pam.  I miss you like crazy already.  I don’t wish you back, as I know you are dancing with your brother and you are rejoicing with God, but I look forward to the day when I can see you again.  I can only imagine how great that hug will feel.
Love always, in Christ,
Amy

The Color of the Day

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This week at school the first graders have been learning their color words.  We were asked as a staff to wear the appropriate color each day.  I gave up after three days when I realized I didn’t own anything red, orange or purple.  

It was at lunch that I heard the news.  It didn’t even make sense to me for the first few minutes and even after it did, I realized it was more devastating to those around me and so I toughed it out and filled in for those that needed to leave.
Pam died today.
And an entire elementary school grieved with the news.
And while I can soothe myself knowing that she’s in Heaven dancing with her brother.  While I know that it’s better this way than to have suffered through months of treatment to arrive at the same end.  Today, with rain pouring down, my heart aches for a woman that was a best friend to hundreds of people.
It wasn’t until later, when I was welcoming a first grade class into the library that it struck me.  It was all I could do to keep myself together and read to the kids.
Nearly every teacher in the building and seven classrooms of students, including Pam’s class, were all wearing black.
Today is a very black day indeed.

Prayers for Pam

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I haven’t blogged in a week, I realize.  After Pam went into the hospital, nothing really seemed worthy of blogging.  My horrible fantasy football games?  The fact that my cable was finally shut off six months after I stopped service (but the day before football started?)  Nothing seems important or funny or worthwhile. 

I don’t have good news.  Pam’s blood won’t clot.  When the body suffers a trauma (say, like, leukemia) it sometimes decides it’s not going to clot anymore.  It’s life threatening.  She can’t open an envelope.  She can’t brush her teeth.  She can’t do anything that might cause her to bleed.  Because she might not stop.  
To treat the condition (DCIS) they have to treat the leukemia.  So arsenic it is.  Pam’s already had 3/4 of a lifetime dose of it, but they’re going to try another 1/4.  
A bone marrow transplant is on the agenda.
A transfer to the University of Michigan hospitals for more advanced specialists and options is on the horizon.
She’s on extreme bed rest, unable to even get out of bed without alarms sounding and nurses scolding.  But she’s really too weak anyway.
When I talk with her, though, she’s still laughing.  And teasing her 78 year old mother about having another child to help cure her leukemia like the tabloids talk about.  She understands that the doctor has said she’ll have to take the entire year off teaching, but she was holding out hope since they wrote “a semester” on some paperwork.  
My heart just aches.  I struggle to find God’s meaning and purpose in all of this.  
I’m feeling guilty for feeling selfish.  I miss her at school.  I miss her on the phone.  I miss her funny emails and jokes about pixie sticks and apple pies.  I just plain miss her.  And I want to go see her, but I know she’s had too many visitors.  I know she needs to rest and wants to rest but won’t turn people away.  I know I have a sore throat and have no business going anywhere near the hospital right now.  But I want to see my dear friend, Pam.  I want to see the hope in her eyes and the optimism in her heart and I want it to wear off on me.  
I spent an afternoon with Pam this summer at Race for a Cure.  We sat at the auction and she bid on more things than she usually does and bought a $50 afghan that someone had made.  In addition to the hundreds of dollars she already spends on the event, she didn’t hesitate to spend more at the auction.  Today she said, “At least I made a big donation this summer.”
Unfortunately, it would seem leukemia doesn’t take bribes.  

Pam

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A year ago I didn’t even know her. She’s a teacher one that was born to educate and mold the minds of first graders. She’s hysterically funny but considers herself shy. She was my first friend after the move and my biggest encourager ever since. She was the most excited to hear I would be teaching in her building this year and will continue to push to help me land a full-time classroom position.

She invited me to school on Monday so I could show LM my classroom. I was as excited to see her as I was to see my room. We talked for over an hour. She had met LM before, but she was quickly entertained by him. Pam has never married, although I can’t figure out just why no man hasn’t fallen for her.

I noticed the bruises then, but didn’t say much. I don’t want to act concerned when it’s her cancer we’re discussing. If she wasn’t worried, I’d try not to be, too. She excused them away, she’d been carrying in loads of things to get her room set up. I nodded and agreed, but wondered about the back of her arm, the back of her leg…

I was thrilled today to walk in and see her. We hugged and cheered that we’d be seeing each other every day this year. I caught her from time to time in the hallway with her kids – she told me one of her students had asked why her shirt was fuzzy. “Cat + black shirt = fuzz” she answered in typical Pam fashion.

It was at lunch that our concern racheted up a notch. Others had noticed the bruises and some she’d known for longer, known when she was fighting leukemia asked if she’d made the calls yet. She’d tried, but had gotten an answering service for the cancer center. She’d try again after lunch she promised. We tried not to talk about it. But in just one day I saw more bruises, more colors, more inexplicable marks. I was genuinely scared.

While it was only a half day for students, she intended on staying in her classroom until 5. I had training until 3 but told her I’d stop by before I left for the day. She poked her head into our training an hour later and said she was going to get her blood count checked. She wasn’t in her room when I stopped by.

When I called later, the news wasn’t good. Platelets are low. Not as low as when she was originally diagnosed, but low enough they want to see her on Friday for a bone marrow draw. She’s been through this before. It isn’t fun and it didn’t come out well the first time.

My heart sank with the news. For all she’s so recently been through, just two short years ago, with her hair finally getting longer again, she’s faced with the same fears, the same worries, perhaps the same outcome.

The first day back, the first day with her new students, the first week of school and classes and she has this weighing on her mind. I pray that God lifts her burden. I pray that He takes this out of her and keeps it from her. I pray that the draw on Friday is not the outcome that seems so likely. I pray.

For it’s all I know to do.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

Back In The Saddle

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I was busy cleaning out the last of four closets when LM said he thought it was time I started dating again. I stopped and stared at him. “It hasn’t been much more than a week, LM. Seriously.”

“I know, Mom, but I think I found the perfect guy for you.

“He doesn’t snore, he doesn’t stay out late with all his friends, he’s polite, he never argues…”

“LM, what on earth are you talking about?”

“I found the perfect guy for you, Mom. All you have to do is add water.”

And that’s when I realized. He had found the boyfriend Mig had sent to me last year. (Cause that’s what friends are for, to send you a boyfriend in case you ever need one.) He must have fallen out of one of the boxes I had just emptied.

I’ll admit. There are some qualities about him that I do like. He doesn’t talk about himself and all his accomplishments. He doesn’t belch after dinner. He doesn’t insist on listening to RunDMC while driving. But I think he’s been spending a bit too much time at the tanner, and he needs to learn not to slurp the foam off his beer and there’s this whole growing-shrinking-growing thing he’s supposed to do, that, well frankly I’m not even sure Cialis could help. But even if I could get past that, when push comes to shove, he obviously just came out of the closet. And we all know I’ve been down that road before.

365 Days

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A year ago, we moved.  We had sold our home in 8 short days and moved two very short weeks later.  I had packed up LM and everything we owned and drove halfway across the country to start again.  I moved without a job, without income, without any sense of how I was actually going to make it all work.

And in the past year I found my heart.  I found myself standing in an elementary classroom wondering how on earth I ever left it for ten years.  I found my relationship with my son growing closer, getting better, not buckling under the strain as I feared it might.  We found a church, and this summer, found another.  I started dating again and let myself let go for a short while, letting someone else in for a change.  
It has been a year of faith.  Of believing there is a plan bigger than what I can see.  That there is someone in control who knows more, knows better, knows more completely what I need than I do.  
I cannot say I didn’t have my doubts.  I cannot say I didn’t lay awake at night and fear.  I had times where the tears wouldn’t stop.  Where doubt ruled my mind.  Where hopelessness nearly overtook me while I waited for the next paycheck, waited to sell the house, waited to see if LM’s school was the right decision.
But today, a year later, I can say confidently that God knows better than I do.  That He will lead if I will let him.  That He can not only take me to places I’ve never been, but can fill my heart with joy I’ve never known. 
As I look back, and then look ahead to a year of teaching in a paraprofessional position, to another year of bonding with my son, to a year of trusting and faith and paying the bills with a fraction of what we used to have, I have confidence.  I have hope.  I have immeasurable joy.
And I have faith.
Let go, let God.  And He will fill you heart with joy and blessing.