It’s The Little Things in Life That Make The Greatest Difference
How Two Tiny Cheerios Brought Me Back From The Edge
Friday morning, March 4th, 10:30 am ~ I was sitting in my van, crying. I was so crushed and overwhelmed by everything going on.
I literally threw up my hands, looked up, and said, ‘Jesus, take the wheel! I can’t do this anymore!’
On top of the pressure that we are all feeling because of the pandemic and the situation in Ukraine, I’d been bombarded all week.
My home life is amazing… or at least it would be if I could somehow manage to keep the outside world out. We live on an isolated farm and can’t even see our closest neighbor.
We are relatively self-sufficient and have managed to get through the last two years relatively unscathed. None of us has had Covid. We’ve managed to keep our pantry, fridge, and freezer full, and all of our bills paid. We aren’t rich by any means, but we’ve kept enough money coming in to not have to worry too much about it. We’re pretty lucky that way and I thank God for those blessings every single day.
With the recent rising costs of everything, though, I’m having to actually really start thinking about our budget. That’s a tough one when you make your living farming. In case you weren’t aware, when the cost of everything else goes up, the bottom falls out of the livestock market. Our calf check for last year was almost one-third lower than 2020 and just our utility bills for the last two months have almost tripled. We also didn’t really qualify for much in the way of pandemic relief benefits from the government. I know that some families received tens of thousands of dollars, we got less than one thousand.
I never used to even think about how much it cost me to drive from point A to point B. If I wanted to go, I went. The last time I filled up my vehicle, I calculated that the cost for me just to drive to town is $30. That night, I thanked God again when I saw that gas pricing had taken another 11-cent-per-liter jump, and they are set to increase again on April 1st.
As if the situation in Ukraine, the pandemic controversies, and the pinched wallet weren’t pressure enough weighing on my mind and heart, we’d lost 4 friends last week. (There’s a link below to a story about 2 of those losses that hit me hard.)
The one and the only reason I had come to town on Friday morning were to support my baby brother. I’d called him Tuesday morning and told him of the loss of someone he held dear to his heart. He’s been battling meth addiction for decades but hasn’t been doing too bad lately. I’d told him to call me if the pipe was calling him. I’d promised him that I would pick him up to take him to the service.
I called him before I left the farm to give him a half-hour warning. He didn’t answer, but I went anyway. I tried to call him 3 more times on my way to town. I had visions of him lying somewhere, dead from an overdose. I prayed.
‘Dear God, don’t let him be number 5. I don’t think I can handle any more.’
When I knocked on his door his roommate answered. He had to go and drag my brother out of bed. I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions when I finally saw him standing in front of me.
He was so wasted that he had to grip the door just to be able to stand. I was relieved and, out loud, I thanked God that he was at least alive.
I was overwhelmed by guilt, as I took him into my arms and cried. I apologized as I hugged him tightly. He was damp with sweat, the stink of meth oozing from every pore. I should have called, but there was so much going on and I thought he’d have called me if he needed me.
He told me not to blame myself, it wasn’t my fault. He cried too.
I took a step back. I told him I’d go to the service on my own. He should get himself cleaned up, have a coffee, brush his hair. I’d call him after the service, before the luncheon, and see if he wanted to come for that. If not I could at least pick him up and take him out for a coffee.
He said that would be good.
I told him again that I love him and walked back to my van. Grief, guilt, and pain weighed heavy on a broken heart. I sat in my van and cried. I prayed because I can’t do this. I couldn’t face the people at the funeral. I didn’t want them to see me so broken.
🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏
Once I was seated in the church, I looked around. Seated just a few rows ahead of me were my ex-husband’s mother and sister. I fought the overwhelming urge to get up and flee as though my very life depended on it.
I again found myself looking heavenward. ‘God, really!?! You KNOW I’m not ready for that one! What am I supposed to do?’
My mother-in-law and sister-in-law are beautiful people and I love them both dearly, but I had not seen or spoken to them much since he and I had split in 2004. The marriage had been horribly violent and I had fled in the middle of the night, in fear for mine and my two children’s lives.
My mother-in-law had called me in early December to tell me that he had died of a drug overdose. We had talked on the phone a few times since then. She always begged me to stop in for lunch the next time I came to town, but I hadn’t yet.
I know that she worries about me and that day I was already a mess, between the funeral and my brother’s relapse. I didn’t think I could possibly handle such an emotional reunion, especially not in public like this.
Throughout the service, they hadn’t noticed me. I thought I may have dodged a bullet. As people filed out of the chapel, following the casket, I stepped aside to let them pass. When my mother-in-law and sister-in-law came through the doorway, Mom looked frail and defeated. My sister-in-law was looking around at all the people that she wanted to reach out to. Her eyes filled with tears as she patted Mom’s hand gently, and supported her to help her walk.
Silently, I slid over and took Mom’s other arm. Mom let go of her daughter and held me tight. Both of them let out gasps and whispered my name. Tears filled their eyes, as my sister-in-law stepped forward to hug her friends that desperately needed her.
We chatted briefly. I assured her that I was okay and so was my family. I explained what was happening with my brother and promised if I didn’t come back in to see her during the luncheon that I would come by her house before going home. Then I slipped away from the crowd to call my brother.
He didn’t answer.
💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔
I spent the rest of the afternoon at the luncheon sipping coffee with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Mom shed a lot of tears that day.
She’d been distraught, wondering if her son had accepted Christ. She felt like they had failed him.
They were white Christians that had adopted an indigenous toddler with FASD (Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder) before we knew anything about indigenous culture, the long-term residual effects of residential schools, or FASD. They did the very best they could with the tools they had at the time.
Now that I am raising a grandchild with FASD I was able to shed some new light on what made him do some of the things he did throughout his life for her. I was able to explain that there is a genuine disconnect between their brains and their hearts sometimes. They often act before a thought even fully develops in their mind, let alone before the brain can receive a message from the heart about whether it is right or wrong.
Thankfully God judges us on our hearts. He fully understands what happens with these kinds of disabilities. If she and I could know that deep down inside my ex-husband had a good, kind heart, then God knows it too. If we could still love him, so did God.
💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞
I got home just one hour before I had to taxi my granddaughter to her youth group. I’d have about an hour and a half at home while she was there. I had groceries to put away, and chores to do before I had to go pick her up. It was all so rushed.
I was an emotional mess. Everything weighed heavy on my heart. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I sat in my van waiting for her to come out of the church. As the teens filed out of the church, I felt compelled to go inside and ask the youth pastor to pray with me.
When he asked me why I needed prayer, I told him that the day had been particularly hard and needed help to carry the heavy burden. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. None of the heavy emotions I was dealing with were mine! I rephrased my request. ‘I need God to show me how to give this burden over to him completely!’
When we got home, I told everyone to fend for their own supper and retreated to my office, hoping for some quiet time.
My granddaughter had decided to have a bowl of Cheerios. She came to my office door and said, ‘I know you are sad right now and I have something for you.’ With that, she placed two tiny, heart-shaped Cheerios on my desk.
‘That’s really cool,’ I said, ‘I didn’t see anything on the box about them being heart-shaped!’
‘There isn’t,’ she said.
Those tiny, heart-shaped Cheerios, given me by my granddaughter were a reminder that I was loved… not just by her but also by God. They also showed me that I’m not the only person in the world that cares. Obviously, someone at General Mills does, too.
Sometimes, hope, strength, and love are restored by shutting out all of the big, heavy, and emotional stuff that is going on around us and just zooming in on the little things.
You can find more details on the emotional rollercoaster I’d been on by reading this poem:
There are more details on 2 of the 4 deaths that I’d heard about and how intense it was, here:
An overview of what makes up my family unit:
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