The Katalyst

I am a “public speaking’ junkie - meaning I LOVE to listen, observe, and learn from people who have turned this particular ‘job’ into an art form.

You know….the kind of person who wraps their words around the room to keep any other thoughts from entering your brain? You are focused. You are inspired. You are engrossed. You laugh and if you are as sensitive as I am, you might feel you eyes well as they share.

I heard one of those people today at Blissdom.

His name is Kevin Carroll.  On his site, he is described as an “author, public speaker and an agent for social change or a ’Katalyst’.” His story is riveting.

His message: to apply the lessons you learned on the playground to your daily life (like maximizing your day speaking up and expect the unexpected) and to embrace ‘play’ and passion.  I love that.

I mean, I really love that.  I thrive on hearing stories like his and love to walk away inspired.

And that is what I am doing.

He is, as billed, a Katalyst.

He said, She said

If you have more than one child - and both of those children are of a speaking age - you will likely understand my life.

Delaney is 5.  Cooper is 3.

Apparently, their recent birthdays were the trigger for constant squabble.

He says, “I see an airplane.”

She says, “That’s not an airplane.”

“Yes it is.” “No its not”

And so on.

She sings, “The sun’ll come OUUUUUUT…..”, He sings louder. 

She says, “Sttooooooppp it!!” And he turns the volume up even more.

They argue over who has seen the most imaginary tractors out their car windows, who is standing too close to whom, who gets to close the car door, the refrigerator door and the door to the house.

They battle about flushing the toilet, sitting on my lap, eating their cereal and who is ‘the tallest’.

They yank toys from each other’s hands, yell, ‘that’s mine!”, ignore requests for peace and tackle instead and have even resorted to a little pushing and shoving.

And right when I think my head might explode, I hear, “Come here, Buddy, do you want me to read to you?” or “Damey, can I sleep in your bed tonight?  I love you.”

And I remember I must be doing something (small) right.

Confession

There is a gargantuan full moon hanging by a thread in the night sky.  I can see it out my kitchen window.  But I can’t really appreciate it, because all I can think is - it is midnight and I am still up.

I should be sleeping so I am rested for the morning when the small people inevitably wake me up - sometimes with a snuggle and sometimes with an elbow to the ribs.

But I don’t want to sleep.  I want to work. I want to write.  I want to finish proposals and posts, emails and comments. I want to edit video and upload. I want to prepare speeches and finish books.

And that is selfish.

Really selfish.  Because right now?  I have no desire to play Barbies, to read children’s books, to make beds, to play Bingo or to color.  And that is terrible, right?

My small people begin their true school journey in two weeks.  Delaney starts full-day kindergarten and Cooper will leave me for the very first time - heading to preschool three mornings a week. That means I have 14 days to soak them in - to absorb their giggles, their smells, their sweet ‘kishes and hugs’ and even their sassy ways.  As of August 20th, there is no turning back.  I will never get this time again: when they are three and five and still think I am worth all the love they can give.

And yet, I want to work. It makes me feel sick to my stomach to even write that sentence.  If there was a way to make those words teeny-tiny, like a whisper, I would. 

I should be wanting to nibble their little elbows, to tickle their toes, to dance aimlessly to the Jungle Book and sing The little Mermaid at the very tip-top of my lungs.

But I don’t. 

And that makes me feel guilty. As though there is some mothering test I am currently failing.

When I’m with them, when I’m not with them, I adore them.  They make me whole.

But there is this other piece of me. I have been starving for some adult fulfilment that only comes in the form of a business task accomplished, a consultation given, a proposal written, a speech delivered, a video edited, or a post breathed into life on the page.

And so, my internal battle wages.

And I know who will win.

Mommy always wins. And that is ok. Because I won’t get this time back.

Danielle, the worker-bee can wait. Danielle, the Mommy can’t.

Faith

It is such a tiny word.

Five little letters.

But such an enormous impact.  Do you have faith? Do you struggle with faith?

I keep asking myself these questions.  Where does faith fit into my life?  I have been surrounded by religion since birth.  I’ve always believed in God. 

But, while it is next to impossible to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, I’m fairly certain Jenn and Chris Hawn could run faith rings around me.

They buried their six month old son today.  They stood at his tiny casket and greeted friends and family one by one.  They cried together, they hugged, they accepted condolences.  As I touched them, I found myself tilting my head, looking for the faith dust that must surely be sprinkled on their shoulders.  They were smiling slightly through suffering. They were talking about the moment Ryan passed late Monday night - in their arms, in their bed. They are sure Ryan smoothly took Jesus’ hand and with the most amazing vision, left one life for another.

I am in awe.  Strong faith appears to bring clarity and personal healing in a way I can hardly fathom.  I am envious of a trait I am certain I do not possess.

Again, I believe in God.  I pray daily.  We talk about religion. My kids sing songs about Jesus and God with the most pure voices. It often moves me to tears. I see God in them.

But somehow I don’t think you truly know where you stand on faith - on true, honest, I-feel-God-in-my-soul faith until you experience something that makes you question.  It is at that moment that you decide: Can my faith carry me through this?  Do I believe enough?

I imagine Jenn and Chris ‘questioned’ when they found out Ryan had Spinal Muscular Atrophy.  I imagine they ‘questioned’ when they understood they would have less than a year to absorb his existence.  But I believe they got the answer they needed on Monday.

And that answer, that faith, is what gave them the iron clad strength to wrap a blanket around Ryan today, looking for all the world like he had just gone to sleep, to say goodbye, and to believe in their hearts he is in a better place and they will see him again.

(If these had not been sentiments they actually expressed to me, I would never presume to say them. I think I am too selfish to be capable of wrapping my brain and heart around this level of faith - hence I am amazed by them.)

As they both leaned in and kissed Ryan goodbye, a silent roar filled my ears. As they closed the casket, a two ton elephant took up residence on my chest, pressing all the air from my lungs. As Jenn lay for a moment across the casket, I closed my eyes and silently willed her the faith she needed to stand up again. And she did it.

Tucked neatly beside their little boy, a small piece of their souls will keep him warm and loved until they can see him again.

I most certainly have faith in that.

(A final note - please stop by Jenn’s site to sign the petition on the right hand side - your signature will help to battle SMA - the disease that took Ryan away from his family. Thank you for caring.)