This week has been a doozy.

On Sunday, September 17, we said our final goodbyes to our much-beloved baby-old-man dog Shiloh. He was 14 years and 7 months old. 

Every year that we marked with him was a year I felt really blessed that he was still around. The dogs in my childhood all came to early and tragic deaths and I had sworn I’d never get a dog again because it was so painful to lose them. I remember crying into my pillow yeeeeeears after these dogs had crossed the rainbow bridge. Tears have never been hard for me to find. Alas, I grew up, got married, and then had a little girl who very badly wanted a puppy. She got one just before her 5th birthday and that was it. I was head over heels for a dog again.

Shiloh’s doggie life paired well with family life, and even now as I go back into my blog archives I can see that he was exactly the same dog through all the years. He always loved to shred tissues. He always wanted to be nearby us, a part of our pack. He loved eating all human food—including veggies, with the exception of undressed lettuce—and was never a snuggly dog. Livia marveled at a few photos of him cuddling with her on the floor of our first home and I assured her that I was very good at snapping photos quickly. He loved his kennel. He loved routine. He understood the pecking order in the house which gave him something of a respectful worship for Jeremy, a loving protective nature toward me, and a sibling relationship to Livia. With me he was equal parts sassy and adorable, and it didn’t help that I found much of his sassiness to be hilarious. I am a far cry from an efficient dog trainer. But with Jeremy’s affinity for structure our Shi was potty trained quickly and was an all-around terrific dog. His enthusiasm for greeting people at the front door was only tempered by hearing loss as he aged. He still surprised us with a few zoomies in these last years. Oh, and he loved to lick. He was a licker. Himself. Others. Obsessed. Kissed the back of Judy Schlarb’s teeth after bible study one day, and one time enjoyed slurping my mouth out when I was laughing so hard I accidentally shut my eyes. That’s not a mistake I made twice. 

This week has been the strangest week as we begin to adjust to life without our furry buddy. The tap-tap from his claws has gone silent. No little face appears in my doorway after the guys come over for D&D or Magic. There’s no heavy breathing coming around my side of the bed to see what crumbs have been dropped by the type 1 diabetic mom. No snuffling through the piles in Liv’s room, no nesting on her bed, no staring with rapt attention at the gecko. The morning shift of potty-treat-meds has been traded in for a quiet cup of coffee and time to sit. The evening shift of potty-kennel-treats is no longer necessary. The expenses of an old pup—medicines, dry and wet food, extra vet visits—have been replaced with grief take-out and grief coffees this week. The doorbell draws no barks and no front door scramble. It is quiet uptown… in a canine type of way. 

Shiloh ultimately succumbed to congestive heart failure. He lived about 15 months after the condition was diagnosed, which is fairly average I believe. I opted to medicate his little body for all of that time, but his coughing grew worse at the end of last week and his rapid and shallow breathing Sunday morning was not sustainable. I could not ask for more time with him. He had lived so well and so lovingly for so many days. There was truly nothing more to do and enjoy with Shi—we enjoyed each other so fully every day that choosing euthanasia was our final act of kindness for this furry boy who had shared his entire life with us. The emergency vet office here in Lincoln was extremely professional from my explorative phone call around noon to the moment we walked out of their clinic around three hours later. I have been afraid of having to put a pet down for my entire 45 years and in the oddest way possible it felt like a relief to have survived the weight of that event. The vet was incredible. Our boy was so very tired. He very gently and quietly experienced a final rest.

He was the best and I loved him more than words can express. 

Shiloh, we love you, bud. I will miss your perfect furry face forever. 

Thank you, God, for giving us this precious bit of fluff that brought so much joy and rhythm, hilarity and light to our days. We are grateful. We are sad, but we are grateful, too.

I’m actively posting graduation pictures of my one and only beloved (begotten?) daughter and I have near-constant flashes of school drop-offs in my head. The most challenging ones were in middle school.

So here is my gratitude list for those who helped us through every era and every episode of childrearing. 

• To those who heard me at my absolute worst, ie, when my middle schooler refused to get out of the car and go to school. Or when she refused to stand up (on E Street, at amusement parks, at the zoo–look, it happened a lot) I was HOT. I said things. Unpretty, ungracious things. You heard me and responded with love and guess what? WE DID IT. We survived. No, scratch that… WE THRIVED.
• To those who came and took my kid to school on some mornings. Okay, that was Dad. Thank you, Dad. You and mom and grandma and grandpa deserve so much more than mere words but that’s all I’ve got at present.
• To those who literally put my kid in a bathtub and bathed her. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. May your mansions in heaven be filled with every kind of delicious baked good and coffee that never runs out.
• To those who hugged my kid and loved her. To those who hugged me and loved me.
• To those who took my credit and insurance cards, those who scheduled appointments, those who dealt with canceled appointments and the rare completely-forgot–about-it appointments. Bless you. But even more to those who walked into counseling offices and counseled us, to those who walked into medical offices and gave high fives and cheered her on. You deserve all the stars in the sky for your care for us.
• To those who taught. Oh, our dear teachers. Some of you were only okay but some of you were the most stellar people on planet earth. To those who gave tough love. To those who bandaged knees and gave tylenol and provided kotex. To those who listened and reasoned and still persevered and taught new things. I see you and I am you and we needed you at every single turn for the past however many years it took to earn a high school diploma. Some of you have been around that IEP table with us for years and I thank you for your longevity and ability to really see my girl.
• To those who simply received this fabulous kid and believed in her from day one. To those who saw her light and didn’t demand she become someone else. To those who encouraged her writing and sculpting and drawing and horseback riding and love of every single animal on God’s green earth. Thank you for the opportunities you’ve given her to grow.
• To the aunts and uncles who cheered her on. Biological, adopted, and honorary. 

Memories are drifting in and out of my mind while I get ready to host a party to celebrate this moment. You are all a part of our journey and I’m grateful times a thousand for you.

Post written in 2018 but not published until now.

I had a dream last night…

[and there goes all readers but my mom]

…where two of our foster children came back to us. Our little boys brought a baby brother this time and—in that weird way dreams go—they required a lot of care, as in, all of them were babies with really bad diapers. I was weary in parenting them but also very happy and I remember exclaiming to Jeremy how wonderful it was that I didn’t have a job yet so I could be free to care for them.

I woke up and felt crushed. Crushed with the fact that carrying children in your heart once means you carry them there always. These little boys are my question marks. I’ve tried to figure out where they are and if they’re being cared for, but every avenue pursued for information has been a dead end. I also felt vulnerable, as though Freud himself was examining my dreams and floated out two very big and confusing life issues all in one relatively brief moment of REM.

My life now doesn’t look the way I intended it to. This is quite a theme for me, and sometimes the pain of it will seemingly come out of nowhere and smack me in the face, just like the dream did from last night. As I get older and meet more people, I’m keenly aware that not everyone knows my story. What is obvious about us Tredways is that we have one child. And good grief, sometimes that really kills me. What’s not so obvious is that we said a thousand yeses prior to our four years in foster care and all throughout our time welcoming children in our home. We said yes to adopting children two years before Livia arrived and we haven’t ever closed that door really. We said yes to biological children from the time Livia was one. We loved our peanut baby who is now in heaven, and I went through multiple surgeries and drugs to conceive, all with a no as the final answer. And then we rolled the dice big time and started caring for other people’s children through foster care. We knew reunification was the goal and always cheered on the parents whose lives we were privileged to join for a time. Meanwhile we said yes; yes to all the phone calls for more placements and yes to the children needing a permanent home.

When you say YES all those times and the answer is always NO, you feel confident that God is speaking.

I care too much about what others think. This is a lifelong struggle of mine. But I don’t mind saying out loud that God closed the door to more children.

And then I dreamed again of our little boys.

Oh, this life. It doesn’t always make sense, right? It doesn’t make sense that you could want something very badly and just not get it. It doesn’t make sense how grief works—both in our situation and in your lives, too—and how you might feel fine one moment and feel whammied the next. It doesn’t make sense that the future doesn’t seem crystal clear and that we might have seasons of feeling goal-less and aimless. As much as we fill up our schedules and find ways to be productive and necessary, at the end of the day, what are we doing with ourselves? Where do we find comfort and rest?

I cling to God’s promises in the Bible. I’m completely aware that many of you may not find hope there, but I do. My faith is weak, my vision is poor, my memory is forgetful, and even my dreams sometimes punch me in the gut, but I have faith in a God who is sovereign and who loves me very much. This world has all kinds of trouble, but He is good and He is faithful from the beginning of time to the end.

A 5:00am wakeup time—becoming more common in the past few years—had me picking wallpaper images for my phone. This shot captures SO MUCH JOY for me. You know I’m serious because I wrote that in caps. Livia and I… mmm… invited ourselves along on my parents’ 50th anniversary trip to Sanibel Island last October and the location was absolutely dreamy. The water was just cool enough and the views were incredible. I found myself feeling more centered and at peace than I had been in a long time. My dad is walking in the background there, I’m admiring the world around me, and Liv, always the first to the sensory table in preschool, is shelling. Of course. We still bear loads of shells from the Gulf, months later, in frozen Nebraska.

I love my home. And I love to get away, especially to the ocean, and then I love to come home again.

This pic is giving me life today.

This morning I reached for the glass with the embossed emblem on it and smiled at its origin: Bubba Gump Shrimp Co at Universal Studios. Never has a simple glass—free with a specific meal that night—been so lovingly cared for as this one when we wrapped it in our clothes and hauled it back to Nebraska in our suitcases. It’s classier than it has any right to be, coming from this franchise of shrimp-y deliciousness. I laugh now remembering how Liv declared the restaurant’s shrimp the best in the world, this just a day or two after eating what was truly the best shrimp—fresh and incredible—off the Gulf Coast near Indian Rocks Beach. The seafood there! Oh. my. goodness. It was amazing. I can remember every meal I’ve had near the coast where I ate fresh seafood and I dream about it later (Port Townsend, Dungeness, San Francisco, Panama City Beach, St. Simon’s Island, and yes, the small towns just west of Tampa Bay). Bubba Gump Shrimp Co was—and is—a fun franchise, but it’s not the best. And that’s okay because I hold those memories of Universal Studies close to my heart.

Universal is no slacker when it comes to marketing. The very presence of their ads sent to my inbox illuminates my soul on these cloudy midwestern winter days. I click on the link and open up a page to a new hotel they’re sharing with the world. I read about the amenities and how close this place is to parks and then I flip over to Trip Adviser to see what average joes have to say about their travels. Am I going to Orlando anytime soon? Probably not. But you never know when an opportunity will arise for two 40-something best friends from Nebraska to find themselves on a magical getaway. Do we talk about a moms trip to the Magic Kingdom? About leaving our children behind and experiencing the joy of it on our own? Yes and yes. Ha! 

The trip to Florida that Jeremy, Livia, and I embarked on three years ago still sings in my heart a bit. That Florida sunshine in the middle of February. Did it know that this was the land of my birth? That somehow my soul is infused with its golden rays and the smell of the ocean and the sounds of waves crashing on the beach? Perhaps. We had days and days of new adventures together. Even our airport jaunts—catching our connecting flight to Orlando from the Phoenix airport due to a massive storm that altered our flight route a bit—even that was more fun together. We ate in airport restaurants, taking our time and enjoying the meals because, like a turtle, we had everything we needed right there in that space. No one was left behind. We rented our car in the middle of the night, found our not-so-great motel in the middle of the night, crashed on its two crappy mattresses and slept like the dead in the middle of the night. I moved into Liv’s bed at a random hour, abandoning Jeremy’s side while he tossed and turned, surprising my kid with cuddles the next morning. We stuffed ourselves with what was inexplicably an amazing breakfast at a close-by Denny’s, all of us drinking coffee and feeling the freedom of a new day.

I think of our drive across Florida, at the marvel that anyone could find themselves living in a state so narrow that one could easily enjoy TWO oceans in one day. Who lives like this? Are they aware of the luxury of the sea at their disposal? Jeremy, in the driver’s seat, me with a plugged-in iPhone navigating, and Liv in the back munching on whatever gas station treats we picked up as soon our Denny’s-stuffed tummies allowed. And then the Gulf of Mexico as it appeared in front of us, the splendor of it that brought tears to my eyes. Liv was the first on the beach, and she, the granddaughter of Claudia the Island Girl, took to it as though she was born and raised in such a space. Her eyes never stopped scanning the sand, her hands never quit picking up shells and seaweed, her smile and greetings never failing to engage the older women on their beach walks as they meandered past her. Liv was in her element. 

So many moments of this trip still continue to bring me joy. From the leis in our Orlando hotel as we entered its doors to the water taxi that took us to the amusement park. From the first sighting of Hogwarts (aaaa!) to the flights on broomsticks and motorcycles. From the doors of the Hello Kitty store to the sweet French bakery with the chocolate croissants. From the air-conditioned Tonight Show waiting area (“ew, PUPPIES”) to the odd-yet-entertaining Shrek experience. From the fast passes that allowed us to take the short lines to the service that delivered our souvenirs straight back to our hotel room on property  which felt ridiculously bougie—and I had no problem at all being bougie for two seconds—to meeting King Kong and Spiderman in some wild rides. We had a blast. Our times of fun were not without trouble and discomfort. Our feet ached. That one lunch was nasty. We were pulled aside too many times and there’s that yet-unwritten complaint about how they handle people with disabilities (oh dear goodness was that surprising and exasperating). We learned our kid, so adventurous years before at Disneyland, really doesn’t like rides and we had to work through that. We figured out how to still enjoy rides solo. That early early early morning Uber drive to the airport with the guy and his really interesting music choices—he hadn’t been to bed yet and we were just starting our day, meeting in the middle. That overeager TSA agent who barked at my husband rudely and pissed me off. All that was part of the trip, too. And all of that became memories that our little family could tell, stories that we will re-tell with laughter in coming years. 

We are not a frequently-vacationing family. Two-thirds of us are happily, delightfully, contentedly hobbits and prefer to stay at home. They ENJOY home. I fancy myself a worldly adventurer and yet I, too, when flying away from my comfortable bed and full pantry wonder why I would ever leave. But these times where we’ve gotten away and enjoyed the travels together? They are priceless. And they are enough to still fill my spirit years later on a cloud-laden day in January in quiet Lincoln, Nebraska. 

After brunch on Christmas Eve.

One of us is remembering his European adventures. One of is us dreaming of her future European adventures. And the other is likely dreaming + + asking questions + getting distracted by other questions + thinking of her next project for the afternoon.

Did you know that Culinary Arts students must learn how to keep their work and storage spaces tidy? That they also must learn when a pantry or refrigerator item is expired, how to properly dispose of said item, and then how to re-order ingredients needed for future recipes?

Last night after Jeremy composted the dying veggies from our refrigerator, he left out the crisper drawer and as he moved on quickly to the next task suggested someone wipe out the bottom of the frig. Our Culinary Arts student handled the job quite easily this morning.

My birthday request: a slice of apricot torte from The Green Gateau. (I believe the restaurant orders it from a Lithuanian bakery in Omaha.) This dessert makes me happy. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for the really wonderful birthday celebration! It felt especially sweet in the middle of Covid.

After hanging three paper chains and nine new snowflakes I knew I would capture a piece of this activity for today’s image. There’s something lovely and slow about taping little fragments of paper together. There’s something creative and calming in using scissors and paper to make unique snowflakes for our windows. In this world where I am use to rushing—and yes, I’ve been forced into slowing down in 2020—I’m starting to see the peace in sitting still. The word “present” has been coming to mind since March. God is letting me mull on that word. What does it look like when a planner and doer focuses on being present?

Today is my cousin’s funeral. I feel like the absorption of her death is very slow for me and I’m wondering how long it will take before every pore in my body has digested the information. Surely a memorial service is a piece to that puzzle. All of my missing and wondering and confusion is connected to the wrongness of death. It’s okay to hate death. I don’t feel the need to wrap up this post with a bow for anyone, however I do want to say that Paula knew Jesus intimately. She loved him. He loved her and made her and called her to himself. Because of this our goodbye is truly a “see you later.”

Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty” (John 6:35).

Paula and I talked about our very human struggles when we’d message each other. Neither of us expected a life of ease and yet we both really wrestled with the hardships of this world. We commiserated. We prayed because we knew that the Bread of Life and the Light of Love cared about every detail of our lives. Sometimes our faith was very small indeed, and other times it was great. Now Paula is with her Savior, and someday she and I will both be perfectly restored and will live with him, feasting and banqueting with Christ himself. Amen.