Lisa Bonnema

Mom. Writer. Speaker.

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Lists

March 8, 2025 by Lisa

Earlier this fall, I was filling out some paperwork for my youngest daughter Brooklyn that required her surgical history. It was a task I had been putting off because it involved some digging, but it needed to get done, and the school nurse has been patient enough.

So, reluctantly, I created an updated list.

15—that’s the number of surgeries my sweet girl has had during her 14 years on this earth, three of which saved her life. That doesn’t include the hundreds of outpatient procedures, tests, therapies, and doctor appointments she has racked up, some even before she was born. It also doesn’t include the surgeries she will most certainly have in the future.

As I sat in her reality for a minute, I couldn’t help but feel the heaviness of what she has been through. It’s too much for a little girl. It’s too much for anyone.

Yet onward she rolls, one brave day at a time. Her disability is obvious, but no one really knows what she’s been through. Not really.

It got me thinking. We all have a list, don’t we? An inventory of what life has thrown at us—all we’ve been through.

I wonder what it would be like if everyone sat down, wrote out their list, and walked around with it for others to see? What would that change?

Would it make us kinder? More compassionate?

Maybe, maybe not.

I remember one morning last year, Brooklyn and I were running late, and her school bus was early. It was the first time we had kept the bus waiting all year, but we live on a busy street and our delay was holding up traffic. We rushed as fast as we could, and I literally ran as I pushed Brooklyn to the bus and onto her wheelchair lift.

In typical Lisa style, I apologized profusely to our bus driver, and I felt so guilty for all the cars we made wait. The bus driver told me to take a deep breath and assured me it was okay, and slowly, I felt my shoulders relax.

Unfortunately, the lady waiting in her car behind the bus didn’t share his understanding and was sure to tell me before she drove off. Her words stung more than she knew, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes as she verbally confirmed every terrible thing I felt about myself:

“You need to get it together, lady!” she yelled, along with a few graphic words.

“I’m trying,” I remember thinking. “Lord knows, I’m trying.”

I have a list, too.

But the thing is, that lady has a list as well, and odds are something on that list probably prompted her lack of patience and verbal lashing. She was probably running late, too, and now she was even later.

Maybe she was heading to the doctor. Maybe not. I’ll never know.

What I do know is that this world is full of hurting people with lists of burdens, doing their best to move forward, one brave day at a time.

Our circumstances will never be the same. Most of us haven’t had 15 surgeries in 14 years, but some have had far more than that. We just don’t know.

And that’s the point. We have all been through something hard. We all have lists. The choice is whether or not we treat people like they have one, and even more so, if we can soften our hearts enough to care.

It’s easier to play the victim. It’s easier to lash out. It’s easier to be so focused on our stuff that we forget others have stuff, too.

But there is so much we don’t see; so much we don’t know. There is grief and trauma and betrayal and pain all around us—spreadsheets full of dates and experiences and losses.

When we look at it that way, it’s too much, isn’t it? It’s too much for anyone.

And that, my friends, is why we have each other.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, “We must learn to regard people less in the light of what they do or omit to do, and more in the light of what they suffer.”

The truth is we all could use a little compassion and extra grace today. All of us.

We all have lists.

Me, you, and yes, even that cranky lady in traffic who is running late.

Even her.

***

“Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble.”
1 Peter 3:8

An Unexpected Christmas Gift

December 24, 2022 by Lisa

An outpatient clinic wasn’t where either one of us wanted to be 5 days before Christmas, but a late October flu made today’s annual appointments a necessary evil, despite all my best efforts at better timing.

As we headed into our third stop of the day, I yawned and looked at my watch. It was only 9am.

“Good morning,” the nurse said to my daughter as she transitioned out of her wheelchair and onto the exam table. “Now that you’re 12, we’d like you to fill out your own paperwork.”

It was an unexpected request; one my girl wasn’t quite sure about, at least at first. Her confused face looked at the nurse, then looked at me, and then looked back at the nurse. After a few seconds, she reluctantly reached for the stack of papers bound together with a pen, and then, without saying another word, got to work.

As the nurse left the room, I resisted the urge to help and, instead, sat back and decided to watch this moment unfold. I had no idea what my daughter was being asked on those pieces of paper—nor what she was answering—but I knew this was something she needed to do by herself, and not just because someone told her to do it.

Just 1 hour earlier, I watched yet another medical professional manually manipulate her body, testing her muscle strength and what she could and could not do. I watched my daughter try so hard to be strong, even when her body wouldn’t cooperate.

I heard the slight frustration in the therapist’s voice as she attempted to assess and measure my daughter’s abilities:

“No, kick back, not forward. No, no. Not that way. Try again.”

My girl tried again and again, each movement graded and earning a number that meant something to someone, even if it meant nothing to us.

From there, we moved on to x-ray, where a technician positioned her body several times, finally deciding that it would be best if my daughter removed her top undergarment.

“That felt weird, Mom,” she admitted to me afterwards. “I didn’t like it.”

I knelt down, gave her a quick hug, and told her how much I loved her.

All of that led to this third appointment, where a pile of papers and a pen held more power than that nurse probably realized.

With every checkmark my daughter made, I saw a confidence rising up, an ownership that felt so very right and deserved. I saw both dignity and determination in my girl’s face, and I wanted to both crumble into tears and raise my hands in praise.

To the average person, this looked like no big deal, but to this mother, it felt like a promise being answered, a sacred glimpse into the plans of a kind and faithful Father.

She’s got this. He’s got this. They’ve got this.

And me? Well, I just get to witness it.

What an absolute privilege.

As I watched my brave girl fill out those forms, I felt something shift within me—a deep knowing and a whisper in my heart that felt like the very breath of God settling my soul.

***

Truth be told, I dread these annual appointments. Having eight specialists in one place is convenient, but it makes for a very long day, filled with lots of information and often surprising news.

A simple symptom turns into another surgery. A tight muscle reveals a vastly different future. A hard decision feels like a tradeoff more than a solution.

And for whatever reason, it all seems to happen around Christmastime. Sometimes, that’s been a choice for insurance reasons; other times, it’s been a medical priority. Most years, we’ve had to be intentional about making this season light, even though so much of it felt very, very heavy.

But today, my usual weariness was met with hope. Not only for me, but for my child, and I wondered if this is what Mary felt as she treasured and pondered. Grasping the innocence of her sweet baby, I imagine she so desperately wanted to protect him from an overwhelming and uncertain future, all the while knowing that her job was to simply love and trust.

I suppose that’s the holy assignment of any mother—to love and trust. At first, it’s a hands-on job, but then slowly, over the years, God gently releases our grasp as He reveals His presence and provision, gaining our trust as we slowly let go.

He’s got this.

Maybe this is what Christmas should look like after all—God revealing hope and peace in the most unexpected places and moments.

In a dirty manger. In a shining star. In a doctor’s office. In a young soul feeling her worth.

He is Immanuel—God with me; God with my daughter; God with us all.

His presence truly is the best present, and today, my weary mama heart is rejoicing.

***

(*Shared with full permission)

Putting on Compassion

January 18, 2022 by Lisa

No one could have known the weight of what I was carrying that day.

From the outside, I looked like any other expectant mother browsing the aisles of Target.

I was 18 weeks pregnant and wearing a bright yellow shirt and my favorite maternity jeans. My almost-two-year-old was wiggling in the front of the cart, playing with something I grabbed from the dollar section. We were passing the time while my oldest was in preschool, and I was clinging to a vanilla latte that was giving me some much-needed energy and comfort.

As we neared the toddler section, I saw someone I recognized. She was an employee stocking the accessory shelves, and I tried to make eye contact and offer a smile. She noticed me and quickly looked away.

At first, I was insulted.

But then I realized what I must have looked like from her perspective: a privileged stay-at-home mom who had nothing better to do than stroll through aisles full of things we probably didn’t need.

Little did she know that I was operating on zero sleep and had spent the entire night sobbing.

Little did she know that it took everything in me to get dressed that day and that the makeup I wore was a mask for my swollen eyes and broken heart.

Little did she know that less than 24 hours before, I sat in a cold, dark ultrasound room while a doctor told me and my husband that the child in my womb would likely face challenges ranging from brain damage and paralysis to secondary medical conditions and lifelong disabilities.

Little did she know I how scared I was, how inadequate I felt, or how much I needed something—anything—to reassure me that everything was going to be okay.

Of course, the woman in Target couldn’t have known all that. She couldn’t have known that my world was in a tailspin. She couldn’t have known how much her smile would have mattered.

The truth is, we don’t wear signs when something bad happens or when we are hurting. Most of the time, we wear armor built of fake smiles and makeup and clothes that make us feel good. Most of the time, we are just trying to make it through the day and clinging to anything that gives us hope.

That day in Target taught me a valuable lesson I will never forget. Every time I fall into the trap of comparing someone else’s seemingly perfect life to mine, I remind myself that I don’t know the whole story. Instead of jumping to shallow conclusions, I try to look at others with compassion in my eyes and empathy in my heart.

Only God knows the depths of someone’s story, which is probably why He doesn’t just ask us to choose compassion; He commands it.

Colossians 3:12 tells us:
“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

Like clothing, these are qualities the Lord wants us to put on every day. Not just to make us better people, but to help others who might be struggling. No one should have to earn our compassion. We should give it
freely and generously so that we can offer hope to a hurting heart that might be barely hanging on.

We are all dealing with something hard, which is exactly why we need each other—not to compare or compete against, but to cheer on and encourage.

****

As believers, may we choose to put on compassion today, without judgement and without the need for explanation. May we look beyond the armor and the lattes and care because it is what we are called to do.

May we position our hearts outward and hold space for those we encounter, even when we don’t know the whole story.

And when we can, may we offer a listening ear, a hopeful word, and at the very least, kind eyes and a gentle smile.

You never know when that could be the very thing someone needed to make it through the day.

Savor

March 26, 2021 by Lisa

They tell you it flies by. They tell you to savor it. But in the thick of sleepless nights and potty training and sticky floors, those words don’t register. Instead, you dream of a full-night’s rest and uninterrupted showers and just a few minutes of breathing room.

Somehow, in the time vacuum of motherhood, the days blend together and suddenly they are teenagers. Simple joys like tea parties and rounds of Candyland and trips to the park are replaced with theater club and gymnastics practice and cell phones. Your giggly little girl no longer climbs in your lap, but instead, walks around laughing with girlfriends on the other side of a screen.

No one really talks about it—the grief you carry in those middle years. Those years when you can count on one hand the number of years until they launch, and you have the sober realization that you only have them for a little while longer. Your instinct is to rewind time or create time—to hold them tighter—but their instinct is push forward and pull away. It’s a slow de-tethering that needs to happen for them and for you, but goodness, it hurts like hell.

In our minds, we know this was the goal—to release them and watch them grow and flourish. But as the process begins, our hearts want to go back to simpler times; times when the stakes didn’t feel so high. Back then, their hearts were pure and innocent and full of joy. Now, in these middle years, you see and feel the weight of their feelings. You see an adult forming. You see how the world has slowly taken their innocence, and you long for all the right words and all the wisdom you can muster just in case you didn’t do enough.

You long for lemonade stands and princess dresses and freshly picked dandelions. You only vaguely remember their sweet little voices and the way they used to mix up words in all the best ways. The warmth of their tiny hands, the sweet scent of a fresh bath, the sound of feet running to greet you in the morning—they are now just one-dimensional memories you wish you could bring to life, even for just one day.

But like all things motherhood, we carry this grief as a holy honor and we trust that our love was and always will be enough. We embrace the truth that God’s plan is always good and that He loves our grumpy and unpredictable teens more than we ever could. We lean into the natural movement of this season, and we hold tight to our Faith.

We pray for their hearts, we look for moments to connect, and then we force ourselves to watch from the sidelines. We allow them to sift through their moods, push against boundaries, and find their footing all on their own. We offer our guidance when we can, but mostly we just cheer them on with tender hearts, proud eyes, and open arms.

These middle years are tough, but they are sacred. And, yes, I’m going to say it: We need to savor them.

Because now we know—they really do fly by.

********
“Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.”
Proverbs 22:6
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I am a great many things: a "mom in progress" to three beautiful girls; a wife to my favorite person; a daughter of Christ; a writer; a lover of good coffee; a recovering perfectionist; and a hopeful romantic learning to find peace and joy in God alone. This is my story and His story.

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