I'm Not Saying it Didn't Happen

I’m not saying it didn’t happen. 

It did, and the pain ripped you in two.

You can still feel the raised ridge where the scar 

Reminds you of the rending.

You can still remember the way

Your lungs constricted, the air squeezed from your throat.

You cannot deny that it changed you.

I’m not saying it didn’t matter. 

It did, and your eyes needed new lenses 

With which to view this world. 

Your skin felt raw and bloody. 

Your heart felt bruised and tender.

Your legs felt like a lamb learning to walk: 

Unsteady, unsure, wobbly,

Afraid of another fall.

What I am saying is that it can be redeemed.

It can become essential to your bones, your blood.

It can become a new blanket you weave: 

The threads made of pain that, together,

With healing and work, with practice and conversation,

Create a cover of comfort and warmth.

What I am saying is that, one day, 

Although you will never, ever be glad

That it happened, 

You will value its weight, 

The way it has changed you, 

Shaped you. 

You will learn to value the you that is YOU

Because it happened.

The Gifts of Pain

I hate that true things are born from pain. 

That the ripping off of the bandage reveals what is really happening. 

That the flash of light, after the blinding, shows us what was hiding in the shadows.

I hate that beautiful things are born from pain.

That both hurt and healing pour forth in music, in poetry, in breakup songs that become anthems, 

In movies and books that fold into the creases of our brains.

I hate that there is never a good story that didn’t have a sad chapter or three.

No one wants the ache of the scene, yet the story is never as powerful without it. 

A happy tale is for a beach read, but it leaves our hearts as quickly as the waves leave the sand. 

A story of loss, of grief, of crushed hopes? Give me that one any day. 

Because I won’t forget how it made me feel. 

I won’t forget that there is not one of us who will not live unscathed, unmarked, unscarred.

I hate that strength comes from struggle. 

That I could sit on my couch and never enter the arena, 

But then I’d never know what it feels like to leave all of myself out on the dusty ground, 

To hear the cheers of the clouds of witnesses, 

To have the chance to win.

I hate that growth comes from dirt. 

That the mounds of manure and soil must pile on. 

That the soggy, rainy days have to line up in a row 

So that I can see the first tender, surprising rise of the daffodils in the spring. 

In order for life to explode into color all around. 

I don’t know that I’ll ever appreciate the pain

But I’ll accept its gifts as treasures from the 

Dark places, 

Souvenirs saying that I have traveled this way, 

That I lived to tell stories about my trip

And to leave the lights on for others who may follow.

The Greatest Story

My family comes from a long line of storytellers. 

My grandpa told stories, mostly to family, but really to anyone who would (or wouldn’t) listen, telling us about things that may or may not have happened, and he frequently embellished the tales with a few dramatic details to make them more compelling or humorous. It was of no importance whether or not these details were actually true, because the stories were just so good.

My dad also told stories, mostly to family, but also to people at church, at the grocery store, guests at the bed and breakfast he and my mom ran. One of his favorite tales, an epic that became family legend, was that of the summer high school day when his friend, Mike Watty,  traveled with my dad’s family to a swimming pool that happened to have a diving board with a minor design flaw: It was made out of wood, with a rusty nail sticking out of its end. Mike Watty, as you might have already guessed, hit that nail just right (or wrong) and ended up heading to the hospital in my grandpa’s car, a car that was brand new: a blue Plymouth with white leather seats. And let’s just say that my grandpa was more concerned about the condition of his seats than the severity of poor Mike’s injuries. 

In my dad’s reenactment of this story, the drive to the hospital was full of peril. That may not be how the story happened, but the retelling was so masterfully performed that none of us questioned its veracity.

Both of my brothers have inherited the familial storytelling gene. Earlier this year, after my dad’s funeral, we sat around a dining room table and wept with laughter as my brothers recalled, with embellishment and exaggeration, stories about my dad and our childhood. After such a painful few weeks watching my dad die, the narratives were a welcome joy, and it remains one of my sweetest memories during a bitter time.

Recently, I thought about my dad’s storytelling abilities, and how he had so clearly passed them on, and I thought, out of all of the stories that he told, the best were the stories he told with his life: That in spite of his failings, in spite of his fears, in spite of his just being a flawed human who walked the earth, he deeply believed in God’s love for him. He deeply believed in God’s adoption of him. He deeply believed in God’s acceptance of him. And, when my dad died, that became his greatest gift, and the greatest story he ever told me. 

You see, in the last year of my dad’s life, as he was recovering from a botched surgery, he became very fearful: fearful of falling, which led to fear of walking. This was understandable, since he had fallen many times and needed help to get back up, something which was humbling for him. When he ended up in the hospital and then was sent home under hospice, however, something changed and, in his dying, he gave me that last gift. 

In the last moments of my dad’s life, all of that fear was gone. He opened his eyes and looked right at my mom, and I felt his spirit leave his body, and there was total peace. Total quiet. No more suffering. He had simply gone from looking into my mom’s eyes to looking into the face of God. And he was not afraid. 

I’m sure Dad’s stories will always be passed around our family like the little treasures they are but for now, I hold tightly to the last story he ever told, the one he told without any words, the one he told with his very final breath: 

That the promises were true.

That his hope had not been misplaced. 

That his God was enough in the end. 

During the weeks after my dad’s passing, there were signs of new life all around. The green fuzz of fresh leaves appeared on the trees in my yard. The daffodils popped their cheery yellow heads up through the tender, baby grass. There was resurrection all around. 

Now, months after his passing, as the leaves begin their own deaths, I never question whether or not new life will return. It always does; every year; every spring; every time. Just like we were promised it would. Just like resurrection. It is a story that needs no embellishment, a story of a love that will not let us go. 

The Kids Are

In high school, I was very, very sure that I would never get married and have kids. I was also equally sure that the half a bottle of hairspray I shellacked my bangs with was money well spent. So you can see how discerning my judgment was. 

In college, I assumed I would always vote one particular way. But I also thought a bean burrito at Taco Bell was a healthy lunch decision, bless my lard-coated heart. 

Ages ago, one of my kids decided he believed something very different than many of his family members believed. When one of the family members found out, this person mailed my kid a book to help change his mind, without ever engaging my child in conversation about it. My kid never read that book. All it did was make him feel like someone’s project, something to be fixed. He isn’t. He is a person learning to adult, to determine what he believes, who he is, how he’ll spend his working life. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all in one breath.

The truth is: 

Some kids are gay. 

Some kids are agnostic. 

Some kids love Jesus.
Some kids hate reading. 
Some kids are terrible at soccer.

Some kids play ten instruments by ear. 

Some kids write beautifully. 

Some kids fail science and love math.

Whatever your kids are, they are more than you expected them to be. And less. They should not be compared with the shiny outside of someone else’s family. 

They disappoint you. They amaze you. They make you furious. They make you laugh. 

They are not the people you thought they’d be. Their lives aren’t following the journey you dreamed out for them. 

When kids start stretching, pushing, tugging at the mold we’ve tried to pour them into, we will either become angry and anxious or we can practice acceptance. The one thing we cannot do is treat them as a project to be worked on, a problem to be solved. They are people. They are human. They will grow and change and push, just as we did.

I am thrilled that I’m not the same girl I was when I was twenty and frying my skin at the beach with no thought of sun protection; the girl who was sure that she would never homeschool or drive a minivan. Any change that I experienced was not the result of someone sending me books to convince me of what they wanted me to believe. Any change was not the result of debate or argumentative, shaming comments. Any change that was bone-deep and lasting came from the spirit inside of me, a gentle whisper, a quiet stirring, a moving and shifting in my heart and mind. Any true change came through watching others walk through their own fires and come out the other side with a different but stronger faith.

Any change in our kids, in your kids, will come that same way. Let’s put down the heavy bag of tools we’ve been gathering to carve the kids into our own image. Instead, let’s wrap our arms around them, just as they are right now, accepting them and holding lightly to whom they are today, because they won’t stay there. 

After all, neither did we. Thank God. 

Dear God,

Dear God, 

We are tired. 

We are tired of life being on hold. 

We are tired of the sacrifices, big and small. 

It’s like we’ve been asked to eat broccoli all these months, and we are just longing for a frosting-thick slice of cake. 

We are tired of the losses, one after another after another. 

We are tired of wondering what the world will look like now. 

We are tired of injustice.

Of course we are grateful; grateful to still be here, still have jobs and food and income, but we are also tired of having to say, “Of course we are grateful.”

You never tire. You hold up the night and bring forth the day. 

You watch over the birds chirping in the green fuzz of grass covering my yard this morning. 

You are present at death beds and at birth moments. 

You never leave us. You never have, so we know you will not leave us now. 

But we could use a rainbow, a reminder that you will bring us through. 

We could use a stirring in our souls. 

Thank you for remembering that we are but dust, and we need these reminders of you. 

And that slice of cake wouldn’t hurt either. 

Love, 

Your weary people

The Well-Watered Land of Hope

My first Christmas as a wife was horrible. I blame my dad for this. Each year, he sought out the perfect gift for my mom, the thing she never would have bought for herself, the gift that would make happy tears fall, and then he presented it to her on Christmas morning, between the coffee and the sausage casserole, and we would all end up in sentimental tears. 

The problem was, I married a person who really wasn’t into gifts, but I forgot to mention to him that I DID NOT AGREE WITH HIM. On our first Christmas morning together, I couldn’t wait for him to open the things I’d bought for him: New shirts, a set of his favorite movie trilogy on VHS (fancy times, people!), a stocking I had hand-painted and filled with treats. He smiled and then gave me my gifts to open. At first, I was sure he was kidding when I opened my first item: A water filter for our kitchen sink. Oh, what a prankster he was! How had I never picked up on this trait during our dating days? I tore into the next package, prepared to smile in delight, but delight was not the emotion I felt when I saw that this gift was a turkey baster. For me. Someone who had never cooked or basted a bird in her entire twenty-two years of life. Nowadays, we look back on that first Christmas and laugh, but I can assure you that there was no laughing in our house that morning. My expectations of a magical Christmas with something sparkly under the tree were dashed. 

Often, life has not met my expectations. Often, Jesus has not met my expectations either. He didn’t say yes to the diagnosis I wanted. He didn’t change a person’s mind when I prayed it would change. He didn’t heal the disease I prayed he would. He let a person I love pass away. He didn’t make the rough paths smooth.

 I can find small, silly ways or deep, hurtful ways life should have been different. You can, too. It might be a child who isn’t what you thought he or she would be. It might be the financial worries you thought you never thought you’d have. It might be the diagnosis that makes you feel that your body has betrayed you or the loved one who broke your heart. Maybe it was the rancorous election. None of these things were part of your expected outcome. Maybe it is especially hard after a year of loss and grief

Maybe you, like me, are afraid to hope again, when those hopes have made a fool of you.

All of us know people who have given up on hope, who embrace despair and reject expectation. We have seen how a life without hope is a body without breath, a brittle, fragile husk. If we don’t take the risk of hoping and dreaming, we choose the alternative: A land without hope is a dusty, dry place to pitch our tent. 

I never expected the endings and beginnings and the loves and hurts I’d feel. Some of them I’d hand back if I could. Others that I’ve been forced to hold onto have shaped me into a stronger, more resilient person, one who has learned to bend into the hurt instead of breaking against it. Life still won’t be what I expect, but my expectation of myself is surer, wiser. I can stop asking God to give me only what I want, knowing that I will more than survive what I am asked to. 

So let’s risk being let down. Let’s dream. Let’s allow hope to make a fool of us again and again. Because it’s worth the chance that it just might surprise us.

 And it’s worth the risk to simply live in the well-watered land of hope. 

Glorious Ordinary

Apparently, back in the Ancient Times of the 1960s people used to make new friends by asking each other what their sign was. In the New Times of 2020, we can simply replace “sign” with “Enneagram Number.” If you are unfamiliar with this phrase, it is a personality typing system. Think Meyers-Briggs but smarter. With cute shoes. 

Once you drink the Enneagram Kool-Aid, you cannot stop thinking about your number and what it all means and how it explains the fact that your eighth-grade Algebra teacher’s comments about your weight never left your brain. The Ennegram Experts, and there are many, tell you not to attempt figuring out someone else’s number. So of course you will immediately begin determining the numbers of everyone in your vicinity. My number is apparently a Four, which means I am deep and tortured and sensitive and I long to be special. It makes so much sense now that, when I watched Mary Lou Retton vault to gold or Julia Roberts weep through her Oscar acceptance speech or when I read the accounts of Medal of Honor recipients, I was sure I was not living up to my imagined potential. I was living a very ordinary life. 

The truth is, few of us will have a brief, shining moment of glory or bravery. 

Instead, for most of us, bravery holds hands with monotony. 

It is brave to parent, to have the difficult but necessary talks with your teens. To be a soft place to land, to not overreact, so that they know they can come back to you, again and again. 

It is brave to be a caregiver, to meet the same basic human needs, day after day, over and over, for someone who no longer can meet those needs for themselves. 

It is brave to be a worker, to go to a job each day, to do what must be done without being noticed or fussed over or paraded about. 

It is brave to put beauty and creativity into the world, to bring light where it is so desperately needed, to be vulnerable with your soul’s work. 

It is brave to study, to keep learning so you can improve a world that oftentimes seems to reject that very improvement.

It is brave to put down roots in relationships, to have hard conversations, to refuse to quit on another human. 

It is just as brave to walk away when staying will kill your soul.

It is brave to grow things: flowers and tomatoes and chickens and sheep. It is brave to celebrate life in a world where loving a living thing is a precarious place to put your heart.

It is brave to do what you love: to draw, to dance, to design. It is brave to do what others say doesn’t pay, doesn’t help you make a living. Making a living is important; so is making your soul sing. 

It is brave to embrace the glorious ordinary that is your day...not to deny it, but to practice the art of acceptance: This is your ordinary life. You are doing extraordinary things simply by living it well. 

Dear Grief

Dear Grief, 

It seems we are passengers on the same train, one that I would rather not ride. 

Like all who travel together, we can ignore one another, or 

I can pay attention to you.

If I do, I will see the things you are teaching me

Things I didn’t really want to learn. 

You teach me that moments matter more than the whole. 

You teach me that the platitude about life being brief and precious and fragile is, unfairly, true. 

You teach me to hold Joy when I find it, to revel in its colors, its lightness, but 

You teach me to let Joy fly freely away, secure that it will send me another flitting, fleeting messenger when I need it. 

You teach me that love is all that matters in the end. 

You teach me that I can celebrate what was so very good, without asking it to be perfect. 

You teach me how lucky I am to have loved and been loved, that love’s gift is always worth its cost. 

You teach me that I am rich in recollected laughter and stories. 

You teach me that goodbyes hurt because they are a moving, a shifting, a metamorphosis into a new form. That a relationship will always be a marking on my heart, even if it must look different now.

At some point, Grief, we will reach this particular journey’s end, 

But I know we will travel together again. 

There is more I need to learn. 

There is more you have to teach. 

And I do not fear you anymore, 

For I know your lessons have helped me to travel lighter, freer, 

And to soak in the views along the way.

In The Waiting

For a few weeks, I’ve been carrying a secret around with me. 

It isn’t the fun kind of secret, like a surprise party you plan for a friend or a pregnancy you just aren’t quite ready to share with everyone. No, this is the kind that throbs in the back of your brain like a drumbeat you can’t ever quite get rid of. 

A few weeks ago, during a routine screening, a doctor discovered a lump, and this sent me down a winding path of testing. One test would ask more questions than it answered, and so another would be ordered. The waiting was the hardest part. My mind told me all the comforting stories and statistics, but there was always the ‘what-if’ hovering nearby, waiting to land. It could never actually leave. I told myself, as I walked from hallway to hallway for the next test, that I would be fine; I would be strong; I would be ok. 

Just a few days ago, I got the best news: an all-clear, and I felt myself breathe fully for the first time in many days.

It is only in the waiting that we learn what real peace feels like, how its truth rises to the surface, the rich cream above the thin, milky platitudes we tell ourselves. 

It is only in the waiting that our focus settles, the world stills, and the ranking system of what is important in our lives becomes perfectly razor-sharp in its clarity. 

It is only in the waiting that we remember how very little control we have over our bodies, our futures, our plans. In the waiting, we learn surrender. 

It is only in the waiting that we discover the actual value of a life, the vapor and the breath that it is before it is gone. 

Waiting is never the fun part, but it is the necessary part. It shifts us, adjusts us, realigns our hearts. 

And so we wait, knowing that we will be changed by it. We know that, when we are asked to wait, again and again, that the waiting is never wasted. It becomes the chisel that chips away our broken pieces, the fire that burns us down to our core. It is only in the waiting that we can be changed into the person we long to become, and though we never want the waiting, it is the way that will bring us back home. 

We Wait

Over 2000 years ago, people waited.

Their leaders had betrayed them. 

They had experienced loss; they had screamed and sobbed and grieved. 

They could not find their way. 

And yet. 

They still hoped. Someone would come to set things right. Someone would turn the old paths into new ways. Someone would turn the famine into feasting, the loneliness into belonging. 

Today, we still wait. Like those who watched and hoped so long ago. Perhaps this year we will understand the waiting of Advent like never before: 

Our leaders have let us down.

Our losses continue to pile upon us, squeezing out the breath of belief from our bodies.

Our way forward seems grim and unclear. 

We wait for a vaccine. 

We wait to hug those we miss. 

We wait to remove our masks.

We wait for test results. 

We wait for stimulus checks.

We wait to gather with friends, to clink glasses, to smile with more than our eyes.

We wait for so much that remains unfulfilled.

And yet. 

We still hope. We hope that someone will come again to set the shattered bones of the world right. Someone will come again to whisper life into the lifeless. Someone will come again to gently bind up the wounds of the broken-hearted. Someone will come again to pour wine and lead the dance at the feast. Someone will make all things new. 

He will not come in the ways we think he should. 

He will not perform according to our small expectations. 

His definition of beauty will not match our own. 

But he will surprise us and move us and heal us and love us into what he knows we can be. He will remind us of what we know to be true. He will hold our hopes in his hand and will guide us to the best seat at the table. 

And we will know, as they did so long ago…

That he has always been worth the wait. 

It was election year. The candidates had made impassioned speeches. They’d been photographed handing out food to needy constituents. They had made promises to deliver peace and prosperity and safety.

The only problem was that the food they handed out was a photo op. As soon as journalists left, the food was loaded back onto the truck and driven away and the needy were left in their need. The promised safety? It only extended to those who didn’t speak up, to those who didn’t call for change. A lawyer who dared to tell the truth was shot in the head near his home. More than one candidate running for a local office was executed simply for not agreeing with the powerful people in his or her town. 

I had the privilege of living in Guatemala for four years. During that time, we watched an election take place, one which we could simply observe and not participate in. The night before the election, I went to my local store for some groceries, and all of the bottles of alcohol had been covered up. No one could purchase it, for fear of it fueling more violence, for fear of what would happen if one candidate won over another. Day after day, new headlines declared another person dead, simply because they ran for office or simply because they wrote or spoke the truth. 

I used to think that these scenarios could only take place in countries where many citizens were merely trying to survive, where they could not always feed their children, where there were no government programs to help the sick and injured and poor. I used to think that elections in my own United States were exciting and hard work: That you canvassed and walked neighborhoods to talk to real people. That you might have disagreed with your neighbor, but it probably didn’t come up again once you figured that out. That votes were cast and counted and a winner was named; and the one who didn’t win graciously congratulated the opponent and stepped aside, to continue serving his or her country in another role. 

In recent days, everything I believed about our election process has been upended. In a time where many of our citizens are grieving and struggling, we have taken away another piece of their hope: That their vote counts, that it matters, and that the election process will work the way it has for generations. We have told them that the process by which America peacefully chooses its leaders is no longer a guarantee. 

Our system isn’t perfect: Districts need to be redrawn and suppression needs to be yanked out by its evil roots. But it’s OUR system, and protecting it matters. We may not be the policy-makers, but we are the guardians of our democracy: We get to say what we agree with, what we don’t. We get to appoint someone to stand in for us in the hallways and chambers of power, to cast a vote on our behalf, to speak in our stead. We get to stand up to actual voter intimidation, wherever we see it. If we don’t, if we do not protect the gift of the election process, the alternative is unacceptable. The alternative is why so many citizens of so many other countries fled those places to live here. 

I might not vote the same way you do, but I value and protect your right to do so. That is what neighbors and citizens do. 

Those few years ago, when the presidential candidates sent their loud, empty promises echoing down the cobblestoned streets of my Guatemalan town, I saw what hopelessness and despair looked like. I saw people decide not to vote at all, since it truly would not matter, would not count. I won’t let that happen here. Neither should you. Because if my voice is silenced, yours will be next.

The Value of a Life

They sat in cold metal chairs, the woman's tears carving silent silver streams down her face. The cement walls and floors seemed only to magnify the bite of the mountain air and the wail of the weeping toddler who had just been carried away from them.

They did not want to let her go. But it was a very real choice between keeping her and watching her ribs grow more visible, her body more shrunken, her eyes more dull. At least now she could have a belly full of food instead of the intestines full of worms that took over her tiny frame.

The small cinder block building that housed this malnutrition center was found in a high-altitude, low-income village outside of Guatemala City. It was just one 30 minute, hairpin-curved bus ride outside the boom and brash in-your-face contrast between luxury and poverty that made up the country's capital. For months now, we'd been bringing teams of Americans there to feed babies, change diapers, wipe faces, and snuggle children whose hearts were tender and torn, not understanding where mommy and daddy had gone.

The wrenching of child from mother and father was like a horror movie, replayed in surround sound over and over. It was never something to get used to, to accept. And this couple's story was predictable, one during which, sadly, we could have filled in the blanks for them during their interview with the director:

"How many children do you have?"

"Five."

"One of your children is already here, yes?"

Heads were lowered as a murmured, "Si" came out of shame-touched lips.

Then followed a general health overview, striking in its similarity to any American doctor's office, shocking in its difference. The gentle questions of the director uncovered that the tiny two year-old experienced a cough and constant diarrhea.

"And what has she been eating?"

"She will only drink liquids."

"Which ones will she drink?" The director named a popular vitamin-enhanced liquid.

"No. No. Just coffee."

Pen scratching the paper was the only movement in the room. Outside, the sound of roosters and bus horns broke the stillness as the mother raised her head and answered the next question that came:

"And you are pregnant again?"

Silence and lowered eyes.

"Yes."

There was no condemnation. There was only compassion for the mother and care for the father, whose faces sculpted by desperation, despair, and hard labor belied their young ages. There was a bath and a bed and a meal for a starving girl. There was a wisp of hope touching the air, curling around the smell of the wood stove smoke that hung over the room.

This little girl would see health. This little girl, and so many others in that place, would know the laughter and playfulness and bright eyes and healthy hair that are the right of any child. This little girl would feel strength come back to her tiny, brittle arms. But some would not. Some would make the journey to this place far too late. Some would be too weak, too wounded. Some would fall asleep in their sweat-soaked beds and never wake up.

Today, as I watch mist hover above the field outside my window, a field which will provide abundance for animals who are more well-fed than so many humans breathing this planet's air today, I stop and remember this girl.

Today, as I open my phone to see perfectly-crafted ads that tell me all I need to own, need to have, need to add to my stockpile, I stop and remember these children.

Today, as I constantly hold in my hand a device which cost me more than many of these families will see in a year of body-breaking work, I stop.

And I remember.

Being a person who values the sanctity of life means that I value that life in whatever stage it is. There is much talk these days about protecting life in the womb. As a person who carried and nurtured three humans, I know the precious, precarious weight that unborn life holds. But once I birthed those children, they entered a secure home with plenty of food and toys and love and healthcare and education. They never wanted for anything they needed. 

Most of us Americans don’t truly see the rest of the world. Sure, we take the excursion off the cruise ship, or we walk on a well-worn European road, but we don’t experience the deep need that exists right off that tourist-beaten path. 

The vast majority of parents who brought their tiny children to that malnutrition center in the hills of Guatemala would rather have kept those children at home. It shattered their hearts to let those babies leave. Often, one of these parents would give up a day’s wages to pay the bus fare just to come hold their child for a few hours, to check and see if he was growing healthier, stronger. 

The vast majority of mothers who brought their children to that home had been told by their church that birth control was a sin; among the women who wanted to use pregnancy prevention, many of their husbands still thought it was wrong. Even if those mothers knew that their bodies did not have enough nutrition to grow and nourish a baby, they were given no choice. 

As we move forward past this divisive and rancorous election season, maybe we could each seek wisdom on what it truly means to be pro-life. Maybe we could ask ourselves what we would do when faced with an impossible choice. Maybe we could remember that each of us has made decisions we regret, has taken actions we look back on and wish we could wash away. Maybe we could give ourselves and someone else a taste of grace in place of judgment. Maybe we could lay down our “I would nevers” and pick up a way to help: We can volunteer. We can give. We can love. 

Most of us will never have to make a life-protecting choice like these parents faced. But we can start with honesty: Choices like these happen in the US and the world over, every day, and we cannot make the choice for another, but we can work to make sure each life, born or unborn, is valued and then cared for. So that this choice never has to happen again.

The Street in My Town

There are things we do so often that our brains can accomplish them in a practically unconscious state. I know this is true because I can’t remember how that first cup of magical coffee even gets into my belly each morning. But it does. 

For me, these involuntary actions include the route I take most days to work. I live in the country, and so I have a long commute on stereotypical country roads, cows and goats and barns and roadkill framing my scenic journey. Usually, I am listening to podcasts, and the road is only a means to my desired end, which usually includes Starbucks, the chaser to my aforementioned morning coffee.

Every time I take this trip, I pass a puzzling stretch of road. Along the edge of the pavement, with no shoulder and only a small patch of grass separating my car from them, are small houses. This is unusual where I live, since all of the homes of my friends and family and acquaintances are placed on acres of country land. My own property is considered tiny by local standards, yet it encompasses at least five acres. My nearest neighbor is so far that I cannot see his house. I’d have to jump on a bike or four-wheeler to get there; on foot would take no less than 20 minutes. All of this makes the houses I drive past each morning unlike any others. I recently heard the tale of why.

Years ago, in the days just past the Civil War, Black people were finally given the right to own land. Many white people would not stand for this, and they held all the power to stop it. They came up with some malicious tactics. One involved greatly inflating a person’s bill at the local general store, the stand-in for what is now our Publix or Food Lion. If that person wanted to continue shopping at the only store in town, they had to pay their fictionalized bill. If that store owner wanted the person’s land (land equaled currency and power), or was friends with someone else who wanted the land? Well, that grocery bill just tripled. If the person couldn’t pay it, the only collateral they had was their land. The powerful folks would take it, thank you very much. 

Another equally effective strategy was to raise property taxes. If you were in charge and in need of more land/power, taxes could be whatever you wanted them to be. A court battle was not something a person of color could afford or could hope to win. 

I’d like to say that this history is an anomaly. I’d like to say that it’s a rare occurrence. 

It’s not. It’s tragically commonplace. If there is a street like this in my town, there is a street like this in yours. 

This history in my county, in your town or city or county, cannot leave me or you unaffected. This history doesn’t mean I must give up my land or no longer enjoy the country roads and fields that surround me with their calm and beauty. What it does mean is that I am fully awake to the fact that life is not only unfair, it is often unjust. That not holding bullies and liars and murderers accountable for their acts leads to more and worse acts of injustice. That I cannot blindly declare that my country is great without acknowledging her flaws, repenting of the ways I have allowed them to continue, and then getting up and getting to work to change them. 

That sometimes we are so nostalgic about the old days that we forget those for whom the old days were death and hell. 

I think the point of contention for many people is this: They believe that they aren’t responsible for the wrongs of their ancestors. I understand how unfair it sounds to ask good people to do more, but here’s how I think of it: Let’s say your favorite aunt died and left you her house. It’s not a house you would choose to live in. It’s cute and cluttered and not at all your style. You could leave the house, abandoned, and watch decay and rot set in. Soon, the neighborhood raccoons would take over and throw wild parties at night. But the truth is, although you didn’t ask for the house, it is still your responsibility. You still have to pay the taxes, mow the lawn, decide what stays and what goes. Maybe, in the end, you can sell it and reap a reward for what you never asked to be given. 

You didn’t ask to be handed a country riddled with racism. But it’s what we have inherited, and we still must decide what to do with it. In the end, maybe we will reap the reward of peace and justice. 

A good first step is simply to learn the stories of the streets in your town. When we hear and understand them, perhaps we will be moved to join hands with our neighbors and help the streets in your town, in my town, belong equally to all of us. 

Community

The weather had turned on us like an angry toddler, the icy winds a startling surprise as we crossed the parking lot that morning. But we were soon warm and comfortable, seated in the soaring lobby of a beautiful church building. The secretaries were bustling about, answering phones and printing stacks of bulletins, and one of several pastors of the flock was making small talk as he headed into the fellowship hall for a meeting. The hall’s squawking mics were turned to blast, so even from our lobby seats, we could clearly hear the topic being announced. “Today, we are focusing on our community and how we can help one another,” the voice reverberated. “Let’s enjoy some coffee and get our name tags on, and the pastor will join us soon.”

The foyer doors whooshed open, bringing in not only the wind but a new arrival. The weary man was layered with jackets and bore a large backpack. It was clear that he had been in the cold for hours with no warm place to rest. He quietly stepped up to a secretary and asked to see a pastor, by name. He was told that the pastor was busy with the fellowship hall gatherers, so the man asked for another person, by name. That person was also busy. The gentleman reassured the secretary that he only needed a few minutes of time and that he had an emergency, and the secretary asked him to take a seat. 

Minutes passed as she made a few calls. All the while, the community-helpers continued their meeting, unaware that their actual community was waiting in the lobby. 

The ending of this story is one you could probably write: The man was told to come back Monday, when the pastor had time. He thanked the secretary, picked up his heavy bag, and left. As he did so, the very busy pastor began his fellowship hall exhortation, his words bouncing off whitewashed walls, reminding his hearers to care for those outside the church, to help those in need. 

His words never reached that man. His helpers never helped the person in need, right in front of them. They were too busy discussing and planning how they would help.

That church isn’t the only one missing the point. Just down the road from this building, the local city government has put up a sign instructing drivers not to encourage those waiting in the median, holding signs and asking for help, by giving them money. But the truth is, a greater commandment tells me differently. It tells me to love, to give, to care for those in need. It never tells me to ask someone if they will be careful with the aid I give them. It never tells me to ask for receipts.

Over and over again, it does tell me to never consider myself better than another. It tells me to treat a person like a person, not a project with a particular goal in mind. 

It tells me that I am in just as much deep need as that man. Perhaps I cover it up with cute shoes and a Starbucks coffee, but those are just the trappings that hide the truth. We all need help. We all have emergencies. We all are in need of love that doesn’t instruct or question or examine. Love that gives freely. Love that doesn’t wait until we’ve climbed out of the pit to help us but, instead, stretches out a hand to help pull us to the light above. I have been the undeserving recipient of that kind of love, and I will be again. Maybe, someday, so will you. But all of us can be that for someone else right now.

Without an agenda. With only love attached instead of strings. Remembering that our community is never really that far away. 

The Idea of America

I grew up in a patriotic culture. It was, after all, the Reagan era, the 80s, when we were the shining city on a hill, the winners of the gymnastics gold, the best of the best. We were very sure of it. 

Then I became a military spouse and felt like I epitomized patriotism when, every single night, as the national anthem was played over the neighborhood speakers located around our military-base housing, we all had to stop, and our military spouse had to salute until the song faded away from the scratchy-sounding speakers. My role was to stand still. Or at least keep our kid from running unpatriotically across the yard. Ahhhh, these were sweet and easy days. 

Later, I lived in another country and understood that basic rights I’d never considered, such as heading to vote without fear of violence happening to me, were not so basic in other parts of the globe. I loved my country even more.

I still love her. But, like others I have loved, she is breaking my heart.

The idea of America is a place where, if you dream big enough and work hard enough, you will certainly achieve financial security. 

The reality of America is that, if you are beautiful or can play a sport well enough, or make a sex tape, you can become wealthy. If you work hard, the costs of your taxes and your insurance and your kids’ college educations somehow seem to rise in a pace that leaves your paycheck breathless, and the only solution seems to be to work harder and longer and enjoy your dream less and less. 

The idea of America is a place where communities and towns gather to celebrate, circle around to mourn, to give aid to those who need it most. 

The reality of America is that many people are lonely, isolated, never seen and understood; many are outside the circle of help. 

The idea of America is a copper lady on an island, holding high her torch to welcome those fleeing certain death. 

The reality of America is a cage crowded with children who have no idea where their parents have been taken. 

The idea of America is a Main Street where small shops and tiny restaurants can flourish and thrive. 

The reality of America is a few giant conglomerates gobbling up the buildings and land and growing bigger and lustier, their greedy stomachs never satiated. 

The idea of America is a smooth, paved sidewalk where families can stroll and people can jog and wave politely at one another. 

The reality of America is that, if your skin is a bit darker than mine, you must outrun a bullet. 

The idea of America is a land where children who are unwanted can be adopted into families, where mothers who cannot or should not care for their babies are supported and helped and loved. 

The reality of America is a place where, far too often, frightened, unsupported women and girls feel they have no other option than to end a life.  They find condemnation instead of a hand to help and to hold them. 

The idea of America is a place where the elders are given their rightful place around the fire. 

The reality of America is that our elderly are mocked, hidden away, the value of their wisdom and hard-won lessons never given room to be shared. There is little space or grace for their confusion and loss. 

The idea of America is a place where our military people are rewarded for the physical and mental cost they were willing to pay. 

The reality of America is that our military people are often asked to do tasks that they later cannot reconcile with their consciences. And then they are left without the safety net of good therapy. They remain, sitting for hours in dingy waiting rooms, while their bodies and minds ache. 

The ideals we hold for our country and the reality need not be miles apart. Instead, let us cross the streets, the political aisles, the church doors, the sidewalks, to talk. To listen. To remember that we who were lucky enough to be born here are still the luckiest in the world, and that those who came here should be given the chance to join us around the table. That we can make ideas into reality. It’s what our country was made from: Ideas about liberty and equality that made a king and a world laugh. But we made those ideals happen: It took work and guts and blood and sacrifice and giving up freedom in order to gain new freedoms. 

Your ideas about America and mine might not be the same. But we won’t bring a dream into breathing and growing by harsh words, by allowing our rage to overflow into destructive actions. We must be willing to nourish her and bring her back, until ideals and reality are not so very far apart. 

Parenting in a Pandemic

These are difficult days. Some of you are homeschooling for the first time, and many of you are sure that your middle schooler is not remembering a single thing you said to him or her. If that is true, please let me, as a current teacher of 150 middle schoolers, reassure you: 

You are exactly, 100% correct. 

They are not remembering a single thing you say to them. 

Before you run down the driveway screaming (And please, don’t do that, because where in the world would you run off to now? Remember when going to Starbucks was a thing? Oh, what sweet, innocent days those were), let us virtually gather around our home-brewed coffee and share what we’ve learned in the mine-ridden fields of parenting and teaching, since we are all firmly planted in both pastures these days.

When your child reaches middle school age, it is as if he or she reverts back to toddlerhood. Remember the toddler brain? It is awash with learning and growing and changing into a new person, hour by hour. One minute, it simply cannot get enough of those delicious green beans. You’re so proud! What a healthy eater you’ve raised! The next hour, it banishes green beans to the depths of hell (aka, the floor you were just thinking about sweeping). It will ask you the same question 82 plus eleventy-four times, even if your answer is always the same. One thing. 82 plus eleventy-four times. I do not teach math, but I submit that this is some exponent too many. 

Like a toddler, the middle schooler’s brain is also awash in growing and changing and human-ing and, of course, hormones and, right now, a pretty big dose of uncertainty: “What do I believe about the pandemic? My parents say X. My grandparents say Y. My phone says (*_)*&^%. My friends expect me to be very, very sure of what I think, but I’m just trying beliefs on for size, sort of like how I’m trying showering on for size. Should I shower every day? Once every 12 days? Meh. I for sure don’t know what I believe about that one OR the amazing invention of deodorant.”

Maybe you, a parental person, forgot that you didn’t learn this in Honors Biology Class, but the teenager’s brain is divided into four quadrants: The Gaming (or other Hobby) Quadrant, The Friend (or Social Media) Quadrant, The Things I Am Figuring Out Quadrant (do I like church, do I care about social justice, how do I feel about higher education and what political party am I) Quadrant, and the Sex Quadrant. At some random times during the day, the last quadrant takes over 97% of the brain and swallows the other quadrants whole. Just stand back. Walk away. Jesus, take hold of the wheel. And the internet filters. 

As a parent, I have learned that the best way to guide a teenager in the Things I Am Figuring Out Quadrant is simply this: Summon up your most Oscar-worthy acting abilities and Do. Not. React. 

Teenager: “I don’t believe God exists.” 

You: “Hmmmm.” Keep sauteing whatever you were sauteing. 

Teenager: “I am NEVER having kids. Kid are stupid.”

You: “Hmmmm.” Keep driving wherever you were driving. Probably to the grocery store. To replace the party-sized bag of tortilla chips you bought yesterday. Whatever. 

Teenager: “I think jobs are dumb. I’m going to backpack across South America by myself and learn about the world that way.”

You: “Huhhhhh.” Don’t even think about saying what you were thinking about. They will eventually discover that things like gas and food and shoes cost actual cash money.

Teenager: “I think (fill in the blank with whatever politician you please) is who I’d vote for for president.”

You: “Huh hh hhh.” Just keep swimming. This one might be more difficult. You can do it! Channel your inner Meryl Streep! 

It’s ok if your insides are screaming, “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL *(&^%! ARE YOU THINKING WITH YOUR VAAAAAAST LIFE EXPERIENCE? ARE WE EVEN GETTING ANYTHING ACROSS TO YOU? HAVE WE UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY FAILED?” Outwardly, you remain Mother Teresa. Maria von Trapp. Mary the Blessed Mother. Hallelujah and Amen. 

Then, and only then, once you have successfully non-reacted, and perhaps you are gathering around the dinner that you provided with your non-backpacking life, or riding in the car filled with gas paid for by your dumb ideas about jobs and compensation for them, is the time to ask gentle follow-up questions: 

“Sooooo, can you hand me those napkins and how did you reach this decision?”

“That looks like a cool game and hey, what articles were you reading about (insert name of politician here)? Can you send me the link? I’d like to learn more.”

“This pizza isn’t bad, and oh, could I share something fascinating I just read/watched/listened to about XYZ?”

In my house, sometimes (ok, many times), I missed the all-important step one, and I overreacted. I do come from a long line of over-reactors, after all.* But the good news is this: I apologized, and I circled back, and I listened with my Resting Non-Reactive Face, and then I asked the questions. And I discovered that, above all else, teenagers are simply trying on identities like shoes: “How do I feel about this one? Is it comfortable? Is it ‘me’? Do I feel good this way?” They need to practice articulating how they feel, and they are going to be clumsy and awkward about 9/10 of the time. But better they practice it with us, a soft place to land. And when they are practicing, and we are non-reacting, there’s one more mantra to remember: 

They are not mini me. They are not mini you. They are themselves, and we have approximately .000000000000001% control over the people they become. That doesn’t mean that we don’t pour out our own thoughts and feels and dreams and beliefs for the short time that they are in our lives. We do, certainly, but we also learn to listen more than we lecture, and we nurture the relationship more than we defend our ideals. 

Because, in the end, I want to have kids who feel welcomed and accepted and loved around my table, kids who know that they always have a seat there. I want kids who have wrestled with the things and possess the deep soul knowledge that what they believe is theirs, that they have fought it through. I want to be a model of a parent who is willing to think and consider and rethink and reconsider, a parent who does not value dogma above daughters and sons. 

So hang in there, parents of middle schoolers. The good times are coming. As are the showers. Well, one can hope. 

(*to paraphrase my mom’s favorite quote from Father of the Bride)

Here's to the woman

Here’s to the woman who doesn’t want to be a mom, who feels she has to explain that decision to people who shouldn’t ask, but who really longs to be a spiritual mother to the kids she knows. She’s not filled with desire to have a child and is tired of trying to justify herself to others.

Here’s to the mom who isn’t yet a mom, who wants to be one so achingly much, who dreads today because it reminds her of all the unfulfilled hopes of her heart.

Here’s to the mom whose kids aren’t at home anymore, and she wonders if they’ll remember to call. She’s pretending it doesn’t matter, but her whole heart hangs on the joy of hearing their voices.

Here’s to the mom who has one or two or more babies missing from her arms today. There’s the deep pain of knowing she won’t get to be their mommy today, receive their kisses and cards and love.

Here’s to the mom whose teenager is frustrated and she doesn’t know why, and she gets the side-hug and the less-than-heartfelt, mumbled greeting. And she remembers him as a little baby who wouldn’t leave her side, and she’ll take that mumbled greeting, because her days with him are short.

Here’s to the mom who is sick and in pain and beats herself up for not being the mother she thinks she ought to be. She worries that those she loves wish she could be more, too. And she’s just tired of hurting and of missing out on the celebrations and daily events that must happen without her.

Here’s to the mom who wants to push rewind on her mothering and do it better: who wishes she’d shown more grace, let more things go, spent more time with her babies.

Here’s to the mom who misses her own mama…who cries today because she can’t call her mother and tell her she loves her.

Let’s all be so tender with each other today. Let’s love those who are our Physical Mothers and our Spiritual Mothers. Let’s be kind. Let’s honor one another for the roles we play in each other’s lives and families, the beautiful intertwining of it all, considering with thankfulness how lucky we are.  We get to share all of the wisdom and love that all of these women possess, and our kids are immeasurably better for it.

Happy Mother’s Day.

It Will Be Well

It was just the beginning, the whisperings starting that this virus might be more than we had imagined. I had made what I thought would be a normal trip to the grocery store, only to find shelves cleared of paper goods, freezers once full of chicken now bare. I drove home shaken and concerned and entered the house, planning to start, as I do approximately 53 times a week, a simple load of laundry. Until the washer began flashing an error message and sounding an alarm I’d never heard before. 

This would have been an annoyance except for the fact that, days earlier, my dryer had tumbled its last. I might have said a few non-spiritual words and kicked the machine once or 18 times. You know. In case it helped it work again. 

Here’s what I’m learning: Life doesn’t stop during a pandemic. 

Babies are still born. 

People we love pass away, and we can’t grieve them with the closure that a funeral provides. 

Bills still must be paid, appliances break, dogs need to go to the vet. Hair still grows and we can’t get it trimmed. Our people still want to eat chicken, Lord help them. 

Homework must be turned in. Jobs, for many of us who are thankful to be working, must be completed. 

But my body and my brain feel as though I am pushing through mud, swimming through sand. Everything I used to do quickly, efficiently, is taking a beat longer. Emails I used to type perfectly now have mistakes. Words seem to blur together on the pages of the books I thought I’d be zipping through. Movies seem too long to hold my now toddler-sized attention span. 

I don’t know the answer. This is untested ground for all of us. What I do know is that this feels very similar to the times I went through a birthing experience and my body and brain need to recover while still taking care of a helpless baby. In that season of life, I did not try to train for a marathon. I did not attempt to bake pie crust from scratch. Come to think of it, I still don’t. I did not worry about the weight I needed to lose. I didn’t write a book. 

I was gentle with myself, just as I was with that new baby. I gave myself time to recover from this new life I had both birthed and entered into. 

This, too, is a new life for all of us. We are feeling bruised, tender, aching in places we never knew were possible. We are weary. We are moving a bit slower these days. 

There will be time to run that long distance. To bake that incredible dessert that the Food Network assured us was worth the twenty-seven steps. To craft a beautiful story. To reach our reading goals. To turn off Netflix. Today is not that day. 

Be gentle to yourself, to your new life. Take a warm bath. Take a breath. Take the time you need to adjust, to give the wound some air and space. 

 It will eventually be well. It doesn’t have to be well now. Hold on to the eventually. 

”All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” Julian of Norwich

Camping in the Middle

There are two types of families: Those who go camping and those who know better. 

Oh, I jest. But the family I was born into was one that placed a high value on modern marvels such as electricity and running water, so we only went camping one time during my childhood, or at least that I haven’t blocked out. We slept in an actual tent on actual ground, and the biggest adventure we experienced was coming back to our tent after a swim to find a raccoon eating through our Tupperware container in order to consume the potato chips that resided inside. I think the raccoon won.

Maybe that’s why we never camped again.

Lately, it feels like I am camping out in a strange landscape, and I am still not a good camper. I wake up after a restful three hours of sleep and, just for a moment, forget this new world we all are living in. I forget that it feels like we are playing out scenes from every apocalyptic movie my kids have forced me to watch. I forget that there are so many “what ifs” floating through the air, ready to land and blossom into a frightening flower I’ve never seen before.

I simultaneously want to read all of the things about the pandemic, constantly refreshing my phone for the latest updates and yet escape into the brain bend that is “Tiger King.”

I want to be with my people, watching movies and eating snacks and enjoying time together, and yet I also want TO BE LEFT ALONE FOR FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. Sorry. My introvert is a bit...shall we say...exhausted these days. 

I want to shop online, to have something new and shiny show up to distract me from what seems like the end of the world. And yet I also want to save money for the uncertain future and give money to those who are unable to work during these long days.

I want to stay healthy and strong for myself and to protect those I love, and I also want to eat all of the chips and queso and Cadbury eggs until I am in a carb coma.

We are living in a foreign middle space, and it is ok to feel the pull, to long for what we’ve always known. In this middle space, we aren’t sure if we are simply camping, getting out our flimsy chairs and circling up (not too closely, of course) around a firepit. Or are we to dig in, install some landscaping, make this weird spot pretty? If we do, does that mean we’re never going back home? Shouldn’t we remain on edge, not growing comfortable with where we are?

The problem is, then, we are quite literally living on the edge: On the edge of our sobriety, our binging, our excess, our anger, our anxiety, our too much.

 Maybe we can find an answer that allows us to embrace both sides of ourselves:

We can camp here and use our good dishes. We can camp here and bring a mattress and the best sheets along. We can camp here and light our favorite candles. No one, not even the experts, knows how long we will stay. So we must stop looking back to the skyline behind us, stop trying to peer too far ahead. 

We can settle into the uncomfortable, learning to be gentle with ourselves, not asking ourselves to use this time to be more productive! More creative! More fit! We can and must connect with other humans in a new way, find a different happiness in this place it feels like we’ve been dropped into. We can soften the edges. We can plant the flowers, freshen up the sleeping bags, string up some twinkly lights around the wonky chairs. We can dig deeply into the unfamiliar dirt for happiness, even if it can only be found in the tiniest moments, the smallest of ways.

We can, dare I say it, even for us non-camping types, learn how to camp well here.

See you around the fire.

Worst Case Scenario

I recently self-diagnosed my illness. Well, one of them. And it didn't involve a trip down the WebMD rabbit hole. I was listening to a podcast when I heard the interviewer name my sickness: Worst-Case Scenario Disease.

Yes and amen.

I have all of the symptoms. For instance, if there exists one five minute time period where I am not able to reach any of my people on the phone? Well. Please. It can only mean The Worst Things, and within 4.2 seconds, I have imagined out my frantic drive to the hospital, and the tearful hand-holding and emergency surgeries and heart transplants and brain transfusions (Wait. Is that a thing? Hold on. I need to check WebMD after all). If I get word in my real life that a routine medical test I’ve taken needs to be repeated, I have instantly imagined and choreographed my funeral, a service which includes an epic, immediately-viral eulogy, bunches of gorgeous hydrangeas, John-Williamsesque overtures, and a packed stadium of mourners. My imagination has excellent taste, thank you so much for noticing.

I know that, over and over, when I share my worries and fears, I've been on the receiving end of the dreaded and unhelpful words, the ones people love to throw around. Perhaps you've had them lobbed at your head as well: The ones about how 99.999% of the things you worry about won't ever come true.

After I (usually successfully) resist the urge to take them out at the knees for such useless advice, I would like to tell them just what I think. I don't, because I don’t have time to correct them what with the planning of my imaginary funeral, so I just smile. But I want to sweetly scream: Well yes, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE 83 MILLION THINGS I NEVER THOUGHT TO WORRY ABOUT THAT DID HAPPEN? Hmmmm?

Most of the deepest heartaches of my life were things I never imagined out in all of my mind's wanderings, and I have had enough honest conversations with girlfriends to know that this is a truth for so many of us.

We never imagined the agonizing pain our child would spill out of his heart into our own; or the betrayal that would leave deep scars crisscrossing our story; or the illness that would drain our energy and make each day a battle. We never imagined the challenges a difficult kid would cause us; or how some days motherhood seemed like the worst idea we'd ever had and why, with all of our baggage and bondage, did we ever think we would be good at it? We never imagined the loss of love in our lives, the brokenness of relationships and the shattering of trust in ourselves and in others.

But what I’ve also realized is that fear, running like a dark, underground river through my days, takes away any chance I have at peace. The only way I’ll have peace is through remembering that the pain I have experienced before and the pain I experience again is like an ocean wave. I can take a breath and practice the art of surrender, which is the only way the wave will pull me to shore rather than pull me under. Sometimes the wave is one small event, over in a moment, and sometimes it is unrelenting in its grasp, one wave after another, after another, unending. 

 Sometimes we can still ourselves, our minds and our souls; we can take a walk and have a conversation with ourselves as we would a trusted friend, offering the comfort we would to another. Sometimes we can choose to believe for ourselves the words we would say to someone else, the hopes and promises. We can open our hands to accept the gift that we so often give away. Sometimes our worries and anxieties take a vise-grip hold on our brains, and our thoughts stop lining up with what is real, and we need to seek help, medication and therapy, and not feel an ounce of shame for that.

I know I’ll still wait up for my teenage drivers to come through the door at night, even when they tell me not to, and I’ll breathe out a prayer of thanks when they do. I’ll still worry about those I love coming into harm or hurt, in ways that I see happen to people all around every day. I’ll still fight against the dark, unspoken fears that the painful events of my past will come back again to try to defeat me. 

Yet if I...if we...are still here, if we are still fighting, then we recognize the power of those fears to hold us under the waves but we, instead, choose the greater power of surrender and peace to pull us safely home.