Category: Marriage and Family

Stories, prayers, and rants about all of the beautiful and not-so-beautiful moments.

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Lessons from the Lake

Yesterday, it was 75 degrees and sunny here.  The weather was gorgeous, so we decided to put the new boat in the water.  It wasn’t our maiden voyage, but it was only the second time we’d taken her out on the lake.  Because the water is still too cold for tubing, the kids weren’t interested.  So we invited another couple to join us, and the kids stayed home.  

We definitely lucked out.  Not just with the weather, but also with the launch and the boat itself and all of it.  There’s a lot of preparation involved, but also a good bit of luck.  And some necessary humility.  Boating teaches you lessons you didn’t know you had to learn.  

There are so many things that can go wrong when you’re boating.  That’s especially true when you’re new to the sport or if your vessel is new to you.  You’re still getting used to the processes and the quirks.  Anyone who has ever had to back up a trailer knows that it doesn’t go smoothly the first time.  Or the first 20 times, for that matter.  

Brene Brown talks about FFTs- Freaking First Times- as a source of excitement and as a source of stress.  Anticipation is both a positive and a negative, and first times are a hurdle for all of us, at different levels. 

The first time launching a boat is an unforgettable FFT.  It starts with backing up the trailer.  Some boat launches are friendlier than others.  Some give you plenty of room to swing your truck around and back straight into the water (which is still a lot harder than you would think).  Others are narrow and angled and unforgiving.   Backing up a trailer is counter-intuitive to everything you think you know about driving.  So you have to re-learn and reset.  I advise significant practice in a large parking lot before you try to do this for real.  And for goodness sake, don’t rush.  It will only make things worse. 

Lesson #1:  You’ll get better with practice. Just keep trying. And take all the time you need. 

Then there are the people.  On a lake, there are generally only one or two ways in and out of the water with your boat.  So there is usually a line.  When you’re launching, you have to pay attention to the boats coming in, as well as the boats going out.  There are people on jet skis.  There are kayakers and people fishing from the shoreline and families feeding the ducks.  And whether it’s true or not, it feels like they’re ALL watching you.  

Chances are, most of these people are not first-timers.  And they may or may not remember what it is like to BE a first-timer.  So as you navigate this complicated first time task, you will likely have an audience judging your performance and finding it to be less than exceptional.  No pressure. 

Just before you actually put the boat into the water, there is a mental checklist to be completed.  There are plugs and pumps, wires and chains, pulleys and keys to think about.  It’s not that complicated once you’re familiar with it and you have a routine.  But your first time out?  Having just embarrassed yourself with 6 attempts to back the trailer into the water?  With all of those eyes on you?  Well, that’s when you’re most likely to forget a step.  

Lesson #2:  Don’t let embarrassment distract you from your goals. 

If you’re lucky, someone in the audience will remember what that FFT was like.  They will offer a smile or a word of encouragement or a suggestion.  They might remind you to unplug your trailer lights or give a tip on the best parking spot for your truck.  And when you’re in the middle of an FFT, that small gesture can feel like a lifeline.  

We’ve been doing this a while now, and launching isn’t as stressful anymore.  Jack is excellent at backing up the trailer (and I’m getting better, myself). But a new boat means a new routine.  So, while reversing the trailer has become old hat, there are still different pulleys and levers to check. We’re still working out the kinks.  

Even once you’ve mastered the launch, you have to become an expert in the quirks of your particular vessel. 

Our first boat was held together with duct tape and prayers.  We bought it for $2,000 and I couldn’t have been happier.  The deck had a few noticeable soft spots; you had to be careful where you stepped.  The engine was a little unreliable, despite all of Jack’s tweaks and tune-ups.  He kept a tool kit on the boat, and more than once, the kids swam and I threw down an anchor while Jack worked his magic with a wrench and some elbow grease.  

Also, the fuel gauge didn’t work.  We found that out the hard way.  As we were cruising, the boat stuttered to a stop.  At first, we thought it was that unreliable engine, and Jack broke out the tools.  No amount of tinkering would get it started, though.  The lake was too deep for our anchor, and we were floating toward the rocky shoreline.  I started to panic a bit, but Jack kept his cool.  He broke out the paddles, and we were able to keep ourselves from crashing. 

Another family of boaters was out tubing, too.  They saw we were in trouble and came over to offer assistance.  With an improvised rope-towing system, they pulled us back to the boat launch. It was embarrassing, and a hassle, but ultimately, everything was fine because a few good people were willing to help us out.  

Lesson 3:  There are good people out there.  Let them help you.

In addition to the quirks of your boat, you have to know the body of water you’re in.  There are likely hazards; shallow water or weedy areas or rocks just under the surface.   One lake we went to regularly had a rock wall just under the water line near the boat launch.  It wasn’t marked; we were lucky enough to have someone point it out to us early on, and we tried to return the favor to others who seemed unaware.  

Lesson 4: Learn from those who’ve gone before you.  Teach those who follow.

We were on a new lake yesterday, and we hit a bump.  Literally.  We weren’t too close to shore.  We were putting around, slowly, admiring the houses on the shoreline.  An unfamiliar alarm began to beep.  Jack thought the engine was overheating.  He kicked the boat into neutral just as we hit a sandbar about 18 inches deep.  We were beached.  

I tend to overreact in these situations.  That’s why Jack is the captain, and I’m just the first mate.  I wanted to jump off the boat and push us off the sandbar.  But I have learned this lesson the hard way:  Do NOT jump off the boat without the Captain’s permission.  Even if you think you’re being helpful.  Because then he’ll have to worry about the problem AND worry about hitting you with the boat, which is always LESS helpful than you intended it to be.  

Lesson #5: It never helps to panic.

So I waited.  I listened to Jack.  I eventually did end up in the lake, but not in a frantic panic.  I calmly stepped off the bow into about a foot of water.  It was cold but not frigid.  The boat was lodged but not totally stuck.  I pushed.  Jack put the engine in reverse.  We got ourselves unstuck.  That part was lucky.  But what was even luckier was that I managed to step up the front ladder, grab the hand of a friend, and haul my butt back into the boat without falling backwards into the water or flopping forward into the boat like a dead fish.  I remained upright and dry.  It was an actual miracle.  

Given all of the potential boating pitfalls, you’d think my anxiety would be through the roof on these excursions… and it would be, if it weren’t for my husband.   He’s in his element on the water.  His time in the Navy serves him well at the helm.  When we’re on the boat, there’s nothing that I need to be in charge of.  I do what I’m asked, and I’m often pretty helpful.  But I’m not in charge, and there’s an amazing relief in letting go of that.  When I have no choice but to trust my husband, I’m reminded of how capable and calm and smart he is.  I am so grateful to have that kind of partner in life.  

Lesson #6:  Find a great partner.  Learn to trust them deeply.  

Before today, we’d never been boating without the kids. Don’t get me wrong; I love the swimming and the tubing and the loud, animated laughter when there are children on the boat.  But boating with only adults was just…. Well, it was heavenly. We admired the homes on the shoreline.  We paid attention to nature, and we watched a bald eagle soar overhead.  We joked and laughed and talked and ate and drank and enjoyed each others’ company.  It was relaxing and rejuvenating and refreshing.  It was a beautiful day, and it hinted at a whole lot of beautiful days ahead.  I’m looking forward to our summer on the boat… with adults.  With kids.  With anyone who’s up for an adventure and a few life lessons.  

Lesson #7: Rest.  Relax.  And enjoy the people you’re with. 

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Ferry Backpack

When the kids were little, a ferry ride was something that happened only occasionally, and always in the middle of a long trip.  The ferry was an event within an event.  A mini-adventure on the way to our destination.  

And anyone who travels with little kids knows that preparing for such a trip requires equal parts stamina and strategy.  

My strategy focused on packing.  My goal was to have all the things, and also to pack them in such a way that they were easily accessible.  So the Tylenol couldn’t go in the suitcase with all of the other medicine.  It needed to be in the car bag, in the front seat, where I could reach it.  

And the car bag was too big to bring up on the ferry with all the children and baby carriers and such, so I needed a ferry backpack, which I would strap to my body while I used my arms to carry more important things, like my actual children. 

Our ferry backpack contained: beverages ranging from bottles to juiceboxes.  Crayons. Coloring books. Cards. Diapers and wipes.  Snacks.  A blanket.  My wallet.  Books.  Another bottle of Tylenol. 

Part of the adventure was that you never knew exactly how the Ferry ride was going to go.  There were too many variables.  

Would the kids be asleep when we pulled on?  Would we let them sleep?  Was it worth it to wake them?  Would they freak out because they missed the boat ride? Or freak out because we just woke them up? 

Would the boat be crowded?  Our wobbly toddlers would want to use their little legs after hours trapped in a car seat.  

Would we get to the upper deck quickly enough to grab a seat with a table?  The table is CLUTCH with small children.  

Would the weather cooperate? Would it be too cold or too hot? Does everyone have a sweatshirt? 

Would they want to be on the deck?  Would we lose our table seat if we brought them up to the deck?  

Would somebody throw a tantrum? Stumble and fall? Spill their drink? 

One parent stayed at the table at all times, to make sure nobody else grabbed it.  One parent walked around with whatever kid needed to move.  We went to the restroom in shifts.  We firmly explained that we were NOT buying $3 bags of potato chips for everyone when we had OUR OWN potato chips in the Ferry bag.  

Despite all of the potential pitfalls, most often, the ferry ride was magical.  I remember holding my youngest, walking up from the car, his chubby little fingers pointing out at the boats in the distance, and the wind blowing through his fine, blonde hair.  His eyes lit up.  “Boat, mama.  Boat.”  “Yeah baby, boat.  We’re ON a boat, too.”  His eyes opened wide in disbelief.  With his limited vocabulary, he managed to relay his confusion.  “Car on da boat???”  

Another time, my shy, animal-obsessed baby was clinging to my leg, wobbly and scared.  We didn’t get a table that time, and were trying to juggle snacks and bathroom breaks with the Ferry bag on a curved seat between us.  And someone passed with their German Shepherd on a leash.  “Doggie,” my child whispered, pulling at my sleeve.  And a kind stranger sat across from us, allowing my nervous kid to spend nearly the whole ride, sitting on the dirty floor, petting this patient, gentle creature.  

Sometimes we’d play cards or color.  Eventually, the kids learned that they loved the top deck.  They’d sit next to me on the bench, pointing out the massive homes or the sailboats, or the colors in the clouds. We’d take pictures with the backdrop of the water meeting the sky and then we’d hurry back to our minivan to continue our adventure.  

It was a ton of work, but it was magical.  You know… like parenting. 

************

All of that came rushing back to me yesterday, on our most recent ferry ride.  This time, there were only three of us; my husband, myself, and our youngest.  Everyone else had their own plans, because children grow, as we’re all aware.  I don’t know why it still takes me by surprise. 

We got up early.  Jack showered and let the dogs out.  I got dressed and tossed a crochet hook and a skein of yarn in my oversized purse.  My son threw on a sweatshirt and climbed into the backseat with his phone in his pocket and his headphones in his ears.  We stopped for coffee and breakfast sandwiches and ate in the car. In the passenger seat, I used my sweatshirt as a blanket and closed my eyes.

When we pulled the truck up the ramp and on to the boat, I put on my sweatshirt and grabbed my purse.  I walked toward the deck and watched my pre-teen ahead of me taking the steps two at a time.  Out of habit, I grabbed a seat with a table, almost frantically.  My son went off to explore on his own.   

There was a young family near us.  The mother took a preschooler to the restroom.  The dad set the baby’s car seat carrier on the seat next to him.  He chatted with a toddler and I smiled as I watched him pulled a tub of crayons out of the ferry backpack.

My reverie was interrupted when my son walked over to me, all 5’9’’ of him, leaned over and asked, “Do you think they have any napkins?  I spilled my energy drink.”  I smiled and shook my head, because some things never change.  He walked his nearly-grown self to the counter, asked for some napkins, bought a $3 bag of chips, and went to clean up the spill.  I didn’t leave my seat.  

For about half of the ride, he sat on the opposite side of the ferry.  He had chosen a seat with a good view, and he stared out the window, smiling at the boats, just like he did when he was small.  I rested my purse on the seat next to me and pulled out my crochet hook.  I looked at the empty table in front of me and realized a little too late that I no longer needed to occupy this prime real estate.  

I worked the yarn and the hook, listening to the conversations around me.  “No.  We have snacks in our bag.”  “Do you want to go for a walk with Daddy?”  “Mommy, I drawed a boat!” The nostalgia tugged at my emotions as I was pulled back to those years that seem like moments ago.  

Cal reappeared and plopped into the booth next to me.  He watched me pull the yarn into stitches.  “Wanna try?” I asked, as casually as I could.  “Yeah, sure,” he shrugged.  I held his hands and showed him how to twist the hook and hold the yarn so that a pattern began to emerge.  The tip of his tongue peeked out of the left side of his mouth, like it always does when he’s concentrating particularly hard.  “You got it!” I said, and he smiled at me with the dimple that’s been his trademark since he was born. 

While I watched, a little in shock at both his willingness and his ability to turn yarn into something more, the little girl from the next table kept looking over her shoulder at us.  At first, it was just a couple of glances, but eventually, she turned her whole body around and watched my son intently.  “What is that boy doing?” she asked her mother.  “Looks like he’s making a blanket,” the mother replied.  “A BLANKET?” she exclaimed.  “You can make a BLANKET with STRING?” she whisper-shouted, with the type of astonishment in her voice that only preschoolers can convey.  I caught the mother’s eye and we shared a knowing smile.  What a wonderful age.  

When the girl replied, “Can you teach ME how someday?” I smiled and looked back at my son.  I was pulled back into THIS moment.  In this moment, my son can turn string into a blanket.  He can buy his own $3 potato chips and clean up his own spills and explore without holding my hand.  He can choose his own seat, where he knows he’ll enjoy watching the boats pass by.  Yet he still comes back to me.  He still plops next to me and asks for advice and lets me teach him. 

“Can we go up to the top deck, Ma?  I know it’s cold, but I want to check out the view and take some pictures.”  I smile and look at my husband, feeling honored that he invited us to join him.  “Of course.”  I throw my purse over my shoulder and look back at the empty table, knowing that, next time, I’ll leave it open for someone with a ferry backpack.  

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Inertia

Last weekend, I was talking to a friend and I confessed that I feel like my household has two modes right now.  It’s either inertia… or shouting.  

After a trip to the dump, I asked my husband to drive around town, simply because I couldn’t bear the thought of going home.  I explained that the negative energy in our house was sucking the life out of me.  

One kid is grounded for missing curfew. 

Another kid is barely passing his classes.  

A third kid lost all of his screen time for bypassing the parental controls.  

It’s too much lounging. Too much avoidance and lethargy and sleeping in.  Too much time on screens.  There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do.  

It’s typical February cabin fever multiplied exponentially by a year of COVID restrictions, and the exhaustion is pervasive.  

I think about the energy required to rally the troops for family game night, and then I curl up on the couch with the remote, because I can’t muster the strength.   

*****************

This morning, I got up early and began working on the children’s message; I needed to record a mini-sermon, based on the scripture reading and our recent theme.  I had been working for a few days to try to come up with something, and I was struggling.  I had a kernel of an idea that came to me at 2am, the night my kid missed curfew and I couldn’t fall back asleep.   But it wasn’t coming together.  I would change one thought, and a new hole would appear.  

So I sipped my coffee and prayed on it.  I tried to breathe, to ‘let go and let God…’ And then it came to me.  I wrote a four minute talk about not feeling good enough and remembering that we are loved no matter what.  I reminded myself that I don’t have to earn love or earn blessings.  God has given those freely. My obligation is only to use them, to bring good into the world.  To bless others.  

******************

It was a relief to have that children’s message done.  It had been hanging over my head for a few days, just another thing on my mental to-do list that I was happy to cross off.  

And then I went on with my day.  Jack and I left the house early to go to the junkyard.  In his job, he accumulates copper pieces, which can be turned in for cash.  They opened at 7am, and we drove through the gates at 7:08.  We grabbed coffee and breakfast.  The luxury of a meal without the children cannot be overestimated right now.  

We stopped at the grocery store.  I picked up the ingredients to make hot cocoa bombs, and he grabbed what we needed for a pot roast.  We now had a plan for the day, and it felt good.  One more stop at the dollar store for Valentine’s treats, and then we were home.  All before 9:30 am.  

When we got back to the house, the kids were awake.  In front of screens… but awake.  It was a start.  Jack and I conferred over another cup of coffee.  We were determined to avoid the inertia today.  

I made chili.  We got the kids to clean their rooms.  The washing machine ran all day, and the clean clothes even got folded and put away.  Bea went to work, but we rallied the other two to help make hot cocoa bombs.  It was our first attempt, and even though they were a little lopsided, they mostly stayed together.  Jack filled the chocolate molds.  Cal put the cocoa and marshmallows into the empty chocolate spheres.  I sealed them, and Lee decorated them.   The grumbling was good-natured, and we had a few laughs while we made them.  It felt so good to have everyone working on something together.  Of course, I forgot to buy milk so we could actually USE them, so I’ll have to let you know how they taste some other time.  

What was different about this day?  Was it that Jack and I were on the same page?  Were the kids just feeling the cabin fever, too?  Was it my own attitude?  I thought back to my children’s message.  Maybe I was finally following my own advice.  Maybe I just needed to relax and remember my blessings and let God do the work.  

We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging, but it was the good kind.  We watched a little TV, joked a little, cleaned a little.  Cal played in the snow.  Lee created a new character.  Jack played the guitar.  I read my book.  When Jack’s pot roast was done, we gathered at the dining room table, and I marveled at how different this day had felt.  I was proud and relaxed and relieved that we had managed to avoid both the inertia AND the shouting.  

And what happened next was nothing short of a miracle.  Instead of bolting from the table, Cal asked, “Can we play a family game?”  

GUYS.  I’m not even joking.  Someone OTHER THAN ME wanted to play a game.  Lee and Jack resisted a bit, but in a good-natured, joking sort of way.  And when Bea finally made it home from work an hour later, we were on our second card game.  Lee looked up, and said, “If I gotta play, you gotta play.” 

“Yeah, okay,” she replied.  “Lemme just grab a snack.”  

So we played. There was laughter. There were snacks.  There were excited dogs and even an intermission… and everyone came BACK to finish the game.  No inertia, and no shouting… except for the fun kind. 

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Pity Party

Yesterday, my son ate the leftovers from the fridge.  What was he thinking?!?  

Last night, my husband got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water.  Ugh.  The nerve. 

This morning, my daughter was talking on the phone.  How dare she!

*****

In the past 48 hours, I’ve been angry at my husband for eating, irritated with the kids for talking, and annoyed with my mother for calling to say hi.  (Sorry, Mom.)

This morning, there was a little pee spot on my bedroom carpet.  There was blood in it.  I wasn’t irritated.  I cried. 

The only one I have compassion for right now is my dog.  She’s not well.  We’re waiting for the end, and loving on her a whole lot.  And the waiting is brutal, beautiful torture.  

I don’t want to be waiting anymore.  I’m so, so, so tired of waiting.  For a vaccine.  For church and family gatherings and dinner parties.  For projects and group work and games at school.  For normalcy.  For hugs.  For restaurants and coffee with friends and book club.  

I’m in the middle of a self-pity spiral right now, and I’m hoping to write my way out of it.  

Some of it is the “post-Christmas” let down.  For a while, we had something to look forward to.  But it’s over now.  And it was all a little anti-climactic.  Despite my best efforts, even all the gifts and the good china and the abundance of food didn’t bring the type of joy and connection I’ve been craving.  

I wanted it to feel special.  I tried.  I really did.  And there were some great moments.  But most of those moments blur into all of the other moments when I was trying so hard to make staying at home feel just a little bit special.  

I have two teens and a tween in the house.  They resist all my efforts.  My husband isn’t much better.  You should see his face when I suggest a board game or another family movie night. 

You see, the things that bring me joy are NOT the same things that bring them joy.  They don’t want to play a family game.  Or work on another puzzle.  Or go for a walk or bake cookies or clean the basement.  I argue that we’re all spending too much time on screens.  They accuse me of stealing the little bit of joy that they still have… gaming with friends or making TicToc videos or Facetiming late into the evening.   

But when we do pull away from our screens to play a family game, I love the way they tease each other and make references to inside jokes and even the way they make fun of me… because they’re connecting.  Maybe they don’t love board games, but in those moments, it’s apparent how much they love each other.  

When I drag them all into the kitchen for a family meal, they resist being pulled away from their rooms. But when we all wind up snort-laughing during dinner, I’m confident that none of them would rather be scrolling TicToc.  

*****

Yesterday, my son invited me to watch the Mandalorian with him.  He’s seen all of the episodes, but he offered to watch with me, from the beginning.  Typically, I’d say “No, thank you.” I don’t dislike the Star Wars thing, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan.  I’m just not that interested.  

But in that particular moment, I had a steaming mug of coffee in my hand.  I had some time to kill before the social worker’s visit.  I had no meals to make, no IEPs to write… nothing that felt more interesting or important than this sweet offer from my kid. 

So I watched.  I sipped my coffee and glanced at this preteen man-child and watched a pretty entertaining episode of a series that I hadn’t been particularly excited about.  It was nice.

It reminded me of a few precious weeks a couple of years ago when I binged “Stranger Things” with Lee.  I don’t enjoy Sci-Fi thrillers, especially those fraught with monsters inhabiting creepy alternate realities.  Totally NOT my thing.  

But I watched.  Every night, I settled in with my kid because I didn’t want him watching something so creepy alone.  And although I never really enjoyed the world created on the television, I cherished that time with my son.  I enjoyed being let in to his world a little; I loved being the only one at the dinner table who could knowledgably discuss “the upside down” or predict what was going to happen to Eleven.  

*****

Yesterday, I invited my son to go for a walk with me.  I even tried to bribe him with Dunkin Donuts.  He wasn’t having it.  It was too cold.  He had other things to do.  He just really didn’t WANT to.  

I get upset when I feel like I have to bribe them to get them to do something with me.  When I ask them to come to the store and they respond with, “Can I get something?”  Or if I invite them on an errand and they ask, “Can we stop for french fries?”  

But then again, some of the best moments happen when I manage to combine something I want to do with something THEY want to do.  A few nights ago, I wanted to drive through a local neighborhood to look at the luminaries they put out once a year.  It’s beautiful.  So I told the kids to get in the car.  They balked.  “Where are we going?”  “It’s a surprise.  Just get in the car.”  And I knew that, while they might enjoy the luminaries, they wouldn’t consider the trip worthy of ‘Get in the car, it’s a surprise.’  So I improvised. I got luminaries and a 30-minute drive, observing and rating Christmas light displays.  They got Taco Bell.  It was a win-win.  

*****

Maybe I’m more like the kids than I’d like to admit.  Maybe sometimes I’m the one who needs to do the thing I don’t really want to do, in order to get the thing that I’m really craving.  Maybe I have to suck it up and watch the creepy show or hit the drive-thru or say yes when they ask, ‘Can I get something?’

*****

My son is super creative.  He makes costumes and sells them online.  It’s incredibly impressive.  But he’s been putting off finishing his latest project.  When I asked why, he responded, “I just really don’t like the sewing part.”  My first instinct was to tell him that I don’t really like sewing, either.  

But I stopped myself.  Maybe I’ve learned something from this little pity party.  Instead, I tentatively asked, “Do you want some help?”  He smiled a surprised smile, paused for a second, and shrugged his shoulders. 

 “Sure.” 

********

Today was better.  There was some sewing.  A trip to the library.  A walk with the dog.  Another episode of the Mandalorian.  Soup simmering on the stove.  A chat with an old friend. 

Some of it alone, some of it with the kids, all of it helping to pull me out of my little pity party. 

And I wasn’t even mad that Cal ate my leftovers… again.

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Thanksgiving 2020

I hope I haven’t let you all down.  I’ve never gone this long without publishing something here, and the longer it went on, the harder it became.  I wanted to explain my absence; to fill you in on the chaos and madness and my deep sense of inadequacy.  I kept planning on a sort of summary.  Of the last two weeks.  Then the last month.  Now the last two.  

And I hope you all will accept my apologies, but I just… can’t.  I can’t do it all justice with the space and the time that I have.  So I’m just going to pick up again.  I’m going to start with NOW.  

Because NOW is the best that it’s been in a good, long while.  

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom, watching my youngest play corn hole with a friend in the backyard.  They’re masked, but the smiles reach their eyes as they laugh and tease each other.  The water is running in the bathroom next door, and I’m serenaded by Bea as she sings in the shower.  Her voice is clear and bright and full of promise.  Lee is in the basement, creating a new character out of fabric and makeup and imagination as he video chats with a friend who recently transitioned.  I’m so happy that he has connected with people who totally get him.  

There is turkey soup simmering on the stove, the culmination of leftovers from our traditional Thanksgiving meal on Thursday.  There were only five of us, but I still cooked for 12, and we’ll be eating this turkey all week.  I can’t say that I’m sorry.  I also can’t say that I didn’t have pie for breakfast yesterday.  

This morning, I went to the store before they all woke up.  I made cinnamon buns and homemade hash browns and sausage and eggs.  They all wandered in, sleepy-eyed and surprised by the morning abundance.  We sat at the table, laughing and bickering and fighting over dish duty.  Then we herded complaining kids into the living room for traditional tree-decorating activities.  They tease me for my sappy traditions… but they play along anyway. Somebody puts on the Christmas music.  Somebody groans as I tell the stories behind the ugliest ornaments again; the meaning and the story so much more valuable than the plastic or paper on a string.  We laugh at the little handprints and the old pictures.  Each person hangs the ornaments that contain his or her name.  The kids tease me that Lee must be my favorite child… his name is all over that tree.  I’m finally at the point where I can joke and tell the truth about it. 

When Lee came out, I handled it the best way I knew how.  I was supportive.  I did my research.  I found books and support groups and camps and conferences.  And despite all my reading, there were still things that still took me by surprise.  Those ornaments were one of them.  I didn’t realize how many ornaments were pictures or names.  This poor child freaked out a little.  He wouldn’t look at them.  He certainly wouldn’t let me hang them.  That first year, I did my best to use paint and white-out to change the ones I could.  Others got packed into a box.  Baby’s First Christmas with a little pink blanket.  Six little snowmen with names on their bellies.  Photos in popsicle stick frames, featuring a pigtailed little girl in a pink dress.  I felt awful.  And sad.  And awful that I was sad.  

So, the next year, I went a little overboard.  A little dog with Lee written across its belly.  Lee on a snowman.  And a santa.  A bell.  A penguin.  

No wonder they joke that he’s my favorite.  I was overcompensating.  

And just a year later, the damn ornaments hit me again.  Bea.  She had been part of our family for just four months.  And I did buy her an ornament with her name on it.  But only one.  And too late, I realized how incredibly insufficient it was.  She sat on the couch that year, and we had to coax her toward the tree.  She tried to shrink into the cushions and we kept handing her shiny red glass orbs, wooden angels, and Santas made of tin.  She reluctantly hung them.  

When we got to yet another sappy Christmas tradition, she silently sat and watched.  Cal and Lee gently removed the white padded box of ornaments.  We had received them on our wedding day.  Each of the twelve, hand painted glass trinkets represented a blessing, written out on a 12×12 piece of cardstock.  A pinecone for fruitfulness.  A fruit basket for abundance.  A tiny house for shelter and protection.   And so on…  

The boys knew the drill.  One would read the meaning.  One would hand us the ornament.  And Jack and I would take turns placing our wedding ornaments on the tree.  The final ornament, a white glass heart with golden rings on it, represented love.  We always hang it together and then share a chaste kiss.  The kids groan, because your parents kissing is inherently gross, and then we all laugh a little and pack up the now-empty boxes of ornaments.  

I remember worrying that first Christmas.  Did we offend her?  Are our traditions to blatant?  Too exclusive?  Too… happy? 

Fast-forward to 2020.  Those years feel far behind us.  The tree is peppered with all of their names.  They fight over who gets to place the rainbow flag on the tree.  Bea grabs the French Fry ornament from Cal, boldly exclaiming, “That one’s mine!”  They have their own stories to tell about the penguins and angels and small Santas.  They wrestle a little and laugh at my singing and groan together about the stories being told for the millionth time.  They all know the drill when it comes to the wedding ornaments.  They take turns reading and pulling the delicate glass from the box.  They hand them to us, and giggle about ‘fruitfulness’ and make inappropriate (but funny) jokes.  And when Jack and I kiss at the end, they all know that their job is to make gagging noises and groan.  They do so with enthusiasm.  

Today was a beautiful reminder.  It was a reminder that our mistakes don’t have to be failures.  They can be lessons.  The hard times don’t have to define us.  They can make us better.  I was reminded that family is family; whether you were born to them or you chose them, whether they are who you thought they would be or whether they have become something more than you ever imagined.    

I’m so grateful for this family of mine.  We’re an eclectic bunch.  Liberal and Conservative.  Black and white.  Messy and neat.  Strict and lenient.  Cis and Trans.  Gay and Straight.  Male and Female.  Singers and Gamers.  Artists and Writers. Birthed and Chosen.  Parents and Children.  

But each and every one of us is loving and loved.  

Today I give thanks for that blessing.  

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Adventures

It’s been a long week.  Too much screen time and busy-ness and too many online meetings.  I was hoping to get out and DO something.  I wanted to go to the beach or go hiking.  I wanted to head out of the house and have an adventure.  But it’s 10:15 in the morning, and I think I’ve changed my mind. 

I woke up early, around 6:30, and checked my phone.  There was a text from my daughter, sent at 11:14pm (after I was already asleep) and it read, “Can you make sure I’m up by 6:15?” No.  No, I cannot.  That ship has sailed.  

So I check her room; her bed is already made and empty.  I check the driveway and her car is still here.  I stumble into the kitchen and sit with her for a moment.  She hands me a banana chocolate chip muffin that she baked last night while I slept. It is sweet and light and delicious.  She’s up so early because she’s going to get her hair done with her sister.  I pause for a moment and admire the adult she is becoming before she drives away.  

Since we’re awake, Jack and I begin our Saturday morning chores early.   We load up the trash and head to the dump.  On our way back through town, we stop for coffee.  Then we take a trip to the farmer’s market to buy corn and veggies for tonight’s dinner.  They’re selling fresh, warm, cider donuts that smell like heaven, so we grab some of those to bring home to the boys.  These Saturday morning errands have become a cherished part of our weekly routine.  

When we arrive back home, there is a package for Cal.  It’s an early birthday present from his Aunt and Grandma; a Lego kit he’s been eyeing for months.  The excitement on his face is enough to make this day feel like a success already.  As he opens up the package, he proclaims, “The directions are like a real book.  217 pages!  I’m going to need a cup of coffee.”  He’s not quite 12, and he brews a cup, heavy with cream and sugar.  I’m not sure whether I’m proud or appalled.  He sips from a steamy mug and settles in with 1,173 small bricks.  

I grab my computer; it seems like a good time to write.  In the living room, I open my laptop, on the couch across from where Lee is working on a new sketch.  He starts with a pad and paper, photographs the rough image, and then uses his iPad to turn it into something sleek and professional, deftly swapping between functions with the stylus on his screen.  I am in awe of his skill.  

Meanwhile, my husband grabs his guitar.  As I type this, he’s gently strumming and composing in the other room, pausing every once in a while to write down a lyric or a chord.  When he plays like this, my breathing slows and my mind settles.  I could listen all day.  

How precious is this moment?  The art and the music?  The building and the connecting?  Writing.  Creating.  Relaxing.  I realize that I don’t need an adventure.  I need exactly THIS.   I take a moment to breathe it all in. 

**********

Isn’t that beautiful?  Ha.  It’s over in a hot minute.    

In a blink, the drawing morphs into YouTube browsing and the sound of the guitar is replaced by the sound of the television.  Jack picks up his phone and settles in on the couch.  

I head to the laundry room with a load of towels, and pass a plate of half-eaten nachos in the basement.  Somebody has left clothes in the washing machine that now smell like mildew.  My blood pressure rises.  

The boys are bickering over the last cider donut.  The nacho plate is now in the sink, still full of nachos, still not washed, still not in the dishwasher.  

Jack is playing a game on his phone.  Cue standard argument.  Me: Will you help me?  Him: Why can’t you just relax?  

A short debate.  

Me: Can we just clean the house real quick?  

Him: I thought you wanted to go do something?  

Me: I thought you didn’t.  

Him: We should clean the garage.  

Me: You want to clean the garage but not the house?  Fine.  Go ahead.

Him: I thought we could work on it together.  

Me: Nope.  Not a chance.    

Him: Forget it.  

Silence.  

Kyle makes plans with a friend.  I tell him he can’t leave until he cleans up his mess.  Cue the teenage attitude.  

**********

Jack knows I’m mad, so he volunteers to be in charge of dinner.  I think we’ve come up with a plan that involves a little shopping and a lot of cooking.  He’s ready to go to the store.  I tell him I’m in the middle of something, as I document this ridiculous morning.  

You’re in the middle of something?  You’re writing about all of the nothing we’re doing?  How is that even something?  

But it IS something.  It’s what we’ve got.  Beautiful moments and stupid arguments and good intentions and pivots.  We’ve got moody teenagers and talented artists.  We’ve got bakers and builders and writers and musicians; family meals and stale nachos and dirty dishes and smelly laundry.  

And whether we head to the beach or head to the kitchen, whether we plan our or day or just let it evolve… 

I need to remember that ALL of it is part of the adventure.  

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I’m bored

I’m bored.  

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did.  I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk…. 

I’m bored.  

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated.  All these toys?  This pool you’ve got?  These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods?  Stop complaining.  Go find something to do.  

I’m bored.  

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside.  I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.  

**********

My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation.  Only boring people get bored.  Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions.  More and more often, I have this nagging unrest.  Unease.  Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working.  Much of it is COVID related.  And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom. 

And I rail against it. 

I’ve painted and redecorated.  Cleaned.  Sorted.  We’ve done fire pits and puzzles.  Swimming and reading.  Writing.   Cooking.  Hiking.  Socially distanced visits.  Takeout.  Zoom cooking class.  Spa day.  Gardening.  Repeat.  

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do.  I have plenty to DO.  The cooking and cleaning are endless.  We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with.  There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.  

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty.  I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing.  And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.  

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying.  I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making.  I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas.  I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries… 

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.  

I miss my friends. 

I miss my book club. 

I miss church.

I miss concerts.  

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom. 

I miss camping.  

Restaurants. 

Carnivals.

Festivals.  

Movie theaters. 

Arcades. 

Museums. 

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks.  I sign up for online classes.  I take the kids on outdoor excursions.  I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family. 

I write.  And as I write this, something is dawning on me.  Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  Maybe it’s grief.  

Not the soul-wrenching kind.  Not the life-shattering kind.  Simply a vague sense of loss.  Unmet expectations.  Disappointment.  

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety.  I know we’ve got it good.  So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity.  I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.  

I’m bored.  

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable.  Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.  

But the disappointment?  That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with. 

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling.  All of them, not just the pleasant ones.  Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget.  I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health. 

So I’m going to feel the disappointment.  I’m going to stop calling it boredom.  

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.  

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails.  I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow.  Because the busy-ness will start again.  When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.  

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A New Kind of Summer

We’re letting up a little on our quarantine rules.  The kids can hang out with a friend, as long as they stay outside.  The adults have the same rule, so we can sit by a fire pit with another couple and have a few drinks.  If we need to run to the store, we don our masks and go.  Things are starting to feel just a little more normal.  It’s almost summer vacation, so the online classes are ending and the days feel a lot less hectic.  

Because we’ve been home for so long already, I’m not feeling the usual, self-inflicted summer pressure.  I don’t have a massive ‘to-do’ list because I’ve tackled so much of it already.  We’ve completed the epic three-bedroom switch of 2020.  I love my new room and the kids love theirs.  The basement is cleaner than it’s been in years.  Much of the house is freshly painted, and Lee gets his new mattress delivered on Monday.   The linen closet is clean and we cleared out a large section of the backyard for a fire pit near the river.  That list of accomplishments helps me to feel… satisfied.  Settled.  Calm.  There used to be three rooms in our house that felt incomplete or uninviting to me.  That’s no longer the case.  I’m in love with our home. Before, the back yard was unwelcoming.  We didn’t have enough sunshine or places to sit.  That’s not true anymore.  I’m able to really enjoy our outdoor space, too.  

Yesterday, we did a bunch of yardwork and cleaning and I was sweating my tail off.  Cal begged me to join him in the pool (which I rarely do before August), and I decided to take him up on it.  I had just recently ordered a new bathing suit online, which, shockingly, I LOVE.  I was excited to put it on and ease into the cool water.

My youngest son and I cleaned the pool and played games and floated and I was reminded how nice it feels to just stop and enjoy the kids and the pool and the sunshine.  The neighbor boys came over to swim, too, while I sat in the sun and sipped a mojito and read my book.  My middle child biked to a friend’s house.  The oldest went for a drive.  Even as I enjoyed this time with Cal, I was reminded that they’re all growing up so quickly.  They have their own friends and their own lives and their own modes of transportation now.  It’s exciting and sad all at the same time. 

I’m a pretty task-oriented person.  I wake up each morning with a list of things to accomplish, and I generally spend my first few wakeful moments planning the sequence of my day.  Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t work all the time.  Sometimes the plan includes a trip to the lake or a picnic or a hike or a family movie.  But this summer is going to require a shift.  Most of our summer activities aren’t possible in the same way this year.  There won’t be trips to museums or beaches.  There won’t be bowling alleys and visits to the mall. 

Generally, if I’m home, I’m working on something.  Cleaning or a project or cooking or even writing.  I might be hosting some friends or setting up for a party.  But I don’t often have a day where I’m at home and the plan is just to relax.  That’s just not how I’m wired.  

For this summer, I’m going to have to make an effort to rewire.  A day at the beach will be replaced with a day in the backyard, and I’m going to have to be able to relax there without worrying about the laundry or the projects or any of the other infinite jobs that come with home ownership and parenting.    

So I guess that’s my goal for this summer.  Instead of tackling a ridiculous to-do list, I’m going to practice enjoying what we have.  These kids aren’t going to be here forever.  The sunny days in the backyard are more numbered than I’d like to admit.  The chores and the projects will never be done.  But someday soon, the kids will be gone and I’ll certainly regret all the days I didn’t spend in our little intex pool.  I’ll regret the giggles and the splashes that I missed.  I’ll regret the s’mores we didn’t make and the hikes we didn’t take much more than I’ll regret the fact that our bathroom never got repainted.  

So, here’s to a different kind of summer.  I’ll be in the backyard with a mojito, if anyone wants to join me.  

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Expectations

Last night was awful.  I got another email from Lee’s teachers, listing all of the ways he failed this week.  It was a list of missing assignments and poor grades and all of it felt more like an accusation than anything else. 

It felt like my failure for not monitoring well enough or checking his work or reminding him enough.

Except I honestly don’t know if I can do any better.  We have something new happening approximately every 15 minutes between 9 am and 2pm daily.  There are four of us on different zoom meetings in different rooms.  In between my own teaching, I’m trying to assist and monitor my own three kids, with their various learning disabilities, ADHD, and emotional issues.  I’m trying to help my students, all of whom have significant disabilities and are struggling to stay afloat during distance learning.  I’m failing.  At all of it.  

I listen to friends complain that “school is a joke” right now.  Three hours a day, four days a week.  They say it’s not nearly enough.  I hear that and I want to cry.  

As a teacher, I am drowning.  In a physical classroom, I can look at a room of 25 students and know within 20 seconds who is off task, who is confused, who is tired, who is distracted.  I can partner them in ways that ensure that every kid is learning.  I can discreetly move closer to a kid who is off task instead of calling them out and embarrassing them in front of the whole group.  None of these things is possible in a virtual space.  All of my lessons need to be rethought and rewritten.  Everything that could be accomplished in a classroom in a few minutes takes a few hours online.  A 20 minute read aloud takes over an hour.  20 minutes to record it.  30 minutes to replay it and add quiz questions to ensure comprehension.  10 minutes to post it and type out directions and add it to the calendar and the agenda.  20 minutes to review student responses to see if they got it.  Another 20 minutes to follow up with the kids who missed it.  And then maybe a zoom meeting to clarify with the kids who are totally lost.  

So the assignment that took your average kids 20 minutes to do?  That took two hours for your teacher to prepare and execute.  

And that’s not even the hard part. I have a student with a rough home life who isn’t showing up to classes.  I don’t care if he completed his Social Studies homework.  I just want to know that he’s safe and fed and sleeping and making connections with people who care about him.  We have students in abusive situations.  We have students who are parenting their siblings while their parents go to work.  We have students who are hungry and students who are anxious and students who are bored.  The hardest part is the helplessness and the worry.  We love these kids, whether the general public chooses to believe it or not.  And our hearts are breaking for them.  

So where does that leave us?  As teachers, and as parents?  We feel like we’re failing on all fronts.  And from my conversations with friends, this feels pretty universal.  

I spent a long time on the phone with my son’s guidance counselor this morning.  I think we came up with a plan to help him going forward.  But it was emotional and exhausting and left me feeling depleted.  

I ended the call just in time to join a meeting with my supervisor to try to solve a tough work situation.  We made progress, but didn’t solve it, and I ended the call feeling disappointed. 

Then I went to check on my kids.  I was prepared to check the homework (again) and yell at them about cleaning their rooms.  But they weren’t anywhere to be found.  Instead, my two boys were out in the stream next to my house.  They were catching frogs.  They were laughing and joking and getting along.  And I couldn’t stand the thought of breaking that up to have yet another battle about schoolwork.  

I let them play. 

This afternoon, we’re all going to work together on a “Nailed It” baking challenge.  It’s a perfect activity because the challenge is to bake something that looks like your pet.  Bea’s obsessed with baking.  Lee is obsessed with pets.  And Cal is obsessed with activities in general.  We’re all enthusiastic about it.  We have two turtles and two dogs and a guinea pig and a hedgehog. The kids have designed cupcakes to represent each one.  It’s math and reading and art and social interaction.  It’s a way to learn something and have fun together.  

And I’m second-guessing my choice to participate.  Should I be punishing them for their incomplete schoolwork?  Should I be forcing them to make a dream catcher out of yarn, like the teacher instructed?  Should I make sure they edit their paragraphs, instead?  

I feel judged.  I feel judged by their teachers and their counselors and by other parents.  

I’m learning to trust my own judgment, instead, but it is a challenge.  I’m weighed down by expectations.  Expectations of what a good teacher or a good mother should do.  Expectations of what ‘success’ looks like for kids during quarantine.  Expectations about priorities and standards and achievement.  

God.  Those expectations are so heavy.  And they keep me from doing what I know in my heart and my soul is the best thing for my family.  

I’m trying to drown out the expectations with my own, strong inner voice.  It’s not easy, but when I succeed, it is SO, SO worth the effort.    

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Day… Nine?

These days are roller coasters.  Everything makes me cry lately.  My emotions are simmering just barely below the surface, and even a little jostle will put me over the edge.  A photo of an Italian hospital.  Tears.  A text from a friend.  Tears.  A fun family meetup online?  Also tears.  I’ve seen such beautiful things and such ugly things from my couch this week… I’m not really sure what to do with it all except show up in all the ways that I can and keep loving my people.  

Truth be told, I’m not really sure if it’s day nine.  I do know that it’s Sunday.  I know this because I got to go to church this morning.  I mean, not face-to-face, shake-people’s-hands church.  Virtual church.  Which actually brought me to tears.  I set up my computer in the living room.  I figured out how to mirror the screen to my TV.  I picked up the dirty laundry and threw it just beyond the frame of the camera.  I rallied my family.  Three of us were dressed; two were still in pajamas.  Two of us had coffee, one drank tea.  One sketched through the sermon.  Another listened while he worked on a puzzle.  I looked at my family, safe and warm and fed and healthy.  I looked to the TV to see a whole community of MY people, mostly healthy, safe, and praying together.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it happened.  More tears.  Tears of happiness and relief and worry all at once.  What’s to come?  None of us knows.  But at least we can be assured that we will be loved through it. 

After church, we loaded the kids in the car for a little excursion. I have teens and a preteen who typically like to groan and grumble at all my corny ideas.  Family game night?  Do we haaaave to? A hike in the woods?  I don’t waaant to!  Help me make brownies?  How about I just help EAT the brownies?  But something weird is happening to my children.  Today, they just said, “Okay” and got in the car.  

Something similar happened last night when I ‘made’ everyone play Pictionary.  We finished the game, and at the moment when one kid would normally say, “Can we be DONE now?” there was still a little bit of banter happening. I tested the waters with, “How about just one more?”  I expected groaning.  I expected eye rolling.  But what I got was enthusiasm.  They wanted to keep playing.  I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to jinx it, either.  We played four more rounds.  It was beautiful.  

But anyway, I digress.  Jack and I knew the mission this afternoon.  We had discussed it at length.  Knowing that I’ll be home for the next few weeks, I plan to work on a decorating project.  There will be spackling and painting and rearranging… and as part of the plan we found a great piece of used furniture on Craigslist.  We had arranged to go pick it up.  But we’ve been really strict with our kids about social distancing and hand-washing and not spending time with people who aren’t family.  The kids haven’t liked these rules.  As a matter of fact, yesterday, I had to tell my 17 year old that she couldn’t go to her best friend’s house to provide comfort following the recent death of her grandmother.  I tried to be compassionate but clear.  It was still really hard.  I don’t think our teenagers really grasp what is happening out there in the world.  To be fair, I’m not sure I comprehend it.  But these kids need our help to make good choices in a time when very little feels safe.    

And as part of that lesson, Jack and I wanted them to come with us on this little trip.  We all loaded into the truck.  There was good-natured argument in the back, of the ‘STOP-TOUCHING-ME’ variety. That happened right before Bea rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, so I didn’t take it too seriously.  They joked and teased each other and argued about the radio. It all just felt, well, normal.

Until… we went to the ATM, where they watched my husband snap on latex work gloves to operate the machine and handle the cash.  We went to the drive- through, where they saw the workers sanitizing their cash register and countertops.  We drove past the mall and the arcade and a dozen restaurants and salons with empty parking lots.  When we finally got to our destination, they watched THAT guy snap on latex gloves to take our money.  They saw the adults have a brief conversation; us in the driveway and the sellers 20 feet away on their porch.  They heard the conversation, so they knew that the furniture had been disinfected just before we picked it up.  On the way home, we talked about a few things we needed from the grocery store.  We explained that we wouldn’t all go in; it wasn’t necessary and it wasn’t worth the risk.  My 17 year old asked to come.  My husband’s instinct was to say no, but I wanted her to.  I think it was powerful for her to see the empty shelves and the newly erected plexi-glass screens installed to protect the cashiers.  She watched a handful of stunned-looking people picking up bread and fruit and milk.  She observed that nobody was going near anyone else.  I think she was a little ‘shook,’ as the kids would say.  

I don’t necessarily want her to be scared.  I just want her to be safe.  Right now, all of our kids need different things.  Some kids need reassurance and someone to keep them safe and protect them from unnecessary fear.  Some kids need solid information and comfort.  But some of our kids, especially our teens, might need to be a little ‘shook.’  Because at that age, they are fearless.  They’re supposed to be.  That’s how God made them.  So in times like these, they need us to help them to step out of their self-centered sense of immortality and into the real world.  They need a healthy dose of fear to keep them grounded and safe and considerate.  

Today, I think my kids got a beautiful balance.  They participated in a worship service that assured them that they are loved and supported and part of something bigger.  They got a little family fun and a little holy spirit and also a little reality check.  They saw adults who modeled what it looks like to take care of your people in such a strange time.  

Today, they were a little shook, and I like to think they’re better for it.