Category: Reflections

Thoughts and stories about life in general…

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Holidays

I love winter.  And I have the privilege of being able to love winter because I am married to an incredible man who is mostly content to do all of the snow-clearing whilst I bake banana bread and read in front of a fireplace and maybe run the vacuum.  

Some teachers will adamantly declare that they don’t like snow days because they cut into the joy of summer.  I vehemently disagree.  I love a snow day.  I love an unexpected day off, with no demands and no accusatory sunshine demanding outdoor enjoyment or relentless activity.  A snow day is for pajamas and movies and good books and card games.  It’s for cooking and sipping warm drinks and cuddling.  Snow days are heaven for those of us who enjoy the blessing of doing a whole lot of nothing urgent.  

Unfortunately, my husband almost never gets to experience the joy of a snow day.  During the long winters, there are inevitably days when he rises with the sun to go to work and the children and I stay cuddled under down comforters until our bladders or our hunger pains awake us.  And then we amble around, perhaps making an extravagant breakfast or watching movies or playing card games in our pajamas.  

Today was one such day.  Never mind that we’re already on vacation.  Today was perfect for lounging.  We had an eventful day yesterday, and I was looking forward to a mostly- relaxing indoor day, wherein the most strenuous items on my to-do list involved loading the dishwasher and dialing the phone.  A little snow fit perfectly into my plans for the day.  

My husband had already tried to run the snow blower before he left for work at 5:30 am.  The slushy mix clogged the throwing mechanism; consequently, he cleared just enough to get his van out of the driveway, leaving the rest. 

I probably could have left it for him, but that would’ve been pretty awful of me.  I know this because I’ve done it before.  I’ve enjoyed my snow day, completely oblivious to the outdoor conditions because I’m spoiled.  And he has come home after a long day of physical labor, looked at me with apparent disappointment, and asked, “You were home all day and you didn’t even clear the walkway?” 

Now, to be fair, that’s the equivalent of me taking the children away to visit family for the weekend and coming home to a pile of laundry and a sink full of dishes.  We are both equally capable of appallingly inconsiderate behavior.  But we mostly try to avoid it.  So I added “shovel the driveway” to my mental to-do list.  

Admittedly, I procrastinated shoveling for as long as possible.  I didn’t want to get my snow gear on.  I didn’t want to fight with the kids to come out and help.  I didn’t want to be cold and sweaty.  But the heavy, wet snow was already turning to slush that would eventually turn our driveway into an impassable sheet of ice.  So I rallied the two children who were home with me, and we donned our snow boots and gloves and began to shovel.  

What is it about the human psyche that allows us to mentally manipulate simple, satisfying tasks into wretched, undesirable chores? 

I do this all the time.  I spend my time and mental energy so inefficiently by agonizing about a task rather than simply doing it.  I’ll think about an unpleasant phone call for a week before I dial the phone.  I’ll make mental lists and written lists and share a litany of to-dos with my husband.  In the time it takes me to guilt myself about incomplete chores, I could have completed several of the offending tasks.  In the time it takes me to decide to clean the refrigerator, I could have cleaned it three times over.  

And so it was with the shoveling.  With the kids’ help, it took less than half an hour.  We were outside, joking with each other and getting some sun and breathing fresh air and getting a little exercise.  Since we were already so close to the car, we hopped in once our job was done.  The kids came with me to run some errands and pick up some ice cream and toppings for our traditional New Year’s Eve Sundae Bar.  We shopped at the dollar store and picked up some pet food and it was actually a really nice afternoon.  

This lesson? This notion that sometimes you just need to DO THE THING, even when it’s not appealing?  That lesson seems to be the theme of this holiday season for me.  Let me give you a few examples.  

– I usually agonize over gifts for my parents.  I stress about it for weeks and ask a million people for advice and wait for inspiration to strike, and inevitably I end up buying a restaurant gift card or something equally uninspired.  This year, I skipped all the agonizing, bought the gift cards, and felt relieved to cross it off my list so early in the shopping season.  

– My bedroom is tiny.  My furniture is huge.  There aren’t a lot of choices about how to arrange it, so it hasn’t been moved in ages.  But the dog hair collecting beneath the immovable bureau became the cause of increasing disgust, so I finally shoved it all around so that I could vacuum all the nooks and crannies.  I got it so clean I wasn’t afraid to put out my new white comforter.  Then I splurged on some throw pillows and actually managed to rearrange a few things, and my new, clean redecorated room inspired the next change…

– About a year ago, one of our sons installed a light switch in my bedroom.  He had to rip open the wall and then he spackled the whole thing to reassemble it… but I didn’t remember the paint color I needed to cover the ugly white spackle.  After a year of procrastinating, I finally went to get paint samples and choose a new color.  I was ready to repaint the room.  Unbelievably, I was able to find a color that was an exact match to what was already there.  So I only had to paint one wall and touch up a few other spots.  It looks fantastic. I wish I had done it a year ago. 

– For the past three years I’ve skipped the whole Christmas Card thing.  That, in itself, was liberating and helped me to evaluate the list of things that I have to do over the holidays.  I’ve realized that about 90% of those things are actually optional.  Who knew?  But back to the card… this year, I had a picture of all 5 kids.  It wasn’t great.  It accurately captured the moods of 4 angsty teenagers who didn’t want to be there and one overly-excited 10 year old who was still looking forward to Santa’s arrival.  It was taken a year ago.  But all the kids are dressed nicely and looking at the camera and nobody is actively sneering or crying.  I took advantage of cyber- Monday sales to turn this photo into a card and I mailed it to all our friends and family.  The photo has prompted laughter and conversations and the sympathy of moms-of-teens all over the country.  Perfection is overrated.  

– And to return to ‘optional’ holiday activities?  This year, we ordered Chinese food on Christmas Eve.  Between church obligations and family activities, the traditional Christmas Eve dinner just didn’t work out.  And you know what?  It was amazing.  No fuss, no mess, just a lot of laughter and gifts and drinks with our grown and almost-grown children.  I think I might have found our new tradition.

Sometimes, letting go feels really good.  And sometimes, doing the thing you didn’t want to do ALSO feels really good.  I learned a lot of lessons this holiday season… about changing my perspective and changing my expectations and changing my approach.  

Maybe those lessons will carry me in to 2020 with a lighter load and a more grateful heart.  Maybe they’ll help me to find my motivation when it’s lost and accept God’s grace when I need it most.  Happy New Year, everyone.  Here’s wishing you gratitude and peace and motivation and grace, in whatever measures bring you peace.  

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Grace

 I’ve set a writing goal.  One blog post a week, plus another thousand words that I don’t post.  This is week three.  

The thousand words I don’t post come pretty easily.  They’re not necessarily focused or organized.  They’re a bit rambly and full of emotion and they pour out of me.  

But the blog posts? They’re hard to write on a deadline. Because my best posts come from an emotional place.  They come when I’m going through something that I need to process or share or work through.  But it’s got to be just the right thing.  It can’t be something too sensitive.  It can’t be something too raw or recent.  

I’m realizing, as I write this, that I don’t post anything that I’m even a little ashamed of.  I’m inspired by Brene Brown’s work on shame and vulnerability, and her perspective has helped me be a little more authentic. But none of us likes to be judged. 

When I write online, I am open to sharing some pretty raw and vulnerable stuff; partly because I know and trust most of my readers, but also because, deep down, I’m pretty proud of what I share.  

I’m proud that we brought Bea into our family; I’m honored to be a part of this loyal, strong, smart young lady’s life.  I’m proud of Lee and who he is; not only his identity, but his artistic talent and his sense of humor and his inquisitive mind.  I’m also proud of the way our family has supported him. I’m proud of Cal’s quick wit and kind heart. I’m proud of my stepsons; their loyalty and their work ethic and their willingness to shift their beliefs and expectations to make room for the changing dynamics of a family.  I’m proud of my musical, handy, impulsive husband, who is the reason anything big ever gets done around here.  

I’m proud of this chaotic, messy, beautiful life we’ve built.  And even when I’m sad, or frustrated or lonely or afraid … I can tell you that, too.  Because it’s real, and honest.  

But it’s hard to share shame.  When you know you were wrong.  When you know you didn’t give your all.  When your negligence or laziness or messed up priorities led to someone getting hurt.  

And what I’ve learned about all that is that it isn’t necessarily the EVENT that’s so hard to deal with.  It’s a reconciliation of yourself.  It’s figuring out what to do with a juxtaposition that has you questioning your own identity.  If you believe yourself to be an honest person, and you did something dishonest… what do you DO with that?  Do you blame others?  Pretend it didn’t happen?  Hide under your covers?  Give up and become dishonest always?  

If you consider yourself to be responsible, but you made an irresponsible choice, the hardest part is figuring out who you are now.  Are you still the person you thought you were?   

It is in this vulnerable place where I find my faith to be so valuable.  If I can convince myself, in that agitated state, that I am loved and beloved, JUST AS I AM, then I can find the next step.  

I can look at who I am and who I want to be and know that, even while I am improving, I am still whole and valued and loved beyond measure.  That’s the power of faith and forgiveness.  

I think it’s easier said than done.  I think it takes a lot of mental and emotional work.  But it’s so worth it.  We do it for our kids, right?  Think about it.  We don’t tell them they’re BAD KIDS.  We tell them that they’re GOOD KIDS who made a bad choice.  We tell them that we love them no matter what and that we’re going to help them make better choices.  

That’s what grace is. So today, I’m going to extend myself a little grace.  I hope you will do the same.  

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Sewing

Probably about 10 years ago, my mom gave me a sewing machine.  I think she might’ve found it at a garage sale.  Or maybe she just had it lying around and never used it.  I don’t recall exactly.  But she remembered that I made curtains for my first apartment, and she thought I might want a sewing machine.  

I DID want a sewing machine. Or maybe more accurately, I wanted to be the kind of person who uses a sewing machine.  So I eagerly brought home a gently used Singer.  

That sewing machine has been in my spare room, my basement, my garage.  It’s been all over the house.  But it’s never actually been USED.  

I guess that’s not entirely true.  About five years ago, my husband and I took it out to try to sew new boat cushion covers. But we couldn’t figure out how to wind the bobbin.  We also realized we’d need heavy-duty needles and probably more sewing experience than NONE to make those cushions actually happen.  So we covered the torn cushions in pretty layers of red duct tape, instead. 

And the sewing machine got relegated, once more, to the basement.  

Recently, I was looking at a bunch of dingy, flattened throw pillows on my couch.  I love throw pillows.  But every time I buy them, I cringe at the price tag.  Why are pillows so freaking expensive?  They’re fabric squares stuffed with fluff!  

Then, of course, I tell myself, You can make pillows.  How hard can it be?  I remind myself, You made those curtains.  And they were almost even!

And I so desperately want to be the kind of person who sews, that I pick up a few fabric squares and I carry my Singer up from the basement.  This time, I watch a few bobbin-winding videos on YouTube.  I realize that the bobbin needs to turn COUNTER clockwise, and it feels like I’ve solved the problem.  Until I break the needle.  

It took a few more videos and a trip to the store, but GUESS WHAT?  I made a pillow!  I actually made TWO pillows.  Maybe they’re not store-quality, but they didn’t come out too bad!  

A few days later I hemmed a curtain!  

I’ve got big plans now, guys.  Pillows! Tablecloths!  Curtains!  Dog bed covers!  I’m pretty sure I am now capable of sewing lots of square and rectangular things.  

But aside from my obvious bragging, I have another reason for sharing this with you.  I think, sometimes, as we get older, we get stuck in our routines. We know what we’re good at, and we do those things.  We’ve already defined ourselves.  

You are either ‘a runner’ or ‘someone who doesn’t run.’  A ‘muscian’ or ‘not a musician.’  Creative. Funny.  A writer.  A fitness buff.  Or not. 

And then, slowly but surely, we shrink to fit our own definitions of ourselves.  We forget the joy of learning something new.  And guys, it is so freaking fun to learn new things! 

My challenge to myself this season is to keep growing.  Keep learning.  Keep trying new things.  I’m trying to stretch myself beyond my own vision of who I can be.  I know that I am a teacher, a reader, a mother, a musician…. I’ve been all of those things for so long!  

But I can be more.  I can be SO MANY things!  I’m taking a writing class now.  I’m learning so much, and loving every minute of it.   And with the help of a great technological advancement called YouTube, I feel confident that I will eventually be able to sew things that aren’t square!    

With a little bit of effort, I am going to become an author, a person who sews, and maybe even a woman who can curl her own hair.  The sky’s the limit! 

Will you join me? What have YOU always wanted to learn? 

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Giving Thanks

It’s 6:30 am on Thanksgiving Day.  I’ve been up for hours; not because of stress or worry, but because I am so full of gratitude I feel like I could burst.  This is one of those rare moments of joy before the chaos begins.  I lay in bed this morning, thinking of all of the ages and stages of this life.

I reminisced about the Thanksgivings of my childhood; about making place cards and setting the table with my grandmother’s good china while my mother made the broccoli casserole and my dad prepped the turkey.

I thought back to the Thanksgivings early in my marriage, when I showed up at my mother in-law’s house with that same broccoli casserole, tentatively presenting my offering to this new family, hoping it (and I) would be received with love.

I recalled the first Thanksgiving I hosted, for a few family members in our tiny upstairs apartment.  Our kitchen was the size of a closet, and we ate in the living room that year.  To this day, I’m not sure how we made it all work.

I remembered the year that I filmed Cal, dancing in the kitchen as he gently placed alternating white and yellow cheddar slices on a tray, occasionally declaring that this one was ‘broken’ before taking a bite and grinning at me with those freaking dimples.

I went back to the year that we stumbled with our pronouns; our whole family working to ensure that Lee felt loved and safe and supported.

Some of these Thanksgivings blend together in my mind; I can’t recall which years we spent here and which ones we spent away.  Some of them were stressful and chaotic; some were quiet and relaxed.  But there are themes that run throughout.  Love.  Gratitude. Acceptance.  Abundance.

And this morning, my heart is bursting with those things.  Grateful feels like too small a word.  What’s bigger than gratitude?  What is gratitude and peace and joy and love pushing so hard at your heart that it brings tears to your eyes?

Maybe it sounds dramatic. Maybe it sounds like too much. But those tears really are pushing at the edges of my eyes and the only reason is because I am remembering to remember all of my blessings.  Like…

My husband.  This guy is cranky and rough around the edges and a little bit gruff.  And he is the epitome of loyalty and commitment.  He is full of love and he cries at movies and he always does the right thing, even when the wrong thing is easier.  He provides for us and cares for us and when I’m at my worst, he just shakes his head and takes a deep breath and keeps on loving me.  He is my rock and he is an incredible role model for these kids.  He is tough and soft all at the same time, and what on earth would I do without him? Thank you, God, for this incredible man.

Bea.  What an incredible young woman.  The holidays are so hard for her.  She’s been through a lifetime of hardship in her short 16 years, and she still faces each day with grace and strength.  Watching her grow has been one of life’s little miracles for me. When I first met this plucky fourth grader, she had the soul of an old woman and the smile of a cherub (when you could get her to smile).  I had no idea that she would become a part of my heart like she has.  In our first year as a family, I worried about how to make her feel welcome in our home and how to balance the addition of a new family member. I worried that we weren’t enough, or maybe we were too much, and I tried so hard to make it all less awkward.  And now, I can’t even remember what it was like before she was here.  She’s been a part of my heart for so long, and now she’s a part of my family, and we are all better for it.  Thank you, God, for this amazing young woman.

Lee.  Oh, my heart.  This kid.  This kid is awesome.  As in, awe-inspiring.  Incredible. Brave, funny, smart, strong, perceptive, loving, and honest.  This kid is going to change the world.  He is going to bring his whole self out into the world and teach tolerance through love and humor.  He is going to care for his menagerie of pets and use his incredible powers of observation and his scientific brain to accomplish incredible things.  And in the meantime, I get to watch him transform like a butterfly.  Can you imagine that?  We all have hopes and dreams for our children… but I’ve gotten to watch my child grow in ways I never imagined.  He surprises me at every turn, and he brings me immeasurable joy.  His laugh and his heart and his head on my shoulder; they all take my breath away.  Thank you God, for this inspiring, incredible kid.

Cal.  My baby.  My sweet, silly, stubborn little guy.  The one who probably gets away with too much because he’s the baby of the family and I’m a sucker for those dimples.  But Cal is my cuddler.  He’s the soulful one; a deep thinker who seeks God in all of the places.  He’s the one who will spontaneously lead us in prayer, or ask questions about heaven when I tuck him into bed.  He’s sensitive and kind and always wants to do the right thing. He’s my go-getter.  When presented with options of things to do, the rest of the family will say ‘no, thank you’ to all of them; Cal will ask why he can only choose one.  He’s athletic and musical and his guitar skills are on track to surpass his dad’s someday.  When I hear them play together, I get a lump in my throat.  Thank you God, for this sweet, sassy little man.

I am grateful today for all of these blessings; for my stepsons and my parents and siblings and my in-laws. For lifelong friends and new friends and the unconditional love from my dogs.  For a warm, safe home and a log in the fire and new throw pillows.  For our church family and a supportive community and cinnamon flavored coffee.  For the sound of laughter and a shoulder to cry on.

Dear God,  thank you for all of the blessings of this life, even the ones that appear as hardships.  Help me to cultivate gratitude and share it with others, and help me to remember this moment of calm once the chaos begins.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May you be abundantly blessed.

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The Lake House

The first time we spent a long weekend at Lake Chateaugay, Cal was an infant, Lee was three, and college was still fresh in my memory.

We were invited for a long weekend, as sort of a mini- college reunion.  Jenne’s dad had just bought a lake house, and there was room enough for all of us, if we didn’t mind air mattresses and sleeping bags on the floor. We didn’t.

We knew the backstory of this house before we went, but we weren’t prepared for the reality of it. Half of it was a pretty standard sort of lakeside cabin; fireplaces and rocking chairs, a screened in porch, a bunch of mid-sized upstairs bedrooms. But the other half was a different story.

The property had been previously used as a research facility.  So half of the house was covered in linoleum and countertops circa 1982. It was full of beakers and burners and sinks.  There was an incubator and an actual darkroom with a revolving door.  There were hallways full of cabinetry and the further you walked, the more you felt like you were in a science lab instead of a vacation home.

That first year, we had the biggest family, so we got the biggest room.  And the biggest room happened to be an old lab.  The floor was linoleum and the walls were covered in old wood paneling, cabinetry, and faucets.  We set up three air mattresses and a pack n’ play in a space with one tiny window, and we loved every minute of it.

We’ve been up to the lake house almost every year since.  After the first few visits, Jack began making the trek each spring, for opening weekend with the guys.  He brought with him his muscle and his work ethic and his plumbing skills, and Jenne’s parents grew to love him.

The first few years, we visited with four or five different families.  We started with five kids between us, and over the years, the number of children worked its way into the teens.  It got harder and harder to coordinate these visits, and as the group visits dwindled, Jack’s labor earned us a weekend of our own.

This year, we went up for a four-day weekend, and during our time there, I couldn’t help but reflect. The house has transformed along with our family.  The big room we stayed in our first year is now the master bedroom.  It has bay windows and carpeting and the scientific paraphernalia is long gone.   The dark room is a laundry room, and the incubators have been replaced with bunk beds and a pool table.  The old pontoon has been replaced with a bigger, better boat.  Other new additions include a deck, a lean-to, a kayak, and a dishwasher.  The screened in porch is now a finished room, with an outside wall of windows and the most spectacular view you can imagine.

And as those changes took place, our family has evolved, too.

We were at the lake the year after Cal was born, with diapers and high chairs and sippy cups.

All four kids fondly remember summer days boating and catching frogs and fishing and swimming.

We were there for the first vacation without all four, when the boys had their own summer jobs and didn’t join us.

Our amazing friends tolerated the awkwardness and supported us there the summer we thought we were getting divorced.  We sat by the water as we grappled with the reality of making a marriage work when the times got tough.

It was at the lake where Jack met a needy, lovey, sweet, massive black lab who melted our hearts and happened to need a home.  She’s now a beloved member of the family.

We found ourselves at the lake again, just a few weeks after our family grew from four children to five. Bea had only lived with us for a short time, and we brought her on vacation, where we struggled to find a balance between welcoming her and setting limits.

And this year, we found a new sort of balance, boating and kayaking and roasting marshmallows in a space that now feels sacred.

It’s hard to explain the connection I have to this place that isn’t mine. I don’t feel I have the right to love it like I do.  But I love it, nonetheless.  For better or for worse, this house has become part of our story; part of our history.

And intertwined with all of this is the knowledge that it does not belong to me.  Some day, circumstances will undoubtedly change, and all that I will have of this place is the memories we have created here. It’s sobering and saddening and beautiful in a bittersweet sort of way.  The fleeting nature of our relationship with this house is part of what makes it so special.

The brutal, beautiful, inevitable march of time changes all things. I know I need to savor the moments we have in this place, and I realize the same is true for this beautiful family we’ve created.

Because after all, none of it really belongs to us.  These children won’t be children forever.  They are ours to hold for a finite number of years; a few moments in the course of time when we are entrusted to teach them and love them and help them become all that they are meant to be.  We are compelled to enjoy them while we can, and let them go when we must.

I can’t spend too much time thinking about that moment of letting go; it brings a dreadful, paralyzing fear that I’m not ready to face.  My heart breaks a little when I think of these beautiful days fading into my past.

But a fear of letting go can be extinguished by hope for the future.  I dreaded seeing my babies turn into big kids… but I adore the big kids they’ve become.  I feared moving on to a new house, until it became home.  I have been afraid of the future innumerable times in the past, just before I moved into something bigger and more amazing than I could have imagined.

So instead of fear, I’m choosing to live in this moment with faith and hope.

This post was pulling at my mind and my heart as I fell asleep next to my husband in one of those upstairs bedrooms overlooking the lake.  I woke up to his nudge and a whisper in my ear.  “Wake up,” he said.  “Why?” I groggily asked.

“The sun is rising. And we should see more sunrises together.”

My heart smiled.  We slipped on our sweatshirts and walked into the misty morning with steaming mugs of coffee.  We sat and watched a new beginning, holding on to this moment, and to each other.

So here’s to sunrises and beginnings and beautiful, fleeting moments of joy.

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A Good Day

Sometimes, I am presented with an opportunity to do something fun, and I hesitate.  I hesitate because I don’t want to spend the money, or face the crowds, or rally the troops.  I hesitate because I’m tired or cranky.  I hesitate because the idea of making myself DO THE THING is simply exhausting.

Other times, I pull it together.  I get there. I act as a cheerleader and an activity planner and I get everyone excited to go DO THE THING and then I pack the lunch and the first aid kit and whatever other paraphernalia we need and then we GO.

Today, I was presented with an opportunity.  A friend and her family were going to The Big E.  I looked it up.  It looked like fun.  Something for everyone.  Shopping, rides, pig races, shows.  Food and games and family fun.  I was ready to commit.

And then I talked to my kids.  My kids were feeling pressured.  Pressured by football games and family visits and school projects.  Pressured by big responsibilities and small ones.  There were turtle tanks to be cleaned and chores to be done.  But there were also books to be read and guitars that needed playing and apples begging to be turned into pie.  There were yard sales to attend and friends to visit.

So in lieu of the big plan, we opted for a lot of smaller ones.  We worked on homework and school projects.  We checked out some yard sales.  Lee had a friend over, and Cal rode his bike around the neighborhood. Jack and I worked on our bathroom a bit. We did the regular Saturday chores; the grocery shopping and the dump run.  The toilet scrubbing and the vacuuming.

And while part of me feels guilty for not DOING THE THING, a bigger part of me knows how important it is for me to really listen and consider what my family needs.

Today was a good day. It was productive and relaxing. Here are a few of the highlights.

I was making an updated chore list, trying to fairly divide household tasks between two adults and three kids of varying ages and abilities.  And while listing and sorting jobs, I had an epiphany.  There are five rooms in this house, not counting bedrooms. And five people to clean.  Why was I making this so difficult?  Everyone gets a room.  Bam.  Problem solved.

I made a roast beef. I am notorious for overcooking beef. But, guys… this one was PERFECT. Perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned, perfectly freaking delicious.  If I do say so myself.

I listened to my son practice his guitar.  Lessons started last week, and as he plucks ‘Ode to Joy’ with increasing speed and confidence, I can’t help but marvel at the beautiful process of creating music.

I helped Bea with homework. She hasn’t asked me in a while, which is generally indicative of positive changes, like increased independence. But when she sits and asks me to help talk her through chapter two in her history textbook, it gives us a chance to connect and discuss more important things than when she needs a ride or what’s for dinner.

We went to the church yard sale.  Lee’s level of excitement about acquiring other people’s used stuffed animals is baffling and adorable.  This kid had all the church ladies in stitches as he presented compelling arguments for every item on his wish list.  The most adorable was, “Who else is going to love this little cheetah Beanie Boo with it’s nose chewed off?  Only me, mom. Only me.  This Beanie Boo deserves love, too.”

As I write this, Jack is finishing up phase two of our bathroom renovation.  We now have a sink and a toilet and walls (with paint on them) and molding and brand new floor tiles.  What’s left is just the shower, and to those of you who will remind us that that’s the hardest part, I say…. Shush.  Just shush.

Overall, I love this time of year.  We’re getting back into the routine of school and work.  I’m still on top of signing the homework agenda and reminding the kids to do their ‘after school jobs.’  I’m excited about a new group of students, and we haven’t exhausted the fall rotation of slow cooker meals yet.  Football is just getting started, and 4thgrade games and NFL ones are equally entertaining… for the moment.

Music lessons haven’t become rote yet, and I haven’t yet had the opportunity to forget school picture day or a counseling appointment or a youth group event.

The apples haven’t had a chance to turn brown in the fruit basket, and I’m still feeling optimistic about baking a pie… tomorrow.

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Camping

I’ve been camping all my life.  Not ‘hike through the woods to the top of a mountain and find a place for your tent’ camping… More like, ‘rent a square where you can legally set up a tent in a pre-designated spot near public bathrooms and showers’ camping.

Camping as a kid was vastly different than camping as an adult.  As a kid, we rode our bikes around the campground, made new friends, and experienced a level of freedom that wasn’t allowed at home.  We swam in the lake and bought junk food from the camp store and stayed up as late as our parents and played with fire.  It was awesome.

Camping as an adult is still awesome, but in a totally different, labor-intensive sort of way.

Preparing for camping is intense.  You literally have to pack every single thing you might need to care for a family. First aid kit?  Check.  Bathing suits, towels, underwear?  Check. Spatula?  Soap?  Salt? How about actual SHELTER?  Because you’ll need to pack that, too.  Games, matches, stove, pots, bowls, utensils… it’s an endless, mind-numbing list.

And that’s not even considering the FOOD.  Not only do you have to plan meals that can be prepared on two burners and a fire pit, but you have to pack all of the things that typically reside in your kitchen cabinets to help you complete this task.  Foil.  Oil. Butter.  Garlic.  Onion powder. Paprika.  Whatever.

Preparing for a camping trip is NOT a vacation.

And of course, the chances are, if you’re camping, you’re bringing your children. There’s an article somewhere in the Onion, I think, entitled, “Mom Spends Beach Vacation Assuming all Household Duties in Closer Proximity to Ocean.” The first time I saw that, I practically spit out my coffee.  Because, of course, if one’s children are ALSO on vacation with you, you don’t get a vacation from parenting.

But the cool thing about camping is that you can revert back to your PARENTS’ style of parenting. Remember?  1970s and 80s parenting?  You can send your children out to play and explore and basically not worry about them until they return looking for snacks.  You can let them be dirty without judgement because you’re camping, for goodness’ sake!  You can feed them hot dogs and potato chips for three days straight.  You can let them start the fire, because they’re learning a LIFE SKILL, goddamn it!  And all the while, you can sit by a fire with your choice of adult beverage and some friends because day drinking is encouraged at a campground.

I obviously enjoy camping, because we keep doing it.  I kind of enjoy that it’s a little bit of a challenge.  It’s like a test to see if I can remember all the things.  And if I forget something, it’s a challenge to see if I can improvise.  No pot for the beans?  Put the can on the fire.  No wine opener?  This screwdriver should work.   Short a pillow?  Roll up a towel.  And if that doesn’t work… If you forgot it, chances are, you can do without it. Camping is also a humbling exercise in realizing how much stuff you don’t actually NEED.

The best part about camping is that it really does help people connect.  Nobody remembers everything, so you rely on your friends. You borrow and lend without any sort of tally in your head because you’re all in this together.  You see each other’s sub-par parenting and campfire cooking fails and dirty pajama pants, and you love each other all the more. You don’t have the fallback of watching a movie, so you play games and sing songs and make s’mores.

And if the sun goes down at 8, you can spend a couple hours drinking and laughing by the campfire and still be in bed by 10.  That’s my kind of vacation.

 

 

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Mindful

I’ve been reading a book about mindfulness.  Today, I got ready to complete one of the exercises in the book.  It was still quiet in the house; everyone was asleep. So I grabbed my cushion and my book and a found a spot on the carpet in the living room.  I sat, crossed my legs, bowed my head, and began to focus on my breathing.  Slowly, I lifted my head and lengthened my spine and began to feel the tension where it typically resides… in my lower left shoulder blade.  I also felt some pulling in my neck and my back.  I breathed into the pain, and began to focus on my exhale.

I heard footsteps, figuring that my time for meditation had ended.  But it was my husband, who is observant and self-sufficient.  So when he noticed that I was meditating, he silently smiled, nodded, and walked away.  My husband is quick to intercept the kids when I’m meditating, so having him awake substantially increased the likelihood that I could continue uninterrupted. I heard him beginning to prepare breakfast.

I closed my eyes again and returned my focus to my breathing.  I was aware of the dog wandering near me; part of what I’m practicing is being able to notice something but not feel the need to analyze or react. So as she wandered, I noticed her but kept my focus on my breath.

Well, my dog isn’t used to being ignored.  She nuzzled her muzzle under my hand and nudged.  My husband stifled a giggle from the next room.  I couldn’t help but smile.

In this busy life of mine, finding time to meditate (or write, for that matter, because I’ve been interrupted 12 times in the last 6 minutes) is a rare sort of treat.  But as I read and practice more, I’m starting to better understand that there is a difference between mindfulness and meditation.

When you’re meditating, you need to be mindful.  You need to let go of extraneous thoughts and focus on your body and your breathing and the sensations of the moment.  You need to let go of the chatter in your brain and focus simply on being in the present.

Meditating requires uninterrupted time.  It doesn’t necessarily require quiet, because you can practice noticing sounds and ignoring them.  But you can’t meditate and answer, “Mom, do we have any cheese its?”  at the same time.  You can’t meditate and let out the dogs or make dinner or read a book with your kids.

But you CAN practice mindfulness through all of that.  You see, meditation requires mindfulness, but the same is not true in reverse. Mindfulness does not require meditation.

So as I tried to practice mindfulness techniques through meditation, when my dog nuzzled my hand and begged for attention, I had a choice to make.  I could shoo her away and continue to meditate.  Or I could focus on the moment and simply be mindful. I chose the latter.

I continued to focus on my breathing, but I also rubbed her nose.  As I breathed slowly, I could feel the change in not only my body, but hers, as well.  She had started off with a sort of desperate need for attention.  She was pushy and adamant.  But as I stroked her ears (she loves that), her breathing slowed.  First she sat, and then she lay down with her head just under my hand.  After a few moments, she adjusted and settled her massive head directly in my lap.

I was still aware of my breathing, but shifted my attention to the soft velvety feel of her ear under my fingertips.  I felt the coarse fur of her neck and the warmth of her skin.  I relaxed into the moment and simply enjoyed sitting on the floor with nothing to do but love my dog and breathe.

Soon, my son entered the room.  There would be no more silence; no more focused meditation… but I chose to continue being mindful of this particular moment.  I noticed his gentleness and his changing voice.  I watched him smile as he settled in on the carpet with us, enjoying the quiet of this moment.  I smelled the bacon coming from the kitchen and relaxed into the kind of peace that is often evasive for a busy mom.

It was short-lived, but beautiful.  Soon the bustle of cooking and gathering and eating began.  The bickering and laughing and teasing took over, and our morning ramped up.

But what I’m learning about mindfulness is this; even once the moment has passed, even when the quiet has been replaced by noise and the doing has surpassed the noticing, that moment has the power to impact the rest of the day.  It sets a tone; it serves as a powerful reminder.

The more I can sneak these moments into my day, the easier it is to find contentment.  The peace comes with the chaos, not in spite of it. When the kids are being rowdy and I can remind myself to breathe and laugh and step into the moment instead of avoiding it, we all benefit.  There is growth in that mindful place.

I’ve probably got another 10 years before I’ll be able to spend significant time meditating.  But that doesn’t mean that I can’t shift my mindset.  I can choose to be in the moment, whether that moment is quietly petting my dog, or refereeing an argument over the last piece of bacon.

And there’s an added bonus to all this noticing.  I have a notoriously terrible memory… but I’m finding that when I take the time to notice a moment, to label it and process it and enjoy it… that moment sticks.  I remember it more clearly and for longer.

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I remember…

The feel of the sand under my toes as I watch my son float in the lake.

The smell of the coffee as it drips into my mug.

The belly laughs at some forgotten joke as we drive home with our ice cream cones in our hands.

The pleasure of learning a new recipe and the taste of Bea’s homemade wonton soup.

The cool of the air in the library basement as Bea and Lee browse the shelves and Cal stacks blocks into a tower taller than himself.

The smooth, cool feeling of clean sheets on my toes as I settle in with a good book.

The scratch of the pencil on the ‘Hidden Pictures’ page of our Highlights Magazine.

The feel of a good morning hug, nestled under the covers, before I’m fully awake.

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Moments build character and gratitude and discipline and strength and love and peace and joy. Moments build relationships. Moments build a life.

I believe that each and every mindful moment brings me one step closer to who I’m meant to be. Maybe my tenderness for this massive black lab is more than it seems.  Maybe I just need the faith to see that God is always working.  And sometimes he chooses a hundred pound, needy lap dog to do his good work.

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Summer Rut

I’m right in the middle of my summer rut.   I browse my Facebook feed and see people at concerts and on vacations; I see moms with their kids at the beach and eating ice cream and splashing in pools.  And I’m already tired of summer.

We started off strong. We visited friends, swam in their pool, and went to a concert. We’ve gone out for ice cream and gone to the library and set up a lemonade stand in the yard.   We’ve been to the local lake at least 5 times, which I honestly love.   We’ve made plans with friends and plans with family.  We’ve gone to the water park and the amusement park and to New York.  We’ve been to pool parties and friends’ houses and jumped on all the trampolines.

We’ve made popcorn and jello and chinese dumplings.  We’ve rented movies and camped on the living room floor.  We’ve huddled on the bed in my air conditioned room, reading books and finding all the lost pictures in our Highlights Magazine. We’ve played card games and board games and word games. We’ve made forts out of cardboard boxes and couch cushions and blankets.  We’ve slid down the stairs into a pile of pillows on sleeping bag sleds.  Well, the kids did.  Not me.

And even with all of that, my kids are spending too much time on screens.  I’m still trying to fill the days and stop the bickering and get through the ‘to-do’ list in my brain.  I’m trying to find things to do without spending the grocery money, and I feel guilty every time I have to say, “Not this week” because we just can’t afford it right now.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of work to do.  We’ve re-done Bea’s bedroom.  Primed, painted, redecorated.  We reorganized Cal’s room, and we’re finally getting the bathroom done.  Walls are up, wiring is done, plumbing is finished.  I made the dentist appointments and handled the auto insurance and I’m working on switching over the medical insurance with all our providers.  I still have to clean out the laundry room and paint the trim and rip up the carpet in the hallway upstairs.  The dogs need to be walked and the lawn needs to be mowed.

And I told everyone this is my summer to write a book.  So far, I have 22 half-finished documents on my computer desk top, and nothing that looks remotely coherent enough to become a book.    I told myself I was going to focus on that, but here I am, blogging about my rotten summer mood.

I look back at that list and… HOLY CRAP, we’ve done a lot of things.  So why do I wake up with a low-level sense of dread in the morning? Why do I feel so guilty when we spend a morning doing nothing?  Apparently because I’m terrible at doing nothing.  I have a deep-seated need to be accomplishing something.  I feel better when I’m productive.  Which is why summers are so hard for me.

I know myself enough to realize that I require deadlines. I like to have a plan, and I like to know what’s happening next.  I have a running list in my head of things to do; when I’m dealing with pressure and deadlines, it’s easy to sort the list.  Immediate concerns.  Preparing for tomorrow.  The week ahead.  These categories in my brain help me to manage the day-to-day as a working mom.

And then, when I’m not working, the categories blur together.  The things that I plan to do today could also be done tomorrow or next week. Nothing is pressing and therefore everything feels equally important and my brain begins to malfunction.  I don’t know what to do next.  The simplest decisions become complex.  What’s for dinner?  What color should I paint the front door?  Should I walk the dogs or take them to the dog park?  Should I turn on the air conditioner or just keep the fans running?

In my real life, I’m a functional adult.  In the summertime, I’m a mess.  I could accomplish 12 things and still feel like I didn’t do anything because my mental to-do list is never complete.   I feel good when I’ve taken the kids to the lake, but when am I going to clean the bathroom if I spend my days reading on the beach?  When am I going to get the big projects done if I have to spend my time cleaning the bathroom?  And if I’m cleaning, the kids are probably on screens and that’s a terrible way to spend a summer.

DO YOU HEAR HOW CRAZY I AM?!?!?!

This is actually what happens in my head.

I usually like to wrap up these blog posts with a lesson or a bit of optimism.  But right now, I’m not capable.  Right now, I need to grab a cup of coffee and a shower.  Then I’m going to rent a kayak for an hour with my son, hit the grocery store on the way home, make a dessert to bring to my afternoon book club, put dinner in the crock pot, and then drive an hour to meet some friends for lunch and a book discussion and some catching up (which will make me feel better but leave residual guilt because the kids are home alone, probably watching freaking YouTube).

I have a plan.  And that’s a start….

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Peaceful

Have you ever had one of those Saturdays that turned in to a beautiful weekend that turned into an amazing week?  Right now, I’m sitting on my couch sipping a cup of coffee on the second day of summer vacation, feeling a deep peace that has been evading me for quite some time.

Let’s go back a bit. About a month ago, my husband accepted a new job.  This was good news; exciting, positive, and definitely wanted. But the thing is, he had been with his employer for nearly two decades.  His boss had been good to him, he was the senior guy, and he could do his job in his sleep.  Plus, he was getting paid pretty well.  So why leave? Well, he had just gotten his plumber’s license, so a bunch of new possibilities opened up.  And the big reason was that he was spending 3+ hours commuting each day.  Ninety minutes to work in the morning and another ninety minutes to get home each afternoon.  To travel 30 miles.  Traffic sucks.

So when he decided to accept the job and give his notice, it was a big deal.  For those of you who know Jack, you may know that he swears he has two emotions; happy and angry.  So while he was a little happy, he was also pretty angry (read: nervous, anxious, uncertain, wary, unsure).

Take Jack’s month of angry and then layer it on top of an intense transition for Bea.  She’s almost sixteen, and the emotions have been coming at her in waves.  We argue now (which is a good thing; normal, and a sign that she’s no longer acting like a guest here), and she was stressed about final exams, and friend drama sucks in High School.  She’s battling with loyalty issues and family stuff, and no kid her age should have to meet with their lawyer to discuss guardianship proceedings between voice lessons and dinner.

In the midst of all this, Lee is losing weight.  Like 20 lbs, and we’ve tried all sorts of different things but none of them is helping. I worry as I beg him to take a few more bites of dinner or breakfast or a freaking ice cream sundae.  I make smoothies and load them up with protein powder and I get up early to make him farina the way he likes it before school. Trying to plan meals that will get him the most nutrients in a way that he won’t fight takes up a substantial amount of time.

At the same time, Cal is growing a bit ‘big for his britches’.  He’s finishing third grade and getting ready to move to a new school for fourth.  He’s one of the big kids now.  He wants to be able to ride his bike into town like his big brother, and he gets angry when he’s not allowed to do all the teenager things. His tone right now is either whiny or angry when he speaks, and (because this isn’t my first rodeo) I know this phase will pass, but that doesn’t make it easy.  I love this sullen little boy as much as my sweet, silly one, but the latter is certainly easier to get along with.

And all of these layers are piled on top of June madness.  If you’re a parent, you know… June is full of end-of-the year busy-ness. Concerts and moving up ceremonies, sixth grade barbecues and awards, final exams, voice recitals, field trips and plays.  The nights are full of activities and the days are filled with emails and messages about the things that I’ve forgotten to add to the calendar.  As a teacher, this is compounded by the fact that I’m also attending and creating these events for my students.  End of the year projects and parties make it even more difficult to find time to grade term papers and essays and write progress reports and jot down heartfelt messages in eighth grade graduation cards.  The emotions are bittersweet, and the time to process them is minimal.

To add to it all, I miscalculated and screwed up the checkbook, so money has been tight.  Like “I messed up and begged the bank manager to waive the overdraft fees” tight.  Like “Holy cow, how am I going to pay for groceries after the overdraft fees” tight.  Like “Hey, sis, any chance you can pay my cable bill?” tight.

The end of the year is always a whirlwind, but this June was particularly stormy.

So, of course, I planned a five-hour trip to a concert in upstate NY, right in the middle of the madness.

I worked to arrange a place for Bea to stay, because she had a weekend event she couldn’t miss.  The department of child services makes this super awkward.  Bea has been with us for two years.  She knows the family, she has friends, and we have plenty of people who are part of our circle who would have been happy to have her.  But Child Services has rules and regulations, so they’d rather have her stay with a certified, licensed foster family she’s never met.  I hated the thought of sending her ‘to stay with strangers’ for the weekend (to which she quipped, “I’m not sure you really understand what foster care is”), and we were lucky to be able to reach a compromise wherein she stayed with a previous foster family.

With that all set, I wanted be packed and ready to go as soon as I got home from work on Friday afternoon.  But in the way of best-laid plans, this was not in the cards.  The kids’ last day of school was that day.  I had to buy teacher gifts and finish progress reports and do ALL THE LAUNDRY.

So in the rush to leave on Friday afternoon, I wasn’t feeling particularly relaxed.  It was going to be a long ride.  We were spending the weekend as guests in someone else’s home, leaving our rowdy kids with an unfamiliar babysitter, and trying to squeeze a visit that needed a week into two days’ time.

Deep down I knew it would be worth it.  These friends have seen me through nearly twenty years of ups and downs.  We met in college and have gone from holding each other’s hair back to holding each other’s wedding bouquets to holding each others’ babies.  For this visit, there were six families with a combined fifteen children.  The parents had plans to leave the kids with two sitters and head off to a concert together on Saturday evening- something we haven’t done in at least a decade.

So, while Friday was stressful, Saturday began the five-day stretch of bliss that I started to tell you about.

I woke up to the sound of children laughing, with my husband’s arm around my waist on an air bed under an unzipped sleeping bag in a Super Mario themed bedroom, and I inhaled happiness.  I wandered downstairs in my PJs, and was greeted by hugs and a staccato chorus of kids shouting, “Watch this!”

Saturday was full of bacon and swimming and trampoline jumping and cooking and drinking and laughing and choreographed dance moves (I’m not going to clarify whether that was the moms or the kids).  This group works like a well-oiled machine.  Someone lifeguards.  Someone pushes kids on the swings.  Someone naps. Someone mixes drinks.  Someone referees the fights in the pool.  Someone sunbathes.  Someone sets a timer for the next turn with a toy.  Someone washes dishes.

And with seamless awareness, we switch.  We all relax and we all pitch in.  We all laugh and we all eat and we all tell stories.  Our kids function like cousins, separated by distance, but coming together joyfully and with the confidence that comes from having known each other for longer than they can remember.  They play and they bicker and they soothe each other.  They compromise and they tease and they laugh.  They share and they clean up their messes and they have dance parties. They form a ‘band’ and practice combining a cacophony of keyboards and guitars and recorder and drums with choreographed cartwheels and dances and then they make all the parents sit on the couch and judge their performance on a scale of 1-10.

And the parents sip cocktails and lean on each other and enjoy the fact that THESE moments are forming our kids’ childhoods.

That was Saturday. The morning and afternoon passed quickly, and when it came time to head out for the concert, we piled too many people into a minivan somewhat illegally (a la 1999) and left our children in capable hands.

As we headed toward the concert, I was a bit skeptical.  “I’m too sober for this,” I thought, as I walked behind a stumbling young woman who seemed too old to be so much younger than I.  We trekked about a mile and a half from the parking lot to the venue. My feet hurt and I felt old and tired and a bit wary about leaving the kids.  The afternoon wine buzz had worn off, and I was questioning my judgement in having decided to participate in this chaos.

And then the band began to play.  We spread out a blanket to stake our claim on the lawn and we danced and swayed and closed our eyes and enjoyed the music.  Tears fell as I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder through “Highway 20 Ride.”  We all drummed the air through a cover of “Take Me to Church” and I danced with my girls like I was on spring break again as the band played “Toes.”  The band played a song I had never heard, and I leaned back on my husband who stood behind me with his arms around my shoulders and whisper-shouted, “I want this to be our new song.”  And as the concert came to a close, a line of moms wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders and laughed and smiled and swayed and sang along to, “With a Little Help from My Friends.” It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.

On the way home we stopped at a gas station for snacks and after paying the babysitter and checking on the kids, we grabbed our Doritos and Beef Jerky and headed outside to the fire pit.  We told stories and reminisced and, one by one, began dozing off in front of the fire. After some good-natured ribbing, we headed off to bed.

Then, with the exception of the concert, we did it all again on Sunday morning.  After the chaos of goodbyes with such a big group, we jumped into the car and headed home.  Even in the pouring rain with the terrible traffic, I sat in the afterglow of a weekend of renewal the whole way home.

I picked up Bea, and we quickly returned to our normal rhythms.   Sunday night, Jack and I were both preparing for work; him for his first day at a new job, and me for the last day of the school year.  We were energized now, in a way that massaged the nerves into excited anticipation.

On Monday morning, I woke up to the knowledge that I only had to get myself ready.  No lunches to make, no kids to wake, no permission slips or babysitters or breakfast to worry about.  The kids would sleep in and eat cereal when they got hungry.  They would spend too much time watching TV, but it was well-deserved after the weekend’s flurry of activity.  I hopped in the car and stopped for a coffee on my way to work.

I said a lot of goodbyes that day.  I said goodbye to students that had been with me for three years.  I said goodbye to retiring colleagues and friends who are moving away.  I said goodbye to co-workers I likely won’t see again until the fall.  Goodbyes are hard and beautiful, and each one opened my heart a little wider.

Then there was the end of the year party.  A bunch of colleagues gather at one teacher’s house and we all bring food and drinks and our families and we kick off the summer well.  All three kids came along for this, and I think that was the best part. I got to chat with friends, but I also got to watch these three play and bicker and plot and plan like siblings. A year ago, Bea came to this pool party timidly, and was still struggling to find her place in our family. Two years ago, she came to this same pool and refused to swim because she was so unsure of herself.  As I watched the kids splash and play, my heart swelled.  They’re getting so big.  They’re growing and learning and changing and I am so blessed to get to be a part of it.

While we were at the party, I got a text that my in-laws wanted to take the kids to an amusement park the next day.  Bea and I already had plans to do some shopping, but the boys were eager and enthusiastic.

So, on Tuesday (my first official day of summer vacation), the boys went on an adventure with their grandparents and their cousin, and I took Bea on a mission to redecorate her room.

As a general rule, I don’t enjoy shopping.  What I do enjoy is watching as she compares products and checks out prices and prioritizes her needs.  She loves to redecorate, and knowing that it’s an entirely unnecessary proposal, she’s saved up the money to do it herself.  She’s budgeted and made a list and tackles this whole thing with a commitment and sort of professionalism that makes me smile.  We spent the day shopping, with one short break at home for lunch and the bathroom.

Dinner was chicken sandwiches with avocado mayonnaise (from my Weight Watchers cookbook), and as it was just Jack and Bea and I, nobody complained or said it was too spicy or refused to eat.  Overall, it was lovely.

When the boys got home, they were full of stories.  They had a great time.  Turns out, Cal loves a good roller coaster, and is fearless enough to go on them by himself.  Lee enjoyed watching and taking pictures, which worked out, because that’s more his Nana’s speed anyway.  They had a blast and came home happy and tired.

The night ended with the whole family in the living room, sprawled on top of each other and an assortment of blankets.  The dogs were curled on the floor, Jack nodded off a little, and we all watched Doctor Strange. As I sat there, watching a movie we’ve seen at least four times, I breathed in.  I tried to freeze that moment in my mind; our little family, peaceful and tired and content and safe.

That feeling was still there, resting at the nape of my neck and filling my lungs when I woke up this morning.  I don’t know how long it will last.  Today’s plan is pretty low key; a little cleaning, a little time at the lake, a little cooking and a little painting, some video games and some writing.  I don’t know if I’ll still feel this peaceful at the end of the day, but I’m optimistic.

In my life, I’m very intentional about choosing gratitude.  I try not to get sucked into negativity and stress.  I’m mindful of my blessings and I try to see beauty in each day. But some days, that’s harder than others.  It’s hard to appreciate the sunset over the water when you’re just trying to keep from drowning. It’s hard to stop and smell the roses when you’re focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

And so, God gives us ups and downs.  I truly believe that this week feels so beautiful because last week was kinda hard. Not “death of a loved one” hard or “escaping a war-torn country” hard.  It was just “one foot in front of the other” hard.  It was tough enough for long enough that when a peaceful calm finally reappeared, it took my breath away.

The beauty becomes mundane without challenges, so we are blessed with both.  This summer season, I’m praying for the faith to appreciate them equally.