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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. 

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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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Inspired

I haven’t written lately.  I’ve been waiting for some sort of inspiration.  Well… maybe inspiration isn’t the right word.  An idea?  A worthy thought?  

When I write, it’s not always because I’m feeling inspired.  More often, I’m having some sort of internal debate.  Or I’m obsessing about something and I need to get it out.  Usually, when I sit down at my computer, I at least have an IDEA.  Sometimes, it’s a fully-fleshed out blog post in my head and I just have to get it on paper.  Often, it’s just a topic; an observation or a rant … and I’m not quite sure where the writing will take me.  

But sometimes, there is no idea.  Sometimes it’s just been too long and I feel the words building up inside of me.  Journaling helps.  But it doesn’t always do the trick. Because if I’m really honest, it’s much more rewarding to write something that other people might read.  

I had a writing teacher in middle school who once told me, “If you can’t think of an idea, just write, ‘I don’t know what to write’ over and over again.  Something will come to you.  And at least you’re writing!”  At the time, I thought it was stupid.  But I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten better advice.  

Now, instead of ‘I don’t know what to write,’ I’ll start by describing my surroundings.  Maybe I’ll add in a stream of consciousness.  It might not even be complete thoughts.  I’ll jot down words and phrases.  I’ll write terrible sentences, knowing they’ll never be read.  But I have to start.  Sometimes it turns in to something presentable.  More often, it becomes part of the collection of half-written musings in my ‘draft’ folder.  

That’s the kind of day that today is.  I don’t have an idea or a topic.  I certainly don’t have a fully formed blog in my brain.  Today I just have a cup of coffee and a few extra minutes and a desire to put words into sentences.  

I’m not sure if these feelings point to typical writer’s block, or if they’re a symptom of a more pervasive, societal lethargy.  Everyone I talk to is just… tired.  I don’t have to tell you.  You know.  We’re tired of homeschooling and social distancing and wearing masks and missing our family and our friends.  We’re just TIRED.  

And there’s something deflating about a SECOND Easter without.  Without church.  Without tradition.  Without family gathering.  Without the fanfare and celebration. 

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I’ve always loved Holy Week.  As we conclude the Lenten season, we’re reflective and aware of ourselves as being flawed and human and capable of better. And Holy Week gives us permission to slow down and really sit with ALL of our emotions.  We don’t gloss over the hard parts.  We study them.  We FEEL them.  Betrayed. Persecuted. Forsaken.  Crucified. But to get to the end of this journey, it is our responsibility to move through all of it.  If we skip from the parade celebration of Palm Sunday right to the joy of Easter, we’re missing the point.  

Holy Week starts with the anticipation and enthusiasm of Palm Sunday.  It moves to the uncertainty and confusion of Maundy Thursday.  The sanctity and sacrament of the last supper.  Then we feel the deep, heavy, tragedy of Good Friday.  And finally, the joy of Resurrection Sunday.  

But what about that Saturday?  TODAY is that in-between day that we don’t know what to do with.  This Holy Saturday isn’t marked by a church service.  It’s not celebrated with a liturgy.  Today is the day after the tragedy but before the joy. We cannot deny that there has been great suffering.  We can see to tomorrow; we know that joy will be upon us soon.  But today? Today we can only feel our feelings and wait.  

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Yeah.  Holy Week has a different meaning this year.  We have spent the last year moving through the hard parts.  The fear, the confusion, the uncertainty.  The grief, the sadness, the frustration.  

And this spring? This spring is the Saturday before Easter.  

We can’t celebrate yet, but we can see it.  The mood is changing.  The air is shifting.  There is hope.  There is optimism.  Tomorrow, there will be joy.  

Hallelujah. 

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Freaking Photos

He’s arguing with me before I even look at the missing assignment.  

“I’m not doing that one.” 

“What do you mean you’re not DOING it?  It’s not an OPTION.  It’s an assignment.” 

He’s often surly or snarky.  But he’s rarely defiant.  I can’t help but wonder what’s going on.  

I have him pull up the assignment on his Chromebook.  And then it all makes sense.  The assignment is titled, “Ode to Family Photos.”  I’m not even sure what he’s being asked to do, but I know in that instant that I’m not going to force him to do it.  

The word ‘triggering’ is so overused.  But it perfectly describes the effect of old photos on our family.  And not just for Lee… for ALL of us.  Those photos are hard.  They’re beautiful memories layered on top of unimaginable pain.  For years, they needed to be hidden.  Now, many years post-transition, we can look at them, but not without a lot of complicated emotions.  And they’re certainly not fodder for a class presentation.  

He’ll take the failing grade.  

The Mama Bear in me wants to call the teacher… to explain why it’s not appropriate.  I know teachers don’t do these things intentionally. In my younger years, I wouldn’t have thought twice.  It’s a fun assignment!  Kids love photos!  Nothing gets them engaged like talking about themselves!  And in my experience, teachers are super flexible and understanding.  They’re happy to excuse or modify the assignment…. IF you ask.  

And therein lies the problem.  I can’t ask.  He can’t ask.  He’s not OUT at the new school.  Nobody knows he’s trans.  So the advocacy will do more harm than good.  It’s better to take the F.  What a crappy decision. 

*****

Seniors!  Submit your baby photos for the ‘Guess Who’ page in the yearbook! 

Ugh.  I’ve been dreading this request; for two of my children, but Bea reaches the milestone first.   I don’t have baby photos.  She joined our family when she was 14.  

What do we do?  

Could I call her mom?  Why would she even talk to me?  DCF?  They can’t even find her passport… I can’t imagine they have any pictures.  Where would there be photos? I have an old picture from when I was her teacher.  It’s fifth grade graduation.  She’s not a baby, but it’s not recent.  Will that make it better or worse?  Will her classmates wonder why it’s not a BABY photo?   Should we just skip it?  Is it worse to be left out entirely?  

Ultimately, we get lucky.  Her sister has an old photo.  It’s pretty adorable, and Bea submits it.  

Dodged a bullet on that one. 

*****

This is hard.  It’s like those “Father Daughter” dances that everyone loves… unless you’re the kid without a dad.  

How do we continue to celebrate what’s special… being a baby who eventually graduates, or the sentimentality of old family photos, or the special relationship between a father and daughter… without hurting a whole group of kids, most of whom are already vulnerable for a slew of different reasons? 

Some might argue that, if we worry about everyone who might be hurt or offended, we could never celebrate ANYTHING.  

And, honestly, I agree.  We can’t STOP celebrating.  We can’t possibly make EVERYONE comfortable ALL the time.  

But what we can do is listen.  And learn. We can be considerate and thoughtful and deliberate, instead of doing what we’ve always done because it’s what we’ve always done.  

We can still celebrate… but add options.  Acknowledge that people have different lives and different experiences, and that each one is valuable.  

*****

So maybe the “Father-Daughter” dance becomes a “Special Someone” dance.  Or a “Father Figure” dance.  Or a “Role-Model” dance.  Whatever you call it… it could become more inclusive.  Why wouldn’t we do THAT?  It doesn’t hurt anyone.  And it could really make a difference for a kid who just wants to be included.  

Maybe the “Guess Who” page of the yearbook can be pictures OR trivia.  Guess who is the first in their family to go to college!  Guess who won a poetry contest in the second grade! Don’t take away the photos… they’re great!  Just remember that there are other ways to acknowledge the accomplishments of our graduates. 

This is especially important if a student’s grade depends on the completion of a very personal assignment.  Teacher friends… I know you’re out there.  And I know you care.  So show it.  Give options.  You could show photos.  Or you could write a story.  You could sketch.  Or build a model.  Or compose a song.  

If a student could fail because they don’t want to disclose personal information, then it’s the assignment that needs to change, not the child.  

*****

A lot of educators read this blog.  And I know that you all are well-intentioned, caring, creative people.  I am confident that you all would modify your assignment if you were aware that it was a problem for a particular student.  

And so I’m asking you to consider that it might be.  It might be a problem.  And that student maybe doesn’t want to tell you.  Because that would be awkward.  It could make it worse.  It could make them stand out.  And, really, what’s worse than that when you’re a teenager? 

So, my friends… take the initiative.   

Whether you know it or not… assume that you have foster kids and trans kids and migrant kids in your classroom.  Because when you do, they won’t want to tell you.  They will just want to blend in and be like everyone else.  

So it’s up to you.  Give them the chance to just blend in.  They’re counting on you.  We all are.    

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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.   

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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.  

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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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Privilege

I have friends who are strictly quarantining… like “don’t leave your house” quarantining.  And they’re pretty adamant about how important it is, because Covid is literally killing people.  It’s terrifying.  I understand. 

I also have family who are in the “You gotta live your life.  We could all get hit by a bus tomorrow.”  And I understand that, too.  Living in perpetual fear feels like wasting a precious gift.  

Ultimately, I think I fall somewhere in the middle… like most of us probably do.  

Let me be clear… I’m a rule-follower.  Teachers generally are.  If there is a law or a regulation or a mandate, that’s not debatable.  Wear your masks.  No large gatherings.  No more than 10 people in your home.  If you live in a place where there are rules, you follow the rules.  

But I’ve been thinking a lot about how your privilege plays into your more subjective Covid choices. 

I am a middle-class white woman who spent her formative years in a trailer park.  My people are blue-collar people, but I’ve found myself in an upper-middle class suburb of Boston, often baffled by the entitlement that surrounds me.  

And I’m a little ashamed to admit, that entitlement is often mine to own.  I was exposed to Covid at work about 10 days ago.  I didn’t find out until Sunday night, so I’ve basically been self-quarantining for 3 days.  And I have four days to go.  

I’m not considered a close contact, because (although I spend 30 hours a week with this kid), I had no contact in the 48 hours before his positive test.  I’ve chosen to self-quarantine, but I’m not required to.  Ugh.  The privilege.    

I’ve ordered my groceries on Instacart.  Even with my subscription, that costs about $50 a week more than it would if I just went to the store.  Luckily, I can afford it now.  Ten years ago, I would have had to haul my ass to the grocery store.  

I’m pretty set on Christmas gifts, which is another change for us.  Up until a few years ago, we did much of our shopping on Christmas Eve, when my husband got his bonus check.  

I can work from home because I have reliable internet and I could afford to purchase a Wi-Fi booster that allows four of us to Zoom at the same time in our house.  And we’re blessed to have a home with enough space to have four people on virtual meetings without shouting over each other. 

Regardless of our privilege, we’ve all had to make our Covid rules.  We’ve all had to weigh the risks and benefits to each of our interactions.  And here’s where I landed.  I allow each of my children to socialize with two friends.  For my oldest, her two closest friends have already had Covid, and whether it’s reliable or not, I feel like they’re less of a risk to our family.  My middle child conquers depression and social isolation on a good day; during Covid, it’s a constant battle to balance his mental and physical health.  He spends time with two close friends, primarily because his risk of dying by suicide is much higher than his risk of dying by Covid.  My youngest spends time masked, outdoors, with two friends whose parents are incredibly Covid-conscious.  We purposely don’t see family who are at risk.  

Those are the Covid rules in our house.  They’re much stricter than the state guidelines.  They’re much looser than a strict quarantine.  But that’s where we landed, after assessing the risks.  

We could all argue about acceptable levels of risk. Nothing is fool-proof. If you follow all the state guidelines, is that enough?  Should we all be doing more? Are grocery stores really safe?  Are schools?  Family gatherings?  Who counts as family?  My stepsons don’t live with us.  We haven’t seen them in 9 months.  Is that reasonable?  Necessary?  Reasonable people could argue different perspectives on this.

But I think there is a missing piece in this conversation, and it has to do with class and privilege. 

Just imagine a few scenarios.

Number one is an upper-middle class family.  Both parents are professionals, banned from the office and working from home.  Kids may go to school from home, or maybe part time.  This family orders their groceries and occasionally orders restaurant take-out. They go for walks and play in their yard and interact with friends and family virtually.  

Number two is a middle class family. The father is a cop and the mom is a nurse.  The kids go to school part time and when they’re not in school, they’re part of a small learning ‘pod’ where a few families share childcare responsibilities.  They order groceries when they can, but they also take some masked trips to the store when needed.  The kids’ soccer teams still play, masked and distanced, so they get some exercise and maintain social connections. 

Number three is a struggling family.  A single mom, working at a grocery store.  While she works, her two kids are in daycare.  Ordering groceries is cost-prohibitive, so mom shops with her coupons on the weekends.  Elder care is unaffordable, so the grandmother lives in their small apartment, with family pitching in to provide supervision and care.  

When I imagine these scenarios, it becomes impossible to judge other people’s choices. 

I think about the teachers and cops and nurses I know.  Each of us is ‘required’ to accept a certain level of risk. Because we’re ‘essential,’ we feel obligated to accept these risks, and we do.  Teachers interact with hundreds of students a day.  Police intervene when people refuse to follow regulations.  Nurses hold the hands of dying patients, knowing they’re putting themselves at risk. 

And in my mind, the key point is this….

How can we encourage these ‘essential’ employees to take on unimaginable risks to protect us and provide for us, and then ALSO expect them to share the risk perspective of the privileged?  

How can we expect a nurse to hold the hand of a Covid patient, and then judge her for having coffee with a friend?  How is one of those risks acceptable, and the other is not? 

How can we ask a teacher to work with 300 students during the day, and then not allow one child in her home in the evening?  

How can we ask police officers to tolerate being spit on and assaulted and then tell them that a beer around a fire pit is too risky?  

How can we expect a single mother to interact with hundreds of people at work and expose her children to dozens of children at daycare and then tell her she can’t ask a relative to come to her home to help with her aging mother?  

I keep hearing about ‘the science.’  And I have to say, I think that’s too simplistic.  Because human nature is so much more complex than that.  It’s not about whether you ‘believe’ in COVID or not. 

If the risk you are FORCED to accept professionally is greater than the risk you’re ALLOWED to accept personally, there’s bound to be a disconnect. 

That’s where I find myself.  I’m trying to make decisions that put my family and my community at the least risk… given the risk I’ve been forced to assume.  

I find myself in the same position as everyone I know.  Trying to make the best decisions I can. 

And reminding myself over and over again, that judging other people’s choices is not my responsibility… and it shouldn’t be my privilege.  

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Pissed

The school where I teach was closed for most of the week.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  The school was closed to students for most of the week.  

The health team identified a case of possible in-school transmission of COVID, so they shut down for three days.  Students switched to a remote learning model.  But teachers needed to be in the building.  I taught my classes, sitting at my desk, wearing my mask and my coat.  And I’m kinda pissed.  

I’m not pissed at my principal or my superintendent.  I’m not pissed at my union reps or the school administration.  I’m pissed about the plethora of OPINIONS out there that impact MY ability to do my job.  

When the teachers asked why we needed to be in the building (we already teach from home one day a week), the answer was, “The taxpayers like to see your cars in the parking lot.”  No joke.  

So when our custodians SHOULD be deep-cleaning an empty building, instead, they have to deal with all the doorknobs and handles we’ve touched.  They have to disinfect in the evenings after we leave.  They have to re-wash everything they’ve already washed. 

Three teachers work in my classroom.  We need to remain masked all day.  We’re each hosting different zoom classes, so we don our headphones and shout over each other, literally tethered to our computers. The masks make it even harder to communicate with our students over glitchy connections and mediocre technology. 

If we have a five minute break, there is nowhere to go.  We don’t visit or talk with each other.  Everyone has a sign on their door, stating “Zoom Class in progress.  Please do not disturb.”  The teacher’s room is sad and lonely.  Nobody sits there anymore.  There are three labeled, socially distant spots to sit in case you don’t want to eat in your classroom.  They are almost never in use.  

To help with ventilation, we’ve been told to keep our windows open at all times.  This is not a suggestion.  It’s an expectation.  Regardless of winter temperatures, the windows stay open.  On really cold days, we wear our coats.  One of my partner teachers brings a blanket to work when the kids aren’t there.  We dress in layers and wish we could at least move around… but we are stuck in front of these computers, trying our best to communicate through the noise and the masks and the cold.  

When I teach from home, I have a great little set up.  I have a document camera that allows me to take notes or explain concepts in real time.  I have a desk in the corner of my bedroom with a white board and a stack of middle grade novels and resources.  I can light a candle and sip my coffee and teach without shouting over other people in the room.  When I have a five-minute break, I can chat with my kids or switch a load of laundry or pet my dog.  My workspace is warm and I can smile and laugh with my students, unhindered by a mask over my face.  

I know that’s not the case for all teachers.  Some much prefer to be in the classroom while they teach.  They should have that option.  But requiring teachers to physically be in the building when students are not?  That’s demeaning and punitive. 

We are educated professionals.  Educated professionals all over the country are working from home.  Working from home doesn’t make any employee less accountable.  If you don’t do your job, there should still be consequences.  Systems for evaluation should still be in place.  Actual, effective supervision is still possible.  

So when you drive by a school with no students and a full parking lot?  That’s not proof that teachers are hard at work.  It’s proof that a lot of unfounded, uneducated opinions won out over the voices of the teachers in the trenches.  It’s proof that educators are being treated like children. It’s proof that a visible car in the parking lot is more important than the health and well-being and safety of the teachers who care for and educate your children.

And maybe you should be pissed, too.

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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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Morning Coffee

It’s 7am, and I’m sitting in my backyard with a cup of coffee and my computer.  The leaves are starting to change, and there’s a chill in the air.  My hair is pulled back and still damp from my shower, so there’s a spot on the back of my neck that’s just slightly cooler than the rest of me. I’m wearing my gray crocks; the ones that relieve my foot pain and provide just the right amount of cushioning under my feet.  They feel like a guilty pleasure because I only wear them in my house.  They’re too ugly to be seen in public, but I love them anyway.  I take a sip of my cinnamon coffee and breathe in.  The air is cool but heavy.  There’s a humidity that reminds me that summer could reappear at any moment.  I pull my softest sweatshirt over my hands, slipping my thumbs through the thumb-holes.  I love a sweatshirt with thumb-holes, and this recent second-hand find is my new favorite.  It’s the softest thing I own… a Patriot’s shirt that’s slightly too big for me, in a cozy, comfortable sort of way.  The fit is flattering with leggings or jeans, and it’s the type of quality garment that I rarely invest in at full price.  These things go for $50 or more, and I always manage to convince myself that the knockoff $10 t-shirts at the Job Lot are good enough.   But this one was $8 at the thrift store, and well-worth every penny.  

During these quiet morning moments, I think back to yesterday and plan for today.  What’s on the to-do list?  How will we sneak in a little fun?  Did I work enough yesterday that I can allow myself some down-time today? 

I’m not sure if this way of thinking is a product of my culture or my upbringing or my own personality.  But I do know that I put a tremendous amount of value on doing.  I judge myself (and if I’m honest, my family, too) based on productivity.  Did I get enough DONE?  

But I’m doing a lot of reading and podcast listening and trying to understand the ways that COVID has changed us.  There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ve changed.  Maybe we all have.

And while I can’t entirely shake this productivity mindset, I am starting to see the value in not just doing, but being.  I’m becoming more aware of the value in those un-productive moments.  Sitting in my yard.  Going for a walk.  Watching my kids.  Plopping on the floor to pet my dog.  Baking unnecessary cinnamon buns.  Wandering through a thrift shop.  

As a teacher during this crazy time, my to-do list is endless and overwhelming.  There’s so much to learn about online teaching and learning.  There are so many schedule variations to plan for.  There is so much legal documentation required. There are important lessons to teach and difficult conversations to navigate.  

As a parent, the same is true.  There are assignments to be checked and emails to be read and forms to be completed.  There are schedules to plan and appointments to make and laundry to be folded.  And there are kids who need attention and reassurance and a little tough love. 

At any typical time, these jobs can feel like too much.  And now? With the enormity of the task?  With the impossibility of what we’re being asked to do? Well, I feel like I have two choices. I could drown, thrashing in this flood of unrealistic expectations and impossible asks and exhausting criticisms.  Or I could pause and take a breath and remember how to float.  

If I focus solely on the doing, I will wind up depleted.  I will run out of energy and stamina and optimism.  Because there is no finish line.  I will never reach the end of this to-do list.  I will never be able to do all of these things well, because this is not how these things were ever meant to be done.   

I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before.  I’m spending nights and weekends researching and making phone calls and planning and scheduling and updating paperwork.  But I know myself.  I’ll get caught up in the high of all that doing… I’ll keep working toward some impossible, imaginary finish line.  Unless I consciously interrupt the cycle.  

So I’m sitting in my backyard with a cup of coffee and my computer, wearing my ugly crocs and my comfy sweatshirt and putting my thoughts down on paper.   I’m planning the day so that I can finish the lesson plans and the laundry and also pick pumpkins and watch football and worship online with my family.    

There’s no doubt about it… COVID sucks.  But sometimes the hardest, suckiest things teach us the most valuable lessons.  I’m going to keep trying to learn them; one breath, one walk, one cozy sweatshirt, one cup of coffee at a time.