This is Me...

Amelia and I can hardly listen to the story that I’m reading. The amazing little voice rings out of the bathroom over the soft whoosh of the water from the shower. The tunes are typically “Never Enough” from The Greatest Showman or “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” or any other little song that she tends to make up. She finally jumps out of the shower while Amelia and I try and stifle giggles from the cuteness of it all. She bounds out of the bathroom, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around her little shoulders. She climbs up on the mattress of my bed, gentle bouncing up and down, the springs creaking with every little jump. “Mommy, did you hear me singing?” I smiled and sneak a glance at Amelia. “I did, sweetheart. You are wonderful!” Emerson kneels down in front of me, getting her face really close to mine. She smiles and whispers “I’m more than wonderful. I’d get the Golden Buzzer every time.”

This girl boils over with confidence. She bounces through life not ever knowing that anyone might think poorly of her. And if they do, she doesn’t care. There are no cracks in her self-esteem. She is who she is, and she doesn’t let anyone bother her or get to her. I would define her by her strength and her confidence and her “take no names” attitude. 

I wish I had an ounce of her courage and confidence. I have struggled this week. I have been tasked with “officiating” a funeral on Saturday. My little friend Tricia lost her grandmother and she asked if I would be the one to summarize Grammy Gail’s life and present it to the attendees. This is the second time I’ve been asked to prepare something for a funeral. Typically for me the words for writings like this just flow out. Funerals are hardest for me. Especially knowing that people I love are hurting. But I know that God will give me the words I need in time for Saturday. 

Who are we? I’m not asking this to get philosophical and deep. When deaths happen and people come together to celebrate the person, they are reduced to words on a paper. Tricia brought me a page of notes about Grandma Gail’s life. Events. Memories. Jobs. Hobbies. A timeline. A summary of who she was. 

It made me think of my own “Who am I?” question. Who am I? I’m the daughter of Rita and Art. Sister of Julie. Born in Bremerton, Washington. Attended Peace Lutheran, Fairview Junior High, Olympic High, University of Washington. I have my Bachelors of Science and my Masters of Science. I’m a Speech-Language Pathologist. I’m a mom to two daughters. I’m a hobby farmer that loves my chickens. I’m an assault survivor. I’m a widow. I’m a blogger. I kickbox. I tap dance. I love to read. I’m a friend to lots, best friend to a few. I’m a Christian, a Lutheran specifically. I love Jesus and I love to worship Him and put my faith in Him. 

Thinking through my life, what would I say? What is important? What defines me? Who am I? What would be on the paper that someone would put together about me? What are the things that matter to us enough that we want them read at our final goodbyes to our earthly friends and families?

I did a thing this week. I was interviewed for a podcast put together by a guy named Jay Casale in New York. He and I chatted for almost two hours, spilling out the details of my story, my journey. It was freeing and he shared the blog on a Facebook weight loss group I am a member of. People have responded so positively, so kindly. It was difficult and brought up a lot of thoughts and feelings and memories for me. But, I know that telling my story could be healing for myself; and could also help other people too. So I told the whole story of my journey after college. I shared my assault and my stuff about Brian and walked through all of that. People have reached out and shared their own versions of their journey. I have talked over Facebook with a lot of people. And it has been such a rewarding experience. 

So, what about that part of my journey? Are those things important to my story? Important to my journey? I’ve heard so many people tell me “don’t let those things define you!” But is that such a bad thing? They DO define me! They are a piece of my past that I needed to grow through, heal from, learn to absorb into my being. My assault defined who I was in that it was at that point I wasn’t going to be a pediatric oncologist anymore. Brian’s suicide defines who I was as I no longer was Brian’s wife and it made me into a suicide survivor. These moments define me. They ARE me. 

I have debated all week about posting the link to the podcast. There’s a piece of me that is anxious to share but I am going to share it here. This is me. And maybe these words will help someone else realize that these pieces are them too. So if you’d like to listen to the podcast, please do. (There is some swearing, just to warn you!) I’ll post the link in the comments. And if you want to talk or share or ask questions after listening, please do! We all carry things that are hard. We all need help being proud of who we are and confident. We all need help making sure our life lists define who we are. We all need to be kind and support each other through this crazy journey called life. 

This is me! These things define me! And I am certain that at the end of my life, Father God will give me the Golden Buzzer too. 

Never Grow Up...

April and May are birthday months in my house. Emerson turned 8 in April and Amelia just hit 11 in May. We celebrate the little beings that they are, eat cake, do presents, have family dinner and friend-family dinner and just our family dinner. We go on little outings or they get to pick something special. We hug and kiss and sing and celebrate heir milestones. 

This year I found myself maybe shedding some tears. Where exactly do all the minutes and hours go? I have flipped the calendar 11 times to get Amelia to this birthday. It seems like just yesterday I was holding her in my arms, kissing her baby nose and cradling her chubby little baby body against my chest. I was singing my best rendition of “Girl at the Rock Show” while I would change her diaper. She would stop what she was doing and run to the living room to sing Little Big Town or Kenny Chesney. She hated shoes and loved spicy salsa. She was wicked smart and said the best stuff. I often posted her Ameliaisms to Facebook several times a day. 

Suddenly she’s eleven. She is tall and slender. She has an athletic body with strong legs that I envy. She gets embarrassed when I sing to her, even in the privacy of our own home. Her phone is full of songs that I listen to carefully because I know what lyrics my music contained. She rarely asks me to help her with her hair in the morning and if she does it’s usually for recital or production or because she can’t control her amazing, beautiful curls. I look at the beautiful creature that walks through my house and feel a surge of pride, but also pangs of sadness. Five years and she’ll have her license. Seven years and she’ll be graduating from high school. Before I know it she’ll have an amazing job and be married and have babies. I know it’s my job to raise them I just wish I could stop time and freeze these moments forever. 

Emerson was born eight years ago. She came into the world born ready. She was feisty and fierce. She preferred to be held when she slept and didn’t want me to put her down. She was super picky with her eating. She had her own ideas and her own plans. She was strong and graceful and powerful all in one compact little body. Being that she is only eight, she still has most of these qualities. But I am starting to see glimpses of losing my baby to growing up too. She rarely asks me to do her hair anymore either, preferring it to be long down her back. She has picked out her own clothes forever. She likes to do things herself. She is growing up too and I see those little moments. Again, I know it’s my job to raise them. I just wish I could pause time. 

I’m in this weird place where people find themselves, stuck in the middle. My kids are growing up. My parents are aging. And I’m getting older too. I dyed my very gray hair just a few weeks ago. My joints get a little stiffer each day. I look in the mirror and see new wrinkles and new age spots and new pieces of me that look older. 

I often find myself reminiscing and thinking back to when I was little. Laying in the middle of the tall grass in the field and watching the clouds. Chasing butterflies in the garden at my grandpa’s. Riding my bike with my sister. Hours of playing Barbies. I couldn’t wait to grow up. I couldn’t wait to get older. And I like where I am right now. And my babies are talking of the future and getting older and I’m excited to see where their futures lead. But I also wish they’d never grow up. 

In the quiet of the night when I’m thinking about my precious girls growing up, Father God reminds me of Matthew 18:3 “Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.” We all get the chance to be little children again. Father God beckons us to His presence as little children. Trusting Him completely. Leaning into His presence. Relying on His plan and His path for our lives. Being weak in His presence so that He can make us strong. Coming to Him with wide-eyed innocence. Helpless and needing a Father to guard and guide and protect. 

God doesn’t want us to grow up either. Just as I yearn to stop time and hold my girls as little children, God also wants us to enter His presence as little children. We are to come to Him as children. Never grow up. 

So, as we all walk His journey for each of us, another day closer to the finish line to eternal victory, we should all close our eyes and picture our children when they were little. Picture ourselves as little children. And know that this is how our Heavenly Father sees us. Little children. He loves us as little children, holding us close to Him always. 

Never grow up. 

Don’t Fear the Reaper...

We talk a lot about death on our family. It’s not something I’m bragging about. I would like nothing more than to never talk about. To not have death be something that has touched our family. My little girls have known death and loss from they time they were little. And my heart hurts so badly that that is how it has to be. 

The topic of death lately has come around more often than I would hope. The one-year Angelversary of our Grandpa Clay last weekend brought up death. Why did he die? Why can’t he still be here? I miss him so much. Lots of tears and hugs and talking of death. 

All of those grief moments then tie back to losing Brian. Why did daddy kill himself? Why didn’t he choose us? I wish I had a daddy still. Lots of tears and hugs and talking of death.

Right now, Emerson is struggling. So if you’re looking for something specific to pray, pray for my littlest girl. That she would find peace and comfort in life where she’s at. That God would flood her heart with joy and love in being His daughter. That she would know that He is a Father to the fatherless. That He loves her so very much!

Emerson is struggling. She is quick to get angry at peers who talk about their dads. Yelling at a classmate for talking about the fun he had with his dad this weekend. Telling a friend in her dance class that her dad is dead. She’s grieving. Never knowing Brian, but still grieving him. Grieving not having a dad. We have had many conversations about how she can’t be angry because someone else has a dad. It isn’t their fault that her daddy died. But the hurt and the sadness and the pain is there. 

We were sitting on the couch together and I was looking at my Facebook. One of my friend’s 5-year-old daughters has been diagnosed with DIPG, a deadly brain tumor similar to glioblastoma. Things are looking grim for their family and my heart is so sad. Emerson looked at my phone and asked what was wrong with her. I was honest and told her that her name is Rebecca and she is dying. Tears flooded my eyes and she asked why I was sad. I told her that I couldn’t imagine my girls being sick and losing them. And that I was so sad for Rebecca’s family. 

She looked at me and said, “Mommy, if I get sick I want you to tell me if I’m going to die.” My heart sank and my stomach bottomed out. Tears fell faster and she asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to picture my life without her. She smiled at me, leaned against me and declared, “Well, I wouldn’t be sad or scared to know! I want to know that I can be exited because I’m on my way to meet Jesus!”

Faith as small as a mustard seed. Emerson, grieving loss, but also firmly rooted in her belief in Jesus Christ. She know who she belongs to. She knows where she is going when she dies. And I relax because all of our conversations about death lead to the truth that we are going to heaven. That Tom is in heaven. That Grandpa Clay is in heaven. That daddy is in heaven. And that we will be in heaven. 

One of the last verses that I shared with Clay was John 14:2  “In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” Jesus died for our sins and then ascended into heaven. Not to leave us behind and forget about us. No! He went to prepare a place for each and every one of us. There is a room specially picked for us in heaven, waiting for all to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and be saved!

Emerson is grieving. But Emerson gets it! There is joy in her heart, waiting for the day that she gets to run to the arms of Jesus. She assured me it wouldn’t be for a really long time. But whenever God picks for her to go to heaven, she’s ready. She can’t wait to run to her Savior’s open arms. 

We all should be so solid in our faith as Emerson. We grieve the ones we love, but there should also be joy. Joy in knowing that they are celebrating eternal life in heaven! Joy in knowing we will be reunited with the saints that have passed before us! Joy in knowing that we are saved and loved and cherished! Joy in knowing a place has been prepared! It is waiting for God’s timing. Waiting for the day our path and our plan has been fulfilled. Waiting for when God looks upon us and says “Well done, good and faithful servant!” and brings us home. 

Don’t fear death! Embrace the life that comes after our passing. My eight-year-old gets it! She can’t wait to meet Jesus. And I can’t wait for her to meet Jesus! And I can’t wait to meet Jesus. What a glorious day that will be!

Pray for Emerson! But also, pray that your faith can be more like Emerson’s. Faith as small as a mustard seed. And a child shall lead them...

How Do I Live...

I remember the day my grandfather passed away like it was yesterday. The phone call telling me he wasn’t doing well and I needed to come home now. Running to the office of the child care center I worked at telling them I needed to go. Running for the next bus. The phone call where I heard my mom’s voice, but heard nothing else of the whole call, knowing I was too late. Running for a ferry. Running into my dad’s open arms. The regret flooding into my head that I didn’t make it home in time. I was numb. So sad. Worried about what grandma was going to do without him. And then, at 7:00 pm, my watch started beeping. I always called him at 7:00. I couldn’t breathe. How was I going to live without him? I trudged through the days. Crying. Pleading to God. Wracked with sobs and nightmares. But I trudged on and did the best that I could. 

Many years later, my grandma fell and hit her head. Her brain was bleeding and she had advanced directives that included a Do Not Resusciate order. I sat by her hospital bed almost a whole week before she passed away. Watching. Listening. Wondering if we made a mistake. When she passed I remember how sad I was that my grandfather stopped visiting after that. She was gone. And now he was gone too. It was like grieving for two people. My heart was broken again. How was I going to live without her? No grandparents. No running through the field to see them. No more bouquets of dahlias or bowls of giant cascade berries. 

Then, not even two years later, my husband killed himself. Life was turned upside down and I didn’t know what I was going to do. My husband. My partner. My best friend was gone. He married me. He gave me two girls. He bought a house and two cars and then he left me to do it all alone. I was angry and hurt and in so much pain. How was I going to live without him? I trudged through my days, making it with my village bolstering us up, dragging us through our days. 

Tom was some time later. My other dad. The man that I grew up with and had so many adventures. Our two families were one. We did everything together. Riding Harleys. Camping. Concerts. Plays. Dinners. Pool parties.  Ross trips. Then he got cancer and was gone in just a few months. How was I going to live without him? I remember making phone calls to my friend. Sobbing and not knowing how to breathe.

And then Clay. Just one year ago Clay past away. A whole year has flown by since I lost another one of my dads. Another man that was dear to my family. Who took care of us and would come check on us. Who bought Amelia her first drum set. Who worked his way into Emerson’s heart after a whole lot of scowls from her baby face. How was I going to live without him? It still is so raw for this one. So fresh and new. Some regrets. Some questioning my decisions. What I could have done differently. And the searing tears to my eyes when I think through the loss of him. 

You do live without them. It hurts. Physically hurts. And there are frequent reminders of the loss that you feel. People say that grief and loss gets easier over time. It goes away. It shrinks down until you don’t feel it anymore. I don’t agree. It’s always there. There’s a piece missing from my soul in the losses of all of these people. Like moths eating away at a tablecloth my heart beats a little differently because I no longer have my grandparents or my husband or my Tom or my Clay. There are holes in the tapestry painted on my heart. And days like today, one year since Clay gained his angel wings, are just crushing reminder that he, that they, are no longer here. 

And I grieve for Clay today. I miss him so much it physically hurts. I want him to be here so badly. To hug him again. And watch him play GrayWolf with my girls. To hear his drums. My chest hurts with grief. And then, the others all come up at the same time. I wore the dress Brian bought me on our first date today. When I slipped it on, it was like I was kicked in the gut and I couldn’t breathe.  I collapsed on my bed in a Disney princess style sob fest. I so badly wanted to turn to him at my dresser adjusting his red necktie I bought him and ask him to zip me into my dress. To feel his arms around me and have him turn me around and kiss me. I miss Tom and summertime and swimming in the pool. Mom and dad started working on the pool this afternoon. It would have been so wonderful to look up and see Tom in his blue swim trunks and a Harley shirt drinking beer with my dad. And the baby chicks this afternoon were outside running around in the grass and made me think of how proud my grandparents would be that I have chickens and I am teaching my kids some of my favorite parts of them and of the farm. All of those memories are so good. And so heartbreaking all at the same time. I miss them all so very much. And I often think “How can I live even one more day without them all?”

And then my mind turns to Proverbs 3:5-6 which says “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” How can I live without HIM? He’s the most important piece in this equation of life. And it is His plans that I need to trust. All of those people entered my life for a reason. And all of those people exited Earth when they did for a reason. It doesn’t take the sadness and grief away. I still get sharp pains when any one of them cross my mind, or any memory of one of them comes up. But I know that it is in God’s timing and God’s plan. Not mine. I would want them all here with us forever. But that was not meant to be. 

So, when those moments of grief and pain and heartache rise to the surface, I remember my Father in Heaven. And I shake my head in wonder and gratefulness at all He has done. And I praise His name that I never have to speculate what it would be like to live without Him. Because, as a believer, I don’t have to even consider that. Because He has saved and redeemed me and has welcomed me into His family as one of His own. I am a daughter of the King. I am His precious daughter. And I will never know what life is like without Him. He is always there. He is always near. And He is wiping away my tears of grief and helping me to walk tall in His life and His journey for me. 

How do I live without all the others? With grace and dignity and compassion for people. With excitement and joy that they are already with Father God in the Heavenly realms. With peace knowing that they have had complete healing of all that ails them. And they are waiting for the day that Father God says my days are up and I get to join them in complete beautiful healing as a permanent member of God’s family. 

I miss them all so much. And lots of tears were shed today as they all floated through my mind. And they will again time after time. But my God will walk me through those moments too. How do I live? I live in faith in my Father and His plan for me, my family, my friends. But most of all, I live!

Tightrope...

It’s a fine line to walk. One moment you’re on top of the world. You can see everything surrounding you clearly and without fail. The sky is wide and bright. The sounds around you are crisp and clear. You have your senses about you. Nothing could possibly go wrong. 

And then, you misstep. You misjudge. You make one tiny mistake, one wrong assumption, and you lose your footing. You fall, careen off the edge into darkness. You are falling off the rope into oblivion. 

This is grief. Grief is cruel and unforgiving. You can go from a moment of elation and euphoria. Happiness exudes from your face and your core. Top of the world. 

One. Tiny. Reminder. That is all it takes to watch the cracks begin in the facade. A smell. A memory. A conversation. A vision of his smile. A label from his favorite beer. A picture on a Facebook On This Day memory. And you’re brought to your knees with the searing pain that is grief. The physical ache. The feeling that your heart is going to tear through your chest, only to explode in a million pieces. The drive to run away as far and as fast as your can go. The yearning to walk away from everything and leave it all behind, letting the fragments of your life ride away on the next breeze. 

Grief is awful enough when you are an adult. But what happens when you have to watch your child go through grief? I have been blessed with two of the best little people in the entire universe. They still want to talk and share with me. We have very deep, very serious, sometimes very macabre conversations in our household. We joke about things that others would find morbid in order to keep a semblance of sanity. But sometimes, we reach moments where we are hit with just plain, raw grief. And it comes unfairly out of nowhere. 

Like on Emerson Jane’s birthday. We had just had a lovely evening, such a fun night filled with family and friends and food. Ice cream cake even! We laughed and loved and looked around a table filled with people who care for us. We smiled and shared stories of Emerson as a baby and a little girl that quickly wove her way into our hearts. Emerson had the time of her life! It was magical. 

And then, the car ride home, Emerson gets very quiet and from the back seat in a mousy voice I hear my baby girl: “Mommy?”

“Yes, Em?”

“Did daddy ever go to any of my birthday parties?”

“No sweetheart. He didn’t.” 

And then, the sound of stifled sobs. I looked in the rear view mirror at my new eight-year-old with tears gushing down her cheeks.

“Oh honey. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just not fair! All of my friends have their daddies. Why did daddy die? Why couldn’t he wait to die so he could come to my birthday party?”

Ugh. It cuts you to your core knowing that your kid is hurting. That grief has entered their heart and their soul. Sitting in the front seat of that car, begging for it to be magically transported to the driveway so I could crawl into the back seat and hold my sobbing baby in my arms, I instead reached back and grabbed her little hand. Amelia’s hand snaked its way into the mix and, adjusting the mirror, I see her tear-drenched face too. And I feel my own eyes welling up with tears. My heart breaks for them, for us. Emerson is right. It’s so unfair. 

I finally got home and parked the car. I ushered them inside where we started bath and bed routines. I cradled Emerson in my lap as we read A Pocket for Corduroy and practiced her spelling words. Then, a trade in girls led me to snuggling up beside my Amelia as we read another chapter in The Hunger Games and shared a little more about our day apart. And then, Father God spoke to my heart. I knew I couldn’t let them go to bed without processing together. Without talking about stuff. 

A quick google search uncovered a devotion on God being a father to the fatherless. I read it to them. Explaining that God would be their Father. That He wanted nothing more than to be their dad, to guard and guide and protect them. And that I know it feels like it’s not the same, and how they long and yearn for the daddy they deserve. A flesh and blood human daddy to hug and snuggle and play with. But that God is a father to the fatherless. That He is there always and will scoop them up and be there for them. And then I encouraged them to think about dinner. To close their eyes and visualize the people that were sitting around the table at Emerson’s birthday dinner. The Perry’s who love them so very much. Dina who has loved them always and spends one day a week with us. MomMom and Pa and how much they love them and how much they do for all of us. And then I asked them to think of all the people that weren’t at that table. And how much they are loved by all of those people too. 

The tears fell again as we talked about Brian. But happy tears mixed in thinking about the love and support so many of you have given us. The cards. The hugs. The cheers and the encouragement. The visits. The help around the house and property. The smiles. The hand-holding. The kisses. The love. The just being. We have been bolstered by our villiage. And that village was gifted to us by Father God, the Father to the fatherless.

So many hurting people exist in this world, my family, my children included in that. But God is our provider. He gifted us with so much, and He does the same for all of us. Close your eyes and picture the people that would be around your table! And picture the people who aren’t at the table, but that would be there to love and support you and bolster you up no matter what. It is for sure a tightrope walk, this thing we call life. And grief suspends that tightrope even higher off the ground sometimes. No net. No room for error. But, luckily, God is there to catch you when you fall. He is the Father to the fatherless. He loves you unconditionally. He will wipe away every tear. 

So, all honor and praise to our Heavenly Father for always being there for us in this journey. And also heartfelt thanks to our people, who walk us through this process and remind us just how loved we are. Thanks for being at our table! Thanks for showering my family and my girls with prayer, for we all need that! And thanks for making our tightrope a bit less intimidating and scary. Each step forward is a successful step towards healing. Each step forward is another step towards the safety of the other side. Grief is hard, but our God is bigger and mightier than any of that! He is our Father and He loves us so much! And when grief sneaks in and feels so overwhelming, we fix our eyes on God, the Father to the fatherless, and know that in Him we are safe and healed and loved. And the tightrope is way less scary when we’re in our Heavenly Father’s arms. 

Saints and Sinners...

Today is significant for two reasons. The first is that today is Maundy Thursday in our church. This is the day that we commemorate the Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples before he is arrested, beaten, tortured, and nailed to the cross. Tonight at church, the final act of the service is the stripping of the altar, which I was so honored to be asked to be a part of. That part of the service has always been so emotional for me. Watching as the ladies strip away the important parts of our church piece by piece is difficult for me. And I always end up sobbing by the end of the service. 

Being a part of that process and helping carry away the pieces was no different. The beautiful silver pieces that hold the bread and the wine for Holy Communion. The cloths that cover the lectern and the pulpit and the altar. The candles that burn at every service. The Bible that our lessons are read from. Carrying those pieces and watching the front of the church being dismantled is so difficult. Knowing that these pieces are being taken away, symbolically representing Jesus being taken away and crucified just tomorrow, bring hot tears quickly to my eyes. 

These days tear my soul in two. Jesus. Sinless. Blameless. Perfect. A saint, not a sinner. Being crucified for me and my sins. Tortured and killed because of me, so that I can be saved. My soul is torn in two. 

The second reason today is significant? It would have been Brian’s forty-fifth birthday. But he didn’t make it there. I’m far enough away from the events leading to his death that I sometimes forget there are people who have entered our lives that don’t know. My husband was arrested and charged with two felony counts. My fairy tale of a husband and two little girls and a wonderful life was torn in two, and even further torn when he chose to end his life rather than going through the process for justice to be served for his victims. Brian. A felon. Not perfect. Not sinless. A sinner, not a saint. What a stark contrast to this day!

But, at the same time, a perfect lesson. A perfect comparison. A perfect example of what Holy Week is all about. Brian, like all of us, was a sinner. He made some really bad choices in the last few moments of his life. Two felonies. Suicide. Is he lost? Is he damned to hell? The loving, caring, compassionate God that I know says no. I believe that Brian was a Christian. I believe he made himself right with God. I believe that the clashing of these two events today is the best illustration of what it means to be a believer, saved, forgiven!

We are all sinners. We all do things to fall out of God’s favor. But, we are forgiven! We are cleansed by the blood of Jesus. He took our sins and carried them to the cross. He carried the lies and the bad choices and the felonies and the suicide. He took the pettiness and the judgments and the gossip. And he carried them all for us. He bore the weight of the world’s sins so that we can be washed as white as snow. So that when we die, we know that we will be in heaven with Father God and all the saints that have gone before. And, yes, I believe that even Brian will be there. 

The tears at the altar tonight seemed to open the floodgates. I grieve the choices that I have made that contributed to Jesus dying on a cross for me. The tears flowed freely as I carried the pieces of the altar handed to me. And they have just kept flowing freely. Tonight, I grieve. I grieve for the death of my Lord and Savior. For the suffering and the torture. For the moments He begged for His life and a different plan. I grieve for the unimaginable pain and suffering He went through. I grieve for my contributions to all of that. 

I also grieve for Brian. For the choices He made. For the broken dreams that I carry on my heart. For my girls who no longer have a father. For the moments that we are missing out on today like baking a cake for him. Singing “Happy Birthday.” Watching him unwrap some homemade trinket made by not-so-little hands. I grieve for the loss of my friend and husband and partner. 

But I also wait with anticipation at the hope that arrives on Easter morning where we can lift our heads, look to the Son, and loudly declare, “He is risen indeed! Hallelujah!” What a glorious day! A lot can happen on three days! Just watch and see!

Rewrite the Stars...

I am a firm believer in everything happens for a reason. The steps that we walk and the moments we share on this earth are all part of our journey. They are all part of the plan that our Heavenly Father has for us. As a Christian, I have faith in these facts and I know there’s a greater good in place for everything that happens. But I am also imperfect. And there are times that I want nothing more than to rewrite history. Change what has happened. Erase moments. Write my own fairy tale ending. 

Brian killing himself and all that transpired in those days and weeks, would be the first chapter I would rewrite. I don’t know where I would start the story over. Would I choose the same setting? The same characters? Where would I put the dramatic rise? The conflict? How would I pen the resolution? I don’t know. That’s the part of rewriting history that is hard. Which moments do you change? Erase? Make better? Everything happens for a reason. Even suicide, I suppose. 

I am honored to work at the best school in the district. With the best staff. The best parents. The best students. Lately though? It hasn’t felt that way. Across the district (I’m willing to bet it’s actually across the nation) kids are changing. The face of education is changing. We are being sent babies who are the products of divorce, suicide, jailed parents, cancer, deceased siblings, runaway parents. They are being abused: sexually, physically, emotionally. And we are expected to take these babies who are hungry, malnourished, unloved and unwanted, sit them down in a desk and teach them reading, writing, and math. They are worried about what they are going home to, not how to do two digit by two digit subtraction with regrouping. Their bellies are growling. They aren’t worried about contractions or nouns or verb tenses. Their minds are racing in an unmedicated ADHD fit, and slowing down to care about your lesson is the last thing they could do. But it is still our job as teachers to teach them! Increase their test scores. Help them read. Learn. 

This job gets harder all the time. We are being sent these little people that are struggling. They are screaming and yelling and in a rage. They are throwing furniture. They are destroying whole classrooms and pods. They are so disrespectful and smart mouthed. They know every swear word in the book, some I don’t even know. And we, as teachers, are at our wits end. We are tired and worn out and defeated feeling. We are reeling. Not because we are upset and angry at the kids, because that’s not it at all. We are sad. We are crushed for these kids. We pour our souls into our jobs and into our kids. When they hurt, we hurt. They are hurting and angry and acting out at school. And we are seemingly losing control of our building. It has become a war zone of little people that are begging for help and love and peace. And I have been a part of that building, that staff for long enough to know that we can dig deep and take back our building. 

We can rewrite the stars. Those babies are counting on us to do just that. Rewrite their stars. I have spent the last almost eight years working to rewrite Amelia and Emerson’s stars. I am not going to let them become a statistic. I am not going to let them be just another excuse, another problem kid in the world. So we talk and bond and pray and hold each other. We talk through problems. I discipline and hold them accountable. I praise and reward the good and extinguish the bad. I am rewriting their stars. 

We all sit on so many committees and talk the talk. Our days are filled with acronyms of things that are supposed to help. PBIS. ACES. RTI. One idea after another and we throw everything at the teachers so they can throw everything at the students. We don’t need more PBIS. We don’t need more ACES training. We don’t need more conversations or more committees or more mandates. The kids don’t need those things. They need love. They need trust. They need relationships. They need accountability. They need structure and boundaries and support. They need hugs and high fives delivered genuinely. They need to know they are safe and important and loved. Who better to show them these things than the staff and teachers at my school?! We are the best. We expect the best. 

So, I am calling on my staff and teachers who know these things. We need to take our school back. We need to be the elementary school that I know we really are. So, I am proposing that we take our school back. We are the best of the best. We are brilliant educators with hearts of gold. Let’s rewrite their stars! They don’t have to be destined for trouble and hard times! We don’t have to sit back and watch things unravel!

So, we talk to each other. We don’t hide the elephant in the room. We lay it on the table, embrace the chaos, come up with a plan, and work on moving forward. We do what we do best! We love them! We form relationships with them. Melissa and I walk the hallways and try hard to form relationships with the toughest little kiddos. We give hugs and high fives and secret handshakes. We remind them of expectations and direct them back to class or back to the rules. And they respond! Even just a little bit, but they respond! They crave attention and love. They want boundaries. So, reach out across grade levels and classrooms. Find one or two that you can bond with.  Every week make it your mission to connect with one kid who may need you.  One kids who maybe don’t even know.   Make a connection. Draw them in. Give them a reason to want to come to school. Give them another adult to look for in the hallways. 

Encourage your fellow teachers too. I don’t know how many staff members I have talked to lately that are done. Fed up. Want to quit. Are actively looking for jobs not in education. I’ll admit that it has crossed my mind a time or two lately. What a loss that would be! For any one of us to choose a different path. You are all so amazing! You are all meant to be in our building! You are there for a reason, a purpose. Things are tough right now, but don’t quit on these kids! Don’t quit on each other! Make it a point to reach out to your fellow staff and teachers. Give them kudos. Tell them they are amazing. 

And if you’re the faithful type, or even if you’re not, pray for them! I invite any staff member or teacher that is interested to join me in my office at 3:30 on Wednesday afternoons starting after spring break. Write it in your planner. Make time! Just a few minutes! Bring names of kids we need to raise up in prayer. Bring your toughest kids to the table and let’s talk about their best qualities. Bring staff members who you know need a prayer too! We’ll pray and come together for positive sharing. We’ll jot notes to these families letting them know how great their kids are. We’ll share with each other what is working and what isn’t. Just a few minutes. Just a few simple words. Just a few moments to rewrite their stars. We may feel powerless in some of these situations, but God is powerful and He listens to our prayers. And if you can’t make it in the afternoon, let’s talk about a morning during the week we can do the same thing! 

What an opportunity we have right now this very second. To turn this around. To make this a positive place again and to rewrite the stars...for our students, for their families, for our friends and colleagues that lay it all out each and every day. We are the best staff in the district. We need to heal. We need to help our students heal. We need to rewrite our stars. Because I am not willing to stand by and let things happen the way they are. And I’m going to tag each and every one of you that I know won’t let that happen either. It’s time, friends! It’s time to rewrite our stars right here. Right now. Let’s do this! I’m ready! Who will join me?

Rewrite the stars...one star at a time...