This post, written in September 2017 and polished for you here in June 2019, illustrates another instance of how sharing my skill-set with a friend worked to shape my growth. After I read the initial two chapters, Marv Fox and I spent the next 18 months or so reading, re-reading, writing, and re-writing. Marv is now truly a friend. If you’d like to read his book, Become, you can purchase it at this link.
A friend of mine is writing a book, and he asked me if I would read a couple of chapters. Actually, two weeks ago, ‘friend’ might have been assuming too much on my part. I knew this guy from church and from around the university, but other than a few standing-around-after-church conversations, we hadn’t spoken much. However, in one of those conversations, he mentioned a book that he is writing. He said he’d been…
For Mother’s Day, when my husband asked what I would like for a gift, I asked if he would enlarge our garden, so out he went, shovel in hand, in the rain, to remove the sod layer. The next weekend, he and our son dumped a couple hundred pounds of top soil and manure on the newly exposed dirt and we began to plant.
We put in a few tomato plants, radishes, carrots, and some peas, along with yellow squash, cucumbers, and cantaloupe. We watered thoroughly then walked away.
Literally walked away. For two weeks.
We went on vacation and came back to find that everything had grown– the tomatoes had doubled in size, rows of radishes, carrots, and peas had surfaced, and even our mounds of cukes, squash, and melon had green fingers poking out of their tops.
If you’ve done any gardening, you know that other stuff surfaced as well — grass from the lingering roots, volunteer tomatoes from last year’s crop, and weeds. So many weeds.
I couldn’t get to the garden right when I returned, but last weekend, I put on my gloves, plugged in my headphones, and plunked myself down in the dirt. For over an hour I raked and pulled, shifted and sifted, then hauled the debris to the woods.
By the time I had finished, I had enlisted a couple of those volunteers into service and cleared some room for growth. I grabbed the hose, gave the garden a good long drink, and walked away.
A couple times this week, I bent down, pulled a weed or two, sprinkled some water, and harvested a few radishes, but mostly I assumed my typical gardening stance — watching in awe as seeds sprout, green appears, and red orbs emerge from the dirt.
My husband moved to Michigan a year ahead of me, and when I finally arrived, he was excited to show me that he had planted a couple of tomato plants in a small patch of land at the back of our house. He knew I’d want something to tend to make this place feel like home. Since that time we’ve moved the garden to a spot with more sun, transplanted rhubarb from my cousin’s yard, and experimented with different seeds and plants. Along the way, I’ve learned that growth happens in spite of us. Sure, I’d like to claim credit for the amazing cantaloupes we harvested a couple of years ago, but truly all we did is push seeds into the ground, spray some water, and watch sweet, buttery fruit appear. My mom is still talking about those cantaloupes.
As I’ve watched my garden over the seasons, I’ve experienced my own growth here, too. When I arrived, like a plant dug out of the ground, wrapped in burlap, and shipped across the country, I was wilted, frail, and in need of some attention. For several months I just sat here, recovering. Now, five years later, I’m stunned to discover a network of friends, a satisfying job, and, a whole different rhythm here in our house by the river.
This growth didn’t happen all at once — that’s another thing I’ve learned — it happens in its own time. For a while, I sat buried in dirt and crap, taking in sunshine and water. For whole seasons, I waited for the first glimmer of green to break the surface, and just as I was losing hope, I discovered strength rising from the ground up — all of the energy had been developing roots — a deep, expansive network that would support the growth that was (and is still) yet to come.
This morning I took Chester out early for his morning relief walk and I looked at my garden to see if, after some gentle care yesterday — some more weeding, a sundown drenching — my plants had miraculously doubled in size overnight. They hadn’t. It doesn’t usually happen like that. I can’t quite figure it out — when I am watching for the growth, my plants seem to be standing still, making no progress, but when I look away, when I get busy with life responsibilities and then turn back, ‘suddenly’ it is time to harvest.
All growth seems to work that way. Just a week or so ago, I was introducing a student to the vowels — the names and sounds of a, e, i, o, u. He was really struggling, so unsure of himself that he was tentatively whispering every answer. Then, on Friday, I noticed him swiftly reading words like pin and pine, easily maneuvering the vowel sounds and even taking chances like changing pin to pain to pan. He was high-fiving his instructor and running through the center celebrating his accomplishment. I turned my back for minute, and there it was — growth.
It happens in spite of us — though we often forget to water and we sometimes ignore the weeds — growth happens. You stick a tiny seed into dirt and manure and hope for the best. And typically, our hope does not disappoint us.
Now, I must concede that growth doesn’t always match expectation. One year I was working in the garden, and I pulled up what I thought was a rather large weed, only to find potatoes attached to the roots! I hadn’t even planted potatoes! I guess they had grown from the previous year’s compost. Another time I bought a kale plant and planted it in the garden, thinking it would produce multitudes of kale to support our kale chip habit, but it actually just spit out two or three new leaves each week — hardly enough for a garnish.
When I moved to Michigan, I carried with me a seed of hope that I would get my health under control and maybe find a part-time gig working in a library. I never dared to imagine that I would be able to work full-time as a teacher again. I planted and prayed over that tiny seed, and it was transformed into a life I couldn’t yet see — one that was way beyond my expectation.
I have lots of little seeds of hope that I have clutched in my hand, watered with my tears, and dared, finally, to toss onto the ground. I have released them to the power that miraculously transforms the tiniest of seeds into beautiful realities. I am trusting that despite my carelessness these seeds will be transformed, in their own time, into extravagant fruit that we’ll be talking about for years.
We plant our seeds (of vegetables or of hope) and then we wait expectantly. We water. We watch. We pray.
I keep watching my garden. I am waiting for fresh shelled peas, warm tomatoes, and maybe a buttery cantaloupe. And while I wait, I continue to sow seeds of hope — and I pray that they also will transform into realities I don’t dare yet to dream.
Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.”
This post, written in January 2015, refers to a book I edited for a friend several years ago. The free e-book, which I will send you upon request, is an excellent tool to help you reveal and heal the hidden hurts that are getting in the way of communication in your relationships. I’m re-visiting the post in June 2019 to connect with my post “Both Sides” staying with the theme of improving communication.
In 2010 a friend called to ask if I’d be willing to accept an editing job. Asa therapist, he had discovered a strategy to use when communication had broken down in relationships; he felt led to share this tool through a free e-book. Would I be willing to sign on for this labor, he asked, knowing that my pay would be of the ‘eternal rewards’ kind?
I had met this man, Brad, and his wife, Lori, several…
On Monday, I wrote about finding “Common Ground” in these polarizing political times. In the summer of 2019, I wrote this piece, which challenges the premise of dichotomy – that all issues can be sorted into two sides.
The other day, a news reporter said that people on both sides of the immigration debate were upset by a recent decision. Senators from both sides of the aisle are contemplating impeachment, and both sides of the abortion debate are reeling from recent legislation. This language might lead us to the conclusion that many of our issues are binary — pro or con, Republican or Democrat, liberal or conservative, black or white.
But isn’t most of life more complicated than that?
Is it even possible to break the US population, which today is 328,983,273 strong, into “both sides”? Can we neatly fit three hundred million people into two (or even three!) groups that would be able to agree on a political stance, an ideological framework, a common belief system? To me it seems unlikely — I can’t even get consensus on what to put on a pizza.
Yet spurred on by this type of rhetoric and our own human nature, we continue with this binary thinking — this either/or mentality — that puts us one against the other, fingers pointing, heels dug in, and shouting. We have assumed a posture of opposition, and in my experience, opposing forces with no intention of bending can do little less that push against one another and cause damage.
Is that what we’re aiming for?
My coworkers and I were recently discussing strategies for shifting a student who is resistant to instruction. This is an important discussion where I work because most of our students have experienced failure after failure in the classroom, and we are asking them to do the thing that is most difficult for them, usually for several hours a day, five days every week. It makes sense that they start out resistant and often return to that resistant stance over and over again. It’s pretty easy to spot. Just this week I saw a little boy, lower lip hanging, eyes brimming, sitting across from an instructor, refusing to engage with the questioning that is at the core of our programs.
What’s an instructor to do?
Will yelling at this child inspire him to engage? “Tommy! You’ve got to do this instruction! You don’t know how to read! We’ve got to do this right now!” No. That just leads to more resistance.
How about guilt? “Tommy, your parents are paying a lot of money for your instruction. Right now you are wasting their money and wasting my time.” Effective? Hardly.
Begging? “Please, Tommy, please, will you read this word?” No; at best this is a short-term solution.
What I’ve noticed throughout my years of teaching, but most vividly in the environment where I currently work, is that relationship has to come first. The student needs to see that you like her, care about her, and want to have fun with her. She needs to see that you are willing to get in the trenches with her, that you care about what she has to say, that you are invested in the process, and that you are willing to be flexible.
Time and time again, I have seen a student on the first day of instruction, convinced that he will never improve his ability to read, sink into a chair, turn his eyes down, and prepare himself to resist. Just as many times, I have seen a well-trained instructor start by building rapport, explaining the steps simply and carefully, then setting the climate for teamwork and fun. Slowly, the student sees that he is not alone, that he can take a chance, that he can begin to believe differently. Maybe, just maybe, he really can learn how to read!
If we can create a space for our students to step into, if we can show them the possibility of a world in which they can, with our support, learn how to read, then they will more likely be willing to shift from their position of resistance to a position of cooperation.
What if we took that approach when speaking to people on the “other sides” of the discussions that we are having. What if we started by building rapport (which would require that we stop shouting)? What if we explained our positions simply and carefully (which might require that we think through the complexity of those positions and understand our own reasons for our beliefs)? What if we set a climate for peaceful, even fun, conversation (which might require that we refrain from blaming, oversimplifying, and name-calling)?
Could we, in this way, create a space for people to step into, where they might imagine not binary discussions that tend toward polarization, but complex discussions that can envision creative alternative solutions?
I’ve recently been part of a study of Ecclesiastes, that is built on the premise that Ecclesiastes, a book of wisdom literature, was specifically written to teach people to live wise lives. The study defines a “wise life” as one that makes right decisions because it’s willing to ask the right kinds of questions. If one is truly pursuing wisdom, she has to ask these questions with open ears, an open heart, and an open mind. She has to be open to the possibility that she might be wrong.
What would that look like?
What would it look like if all the sides were committed to making the right kinds of decisions because they considered the right kinds of questions? What would it look like if all the sides entered the conversation with open ears, open hearts, and open minds? What would it look like if all of the sides were open to the possibility that they might be wrong?
Would we approach one another with humility? Would we ask one another to help us understand the reasons behind our positions? Would we listen carefully without mentally forming rebuttal? Would we pause and think before we replied or asked for further clarification?
Would we first build rapport?
(Hi, my name is Kristin, I am happy to be having this conversation with you today. How are you?)
Would we explain our positions, after having considered our own reasons?
(I come from a Christian perspective, and my life experiences have complicated some of my earlier held positions on political matters. I am wondering if you would be willing to step into that complexity with me.)
Would we set a climate for peaceful, even fun, conversation?
(Would you join me for a cup of tea and maybe lunch. I am not expecting any solutions; I am just wanting to toss around some ideas. Maybe when we’re done being serious, we could get some ice cream or see a movie.)
What might shift if we created such spaces? if we created an environment where folks didn’t have to cling so tightly to positions that they may not even fully understand or agree with? if we could stop pointing fingers, look into the eyes of the person sitting across the table from us, and see their humanity?
It certainly wouldn’t be as simple as having two sides. That’s true.
Is it worth the time and energy to admit that we might be more complex than that?
Are we brave enough to try a different way?
Are we willing to make right decisions because we have considered the right questions?
Are we willing to stop believing that we are merely both sides?
It is better for a man to hear the rebuke of the wise
Yes, it’s gushy, but since I just saw Dr. Sugar yesterday, and since he rescued me when I had a significant flare while I was in Utah last week, I decided it was time to polish this post from March 2018 and share the gushing one more time, in June 2019.
As a new volunteer for Patient and Family Centered Care at the University of Michigan, I have been asked to share part of my story at Kellogg Eye Center to a group of new Kellogg employees.What has my patient experience been like? Since I am more accustomed to writing than to speaking, I thought I’d share what I plan to say here.
In the summer of 2012, while my family and I were living in St. Louis, MO, I started experiencing joint pain.I had been, up until that time, a full-time teacher, school administrator, mother of four, and…
Would you be willing to join me for some tea? (Black, green, chai, or oolong?)
Where should we meet? (Your place? mine? someplace else?)
Can we chat? (Or are you worried that I have an agenda, an ulterior motive, a covert plan?)
What would you be willing to discuss? The weather? Your family? Faith? Politics? (Even if if it’s threatening rain, divorce, doubt, or scandal?)
Do any of those topics make you uncomfortable? Why? (Is it because life is messy and fragile and broken and complicated?)
Are you willing to discuss them anyway? (Even the stuff that makes your chest tight, your eyes brim, your pits sweat?)
What are you afraid of? Aren’t we just humans sitting at a table? Aren’t we merely considering the exchange of words? Do my questions have the power to cause you to reconsider your stance, dismantle your ideology, or change your heart? (Is it possible that I might judge you or disagree with you or find even more ways to question you?)
Is that frightening to consider? (What’s the worst that could happen?)
Shall we pause so that we can both imagine the worst?
How bad could it be?
Or is it possible that it might actually turn out well? (That we might connect, agree, learn, or grow?)
Is it it possible that I’ve been where you are or that you’ve been where I am? (Could it be that we might find communion in the sharing of our tears?)
Might we find solace, compassion, confirmation, or challenge? (Can I picture your hand on my shoulder? Our heads bowed to think? to pray?)
If I ask you to explain the way you think or what you believe, don’t I provide you an opportunity to articulate your why? Isn’t that a chance for you to find clarity? Isn’t it a way for you to speak into my thoughts? My beliefs? Isn’t it an avenue for you to draw closer to me and shape my course?
Should I be afraid? Will your words push against my words? will they stick out their elbows and struggle to find room? Or will I clear a space on the couch, reposition some pillows, and invite them to take up space? (Will I draw back? Will I lean in? Will I do both? Will I run away?)
Am I too afraid of the impact you might have on me? Am I scared I might lose my way? Do I trust enough that I invite you to walk beside me? (Or am I more comfortable walking alone, protecting myself from your questions, your statements, your judgments?)
Will we meander? Will we get off course? Will we find our way back? (Or will we discover a mountain path, a sandy beach, a patch of shade?)
Would you be willing to join me and find out?
Can you see us — you and I? As we pour our tea, take a sip, and linger? as we pause and hear our thoughts?
Who will speak first? Will you? Will I?
Will we start off safe? (How’s work going? Do you have summer plans?)
Or will we dive right in? (What should we do about the environment? How can we improve the experience of people of color in America? Are you feeling secure about your retirement planning?)
What if we discover that we disagree? (about guns or education or gay marriage or abortion or immigration?)
Is your pulse racing? Did I go to far?
Should we stick to grocery prices? favorite books? or family trips?
Or can I ask how your health is since your recent diagnosis? if the divorce is final? if your kid is still sober?
Can we go there?
Are you willing?
Can I pour you a cup of tea?
Can we come out of our corners, put down our arguments, open our hearts, and listen to one another? Can we consider our thoughts, weigh our words, and speak in ways that are kind?
Can we begin to see that even though we have differences, we are not enemies, but fellow sojourners, companions, friends?
What difference could that make?
As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.
I am dusting off this post from August 2014in celebration of the 1000 English teachers I’m reading with now — June 2019.
My students have helped me keep my secret for years — I’m not really the best English teacher. It’s true. They correct my grammar almost as much as I correct theirs. I misspell words, even on the board! And, to be honest, I always have to look up the correct usage of lie and lay.
I mean I have the credentials and everything — a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in English. I was even magna cum whatever both times. I love English. I love literature. I love words. I’m just not a big fan of rules.
(I know, I know — obviously.)
What I love about language, actually, is its fluidity, its malleability. I love the way meaning changes over time and according to circumstance. I…
This post, written in June of 2017, is being edited in June 2019, on the heels of a week away with my husband, as I sit in a hotel room I’m sharing with the roomie I met two years ago. This is a pattern I’ve enjoyed repeating.
So much is jangling around inside my head this morning. Over three weeks ago my husband and I left on a two-week vacation — we slipped away to an undisclosed location where no one recognizes us so we could begin to recognize one another again. We spent hours together, just the two of us. It was quiet; it was restful; it was lovely. At the end of the two weeks, I jetted off, instead of coming straight home, to a week of AP English Literature Exam scoring with hundreds of strangers. Inside of those three weeks, I read a couple of books and…