Author: Kristin

I find that I think best when I write. If you choose to follow me, you will get a first-hand look at my thoughts as I contemplate life as a woman, wife, mother, daughter, writer, teacher, and follower of Jesus. Issues that seem to recur revolve around parenting, ministry, chronic illness, and teaching.

What is Needed

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Often in this space, I write about the students at my small charter high school in Detroit. From time to time, I share their needs and invite you to partner with me in meeting them. One time I mentioned the need for athletic shoes, and a handful of you helped me purchase about twenty (yes, 20!) pairs for our track athletes! Other times, I’ve asked for support at Christmas, and some of you have sent items from an Amazon wish list, purchased gift cards, or simply sent cash. It’s not always the same people — some of you are local to me, some are friends from way in the past, and some of you I’ve never even met — but when I ask, the needs of my students always get met.

This past week, not having the time or inspiration for a complete blog post, I just flung out a request via social media. I said we had 8-10 families with extraordinary hardship that we’d like to send on their holiday break with grocery and gas gift cards. I’ve been coordinating efforts like these for five years or more, and my school community has come to count on the fact that “I’ve got a lot of great friends.” However, every time I ask, I momentarily wonder if the magic will continue — will people see my request? will they want to contribute? Then I usually remind myself that “before I am asking, He is answering,” and trust that God will provide.

This week was no different. That Facebook ask was just a week ago and we have plenty of donated cash and gift cards to support ten families in ways that they are not expecting — what a fun day our principal will have later this week, handing fat envelopes over to families who have no idea they are coming! I can’t know the impact your gifts will have!

So, first, let me say thank you to those who stop by to read my posts about education, my health, politics (gasp), and the things I am learning, but also to those who choose to contribute to students they have never met. I am astounded by your generosity that keeps showing up at just the right time. Even sometimes when I haven’t asked, a need is just around the corner, and you have met it in advance. Thank you for your heart, for your thoughtfulness, for your care.

Now, let me tell what I learned this week about what kids really need.

A few weeks ago, a teacher who is somewhat new to our district, a woman who just has a way of connecting with kids — the kind of teacher who kids show up to school for, the rare one who can get a whole room to lean in and listen as she walks step by step through a procedure, the kind who can glance up from a demonstration and silence a chatterbox without saying a word — this teacher mentioned to me that she’d like to put on a Christmas event for our students, did I think that would be ok?

I, thinking of our students’ physical needs, immediately (and wrongly) assumed that she wanted to coordinate the giving effort I have just described, and I directed her to speak with our principal. I thought it would be a great idea to pass the baton. LOL. It took me a couple of weeks to realize that what she was planning was very different than what I was assuming. She had a vision for a night of games and fun for a select group of students — a meal, prizes, and gaiety. No presents, nope. Instead, these students would “pay” the entry fee of a donated hat or mittens for someone less fortunate than themselves.

You heard me. She wanted our students — all of whom qualify for free breakfast and lunch — to make a sacrifice to be there. And not just anyone could attend. It was invitation only — kids who consistently come to school, kids who lean into learning, kids who lead, kids who volunteer, kids who do the right thing.

This was so far off my radar that I couldn’t picture the impact until I actually showed up.

The teacher asked her church to donate a meal, and churches being what they are, they had a crew walking in with wings, fries, mac and cheese, and green beans in chafing dishes that they placed over sterno pots.

She asked our staff to donate water, cookies, and prizes for the games — each category filled a table.

“What can I bring,” I asked around Tuesday when most of the above had already been donated.

“I have hot chocolate. Would you bring toppings?”

“Toppings? Like whipped cream?” I asked.

“Yeah, and I like mini chocolate chips, and sprinkles, and marshmallows…you know, to make a self-serve hot chocolate bar.”

“Ok, I can do that.” I said.

Since I was headed to the grocery anyway to pick up gift cards with the cash that some of you had sent me, it was easy to throw a few more things into the cart.

“Oh,” she said, “one more thing. Would you go around to the classes on Friday and hand out tickets to the ones who can attend?”

“Sure. Whatever you need,” I said — before I realized that this would mean handing them out in front of kids who were not invited. This was a struggle for me — little miss equity this and access that — but, I did it. It was uncomfortable saying, “I’m sorry, you are not on the list. This is an invitation-only event,” but I had to trust my colleague’s vision.

School was dismissed at 3:30 and a crew of students moved to the gym to set up. They were in charge of decorating and setting up the space for the meal, the games, the celebration. While they were doing that, I retreated to my office to finish an administrative task. When I arrived shortly after 5:00, students clad in Christmas pajamas were personalizing their hot chocolate, greeting their friends, chatting at tables, and listening to Christmas music. You might expect this at any Christmas party, but in this community’s world of scarcity, it felt different.

Teens who are normally just trying to get through the day — to get a ride to school, to find something to eat, to stay warm, to manage all the expectations of all the people around them — were free just to be.

And then, the silly Christmas games began!

Asked to find a partner and line up in the gym, students who typically display reluctance to engage, jumped out of their seats, grabbed hands, and ran to the designated location. They tossed miniature Christmas ornaments into cups, they played a version of Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes, and they raced to steal Christmas bows that were stuck to each other’s shirts (the one who ends up with the most wins)!

They laughed. They played. For a few moments on a Friday evening, they were allowed to be kids.

Students who typically have to put up a hard exterior — who have to save face — in this small group of students felt safe enough to put their guard down and be silly.

And that my friends was exactly what our students needed. They needed a safe space, they needed to feel like contributors, they needed the extravagance of a meal prepared just for them, of a hot chocolate bar, of games with prizes, of a fun Friday night with their friends. I sat and took it in — smiling, laughing, snapping photos — and realizing that I need to broaden my view of what is essential.

Friends, I am likely going to keep asking for contributions, so thank you in advance for tolerating my boldness and joining when you choose, but I am also going to open my eyes to what else my students need. I’m going to look for more opportunities to acknowledge all of Maslow’s hierarchy (not just the the foundation) because the sense of connection, of respect, of fulfillment are just as essential to developing teens as food, as transportation, as shelter, as safety.

Hats off to my colleague for leveraging her community to meet these needs. In doing so, she also challenged me.

God will meet all your needs. Philippians 4:19

Life These Days

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The question of the moment around folks my age — and for the record, I’m just shy of 60– is “how much longer do you think you’re gonna work?”

My most frequent response is often something like, “I’m not in a hurry to be done. I love what I do. I hope I can stay at it a while!”

This is, of course, not how everyone feels. Many my age have put in a long, hard 40 or more years of work in jobs and careers that have taken a toll — physically, mentally, relationally, or in other ways that might make a person want to walk away.

Let’s be honest, if you’ve spent 30-40 years on an assembly line — you might be ready for a change of scenery. If you’ve led a corporation and had the weight of the bottom line, personnel challenges, and inventory management on your back, you might be ready to sit by a pool, sipping a cool drink. If you’ve been in a classroom for 40 years — attending to the needs of children, designing instruction, managing behavior, and adapting to continuously changing policies, cultural norms, and learning challenges, you might be ready to just have a day that doesn’t involve managing anything but yourself.

And while I have certainly had my challenges and seasons of disillusionment and burnout, none of those scenarios truly describe me. After working in many different settings over the years, I find myself in a role that feels like a culmination — the place I was intended to arrive at, so I don’t find myself asking how much longer I want to work, but rather: When I look back at all I have learned, what do I have to offer these days?

In the early years — the first 3-5 of my career — bravado carried me past insecurity so that I could survive in situations that were way outside my experience. A middle school special ed classroom in Detroit? No problem for this secondary English major from small town Michigan! A self-contained classroom inside a residential facility teaching not only ELA but also social studies, math, science — I got this! I faked my way through and while I can’t say that my students (or I) won any awards, everyone learned something — including me. I learned about being overwhelmed and about working with limited resources. I learned to lean into the uncomfortable and to try just about anything. Did I occasionally lose my shit and come undone in front of a classroom full of typically behaving students? Sure. Did I also take a van load of Detroit teenagers on a day-long adventure to Ann Arbor? Yes, I did! Did we overfill our day with activities? Absolutely! Did we arrive back to school late after dismissal? We sure did! Did those kids and I have a ball touring a college campus, going to a hands-on museum, and eating at Pizza Hut? Yes! Rookie me swung for the fences, folks.

The bravado only carried me so far into my years at home with my own children. In fact, I think it was day one home from the hospital when I called a friend emergency-style to come save me because nursing wasn’t working out according to plan. I wish I would’ve admitted right there and then that I was clueless about mothering, but faking it until I made it was my theme song, and I just kept singing. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the living room floor with three children of my own, reading stories, learning letters, and playing games. Those days were exhausting and precious to me! We had a lot of fun, but I was making it up as I went along, so I certainly made plenty of mistakes. I pushed myself and the kids way too hard, and I expected way too much, but in continuing to give it everything I had, I learned how to schedule out a day that included learning, adventure, rest, and play; how to turn a few hot dogs and some popcorn into a baseball watching party; and how to get through a puke-filled night with little to no sleep. I learned that I could manage much more than I imagined, that I had a lot of people who were willing to help, and that it wasn’t a weakness to ask them.

When I returned to the classroom the first time, it was to a position that was far bigger than my experience — the English Department Chair and Dual-Enrollment ELA teacher at a small private high school. Not only would I, once again, be faking it ‘til I made it, I would be doing so all day long in a new environment while I was also still —at home — learning how to parent my own children who were in the process of transitioning from childhood to adolescence in a new home in a new city in a new state.The lift in both arenas was immense, but I was gonna make it happen. I learned a curriculum, read dozens of books, short stories, poems, and essays and adapted to a modified block schedule and the world of Apple computers while I also navigated the needs and ever-changing emotions of a family that was struggling to find its footing. For nine years, it seems, I was in constant motion — either preparing to teach, teaching, or grading in one space or cooking, cleaning, driving, scheduling, or otherwise parenting in another. Those years seem like a blur as I look back, probably because I never stopped running.

And then, all the motion came to a halt. Readers of this blog know that those years ended in an autoimmune diagnosis and an exit from the classroom followed by convalescence and a [next chapter] of re-learning how to live which landed me where I am now.

I came into this season humbled by the knowledge that I did I have a limit, and that I did not indeed know everything. When I was offered the position to teach ELA at a small charter high school in Detroit, I was grateful to be in any classroom at all. The fact that it was familiar territory — teaching seniors about college and the skills they would need to be successful — meant that I would NOT have to fake it til I made it. I could just be the authentic me, sharing what I know and loving the students who were in front of me. Granted, I still had much to learn — our school has an instructional model that was new to me, and I would, for the the first time in my career, have a coach, but none of that was overwhelming. In fact, it was comforting to know that I had support and that I wouldn’t have to find all the answers on my own.

That was over five years ago, and now I’m no longer teaching but coaching other teachers who may be in their very first year or nearing their 10th or 20th year. Some of them are faking it until they make it, some are disillusioned, and some are managing a lot in other areas of their lives.

I have a front row seat to their experience and that’s why I’m asking myself this question: What have I learned and what do I have to offer these folks?

I’ve learned that showing up and doing your best goes a long way — even if your best isn’t amazing, it’s likely good enough.

I’ve learned that being brave can lead to remarkable opportunities that change you forever.

I’ve learned that others are willing to support you if you are willing to ask.

I’ve learned that family is much more important than work and that your health needs to take priority over any perceived deadline.

I’ve learned that who I authentically am is much more valuable to my students and the people I love than getting every decision right or accomplishing every task.

I learned these things the hard way over the last many years, and maybe these folks — the people I rub elbows with every day and those that I coach — will have to learn them the hard way, too.

I think what I have to offer right now is the empathy and compassion gained from my own journey. I have a rare opportunity to offer support and encouragement, and the wisdom that comes with each of these gray hairs.

I’ve got perspective — each day is important but no day is definitive.

I’ve got plenty of gas left in the tank to come alongside the members of my team, to see their passion, their frustration, their hope, and their fatigue. If they are willing to keep showing up, I will, too.

Maybe I’ll get a chance to share what I’ve learned. More likely, I, too, will learn something new.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

Capacity

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Did you ever wonder what your capacity is? How much you can truly hold, carry, manage, or deal with? Have you, like me, recently found yourself staring that limit right in the face?

Yesterday, I walked into my principal’s office for a meeting we had scheduled. She was wrapping up a conversation with a student who had lashed out at a classmate because she “just couldn’t do it today” — she couldn’t handle his joking, couldn’t deal with the annoyance.

“Every other day I can just ignore him, but today wasn’t that day.”

“You didn’t have the bandwidth?”

“Nope.”

“I get it. I’m glad you’re talking about it. We all have days when we have reached our limit.”

At the age of nearly 60, I’ve had loads of days where I have reached my limit. When I was a child, I might’ve reached my limit quite quickly — I might have fallen to pieces simply because it was time to leave my grandparents’ house. When I was in high school, like the student above, a classmate’s comments might have pushed me over the edge.

But here’s the thing about life, as you move through it, you build muscle — and capacity — and you are able to manage much more than you ever thought possible. Still, everyone of us can find our limit.

I mean, everyday life can be seemingly at the “this is working” phase — you’ve finally found something that resembles work/life balance. You can meet job demands and also attend to the laundry, meal prep, family needs, and even routine maintenance of the house and the car. In fact, you can also easily manage your role in meeting the ongoing life and healthcare needs of an aging family member. You’re feeling pretty good because you also managed to budget for and schedule your participation at a weekend family vacation/celebration in the first quarter of the school year and you’ve plotted out on the calendar how to keep all systems functioning while you are away.

But then.. just as you are packing your suitcase, a major household system (think HVAC, plumbing, or electrical) has a major issue.

“No problem,” you announce boldly. “We’ve prepared financially and we can deal with it fully when we return.” You’ve been through enough difficult situations in your life that you know this isn’t the end of the world. A frustration? Yes, but meltdown worthy? No.

You merrily leave for the event, and upon your return home just a couple days later, you realize that said major household issue could possibly still be an issue, but it’s late, and you’re tired, so you try to get some sleep.

You wake the next day, to “knock out” a deliverable on a pre-arranged work-from-home day, only to realize it’s not the kind of thing that can indeed be “knocked out” in a day, so you lift up your concern to a supervisor who directs you to “just A, B, and C”, so you spend a few hours doing A, B, and C, and then your supervisor’s supervisor drops into the group chat and says, “No, A, B, and C won’t work. So, I’m just going to complete this deliverable so that you can run with it,” and your face falls flat. You close your laptop and go for a walk.

Did you let your supervisor know that you were annoyed? that it bothered you to spend time on a project that was subsequently dismissed? Did you perhaps have a tone? Did you perhaps register your complaint a bit too strongly and too repeatedly?

Perhaps. But have you hit capacity? Not even close. You can’t even count how many frustrating days you’ve had at work, how many hours you’ve spent on projects, or how many times you’ve had to toss the product of hard work.

However, while you were elbowing your way through your work day, your husband was discovering that the major house issue has actually turned into a much more major house issue involving multiple contractors, several estimates, insurance adjustors, and scheduling.

“Ok,” you say, taking deep breaths, “we are still ok. We’ve gotta keep doing yoga, keep eating right, keep walking, keep writing, but we’re ok.”

Your husband, thankfully, continues to manage most of the house details, while also meeting his own professional responsibilities, and you pinch hit when needed while juggling the demands of yours.

The next weekend arrives and while he stays home to continue project management, you head north to support the aforementioned family member. The weekend is less than demanding, and you catch up on sleep, before returning home in time to eat, rest, and return to work on Monday morning.

The work week starts out typically, but on Tuesday, things start to pile on. The family member needs additional medical tests, you learn the work on the house isn’t scheduled to start until December, and as you leave work, you find yourself driving through a torrential downpour so that you can make an appointment for a routine oil change. After waiting for an hour and managing various pieces of correspondence, you learn from the technician that it’s time to replace the tires and she has prepared you with three separate quotes. You can feel your affect going flat just as you receive a notification on your phone that the storm has caused a power outage at your house.

And that was it.

You hit capacity. You couldn’t talk about it. You couldn’t process it. You had not one shred of bandwidth.

You drove the 20 minutes home in silence, made your way into the house, and plunked into a chair by the window overlooking your husband who was trying to start an uncooperative generator.

You needed food. And sleep. And something to shift.

Somehow, the two of you found your way to a vehicle, drove to a restaurant, ordered food, ate it, and returned home. You had cleaned up and crawled into bed just before the lights came back on and the furnace kicked in.

[Thank God.]

The next day the repair date was moved up to the first week in November.

[Exhale.]

The family member was seen by the doctor and a plan was put in place.

[OK.]

The tire replacement was scheduled.

[We have a plan.]

Just enough shift happened, and somehow, everything seems manageable again.

For now.

Take it from this old head, wherever you are in life, trying times are going to come and test your capacity — you may lose your mind when someone eats a bag of corn chips that were intended for the evening meal, but the experiences of today are building your capacity for the difficulties of tomorrow. And, be assured, tomorrow will certainly have difficulty — maybe just an irritating boy at school, possibly just a flat tire on the way to work, hopefully just a major house system repair that can be done and dusted in the space of a month. We need those light and momentary troubles so that we can manage it when the shit gets particularly real. And that will happen, too, I’m sorry to say. That will happen, too.

And at those times, you may find you have reached capacity — you may find you don’t have words, or reason, or the ability to make a meal. I pray you discover you are not alone or without hope. I pray that something shifts and you find that once again have some capacity.

[Indeed…] in this world you will have trouble, but take heart [I have endless capacity,] and I have overcome the world. John 16:33

Typical, 2025 version

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It’s been a pretty typical week for 2025– a virtual genocide continues in Gaza (albeit with talks of a coming ceasefire and hostage release, all of which we’ve heard before), the US government is shut down, four people were killed in a church shooting an hour away, and Jane Goodall — a universal treasure– passed away. Oh, and I’ve spent the week trying to provide an equitable educational opportunity to six sections of high school science students.

Here’s what’s going on — I am the instructional coordinator in a small charter school on the border of Detroit and Dearborn. You could drive right by us and not know we are there. We operate out of a run-down former Catholic elementary school which we rent for a rumored gasp-worthy sum from the Archdiocese of Detroit. The parking lot of this building, which our busses have to traverse twice a day, is literally crumbling under our feet/wheels. To come onto the property each day, I have to ignore the willful negligence that would allow a literal lake to form in the center of the asphalt, but I digress.

We aren’t glamorous is my point. The building is too hot in the fall and spring because we have no air conditioning and too hot in the winter because of the antiquated boiler system we use to heat it. Windows need repair, and the gym, which we use as cafeteria, gym, and auditorium, is way too small to host any kind of athletic competition. If you could, based on facilities, choose to teach anywhere else, you probably would. Or, if you could choose to teach students who read at grade level or who have involved parents or who come to school prepared to learn every day, you would probably choose to do that.

But we aren’t that school.

Nevertheless, we have almost 300 students who deserve a high quality education. And we can’t provide that — we can’t get them up to their current grade level, we can’t adequately prepare them for postsecondary education or the work world, we can’t give them an opportunity to change their circumstances — without well-trained teachers, and I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there isn’t a surplus of those lying around.

This is my 6th year at my school, and every single year we’ve had at least one, if not two or three, classes covered by long term substitute teachers or, more recently, online alternatives, and that’s not because we aren’t doing everything we can to find teachers — we are!

So here’s what happens — each spring we post all of our openings, then we interview all summer, we make offers to the most qualified people, we believe we are fully staffed for the fall, then days before school starts, we realize that one or more of our teachers has changed their mind and moved on — maybe for more pay, maybe for a different environment, maybe for a promotion. The reason doesn’t matter. We suddenly find ourselves with a hole to fill.

Now, because this is our reality, we do always staff 2-3 permanent building substitutes. These folks are salaried employees who come into the building every day. They are typically not certified teachers or subject matter experts, but they are committed members of our team who know and love our students. We also have a creative leadership team that has found myriad work-arounds over the years.

This year’s shortages were looming all summer — we found and hired multiple math and science teachers only to have each of them move on before the first day of school, so in the final hours we made a plan. Our Geometry and Algebra II courses would be staffed by a returning qualified educator. Our financial literacy course would be taught by a permanent employee who also runs his own business. Algebra I, Principles of Physics, and Chemistry would be covered by a company called Elevate K-12. This company hires certified teachers who live in other locations to zoom into our classrooms and provide high quality instruction. For these classes, we provide an in-person facilitator — a member of our team who knows the students and manages all on-location needs such as attendance, providing physical materials, and managing any student behavior issues. This is our second year using Elevate, and although last year’s start was bumpy, I must say that we have found our rhythm.

With all of those classes covered, we still had three sections of Biology and three sections of Earth Science to cover with days remaining before students would arrive. With no applicants in the hiring stream, we turned to an agency that provides long-term subs to area schools. (You read that right — the teacher shortage is so profound that agencies exist solely to provide long-term substitutes.) That agency sent us two people to interview. We chose the one who had some experience in a high school science classroom, and she started right away.

She did a good job of getting to know the people, finding her way around the building, fostering relationships with our students, and showing up for work everyday…until she didn’t.

And now we are looking again.

The students have not had a teacher now for seven school days. They have had members of our team covering, and I have been providing assignments (without instruction) and grading papers. Even if I could stay in the classroom every day, I don’t know enough about population dynamics or the chemical composition of the sun to guide these young minds through their learning. And I can’t stay in the classroom anyway — I have a whole job of coaching and supporting the other teachers in the building in their quest to meet the needs of our students who have profound knowledge gaps and who nevertheless have dreams and goals and deserve every opportunity to make them happen.

No, we need to find someone qualified to teach these classes.

My principal sent me a calendar invite to join her for an interview on Thursday — someone the agency sent to take over these courses. He was a career scientist — full of content knowledge. However, although he’d done some one-on-one tutoring over the years, he’d never been in a classroom, never kept a grade book, never presented with a slide deck. We’re starting week six of classes on Monday and we need someone to jump in there, hit the ground running, and salvage what is left of this semester for these kids.

So we’re still looking, and I’m still giving assignments and grading and encouraging students and their substitutes to stay the course. This is where we are, and this is what we have.

Meanwhile, a few states away, grown men who have their education can’t agree on how to fund the government while they are simultaneously allowing millions to be spent rounding up undocumented immigrants.

I wonder if they care that 411,549 teaching positions in the US remain unfilled or filled by folks not fully certified. I wonder if they care about the students impacted by those vacancies, many of whom are from low-income homes that struggle to meet their everyday needs for food, housing, and transportation. I wonder if they think about that when they are deadlocked on their decision over spending for healthcare that will most certainly impact these same families.

I wonder who we have become and how this has become just another typical week.

Do you wonder, too?

Seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Isaiah 1:17

If you or someone you know (certified or not) has a background in science and a heart for kids, click on this link and tell them I sent you. (We have openings at our elementary school, too.)

Support That Claim

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Click the arrow above to listen to me read this post. Printed text has linked content, some of which supports my claims.

Since we discussed bullying in my last post, perhaps we should also discuss another adolescent behavior — making unsubstantiated claims.

Guys, I’ve been hanging out with teenagers and children since 1989 when I taught my first class of mostly male 7th graders in a small school on the east side of Detroit. From there to suburban Detroit to a couple small towns in south central Michigan to St. Louis, Missouri, to Ann Arbor, and back to Detroit where I teach now, one hallmark behavior of all the teenagers and youth I have worked with is blurting out accusations without proper evidence.

I’m walking down the hall and a senior runs up to me frantically, “Mrs. Rathje, can you talk to Mr. Smith. I’m failing his class, and I did my work. He’s just not putting in the grades.”

A young man says, “We would’ve won that game last night, but the other team cheated.”

Someone else says, “My parents won’t pay for me to go to the prom. Can you help me out?”

These are all claims that one might be tempted to immediately believe. They might reply, “The teacher can’t do that! I’ll make him post his grades immediately.” or “They cheated! What did they do?” or “What a shame! Of course I will get you some money for prom.”

But critically thinking adults know that before they believe a claim, they need to ask for the evidence.

“Come with me to that teacher and let’s see what work has been recorded and what work has not.”

“Tell me more about the game. Who scored? How? What did your team do?”

“I know you want to go to the prom. What conversations have you had with your parents? What kinds of things do you think you need?”

Often, when we ask a follow up question we find out that the student did indeed do some of the school work and that the teacher had put in those grades, however, the student had missed some other critical assignments that he may or may not have been aware of. The team may have suffered a loss, but the other team may have simply outplayed them. The prom-goer might have assumed the parents couldn’t afford to pay for any of prom, but after a brief conversation, the student learns that they can cover the needed clothes, just not the admission ticket.

Teenagers (and other folks who have not matured beyond adolescent thinking) make unsubstantiated claims for lots of reasons. Often they are panicking — about their grades, about finances, or about feeling slighted — or they are feeling insecure — about their performance, their identity, or their social standing. One of the most important roles of the adults in the room is to identify that dysregulated emotion and to help ground the developing mind in reality.

Critical thinkers have to ask questions. If we see in the news that a man was shot and some are suggesting that a particular group was responsible, we have to ask the question, how do you know that?

If a political leader claims that a well-known and widely used medication causes neurodivergence, adults need to ask for the studies that prove this. Those in the room who know the claim to be false need to stand up and say, “Um, sir, that simply has not been proven.”

Most people from time to time make an unsubstantiated claim. I might say, for example, “prices are sky-rocketing; retailers really don’t care about the average consumer.” I may really feel this way, but unless I have evidence of retailers making decisions — setting prices — with blatant disregard for consumers, my claim is unsubstantiated. It might seem fairly harmless for me to say this in a fit of exasperation, but I may impact others simply by making the claim. Some people who trust me and know my track record of being thoughtful and researched may actually believe my unproven rant and form an opinion about retailers based on my spouting off. They may even change their shopping behavior because of their belief in my momentary rant.

And I’m just an every day middle-aged woman from the midwest. What if I had a national platform — what if I held a position of leadership or even power? What if I, standing on a national stage made the claim that a large northwestern city was under the siege of war? Would my constituents believe me? Would they form opinions about that city? Would they act on my claim? Would anyone in my orbit have the courage to demand that I provide evidence before broadcasting such incendiary language?

In a typical day, the average person is peppered with claims — from their coworkers touting the most efficient way to get the job done to their social media feeds spouting the latest health fad to their television news shows (whichever angle they are espousing) delivering their packaged opinions, to their neighbors and family members simply sharing their thoughts. It can be exhausting to interrogate every single claim you hear, but responsible adults must.

What complicates matters is that all of these claims are being made at a time when 54% of US adults (aged 16 to 74) read below a 6th grade level and 21% are functionally illiterate. More than half of the adults you encounter in a day may not be able to comprehend the evidence that supports some of the claims being made or may not have the critical thinking skills required to interrogate them.

However, some of us do! Some people have positions in rooms where very big decisions are made based on unsubstantiated claims, and they have the knowledge and ability to ask hard questions, to challenge authority, to stand up to crazy.

And they — we — must.

Whatever room you are in, whatever claims are being made, you have the responsibility to identify the dysregulation in the room and ask the questions that ground people in reality.

For the love of God and all things holy.

Ask for the evidence. Question the claim.

…examine everything carefully; hold fast to what is good. I Thessalonians 5:21

Of (not politics, but) Bullying

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Some people don’t like it when I talk about politics….I get it. If, as Wikipedia* states, politics is “the set of activities that are associated with making decisions in groups, or other forms of power relations among individuals, such as the distribution of status or resources,” I can see why the topic might make some people feel uncomfortable.

I mean, why would you want to examine the reality of which folks hold the power, which groups benefit from the decisions of those folks, and which groups are historically and perpetually disenfranchised by those decisions. That examination could lead to unsavory images, to be sure, and we wouldn’t want anyone to have to see that, so, let’s not talk about politics.

Instead, class, today let’s talk about bullies.

Every single school I have been a part of has had its bullies.

They don’t have to be the stereotypical intimidatingly oversized thugs that might be populating on your brain screen. In fact the bully of my first class was quite undersized. Physicality is not essential to the bully. Rather what characterizes the bully is the behavior that seeks to dehumanize, belittle, embarrass, or otherwise harm others and the presence of, at first, a yes man, then a crew, and ultimately the compliance of the larger group in allowing the bully to continue harming others.

It often starts with the bully targeting someone who is demonstrably “weak”. The bully might make fun of the disabled, denigrate immigrants, or even make jokes about someone’s weight. He (or she) looks around for a target then slings a grenade with the intent to do harm. But the harm is not where the power lies.

No. The power lies in the reaction to the harm. He gets a laugh at the expense of the disabled, a snicker at the expense of the immigrant, a guffaw at the expense of the overweight. And those responses are the fuel for the next attack.

Still high from the reaction of the yes men, the bully begins to scope out his next target — maybe someone with a little more clout — maybe a classmate or a peer. First he spreads rumors to harm his target’s reputation, he engages in name-calling to dehumanize his foe, he might even accuse others of wrong-doing, whether or not there is credence to his claims.

Throughout all of this, those around him, seeing the power he is building, have to make a choice — do they want to land in the bully’s sites or take a position at his side?

That’s a tough call, especially if you are in middle school or still have the insecurities that you had when you were in middle school. You might not think you can handle humiliation. You might not think you could weather the name-calling. You might not think you could bear up under the rumors. So, you chuckle at his antics, you move to his side of the room, you excuse his behavior as harmless, and you turn your eyes away from the victim.

And you continue to live with that decision because it still feels safer than having him turn the attention on you.

But then the assaults escalate. The blows become physical. And he’s going after someone who is or who used to be your friend. He might even attack a member of your family. Then you have to face a crisis of identity — who do you want to be? Do you want to stand behind this guy, smiling for the camera in your suit, waving your flag of allegiance, as he takes shots at not only the least of these but also at your neighbor, your brother, your friend, or your mom?

This moment happens in every bullying movie you’ve ever watched — The Karate Kid, when Danny LaRusso takes the blows of Johnny Lawrence almost to his peril in the final match, Mean Girls when Cady, who was once part of Regina George’s crew, finds herself a target when the burn book is circulated — the individual who had chosen to capitulate or even join a bully has to decide if they are going to stand up.

The rare ones who, despite their inner terror, find the courage to say “Not here, not today,” rise up from their devastation and face the bully. In the movies, this usually results in the bully walking away in shame or, in the most ideal of scenarios, having a change of heart and determining to be a different kind of person.

This sometimes happens in real life, too, although not inside the space of 90 minutes, and certainly not when the bully has been allowed to gain control beyond the schoolyard and into the community. No, in those cases, one person standing up will not be enough. To stop a bully who has, through all the text-book tactics of instilling fear through intimidation, established a culture of systemic compliance to the most ludicrous of actions, the community must come together and take a collective stand. They must, united, shout “Not here, not today!”

One person might not stop a bully, but a lot of single people, together, can do almost anything.

The bully can’t continue unless the community lets him.

Certainly the community will wake up and put a stop to it — it’s not politics, after all, it’s just refusing to let one person dehumanize another.

Defend the weak and fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Psalm 82:3

A couple of notes:

*If you were a student of mine in the early 2000s and cannot believe that I actually cited Wikipedia, see also lecture #497 entitled “Anybody Can Change”**.

**And when I say “anybody can change”, I do mean even bullies.

Also, if you listened to this post, you might be interested to know that the text version has several embedded links.

Back to School: Before and After

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I write a post like this almost every year — scroll back, you’ll see! Each fall, I can’t stop myself! I’m still filled with the child-like wonder and excitement of going back to school. I mean, yeah, I had outfits picked out, bought a new pair of school shoes (okay, two pair!) and kept them fresh for day one (and two!). I had my classic teacher terror nightmare — only this year it wasn’t me showing up naked, late, and unprepared, it was my teaching cohort! And I’m here to tell you that the stress was not less!

I get so excited about the return to school because it holds so much possibility — imagine the potential for transformation!! And in any story of transformation you need the “before” pic. Let me see if I can paint it for you.

The students first showed up on the Thursday before Labor Day. I can spot the freshman from a mile away. They shyly and awkwardly accompany their parents and older or younger siblings. They stand quietly as their people sign them in, looking around to see who else is there, who is looking at them, who is judging them, who can see their insecurity.

Sophomores roll up with slightly more confidence, sometimes with a parent tagging along ten paces behind. These students steal glances, seeing what looks familiar — teachers, friends, anything.

Juniors have just a hint of swagger — they know the drill — they know who’s who, what’s what, and where’s where. They quickly run through the requisite stops — schedule pick-up, bus sign up, sports physical — then find their friends to take laps inside the building, check out new students, get into a little harmless mischief, or do a little peacocking.

Seniors? You can’t tell them nothin’. They have their hair done, are wearing a dope ‘fit, and have texted their friends to arrive at the same time. They run this place — they are beaming and bouncing. This is their year and they know it.

And that’s all on the Thursday before school even starts — before the three-day weekend, before reality hits, before they have to arrive on time, sit in an assigned seat, do the coursework, take notes, stand in lines, or listen intently.

But all that has begun now, too. We have finished a week of students being in the building, running to get to class before the bell, asking permission to use the bathroom, looking for a snack, trying to hide their phones, getting caught with their phones, turning over their phones, and waiting to get their phones back at the end of the day.

They came in on Tuesday, and we were ready for them.

Our teachers had on shirts emblazoned with our Activate Excellence motto, arriving early to put finishing touches on their rooms and man their stations in the gym for arrival. We had some teachers collecting phones, some handing out schedules, and some stationed as greeters. There were hugs and fist bumps and hand shakes with our returning students, so it wasn’t difficult to pick out those who are new to our building — freshmen, of course, but also quite a few transfers.

In Detroit, a district with over 50,000 students, most high schools have enrollments of over 700, and some have over 1000. Our charter high school is small — under 300 students — so we often get students who found those larger contexts to be untenable. Maybe they were overwhelmed. Maybe they didn’t find a connection or friend group. Maybe they got into a fight and are now dealing with the aftermath. Whatever the reason, we often end up with a unique collection of students who for whatever reason couldn’t or didn’t want to make it happen somewhere else.

We’re a charter school — so students choose to come to us. Granted, sometimes that choice is because they have run out of other options, but I like to think they choose us because we are a small community. Everyone knows everyone else — no one goes unseen. If you came to school without a jacket, someone saw that. If you look particularly down or quiet on a given day, a person noticed. You’re hungry? You know who to ask for a snack. You don’t have a ride home? Chances are you have a connection with a staff member who will help you figure it out.

Changed your hair? We saw it.

Grew up over the summer? We know.

Your ability to manage conflict is improving? We give you kudos.

Let me give you a glimpse at an “after” pic.

For the past four years, we have had a student in the building who was classified as “homeless” and qualified for resources under the federal McKinney-Vento Act. Last June, this student graduated despite having transportation challenges, learning difficulties, and very little family support. Staff at the school made it possible for him to attend prom and participate in all senior activities, and the young man was repeatedly overwhelmed with gratitude. When he walked into our decision day celebration in early May, he hugged several of us and wiped away tears. When he arrived at prom, he approached staff members, tearfully repeating, “I can’t believe this is actually happening!” and when he showed up for graduation, he could barely find words. He savored every moment, and his classmates and teachers saw it for what it was — the realization of a dream.

On that day, he didn’t know what his summer or future would look like. Because of his situation, he was having difficulty getting access to the documents that would make him work eligible, but late in summer we received word that he had what he needed and had found employment in a hospital. This past week, he reached out to one of our staff members and said he was working a lot of overtime and was looking for an affordable apartment.

The staff member reported this in our group chat, and I must say that in the middle of a school day at the end of the first week of school, when everyone is getting tired and ready to go home for the weekend, that little notification reminded us all what a special place we work in.

Just four years ago, this young man was one of our awkward freshmen — he missed a lot of school days, and we noticed. He often came unprepared to learn, and we said something. He had the support of a friend who got him to the building every day, but he came late and left early. It was frustrating, to be sure, but we found ways to work with him. He had the support of the social worker, the principal, the resource room teacher, and literally every single adult in the building. It was not uncommon to see him checking in with one of our custodians who might as well be everyone’s momma.

And now he’s a high school graduate, he’s got a job, and he’s looking for an apartment. If that’s not a transformation, I don’t know what one is.

I guess that’s why I get excited every September — that’s why I can’t stop writing about it. Every day is a miracle waiting to happen. I can’t believe I get to do this. Just like my student, “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

[We] will see the goodness of God in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13

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Finding a Footing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

At the end of the last school year, as I waved goodbye to students and wished my colleagues a safe and restful summer, I was envisioning long days of reading broken up by an hour here or there with my hands in the dirt — weeding our garden, tending to our plants, and bringing in the fruits of our labor. I saw days on the beach of a great lake and others poolside with our granddaughters.

While I did manage to experience all of that, much of my summer was not what I was expecting. At all. Particularly not when, just a month ago, I was searching for an assisted living facility for my stepfather, helping my brothers move him in, being present for his rapid decline, then processing with my mom and siblings through his passing.

The flurry of activity was unanticipated and un-mooring. I’ve felt a little tossed about for several weeks, so the return to the rhythms of back-to-school prep of the past many days has been a welcome and anchoring exercise.

As I’ve been walking the hallways of our school buildings, I’ve been wondering if our students, too, have felt a little at sea. What has their summer been like — have they been working? helping out at home? have they had plenty to eat? time and space to rest? have they experienced loss? or trauma? joy? or celebration? Has their summer been what they were expecting? Are they, too, in need of the rhythms that will bring stability?

Because I’m not teaching this year, but rather supporting our teachers and students from a more global perspective, I’ve been managing tasks all summer like updating scope and sequence documents for various courses, familiarizing myself with the curricula taught in our building, creating Google classrooms for all of our teachers, updating our school’s testing plan, organizing and auditing the curriculum I created, and managing several other tasks. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve also been preparing presentations and materials for the teacher orientation that begins this week.

As I’ve been checking all these boxes, I’ve needed some support (and grace) from my supervisors to reconnect with the world of school, to remind me what each of the pieces are exactly, to steady me as I find my way back to the vernacular of academics — to norms and standards, to unit plans and instructional strategies, to engagement and discourse.

I’m guessing that our teachers and students are going to need support (and grace), too. Certainly their summers have been far from the academic realm — less structured or predictable. Sure, some of them have punched a clock or had regular eating and sleeping habits, but many will have had no routine at all. Surely few, if any of them, will have sat in a desk, attended to a slide deck, navigated to a Google classroom, or submitted a document for review.

Transitioning away from my erratic summer to more routine work has not been easy nor has my body been quick to adapt. While I’m being quite diligent in getting back to eating three meals a day at the designated times and observing my normal bedtime, my body is still on high alert after weeks of urgent phone calls, last minute trips, and unexpected decisions. My digestive tract is suffering from role confusion, and my sleep patterns remain inconsistent.

Perhaps the bodies of my students and teachers, too, will be a bit out-of-kilter. Perhaps they will find it difficult to endure a seven hour school day, to sit upright for long stretches, to use the restroom at designated passing times, to make it from breakfast to lunch without a snack, to remember to get a drink between classes, or to stay awake for the entire day.

I’m finding a few things helpful in my regulation. First is seeing my people. As I’ve gone into our buildings over the last few weeks, I’ve reconnected with my colleagues, many of whom have offered hugs both of “I’ve missed you” and “I’m sorry for your loss.” We’ve shared stories and laughter as we’ve navigated our tasks.

I’ve found stability in the familiar — the drive, the building, and the faces.

I’ve found comfort in the physical — walking into my office, arranging my supplies, moving books, and touring classrooms.

I’ve found security in doing what I know how to do — creating a document, sending an email, meeting a deadline, planning a presentation.

I’m thinking about how I can use my experience of re-entry, my realization of what I’ve needed to re-acclimate, to support my teachers and students as they move from what also may have been erratic to what is more routine.

We already engineer the first week to be less about curriculum and more about connection. We are a trauma-informed organization, after all, and we know that Maslow comes before Bloom. We have a system of delivering school-wide norms and expectations, and we support teachers in integrating warm-ups, games, and getting-to-know-you activities. The first week is all about learning names and building community. It’s an opportunity for our students to get a literal or metaphorical hug– to reconnect with their teachers and classmates.It’s a time to situate themselves inside of the familiar — not only the building and its classrooms but the bell schedule, the movement patterns, the physicality of being in the space, and the kind of routine assignments that warm up muscles and build confidence.

How can I normalize the weirdness of it all — how our bodies and minds take time to adapt, how we may feel irritated, foggy-headed, tired, and out-of-sorts? The best way I know is to name it — call it out — talk about it.

Our teachers and our students may need the leaders in the building to acknowledge the heavy lift of transition — of moving from the summer-realm to the world of school. These worlds are not the same, and the move can be jarring. For me, back to school has always been a comfort — school is a place where I know how to be, what to do, and how to succeed — but it’s not like that for everyone. For some, school is an increase in stress, a place of conflict, a world of insecurity.

So, in my new role, I think one thing I can be is present — observing what is happening for teachers and for students, being willing to acknowledge that what they are experiencing is real. Of course you’re tired! Coming back to school takes a lot of effort! Yes, this is a lot of information to take it all at once, and our summer brains are not used to it.

I can also offer compassion. I get it! My body is still adjusting to the school day, too! I can cover your class while you run to the restroom. How can I support you in getting your documents completed on time? Would you like to tell me about what you are experiencing?

That’s the benefit of my role — I’ve got a head start on my teachers and my students. I have had a preview of what they might experience in the coming weeks. Now that I am feeling a little more stable, I can lend some of that to them as they transition. I can be a reminder that they will soon be settled in as well.

That, and I can make sure that my snack drawer is full, because I can bet that soon I will be hearing both teachers and students say, “Mrs. Rathje, you got anything to eat?”

I’ll be ready for them; I’m getting closer each day.

put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Colossians 3:12

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It’s complicated

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The seemingly unintelligle words of hospice — one month, a few days, 48 hours, probably today — all started making sense and then were undeniable. My stepfather took his last breath in the early morning hours last Saturday. In the days that followed, we gathered, made arrangements, gathered again, handled details, cared for our mom, and came to terms with the fact that my stepfather, Roger, is no longer here.

We’re still working on that last part, of course, and for me, the essence of our relationship makes it little complex.

While many found him charming, Roger and I had what was often a prickly relationship. We didn’t agree on hardly anything — politics, the setting on the thermostat, the way to wash dishes, vacuum a floor, wipe off a table, or do just about anything. I found him to be demanding, opinionated, and critical. I often felt great irritation toward him over our 50-year relationship, probably because I always felt that he usurped the position that should’ve been held by my father who I have long-adored and often idolized, likely because he and I haven’t had many opportunities to interact on politics, the thermostat, or dishwashing.

Because of this complicated relationship with Roger, it came as a great surprise to me when I found myself feeling tenderness, compassion, and love for this man as he declined, as he lost his agency, as he forgot where he was, as he was unable to breathe, as he was confined to bed — a man who rarely sat still, who worked and golfed and bowled and rode a motorcycle halfway across the country. I was stunned to watch my heart shift from irritation to caring, advocating for, and comforting this man who has been an annoyance in my life for most of my life.

When my mom married Roger, she had four kids aged 8-14. He had two kids aged 8 and 10. Together there were three boys and three girls — just like the Brady Bunch, which was in vogue at the time. For a few years, the eight of us took vacations together and hung out together, but as we turned into teens and then adults, we were rarely together. In fact, my three birth siblings and I have only managed to all be together on a dozen or so occcasions in the last 30 years, and the six of us “kids” hand’t been together in the same room for close to 40 years before we all gathered on a Monday night for pizza a year ago.

Who knows how this happens — people are busy with their own lives, and if one person doesn’t act with intention, folks never come together. But last year we did, and then, miraculously, Roger took his turn for the worst just as we were scheduled to all be in the same state again this past month.

We all worked together — getting him moved in to assisted living, taking phone calls, running errands, and sitting by his bedside. We took shifts. His daughter, who claimed the overnights, fell asleep holdng his hand that last night, saying, “Good night, Dad. I love you” and reading him the 23rd Psalm.

We crammed in a small room at the funeral home — writing an obituary, picking out flowers, deciding on printed materials, then shared a meal with our mom, who kept saying, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

And then, on Wednesday, we all rolled in — the six kids, and our kids, and even some of their kids. Because of the nature of this complex family, some cousins met each other for the first time. Some nieces and nephews met their aunts and uncles for the first time.

Families can be like this, can’t they? Frustrations can lead to fractures and before you know it, you’re meeting your brother’s kids for the first time, marveling at their kids, and watching your own kids (and nieces) interact with their new-found family with curiosity and grace.

I probably won’t ever understand the complexity of Roger — why he was the way he was — but I can celebrate the fact that despite my irritation with him, he remained invested. He cared for my mom to the end (even if that in itself was complicated) and he cared for all of us in his own way, too.

Mom and Roger married when I was 10, and maybe because of “ew — cooties” or that previously mentioned loyalty to my dad, I rarely let Roger touch me — not a hug or a pat on the back, let alone a kiss on the cheek. So imagine my surprise when near the end, I found my hands on his waist steadying him, or when I agreed to scrub his back when he couldn’t shower himself, or when he grasped my hand to say goodbye, or when I kissed his head to reassure him when he was afraid.

We don’t know the love we have inside of us that is sometimes buried under hurt or anger or a little girl’s longing for her actual dad, but it is there, and it surfaces when it matters — when you need to sit beside a hospital bed, empty a urostomy bag, or say “I’m sorry this is what’s happening right now. I know you want it to be different.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my dad or that you could ever take his place. It means that I saw you show up and hang in there, even when I found you to be annoying, critical, demanding, and cootie-infested.

It’s complicated, that’s true. Much of life is.

Rest well, Roger, I’m pretty sure it was complicated for you, too.

Love one another. John 13:34

Rapidly-shifting Reality

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Three weeks ago, I made a phone call. Just a simple call.

My stepfather had just returned home from the hospital again — I’ve lost track of how many times he’s been in and out in the past year or so — and this time he was prescribed 2L of oxygen to be worn 24 hours a day. He has COPD, among other health issues, and he’s been on a slow decline for a few years. When he came home with the portable oxygen tank, the nurse from the home health agency who had been doing weekly visits on my parents for the past many months, just happened to be at the house accompanied by her clinical director who planned to evaluate the need for more services. She saw my stepfather enter the house, assisted by my brother, and rewrote the script in her head.

She’d been planning to offer palliative care services to support him through this ongoing and prolonged illness, but when she saw how difficult it was for him to just enter the house, she suggested to my mother that perhaps it would be wise to enlist the help of Hospice. “It’s different now,” she said. “Hospice isn’t just for end of life; it can provide prolonged in-home care so that your husband doesn’t have to travel to the doctor or hospital any more. We can manage his care right here.”

My mom called me, told me what was going on, and I asked, “what do you think?” She admitted she could no longer do it alone, which my siblings and I had been suggesting for months. “Well,” I said, “it might be nice to have someone coming to the house regularly that can help us make decisions when it’s time to make other changes. Would you like me to call them?”

“I think so. She said so much. Maybe you can hear the details yourself.”

So, I made the call.

Hospice would be covered 100% by medicare. They would adjust their visits as needed. They would handle all medications and would assist us in the transition if the time came for my stepfather to move to a facility.

I called my brother, who has been the point man through our whole journey, and he agreed that I should set up an appointment.

Hospice came to the house the next day. We signed my stepfather up, and the visits began — a nurse, an aide, a social worker. The door on the house was continually opening, and my mother was overwhelmed.

The following Monday, I sat down at my desk to complete some tasks for work and texted my siblings. “Hey guys, hospice is up and running. I won’t be able to come this week or next to help out, but I will be available by phone.”

I opened some documents, started working, and then spoke to my husband, “I think I’ve gotta go up there.” No one had called. Nothing had changed, I just felt myself pulled to my suitcase and mentally moving toward my vehicle. I called my mom, “How about I bring you guys dinner and stay til tomorrow afternoon? I can just provide you with a little support.”

“I hate to have you drive all the way up here, but that would be great.”

By early afternoon I was on my way.

I brought dinner. We ate. I got them both their meds, did the dishes, and made sure they were all set for the night before heading to the guest room.

Around 4am I heard yelling. I ran to my stepfather. He’d had trouble standing to go to the bathroom and was having some respiratory distress. I administered his new emergency med regimen, then helped him stand. He stood right there by his chair for several minutes so he could catch his breath, and then slowly, so slowly, used his walker to get to the bathroom. It took us 20 minutes to travel 20 feet. Once there, he was unsteady — teetering. I had to use my body weight to brace him so he wouldn’t topple into the bathtub. He did what he came to do, then we stood there for a moment, so he could steady his breathing before the trip back to his recliner.

It had been an emotional event for both of us, and neither of us got any more sleep.

The hospice nurse came that morning. My brother, mother, stepfather, and I spoke with her about what options we had. If I hadn’t been there for the incident the night before, what would our 100 pound mother have done? The nurse suggested she send over the social worker that afternoon to walk us through some options. Also, since my stepfather was having difficulty standing up from his chair, she recommended we purchase a lift chair.

That afternoon, the social worker came and talked my brother, my mother, my stepfather, and I through our options. We could keep him at home and hire additional home health aides (we were already paying for eight hours of assistance a week), or we could move him to adult foster care, a nursing home, or an assisted living facility. But before we made any decisions, we needed, she said, to meet with a lawyer who specializes in elder law. Any of these options would be quite expensive and we should have guidance on how to protect our parents’ assets before we acted.

We had a plan of action, so my brother ran a mile down the road to our small hometown’s furniture store to purchase a lift chair. While he and my other brother arranged to bring it home, I ran to the pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions. We met back at the house, brought in the chair, and while all of us were rearranging furniture and tidying up the space, my stepfather attempted to move from his walker to sit into his new chair. Up until recently he had been independently getting in and out of his chair without difficulty, so none of us thought to stand near him, and down he went. We all rushed to see that he was ok, my brothers lifted him back to his feet and got him in the chair, and we all looked our new reality right in the face.

That reality would start changing day by day.

The next morning, the hospice nurse stopped by the house to assess any damage from my stepfather’s fall. We’d been up again in the night — for breathing issues, for trips to the the bathroom, for confusion. She examined him, found the cut on his arm from where he’d hit the coffee table and a large bruise on his backside from the point of impact. She assessed his breathing and other vitals then met my mother, sister-in-law and I in the kitchen.

She used words we hadn’t heard before rapid decline…24-hour assistance… and about one month. We tried to comprehend this adjustment to our new reality.

And the scramble began — some siblings investigating elder lawyers, the social worker and I investigating facilities. Phone call after phone call, text message after text message. Eventually a couple tours. Finally an open bed. Then digesting the cost, then agreeing to the terms. All the while, on-going conversations with my mother and stepfather about what is happening and why…over and over and over.

Four days after I had decided that I was too busy to go up to my parents and then pivoted on that decision and went anyway, we were loading my stepfather, his clothes, his walker, and his newly acquired lift chair into our vehicles and transporting him to his new residence.

He didn’t love it, but we couldn’t see another way.

That was two weeks ago.

Hospice has continued to use incomprehensible words…rapid decline, days, family should come.

Family has come. Someone is beside him now.

It won’t be long.

That’s a reality.

From his fullness, we have all received grace upon grace. John 1:16