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, education, equity, chronic illness, and teaching.

Just Do It

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I had been trying to have empathy, to put myself in her shoes — but I had been struggling. Is it because she’s my mother?

I mean, this is the woman who would lift me on to the kitchen countertop when I was, what, four or five years old? She would have me lie on my back so my long blond hair could fall into the sink and she would wash it, pouring a pitcher of water over and over until the suds were gone.

This is is the woman who, newly divorced, piled four of us into the car and drove us from central Michigan to Sandusky, OH, so that we could enjoy Cedar Point for the day.

This is the woman who worked as a unit clerk at a hospital for an hourly wage, scraped her pennies together, then took us school shopping so that we could have new clothes to wear each year.

This is the woman who would, on her day off, drive two hours to come help me with my kids, who would take personal vacation days so that I could get a break, who purchased clothes, and toys, and household items that I could not afford with money that came from her own hard work.

How could she now be so helpless?

Crippled by unrelenting pain, she was spending most of her time in a reclining chair. She pushed a button to raise and lower her legs — doctors’ orders to help with the edema. When she did get up, she clung to a walker to move between bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. The volume on the TV stayed up because she struggled to hear. She, once an avid reader, could do so no longer because of limited vision.

Her life was confined, most days, to the upper floor of her home, and yet she had determined to traverse 728 miles to see her sister — her only sister, her older sister — who also is confined, most days, to a few rooms in her home, who ventures out occasionally and with great difficulty, whose life, which once was at the helm of her family, making it happen for her own kids and grandkids, has become much more limited due to aging and health issues, just as it will for us all.

So, because of my mother’s fierce determination, after weeks of planning, phone calls, and arranging, we rode an hour in the car, took two short flights, drove another hour, and found ourselves at our goal. A cousin came to the car in the pouring rain, pushing a wheelchair while somehow also holding an umbrella. Around the house and through a back entry, and there it was, the reunion.

They sat, these two octogenarians, for five hours — smiling, telling stories, looking at photo albums, laughing, and for a few moments distracted from pain and limitation, occupied with connection, and basking in joy.

We made our trip there on a Friday, returned on a Sunday, rested on Monday, and by Tuesday, her pain was increasing, her kidney function was dropping, and the word hospice was being uttered for the first time.

On Wednesday she had lunch with her brother and his family, enjoyed more stories, laughter, and hugs. They said their I love yous right before we went to the lab for one last blood draw followed by the appointment where she agreed that hospice was a good choice for managing her pain. On Thursday, at her hospice intake, they expected she had three months or less to live; on Friday they said days to weeks; on Saturday they said 72 hours.

During that time she had some visitors — of course hospice nurses, and the personal care aide, and the social worker, but family members were also continuously present. On Friday after a long round of visits, she fell into a deep sleep that extended well into Saturday. The hospice nurse came during that visit, saw Mom was in a lot of pain, and started a smalll dose of morphine.

A couple of hours later, I walked in to check on Mom, who had been sleeping for twenty hours. She saw me come in and said, “You know, I’d like to start planning dinner.”

“Mom, I’ve got dinner started.”

“What are you making?”

“Spaghetti.”

She made a face and said, “I don’t want spaghetti. I was thinking of chicken,..” She closed her eyes and used her hands to help me picture what she meant, “you know how you cut up potatoes and carrots and put them in the oven? Maybe with a little onions and beets?”

I really thought the morphine was doing a trick because she hadn’t really eaten much in weeks. I actualy believed she would say all this and then fall back asleep. But she didn’t. She kept talking about this meal. So, I said, “Ok, let me go get started on it.”

I had turned on the oven, put away the spaghetti sauce, and started to clean the vegetables when I saw her walking from her bedroom to the kitchen with her walker. She had declined so quickly, we had been using a gait belt and assisting her in and out of bed for the past couple of days, but here she came of her own volition.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Well, I was thinking if I’m going to boss you around, I better get out here and help!”

I convinced her to sit at the table, and then I put her on the phone with first one granddaughter and then another. She listened, chatted, and laughed while I roasted vegetables, threw together a salad, and baked chicken. One of the granddaughters mentioned a milkshake, and Mom said she loved milkshakes, so I texted my brothers and one of them showed up in minutes, milkshake in hand.

By the time she was eating, she had two sons, a daughter, a daughter-in-law, and a granddaughter in the room. She ate everything, my little 90 pound mother, and slurped on the milkshake as she chatted with the neighbor who dropped by. For about three hours she smiled, ate, and laughed, and then she was in pain again, ready to go to bed, ready for more morphine.

We had a hard night that night until we got the dose and frequency of the morphine correct, but then she rested. On a Sunday, all day, she was quiet. She listened to her church service, which we streamed. Her step son and his wife visited. Three of her kids and three of her granddaughters took turns sitting with her, holding her hand, talking to her, crying, reading her stories, and playing her music.

When everyone else had gone home or to bed, one remained, playing Princess Diaries to wind down the night, and that is when Mom stopped breathing. Just like that.

Mom, who had many regrets from her life, spent the last few decades telling her grand kids to have a plan and “just do it”. In the end, that is exactly what she did. She made a plan to see her sister, and did it. She made a plan for a meal and ate it. And once she agreed to be on hospice and make her exit, she didn’t waste any time at all. She just did it.

And now the rest of us are going to have to figure out how to just do everything without her continual encouragement, unwavering support, and genuine curiosity. I’m not ready, but I don’t see as I have much choice.

Love you, Mom. You did just fine.

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

Of Skating and Stumbling and Standing

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If you choose to listen to this post, just know that one previous post is linked in the text.

You can be skating along nicely, smiling at the others at the rink, crossing your right leg over your left in a feat of bravery, vibing to the beat of the music. All can seem right with the world. You can feel like this is living.

Then, suddenly, you face the first obstacle. A small child tumbles right in front of you. You awkwardly side step and regain your balance. You check to make sure the child is getting back up, and then you resume your previous vibe.

Sure, your smile momentarily left your face, but now you’re back in business– right back with the beat of the music, regaining your groove, getting lost in the moment. But then, when you least expect it, you spot someone from your past as you zoom by the watching crowd. They are glaring at you, holding up photographic evidence of that thing you did back in 2010 or 1983 or 2024 or 1997– that major blunder, that egregious oversight, that huge mistake — or series of mistakes — you made.

The smile drops from your face. You almost run into the wall. You turn to look back, to go over to them, wanting to reconnect, to reconcile, but they are gone. You can no longer hear the music — you can no longer register the people around you — you are transported back in time to a newsreel of all the ways you blew it back then.

What was wrong with you? What was happening? Where were you in your head?

You stumble off the rink and find a bench. You remove your skates and, forgetting to put on shoes or grab a jacket or say goodbye to the people you came with, you wordlessly walk out into the wilderness.

Of course, this is how it happens, isn’t it? We’re living our lives, managing our responsibilities (or even skating), when something — an image, a phone call, a text, a song — triggers us and we feel ourselves disengaging from those around us. If we have the wherewithal, we may try to bat away the images so that we can continue to function, so that we can continue to see the people around us, so we can continue to feel the ground beneath our feet.

Unfortunately, as we’re doing all that swatting, we often find ourselves off balance. We catch ourselves in the mirror, a look of distress crumpling our face, and we realize the heap of guilt and shame from the past that has mysteriously and overwhelmingly appeared on our backs.

One interchange — one glimpse, one image — has shifted reality and we’re no longer skating along.

In the past, such an instance might have sent us spiraling down into the abyss of regret — why didn’t I see? why didn’t I notice? why didn’t I ask? why didn’t I listen? what else was going on? why didn’t I act differently? do more? say more? — we might have spend hours or, frankly, days or weeks, unable to break the free fall, unable to find the ground, unable to take even a baby step forward, let alone try on a pair of skates.

This is not our first rodeo, however. We’ve been here before. We know what to do

We sit down. We recognize what’s going on, and for a while we take off the backpack of grief and peek inside and acknowledge, “yup, that was some messed up shit that happened.” We don’t haul it all out for close examination, not right now, but we acknowledge it — it’s true; it happened; it hurts; real bad.

We know the others involved are still angry/hurting/processing/grieving and sometimes, so are we.

We know our role — our culpability.

That hasn’t changed.

But…because we’ve been here before and know what it is, we choose not to fall into the abyss of grief this time. We choose to look in, to put our hand on the ache, to hope for restoration, and then, to step away.

What happened is true and awful and unchangeable. No amount of spiraling or wallowing or self-flagellation will change that. And, today is in front of us, full of folks who care, who count on us, who see us, who love us. Amazingly, even folks who know the terrible awful then continue to join us in the now. And now is what we have. Lots of opportunity to see, to notice, to ask, and to listen.

And, we resolve to do our best at that and to have grace for when, even now, we blow it. Because certainly, we will blow it again. It is the way of all flesh.

We won’t be skating any more today. No. But we won’t be free-falling either. We’re just gonna stand up, breathe, and take the next step forward.

And one day soon, we’ll be skating again.

the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

The Circumstance before the Pomp

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*If you are listening to the audio recording, please note that I’ve linked several older posts in the text.

It’s May, and although I graduated from high school over 40 years ago, since I work in a high school, each year stirs up memories. As we move closer to June, I see glimpses of teenaged me in the students in our hallway — the excitement I felt as I anticipated the coming changes, the irritability I displayed in the face of uncertainty, the fear I pushed down as I considered the unknown, and the exhilaration that carried me through all of the ceremony — the prom and the banquets and the graduation itself.

I’ve been drawn to this year’s seniors — they might be just a tad more special than other seniors I’ve had (but I probably say that every year). This group were freshmen in 2022-23, our first full in-person year after the pandemic. They had spent middle school (MIDDLE SCHOOL!) in quarantine, and it showed. They were addicted to their phones, had a hard time focusing on academics, and found being in close proximity with their peers quite challenging. I don’t often work with freshmen, but because of Covid and the gaps in learning, I had been tasked with leading a reading intervention class with, at first, the eight freshmen who tested lowest in reading and, eventually, the majority of students in this class. I first wrote about them here in the beginning of that first semester.

They were an unruly bunch, those initial eight, and I was learning the curriculum and the process of the reading intervention program my district had adopted, so, as in many years of my teaching, we were growing together. I was trying to manage their behavior while keeping myself regulated, while also trying to push them to do the thing that was hardest for them — reading. Nevertheless, we persisted, and their end of semester re-tests showed it. In fact, I’ll never forget Kia’s* success story.

The next three semesters I worked with more of the students from this class — the one that is about to graduate in just over a month. I got to know them — their favorite snacks, the look they get on their faces when they are proud, the sound of their voices when they are irritated, and the little ways that they play with one another. Over the past four years I have watched them grow. I have seen them take on responsibility — like decorating the hallways for an open house, being the captain of a team, and completing their 20 hours of mandatory community service. I’ve seen them try sports they’d never tried before, navigate challenging conversations with teachers, and explore college campuses and potential careers. I’ve hugged many of them in the hallway as they’ve celebrated wins and as they have reeled from devastating losses.

And now, I’m watching them count down the days to graduation.

In this context, in addition to the typical anxieties that seniors face — college or career choices, the looming transition, the realities of adulthood — many of our students also face an additional layer of stress, profound financial insecurity. I won’t deny that all seniors are worried about money — how will they pay for college, a vehicle or some kind of transportation, and all the other expenses that come with the transition to adulthood — but for my students, this concern is on a different level altogether.

For these students, the gas money to get to school each day may not be a given, food may not be in the fridge, the electric bill might not have been paid, and yet each senior has to come up with $300 to cover the cost of cap and gown, prom, the senior breakfast, the pinning ceremony, and one 10 x 13 photo of themselves in their regalia.

For you and me, $300 is a chunk of change that we may have to budget for, but for some of my students, it might as well be $30,000. They don’t have it, and they are not going to have it.

This reality looms over these students because if they haven’t paid a deposit, they don’t get to participate in the pinning in March. If they haven’t paid a little bit more, they can’t get their senior t-shirt for decision day on May 1. If they haven’t paid the balance, they can’t go to prom at the end of May. (And if they couldn’t come up with $300, how could they get a dress or shoes or have their hair done?) And finally, if they haven’t paid their balance, they cannot get their diploma.

At each of these junctures, a plea goes out and teachers toss in money for one student or another — a $50 deposit so that one can go to the pinning, another $50 so that another can go to prom, a $100 to cover the balance so someone can get their diploma.

These aren’t just our students. They are our kids, and we are going to do what we can to get them to each of these moments. Each year, we have a number of students who just can’t come up with the money, but this year, the number seems especially high. The reasons are varied — the parents are out of work or have put the student out of the house or have larger issues they are dealing with and this is not even on their radar. The student may be working, but his paycheck may be going to help out the family with bills. Whatever the cause, these students do not have cash for senior dues

For many of our kids, graduation is the pinnacle, the moment they’ve been working for — to possibly be the first in their family to graduate, to overcome the odds, to get a diploma, to become an adult.

And, in the case of some of my students, becoming an adult means facing a very hard financial reality — they just don’t have enough money.

I’m wondering if we might teach them another lesson — that sometimes when you least expect it, someone will come through for you, that you really aren’t all alone in this world, that loads of people want to help, that God will make a way when there is no way.

If you’d like to help support a student’s graduation journey, click here to donate. Make sure to designate “DLA HS graduation dues” in the space provided.

I’ve come to this community so many times — for classroom snacks, for feminine supplies, for Christmas gifts, track shoes, and money for Ubers. Every single time, you’ve come through. I don’t know how I have such a privilege, but as long as you’re with me and as long as I’m working in this space, I’m going to keep asking. The needs are great; your hearts are huge. It’s a perfect match.

before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear. Isaiah 65:24

Aye, Scotland!

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At the end of our stay in Germany last month, where we explored the ancestral homelands of our parents, we flew from Nuremberg to Edinburgh, Scotland! Why Scotland? Our trip to the lands of our forefathers and mothers wouldn’t have been complete without exploring Perth, the home of the Drummonds, the family of my mother-in-law.

We’d grown accustomed to the neat orderliness of Germany with its flawlessly engineered highway system, rule-following citizens, and commitment to decorum, so our first moments in Scotland were characterized by contrast.

In Germany, our cab driver spoke fewer than a couple dozen words from the airport to the hotel (granted there was a language barrier), but our driver in Scotland barely paused for breath as she asked us about our visit, shared her fascination with genealogy, pointed out sections of town and historical landmarks, and told us about her family! She drove the 8-passenger van effortlessly through the narrow, winding streets and parked against the traffic so that we would not have to cross the street — a much more daring feat in Scotland than in “cross on the signal” Germany.

Our hotel, which was plunked right next to Old Town Edinburgh, was not the polished and poised establishment like those we’d enjoyed in Germany. It wasn’t bad; I’d just say it had the feel of being lived in. The lobby was crowded with folks playing board games and drinking beer. The clerk, instead of being in a suit like our German hosts, was clad in business casual/athleisure wear. She gave us our key, a print out of policies, breakfast times, and local eateries, answered our questions, and went back to reading her book. Our room was fine — a bed, a small couch, a large-ish bathroom, and out the window, an alley littered with spent kegs from the restaurant/bar next door.

We unpacked and made our way down the narrow and winding cobblestone street just a block or two to one of the pubs listed on the hotel handout, Biddy Mulligan’s. At the doorway, we edged past a cluster of cigarette smokers (we saw plenty of smokers in Germany, too!), and wriggled through the crowded restaurant where dozens of folks were crammed in drinking, eating, laughing, and shouting at one another. Surely we’d never find a seat, though it was 6pm on a Sunday. But just as we were giving up hope, a crowded booth emptied out, leaving a graveyard of pint glasses on the sticky table. I slid in to claim the space while my husband gestured to the bartender who handed him 2 menus before he cleared the debris.

We chose our meals, roasted salmon for me and lamb stew for him — both on potatoes with roasted vegetables. Absolutely delicious. I even enjoyed a Scottish beer — the first beer I’ve had in ages due to my gluten sensitivity –I savored every single drop while live music played from the back of the bar.

We were just a few hours into Scotland, and though the culture shift was palpable, we were delighted!

As we did in Germany, we dedicated our first full day to driving. We rented a car — a Jeep SUV because it was the only automatic transmission in the place and though we both know how to drive a stick, we knew we’d be driving on the opposite side of the road all day and wanted to limit the variables. The car rental was four floors below ground in a parking garage, and John’s initiation to driving in Scotland was staying on the left as he wound up those levels to daylight and straight onto the busy, narrow streets of Edinburgh. With rush hour traffic and road construction, it took us a while to traverse the city, take the Queensferry Crossing over the Firth of Forth, and enter the countryside north of Edinburgh on our way to Perth.

Queensferry Crossing

The Scottish countryside is stunning — rolling hills, scattered farms, sheep, lakes, more sheep, mountains, and did I mention sheep? We drove far enough west and north to see the mountains, and then headed east to Perth where we walked through the very walkable shopping district, and had a bit of lunch — soup and a toastie, which is what the Scots call a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, and a scone, of course.

The Scottish countryside

We stood next to the River Tay, which runs through Perth.

John standing beside the River Tay.

We then followed the river’s path to Dundee, where we saw the River Tay flow into the North Sea, smelled the salt air, then made our way back to Edinburgh, dropped off our rental car, and got a delicious dinner.

I am making this journey sound easy, but it was anything but. I was the co-pilot, which was the easy part, even though we kept losing our signal and sometimes didn’t know where we were. (Yes, we did have a paper map with us! ) My husband was the real trooper — driving an American-style vehicle on ancient, narrow, poorly-marked, winding country roads, on the left side of the street, from the right side of the car! And, I haven’t even mentioned the very frequently-placed roundabouts with anywhere from three to infinity exits that run in the opposite direction of the ones we are familiar with in the states! Driving in the UK on the eighth day of our European vacation was a courageous feat!

So, his fish and chips and my skink, a creamy Scottish stew with smoked haddock, potatoes, and onions, was a real comfort food treat at the end of a long and, at times, stressful day!

Fish and Chips (top) and Skink (bottom)

Our second day in Scotland, we walked the streets of Edinburgh — one street in particular, the Royal Mile. This highly travelled street runs from the Edinburgh Castle at the top, down a long incline to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the Scottish residence of the King of England. The cobblestone path is lined on both sides with shops — gifts, kilts, food, whiskey, tea, etc. We went in countless stores looking for Drummond of Perth plaid and woolen sweaters. Between shops, we enjoyed the street performers — vocalists, bag pipers, and other entertainers who weren’t the list bit deterred by the seemingly continuous rain.

After a brief afternoon rest, we walked again, several blocks, down Princess Street to Castle Street to see where my husband’s great grandfather once worked as a cobbler in the shadow of the castle.

Map showing Edidnburgh Castle, Castle Street, and the Princess Street Gardens

How amazing to picture him there, over a hundred years ago!

Standing on Castle Street with Edinburgh Castle in the background,

We wound our way back through the Princess Street Gardens, a beautiful place that reminded us of Forest Park in St. Louis and The Common in Boston, returned to our hotel, and collapsed into sleep.

On our last day in Scotland, despite the rain, we took a train to Glasgow, enjoying the views of the countryside again — rolling hills, sheep, town after town, and finally the city. We disembarked, explored the shopping district, had a lovely lunch in a small cafe, then walked our drippy selves back to the station, boarded the train, had one last delicious meal in Edinburgh — roasted lamb and chicken this time — and prepared our bags for our long journey home.

When our driver picked us up early the next morning, we shared our experiences with him, a man who’s lived his life in Scotland. With each tale we shared, he smiled and remarked, “Aye!” as if to say, “Yup, that’s how it is here!”

Scotland, we found you to be hearty, unbothered, celebratory, and friendly. Your land — gorgeous. Your food — delicious!

What a gift it was to visit, and though we don’t know if we’ll ever be back, Scotland you are part of us now. Aye!

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Isaiah 55:12

Guten Tag, Germany!

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If you click to listen, please note that I’ve placed captioned photos throughout the post that I did not read aloud.

Recently, my husband and I made our first visit to your land, and I wanted to send a quick note to extend our thanks for a lovely visit. We came on a sort of heritage tour — since both of my parents and his father all have roots in Germany, we wanted to come see where our forefathers and mothers lived, to touch the soil, to eat the food, to imagine what life might’ve been like for them.

We made our first home base Hamburg because of its proximity to Grabau, which is where my husband’s great grandfather would have grown up on a farm. When we landed at the airport, we easily found a taxi and found ourselves winding our way through a sprawling modern city, rich with many familiar retailers nestled beside others that were, dare I say, foreign. Exhausted from a flight that had left Detroit, touched down in London and then Copenhagen before finally alighting in Hamburg, we mostly just stared out the windows, trusting our driver to drop us at the hotel that was expecting us.

It wasn’t long before we found ourselves walking into a small but clean and recently updated establishment. The desk clerk found our reservation, told us where to go for breakfast in the morning, and advised us of a few places we might find something to eat for dinner. We stumbled to our rooms, freshened just a bit, then used Google maps to locate a shawarma restaurant just a couple of blocks away. We quickly outed ourselves as Americans when ordering– mostly pointing and nodding to the restauranteur who didn’t speak English– and then enjoyed a huge plate of food.

Full and exhausted, we made our way back to our room and dropped off to sleep.

Now, I won’t go blow by blow through our six days in Germany, but I do want to remark on some things that we noticed.

First of all, almost everyone we encountered spoke at least a little English and demonstrated a willingness to help — the hotel clerk who advised us where to get an outlet adapter when the one we brought didn’t work; the rental car agent who displayed curiosity about our quest and switched the car’s display into English for us; the gentleman in Grabau who, spotting someone he didn’t recognize, pulled over and chatted with us as we walked through the town; the server in Berlin who hung onto my passport that I left behind and delightedly returned it to me when we came panicking back to find it; and the waiter in Nuremberg who tried to tell us that the German meal we were ordering was an enormous amount of food and that we likely wouldn’t finish it.

The mammoth "two serving" meal in Nuremberg.
The mammoth “two serving” meal in Nuremberg: pork loin, potato dumplings, bratwurst, sauerkraut, pork shoulder and potato salad.

Even those who didn’t speak English were eager to engage — the inn owner, Mr. Vogt, in Unterschwaningen, the ancestral home of my father’s family, who, through Google translate, shared that his family had run the inn, the only one in town for the past two hundred years, the waitress in a cafe who was willing to get us some oat milk once she knew (again, thanks to Google translate) what we were talking about.

We also noticed the bikes! While it was around 40-50 degrees Fahrenheit most days that we were with you, countless folks made their way through the cities and even the countryside on bicycles. From the northern seaside city of Kiel to the resort town Baden-Baden in the Black Forest of southwest Germany, folks dressed for the weather, stayed in the bike lanes (which were very consistently everywhere), and pedaled their way from place to place. Some were toting children, some were making deliveries, some were dressed in work wear, most were bundled up with coats, hats, helmets, gloves, and often glasses.

One of many pictures we took of folks on bikes — this one, I believe, was in Berlin.

Perhaps because so many folks traveled by bicycle, and because of the storied German efficiency and engineering, the roads were virtually flawless! Well-marked and exceptionally well-maintained, these roads made it quite easy for two folks who have done very little international traveling to find our way in and around Hamburg, Nuremberg, and the surrounding towns and countryside.

Now let’s talk about the food. Where do I start? First of all, I have never, and I mean NEVER, been so excited to eat a hotel breakfast. In both hotels in which we stayed, the morning spread was remarkable — eggs, bacon, pastries, yes, but also, sliced meats and cheese, fresh fruit, cereal with nuts, seeds, and dried fruits for toppings, potatoes, fresh vegetables, and I could spend a whole paragraph on the coffee, tea, juice, and milk choices. We lingered each morning, savoring the experience. And then — then! — we found cafe after cafe and restaurant after restaurant that also did not disappoint. Every cuisine from the previously mentioned shawarma to curry to hamburgers with sweet potato fries to freshly made soups to the way too enormous traditional German meat-filled meal was outstanding. And I haven’t even mentioned the sandwiches.

One day’s breakfast — perfectly scrambled eggs, sauteed vegetables, fresh fruit, oats with seeds and dried mango and goji berries, and loose leaf tea.

Now, you’ve got to understand that we regularly enjoy a gluten-free and dairy-free diet, but Germany, everywhere we turned was a carb! We couldn’t help ourselves. We had a rhubarb pastry in a small town near Grabau, lebkuchen in Nuremberg, a cherry crumble bar on the way to Baden-Baden, and soup with fresh bread in Berlin. In America, these things, at least for us, are rare treats, but in Germany, they became a daily requirement. But let me get to the sandwiches.

Lebkuchen with oat milk lattes — my great grandmother used to make these cookies every Christmas. These transported me back to my childhood.

Everywhere we went in Germany — on trains, in cities, in the countryside, in shops — people of all ages were carrying small open bags from which they would inevitably pull enormous sandwiches that they would eat as they stood on the train platform, walking down the street, or riding on a bike. Even toddlers in strollers were eating enormous sandwiches! We obviously had to throw caution fully to the wind and give it a try, so when we saw the Kolb Pretzel company selling pretzel sandwiches, we purchased one, had them slice it in half, and enjoyed it as we walked through a Saturday morning market. Exquisite!

Kolb Pretzel sandwich — wow!

I’m starting to ramble on now, so let me return to the purpose of our visit. We wanted to visit the ancestral homes of our families — the Kolbs, the Meyers, the Rathjes — and we did! As we toured the small farm towns and small cities that our forefathers and mothers used to live in, we tried to imagine them there under the same castle we were exploring, worshiping in the church where we were standing, walking the same path we were on, taking in the beautiful pastoral scenes, and living their lives. Most remarkable to us was the thought of how bold and brave they were, most of them during the mid to late 1800s, to leave what they knew, the beautiful familiar, and to venture out — how? on foot? by train? on horseback or carriage? and certainly, undoubtedly via a long ship voyage — to a land they had never seen and could only imagine based on the words they had read or heard from others who had gone before them. What made them leave? A family issue? A government or political demand they could not abide? A dream for something different?

John standing in front of the Lutheran church in Grabau, Germany — his great grandfather likely worshipped here.

We know some of these answers because of those who have done the research — that’s how we knew to go to Grabau, and Kiel, and Unterschwanigen, and Baden-Baden — but our imaginations and our visit made us wonder even more.

And Germany, I can’t leave this message without saying that we felt your strength and your courage, too! We saw reminders of world wars, monuments to lives lost, evidence of destruction, and an intentional message of resiliency and a firm determination to not forget the past but to forge a different present and future. We saw that not just in Berlin, but everywhere we went — in the ashes displayed at the restored St. Lorenz church in Nuremberg, in the memorials at Kiel, in the words of the gentleman at Grabau who told us that most of the Germans left that village in the wake of World War II. Its current inhabitants, he said, are descendants of the Polish folks who settled there once the dust was settling.

A small piece of the Berlin Wall that remains near Checkpoint Charlie at the border of what was once East and West Berlin.

Germany, you were a fine host. Thank you for accommodating us, for preserving the past for us, for showing us what it looks like to rebuild and move forward. I can only hope that one day we will be back, but regardless, we carry part of you with us, and we might just be packing a sandwich or two!

Tschuss!


In [God] our ancestors put their trust; they trusted and [He] delivered them. Psalm 22:4

You good?

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Every once in a while, a student will go missing from school. I don’t mean in the “she was abducted” sort of way; it’s just that sometimes — there’s really no pattern to it — I will find myself marking a student absent day after day with no clear explanation. I might alert the office, so they can do a wellness check, but often before it has come to that, the student just as mysteriously re-appears.

In the old days, I might’ve interrogated such a student. Where have you been? Did you just decide to take a vacation? Do you know what an extended absence can do to your grades? your progress? your chances of graduating?

That was before I started to understand trauma — before I had seen true poverty — before I knew that sometimes a student has to stay home to care for an ailing parent or younger siblings — before I knew that not all families have vehicles or food in the fridge…. or a fridge… or any place to stay at all.

So now when a student is gone for 2 or 3 or 10 days and then suddenly reappears, you know what I say? Good to see you! I’ve been missing you! If I have a particularly close relationship with a student who has been MIA, I might ask, You good?

You never know what you’re going to hear after that — maybe a quiet Yeah, I’m good, but also maybe my [insert family member here] died, or I was in the hospital, or we moved.

If a student vulnerably shares something like that, I feel honored to be trusted with a slice of their story. And, I hope that my check-in conveys to the student that they are seen, safe, and valued.

All of this is just to say that I, myself, have been a little MIA lately. The last time I posted a blog was February 9 — five weeks ago. Now, I know you are not getting up every Monday morning and taking attendance and saying, huh, I wonder where Kristin is. And you should know that I have not been experiencing any trauma. However, I did want to check in and let you know that this soldier temporary got called back to duty — to a short stint of increased demand where I was tempted to revert to butt-kicking and name-taking and, in fact, gave it a try, only to find out what I already knew — it was not sustainable.

I have mentioned this already, of course, in the first few blog posts of the year. I wrote about the fact that we had a teacher resign over the holiday break and that I was asked to step into two of the classes he left vacant to help prepare our juniors for the coming SAT. I probably already mentioned that I was asked to do this while also filling the role of building test coordinator in charge of making sure all 9-11 grade students take the PSAT and SAT and that all 11 grade students also take the other tests required by the State of Michigan — the MSTEP (social studies and science) and the WIN Learning Assessment which measures students’ work-ready skills.

It doesn’t sound too overwhelming when I put it in a paragraph like that, and my supervisors assured me it wouldn’t be any more work at all since they had lightened my coaching load from eight teachers down to four and had provided me with the support of the person who was the building test coordinator last year.

So, I built out my calendar, as one does, scheduling blocks of time to read test manuals, attend training, observe teachers, meet with supervisors, audit rosters, create training sessions for my staff, and, oh yeah, teach two 50-minute sections of ELA every day making sure to cover curricula I’d never taught before and to develop the skills in these students that my supervisors were confident I could build before testing started on April 15.

Like any good soldier, I got my gear together, rehearsed my strategies, and relied on years and years of training exercises. I put my head down and got to it.

I had moments where I was making it happen. I was checking off boxes and getting shit done. At those times, I had a swagger in my step — the old girl still had it. Passersby might have even heard me say, I got this.

But there were moments that those closest to me saw the set of my jaw, the vacant stare in my eyes, the fatigue coming off me in near-visible rivulets. They heard an errant utterance, they saw the expression on my face belie the words coming out of my mouth, and in one way or another they asked You good, Rathje?

Because clearly, I was not, indeed, good.

And because I trusted them, I took a long look at what was going on, and, instead of soldiering on, I tried something different.

First it looked like a set jaw, a demand for change, a clenched fist decrying an unjust work load, and then, it softened into apology and the admission that soldiering was not a sustainable way of life — not for me and, really, not for anyone.

It felt a little like defeat. Like waving the white flag.

But it wasn’t that. It was truth-telling. It was self-advocacy. It was a victory.

Because when I said (this time, though I had said it before) that I needed an end date — a day to mark on the calendar when I would no longer be teaching, when I said I needed more time to complete the tasks before me, when I said I felt it was too much not just for a middle-aged gal like me but for anyone, they heard me.

I took a chance on asking for what I needed, and I got it.

So, I’m at home this weekend breathing a little more freely, even though I will still spend an hour or two today and tomorrow on managing my work responsibilities. I know that Friday is my last day in the classroom, spring break is coming, and a time of refreshing is near.

So, if I’m gonna be honest, I’ve been MIA because for a couple ticks I was slugging it out — struggling, not coming up for breath — but I’m back.

It’s good to see you. If you don’t already know, this is a space where I feel seen and safe and valued. Thank you for allowing me to trust you with a piece of my story.

Be kind and compassionate to one another. Ephesians 4:32

Reflect and Grow

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Hey, 2026,

It’s been a minute since we’ve spoken. I know that first conversation we had might have felt a little off-putting. I’ll admit that I was coming in defensively and demanding a lot. The last few years have been quite difficult, after all. I circled back a week later, and acknowledged the fact that while I can’t control what you bring, I do have control over my responses to you. Now, a month into your tenure, I’m feeling the need for a check-in. I’ve got some feedback on how it’s going — some affirmations, for sure, but also some areas where we’d hope to see some growth moving forward.

We can start with the snow day count — well done! This performance has exceeded my expectations. Although extreme weather could be a sign of irreversible climate change, I did welcome the days to be at home, to rest a little, and to get caught up on some work.

Speaking of work, I’ve been pushing pretty hard, as you know, because I’ve been covering a teacher vacancy, but I’ve got to hand it to you — not only did you allow me to step back into the classroom to support our juniors in the run up to the SAT, you came through with another certified English Language Arts teacher who even has experience in our cultural context. You somehow provided this teacher, who will start with our sophomores on Monday, before the end of January, just as I requested. Hopefully, he will bring some normalcy to our students for the remainder of the year.

Now that I’ve started with some kudos, I must acknowledge that all has not been rosy. You did bring my family another loss — we’ve had one a year for the last three years. Granted, my sweet aunt was 96 and ready to go, but her passing still hurt.

However, that sting was much more bearable than the shock and horror at the deaths of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. It seems unconscionable that regular citizens acting out of care and concern for the foreigner and the stranger would lose their lives at the hands of government agents.

And speaking of unconscionable, I thought we’d seen all the presidential misconduct we’d ever need, but you managed to give us some more — directly from the Oval Office, again! — racist images of former world leaders distributed by the now-more-than-embarrassing leader of the free world. During the opening week of Black History Month, to boot.

Now lest I get busy casting stones without acknowledging my own shortcomings, I will admit that, I, too, have had less than stellar moments in recent days. I have forgotten my training, lost my center, and acted out of character, and not just in the confines of my own home, but in the space where I hope to have the most impact — the classroom. I showed my students a frustrated, tired, unprofessional side of me, and I’m not proud of that. So, I had to put down my shaking fist for a moment — I had to stop blaming you, 2026. I had to stop looking at the failures of ICE, Republican leaders, and even my students, who I briefly tried to blame for my poor behavior.

Look, all of us have good moments and bad moments. We are imperfect humans. I’ve had to remind myself of that this weekend when I’ve found myself bloodied by self-flagellation. None of us meets every moment with grace and maturity. The best we can do — the most we can hope for from others — is best intention, self-reflection, the admission of failure, and a commitment to do better.

What would it look like if those entrusted with making sure that all folks from other countries followed the laws for living in the United States did so with hospitality. What if their intention was to support those who legally entered our country as they navigate their adjustment to the way we do things around here. What if they participated in regular debriefing that honestly evaluated their practices, acknowledged shortcomings, and worked to improve the process in ways that positively benefitted the community?

What would happen if at their worst moments — when, say, a civilian was killed — they would admit their wrongdoing and follow the steps of accountability and restoration? What if those worst moments propelled them to changes that produced some of the best moments?

What might happen if people in positions of power didn’t demonize those who think, look, act differently, but instead worked with intention to find understanding, common ground, ways of living together in unity, despite our differences? What if we had regular community forums to instead celebrate those differences, to find solutions to problems, and to build strong relationships?

What impact might it have if a middle aged white woman went into her classroom on Monday, admitted to a roomful of teenaged students of color that she lost her shit on Friday and that it wasn’t, as she might’ve suggested, their fault, but hers. What if she used her admission of culpability to build a culture of error in that classroom — where students, too, can admit that they have been wrong, and where they can shed their shame through vulnerability, and be brave enough to try again?

What impact might it have if, instead of waving our fists at everyone else, we opened our hands and asked for forgiveness for the things we, ourselves, have done wrong? How might that change what happens this year?

Right now in Italy, young people from all over the globe are coming together in the spirit of sportsmanship to compete in the snow and on the ice. They have worked hard for years to make it to the Olympic Games and we are inspired by not only their athleticism, but their tenacity, their sacrifice, their willingness to set other things aside for this one goal — the highest level of competition with other humans from all around the world. For sixteen days we will watch people of different races, faiths, and backgrounds share space — racing side by side, watching one another’s efforts, and even congratulating those who bested them. It’s a picture of shared struggle, shared victory, shared humanity.

We can learn from them, can’t we, 2026? Can’t we learn to exist side by side with people who are very different from ourselves — can’t we find ways of working together, of inspiring one another, of celebrating together? Can we respect the humanity in front of us, even if we haven’t made it to the Olympics?

Let’s try for more of that, shall we? I know we’ve got it in us.

if it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Romans 12:18

Of Snow Days and Coming Off the Bench

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I’m sitting in my living room looking out at my snow-covered neighborhood. The temperatures are so low that we’ve only had school twice in the past 10 days, and it seems likely that we won’t have school for the next couple as well. Every educator loves a snow day, but if we’d had this many in my teaching days, I might be getting a little antsy by now. This many days out of school would mean my scope and sequence, my pacing, and my lesson plans would all need adjusting. The plans I wrote for two Thursdays ago would no longer be relevant. The lesson I was going to lead with today would need adjustment before we went back.

However, considering the current circumstances, I am thankful. We’ve missed four days of school out of the last two weeks, and I have been using the time — almost all of that time! — to get caught up and to get ahead.

Why? Because once again I am coming off the bench. The next day we have school, I will be teaching.

Last May I taught what I thought was my last English Language Arts lesson. It probably revolved around revising and proofreading since my seniors were getting ready to submit their final high school paper. My husband, ever thoughtful, sent me flowers to mark the day. He, more than anyone, knew I’d been teaching in one venue or another since the fall of 1988 when I did my student teaching at a high school in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. While not all of those years have been in a classroom –I stepped away once to stay home with my young children then again to recover from a significant health challenge — I have spent almost all of those years teaching, writing, or instructing in one way or another.

When, due to autoimmune disease, I hung up my hat (and gave away all of my teaching gear!) in 2014, I really thought I was finished with the classroom, that I had entered retirement at the age of 48. Last spring, after five years back in the game, I really believed I was moving into the season of instructional coaching and that my days managing a roomful of teens were over. I thought I had secured my spot permanently on the bench.

Both times I was mistaken.

This past fall, I onboarded two certified ELA teachers — exactly what we needed for our small school. One would teach freshmen and seniors, the other would teach sophomores and juniors. I was so excited! Both were experienced; both were people of color! It was like a miracle!

Throughout the fall, since they were on my coaching load, I observed them teaching many times, and met with each one at least weekly. Together we began to build what I hoped would be lasting relationships.

One is getting settled into our culture. One resigned over the holiday.

This is what education looks like right now. We have more classrooms in America than we have teachers, so folks can decide midway through the year to take a different path. It can be liberating for a teacher — to know that if your current setting doesn’t fit, you have options. It can be demoralizing if not devastating for students.

In this case, the sophomores and juniors, who were without a science teacher for most of the fall semester until we found a strong candidate in mid November, are now without an ELA teacher. To complicate matters, the SAT is in less than three months. For the juniors, this the highest-stakes test of their educational career so far, and half of the test focuses on mastery of English Language Arts skills.

How, how I ask you, can we hope to overcome literal centuries of educational inequity for students who routinely experience staffing shortages throughout their educational journey — not to mention inequitable facilities, insufficient supplies, inadequate transportation, poor nutrition, and other realities of institutionalized racism. What can we — those who envision something different for these folks — do?

I came back from the holiday break with a directive (not to mention my own ass-kicking, name-taking internal drive) to support the students through the end of the semester — to make sense of where they are, to grade the work they had completed, to give some kind of a final, and to help as many as possible receive credit for the class. Three weeks and four snow days later — done, done, done, and done.

Somewhere in the course of those weeks, my supervisor communicated that I would be taking over the junior classes in the run-up to the SAT. I was to provide high quality instruction that would prepare these students to do well on that assessment. My internal desire is to also give these students — these kids who have marked time first in their Earth Science class and then in their ELA class — a good experience. I don’t want to merely get them through to the SAT; I want them to fall in love with a book, to learn the power of a growing vocabulary, to see what happens when you write down what you think, to understand the complexity of language and how it can reflect the complexity of our inner lives.

So, when the first snow day happened, I spent the day updating the grade book for these students and unpacking the curriculum I would be teaching. I will admit to a significant case of the grumpies as I began that morning. I might have been muttering under my breath about the audacity of a teacher to leave three weeks before the end of the semester without finalizing grades. I might’ve been clenching my guts in anxiety over how I was going to manage high quality instruction while still being our school’s testing coordinator (managing the SAT, MSTEP, and WIN Work Readiness tests). The neighbors might’ve heard me sputtering for the morning, but when I rounded the corner and moved from cleaning up the mess to planning for instruction, my mood shifted.

I opened up the curriculum for the class, determined I would use the text Their Eyes Were Watching God, purchased the audiobook so my students could hear the rich dialect as they followed along and annotated the text, dug into the unit plan that focuses on “figuring out yourself in a complex society” and I. was. stoked!

The ideas started pouring in. I began to picture the faces of my students engaging with the text, describing for me things that are obscure compared with things that are pervasive. I saw the connections to their lived experience, and I was energized. How would I change the classroom set up, what visual aids would I need? What tools would I use for motivation? How would I begin to build strong relationships? The gears were fully in motion.

And then we had another snow day, so I spent two days of what I thought would be a four-day MLK weekend visiting my mother and then found out that we would have another snow day to make it a five-day weekend! On that day, I prepared a final exam.

When we did have school two days this past week, I spent it giving that final exam, entering grades, and convincing these students who I had not yet taught to turn in one more assignment to get themselves across the finish line.

And then we had another day off for extremely cold temperatures. I used that time, too! Each day I tick a little off my to-do list. I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten all of this done — or how I would’ve mentally made this transition — without the time off from school!

As I finish up this post, snow is falling. Forecasters predict anywhere from 2-7 inches followed by more windchills of -20 degrees. Although no official announcements have been made, I’m going to guess I’ll have the next couple of days at home. I already know how I’m going to use them.

I’m going to audit the grade books of the teachers in our building and close out the semester. Then, I’m going to continue preparing for testing season and getting myself fully prepared for my juniors — they deserve a teacher who has intellectually prepared with them in mind, not someone who has slapped something together on short notice.

I’m thankful for the gift of all this time, and for the years and years of training that have taught me how to use it.

This old girl has still got the moves, kids, so get ready. It’s almost game time!

Before they call I will answer;
    while they are still speaking I will hear. Isaiah 65:24

Would you or someone you know like to come join our team at Detroit Leadership Academy?

Want to help me supply snacks and incentives to my students?

Reply Requested: Singapore and the Archives

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Dear Reader,

I’m breaking from my recent rhythm of ranting about the new year in hopes that you can answer some questions for me. I’ve been writing this blog for going on twelve (12!) years. In the beginning, most of my readers were folks who knew me and who were following my journey through a recent chronic illness diagnosis and my resulting exit from teacher life. I was writing my way through a major transition and my readers were empathizing and cheering me on. Much has changed since then — while I still write about my journey into a healthier existence, I more often write about my life back in the world of education, about current political issues, or about my inner journey to emotional healing. My readership has changed, too!

WordPress has an app where I track my statistics — how many people view a particular post on a given day, what country each reader is from, and what was the referral source. I will admit to being a bit of a data geek, and recently I have noticed an odd trend. In the past few months, the overall activity on my blog has increased — overall views have more than tripled — and it doesn’t seem to be because my recent content has been more engaging, more inspiring, or more colorful. No. When I look at the stats, it seems the increased viewership is coming (at least partially) from abroad and the engagement is with stuff that was written a year, five years, or even twelve years ago!

Most notably, I’ve seen a surge in views from Singapore! Substantial clicks are also originating in India, Germany, and China! This information has me over here scratching my head.

In full transparency, I can locate Germany, India, and China quite easily on a map, but while I’ve heard of Singapore, I definitely needed to go to Google to learn that it’s an island nation off the south of the Malay peninsula (home to Thailand., Cambodia, and Vietnam). While its inhabitants are Chinese, Malay, and Indian, one of its official languages is indeed English, so some folks there can easily read this blog, but why, reader, why would you want to?

Where is Singapore?

What does this middle aged white woman from the United States have to say to you? And, frankly, to those of you from India, Germany, the United Kingdom, and other places around the world? What is resonating? I’m dying to know!

The statistics tell me you are reading those early posts about chronic illness but also posts from the Covid era; about racism but also about minimalism. It looks like you’re interested in my teaching but also my exploration of emotions. Even my readers from the US right now seem less interested in what I’m currently writing and more in the archives.

I’d like to open this up for discussion. Would you be willing to engage with me?

I met with a long-time friend over the weekend for coffee. We’ve known each other most of our lives, but we’ve recently been reconnecting. We talked and talked for a while, as you do when you are catching up. I gave her my “latest” then said, “I think that’s all I have. What’s going on with you?” And, being asked, that dear friend trusted me with part of her story. And, in her sharing, in my sharing, we found areas of connection, of commonality, of shared experience.

So, I’m asking you — where are you from? what’s going on with you? where do you find connection with me? Maybe your responses will lead to a further conversation. I hope so! I know I have something to learn from you!

To share, you could use the comment feature on Word Press, or you could follow this blog on Facebook and comment there. Let’s see what happens, shall we? Maybe someday I’ll even travel to Singapore!

Whether or not you decide to share, thank you for taking the time to engage with my writing.

Hold on…

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I am not sure I made my expectations clear. When I wrote my letter to 2026 last week, I thought I spelled out the fact that I was looking for something different than years past — something better — but perhaps I was not specific enough.

When I asked for no falls, no cancer or chronic illness diagnoses, I guess I should have specified that aging family members experiencing strokes was also off the table. Maybe when I asked for grace for those who are already suffering, I should’ve included a request that they have access to the meds and the care that they need.

Now, I will acknowledge that while I haven’t received the snow (or snow day) that would’ve been not only acceptable but welcome, I was not disappointed in the unseasonably warm temps we experienced this past week.

However, my staffing vacancy has not been resolved unless you count the fact that I am — while also attending to my myriad other responsibilities — cleaning up the former teacher’s grade book, giving assignments, communicating with students, and preparing for the more formal transition when we will indeed have a highly qualified replacement, before the end of January, even. However, I probably should have made it clear that I was thinking that replacement wouldn’t have the exact same name and birthdate as me.

And, when I asked for sanity in the political realm, perhaps I should have started by defining some terms. By sanity, I mean “reasonable and sensible behavior or thinking.” Since all of the words in that definition are abstract let me provide a concrete example. A reasonable way to arrest an unarmed protestor who is driving a car is perhaps to, I don’t know, aim your gun at their tires to stop them rather than, say, at their head. And perhaps a way to stay out of wars is to speak respectably to the leaders of other nations, inviting them to civil conversations, and not, say, threatening to “do it the hard way.”

I was encouraged by crowds gathering in Minneapolis, Minnesota to mourn the loss of life of a civilian who was committing no crimes and then almost immediately discouraged by a subsequent shooting of similarly innocent civilians in Portland, Oregon.

This violence stems, of course, from racist and xenophobic rhetoric (which I also asked for an end to) that comes straight out of the Oval Office, where the president has, for example, called Somalian immigrants “garbage” and has said that ICE agents, those responsible for these and nine other shootings since September, “acted in self-defense,” which you’d be hard pressed to agree with if you examined the collection of videos that have been compiled.

All of this can be downright discouraging less than two weeks into a year that many of us were hoping would be different — and by that I mean the good kind of different, not the insane kind of different.

Ugh! I can’t stay in this angry space for the whole year! I can’t keep seeing headlines, shaking my head, and sputtering!. Instead, I am going to willfully point out some bright spots from the past seven days so that I can keep myself grounded in hope, in the belief in human decency and resiliency. For that, I have to turn my eyes away from national headlines and take a look at the spaces where I spend most of my time.

I will start by sharing the fact that I work with an amazing staff — there is some kind of magic that brings a team together to work in an under-resourced environment serving students who are significantly below grade level. Every person on the team wants to be there — and, we quickly (as you’ve seen) weed out those who are not on board. Because of that, staff meetings are often enjoyable, even fun — a gathering of like-minded folks who want to be together, who support and celebrate one another.

Next, I must mention our resilient students. All of our 10th and 11th grade students had a substitute science teacher for about eight weeks this fall. This same group — which now has a very capable science teacher who has quickly re-established a culture of learning — this very same group of students just found out that they no longer have an English Language Arts teacher, at least temporarily, and how did they respond? They listened to the administrator who delivered the news, they gathered evidence of assignments they had completed, they cooperated with school staff, and they opted in to the temporary plan, and trusted those who said a permanent plan was on the way.

Some of these same students and others — the athletes in our building — worked with the athletic director this week to hand deliver printed invitations to the Friday night basketball game to school staff members. Not only that — the following day they delivered team jerseys to each staff member, took photos with them, and invited them to wear the jersey to the game.

The hype continued to build throughout the week, and many staff wore the jerseys to school and showed up on a Friday at 5:30, after a very long week, to cheer on their students, first at the ladies’ game and then the men’s game. The AD and students had created a VIP section decorated with photos of every staff member in the building posing with a student. Colleagues chatted and laughed together as they watched the games, cheering loudly for every steal, every change in possession, every landed shot, and especially that one sweet moment when a 6’5″ senior who we’ve all watched grow up from a timid impulsive freshmen to the guy who waited for just the opportunity, saw his moment, and slam-dunked like a pro! The crowed (especially the VIP section) went wild!!

Throughout the evening, students boldly grabbed the mic to shout out their teachers, and then, between the games, the whole group — athletes and staff — took to the floor for a photo op. Smiles everywhere!

It’s still January. Nothing has really changed, but all is not tragic.

In a small building on the border of Detroit and Dearborn is a little community that is somehow choosing to keep going. Communities like this exist everywhere, despite corruption, despite tragedy, despite illness, despite loss. Folks who would have every reason to throw their hands in the air and say, “that’s a wrap” are getting out of bed, combing their hair, and showing up for another day, and sometimes, that day, against all odds, turns into a celebration. Even now. Even in places like Minneapolis and Portland.

No matter how politely we ask, we have little control over what 2026 brings, however, we can choose to search out these spaces and these moments. We must, also, call out corruption, gather to protest, and work for the change we wish to see in the world; in order to do all that, we’ve got to hold on to hope.

I am confident that I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13