Category: emotions

2024, How Extraordinary!

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

From day one, 2024 suggested it would be one for the books, but never could I have imagined just how extraordinary it would turn out to be (and yes, I do realize I am writing this with six whole weeks remaining in this storied year).

Now, when I use the word extraordinary, I am not trying to say it has been wonderful or fantastic. I am sticking with the dictionary definition of very unusual. So much about this year — in my personal life, but also in the public realm — has been extraordinary.

It might have seemed ordinary that my 61 year old husband took his pension after a thirty-seven year long career and began a private practice — lots of people do that. But it was rather extraordinary that within two weeks of his new reality his mother was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer and my stepfather was diagnosed with bladder cancer. We couldn’t have known when my husband decided to make this major life transition that we would be stepping into more supportive roles with our parents for the next many months and that he would need the flexibility that his private practice has allowed.

It is pretty ordinary for an organization to go through transitions when key people leave, but it is rather extraordinary that within two months of my husband leaving his university role, the board of directors of that institution announced that it would be all but closing within the next academic year. It’s rather ordinary for institutions to have a life cycle, of course, but it is rather extraordinary that this life cycle would be ended when the university was as strong — or stronger — as it had ever been.

I could continue…the whole year has been like this. I mean, it’s ordinary to have family drama, and we’ve had some of the ordinary kind, but since it’s 2024, we’ve had some extraordinary family drama. A friend, early in the year made the observation that when families are under distress or trauma, all the dysfunction shows up to an exponential degree, and I can attest that it is so. (In fact, I may have been a little exponential myself on a couple occasions, truth be told.)

We had some extraordinary moments with my mother-in-law — some of the very good kind of extraordinary moments — before she passed away on October 1. And it was extraordinary to see the friends and family roll in to say goodbye and to honor her life.

I had a couple pretty extraordinary moments with my stepfather during his chemo, during a couple hospitalizations, and during his recovery. And since his chances were 50/50 with the type of cancer he had, it might be considered extraordinary that he is now cancer free!

As we ordinarily do, my husband and I prepared our garden in the spring, sowed seeds for lettuce, radishes, carrots, and beets and planted tomato plants and potatoes. And, as usual, the radishes and lettuce thrived, the carrots and beets struggled, and the potatoes and tomatoes gave a respectable yield. But what was extraordinary was that despite the fact that we didn’t plant pumpkins, have never planted pumpkins, we harvested dozens — yes, dozens — of pie pumpkins, many of which are still in my pantry.

I don’t ask questions. It’s 2024. Anything can happen.

I can take a new role and expect to transition away from teaching, only to find two weeks before school that I will be doing the new role and teaching. I can expect this to be overwhelming only to find that I am thriving — loving the opportunity to do both roles.

It’s very ordinary to have a presidential election every four years, but how ordinary is it that both candidates are basically octogenarians? how ordinary that one of them — the actual president — drops out of the race months before the election? how ordinary that a Black and Asian female would take his place? how ordinary that her opponent is a convicted felon under investigation for myriad crimes? how ordinary that she breaks all fund-raising goals on record? how ordinary that her opponent has two attempts on his life while campaigning? how ordinary that his running mate creates a racist narrative and admits to creating it? how ordinary that a candidate campaigns from a garbage truck, spends thirty minutes of a rally playing random songs from his playlist, and still — still — still gets elected?

That’s extraordinary. And then it just gets even more unusual when he selects someone else under criminal investigation for sex-related crimes to be the United States Attorney General and someone accused of “traitorous parroting of Russian propaganda” to be the Head of U.S. Intelligence!

But it’s 2024 — anything can happen!

I can fly to Philadelphia, visit dear relatives, attend a wedding on the Jersey Shore, fly back home, and test positive for Covid all within the span of a week. That might be pretty ordinary in these post-pandemic times, but is it also ordinary to follow a Covid isolation with food poisoning? Probably not.

This year has been anything been ordinary, and it’s not over yet.

What will the next six weeks bring? I wouldn’t dare to guess.

But I am not afraid — a little obsessive about self-care, but not afraid.

After all, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9). Since the dawn of time there has been disease, death, corruption, immorality. Perhaps the brazenness of 2024 is what is catching me off-guard, but that, too, is not new.

It’s especially not new to a high school teacher. No, we live in the realm of brazenness, of bravado, of actual crying out loud — these are the hallmarks of adolescent behavior. They are intended to intimidate, to gain control, to encourage onlookers on to “pay no attention to what is behind the curtain,” but don’t make the mistake I made in my earlier days of interacting with teens. Any seasoned teacher of adolescents will tell you that behind the curtain is exactly where you need to look. Usually what you find there is insecurity, loneliness, and perhaps even desperation.

Let’s not let the extraordinary of 2024 keep us from recognizing what is truly ordinary in all of this. Each of us longs for connection, for the ability to trust those around us with our most vulnerable parts, but there is no way we can make connection when we are distracted by name-calling, blaming, bravado, the extraordinary.

One by one we have to refuse to be intimidated in the face of bluster. We have to be willing to risk, to get close, to look behind the curtain.

People are hard to hate close up. Move in. Speak truth to bullshit. Be civil. Hold hands. With strangers. Strong back. Soft front. Wild heart.” — Brene Brown, Braving the Wilderness

Embracing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I’m not really a hugger.. I wouldn’t say I am anti-hug, I honestly just don’t have the impulse — I never think to myself, You know what I could use right now? A hug!

I wasn’t always this way, of course. I remember being quite affectionate as a child. I would run, yelling, “Dad!” and fling myself into my father’s arms when he arrived home from work or a trip or even if I was broken-hearted about something.

I would also, upon arriving at my grandparents’ house, spring from the car and sprint to their waiting arms to get big bear hugs. I was so sure they would be there to receive my affections, so sure they would reciprocate, so sure they would lavish their love upon me.

But life teaches us, doesn’t it, that not everyone loves like a grandparent. Not everyone consistently beams in your presence, overlooks your quirks, or forgives so effortlessly. So, over time, we lose that abandon — that ability to fling ourselves into the arms of another. We learn, instead, to guard, to protect, to hold back.

This is a useful skill for a high school teacher. You have to simultaneously let students know that you love them and that you don’t need them to love you in return. My love for my students is not dependent on their behavior, their mood-of-the-day, or whether or not they even like me.

I’ve grown into this, too, of course. In the early days of teaching, I really did want students to like me. I was fiercely committed to telling them the truth about life, but I was also quite sensitive to their reactions to me. I even, at times, wanted their approval. But over the years, my tough exterior has developed and I am quite impervious to derogatory comments, rude behavior, or the occasional “I can’t stand you, Mrs. Rathje.”

I mean, I’m not going to win them all.

This persona — the I’m fine; you can’t hurt me persona — is effective most of the time. Most days I motor through pretty well accomplishing my tasks, completing deliverables, and managing life without really thinking about my emotions.

Just writing that sentence made me stop for a minute. Is it true that Kristin Rathje, once voted ‘moodiest’ by her senior class because of her inability to self-regulate is now for the most part functioning from a pretty level emotional state? I think it really is. And that is likely true for you, too. Most of us manage most of life — the ups, the downs — from a pretty stable place. Of course we smile when something pleases us. Our eyebrows crinkle up when something doesn’t make sense,. We get annoyed in traffic, and we feel overwhelmed by our workload, but truly, we tend to manage all of that without even thinking about it.

Certainly there are larger emotions under the surface — ongoing hurts that we unpack with close friends or in therapy — but typically, in our daily lives we function in circles that are oblivious to our personal realities because we have developed strategies for keeping them to ourselves.

And for me, the I’m fine; you can’t hurt me persona has worked as a self-regulation strategy. And this persona is not one who would typically want a hug.

When I taught in St. Louis several years ago, some of my students would come into the building each day and hug one another — I didn’t love it. It seemed excessive. You just saw each other yesterday. What’s with the hug? And typically, if students approached me and asked for a hug, the answer was No. I’m not a hugger. They were not impacted by my resistance to hug them. They just found the next dozen people in the hallway and hugged them instead. I felt no shame.

And when I started teaching in Detroit, we were in the midst of the Covid 19 pandemic. We were wearing masks, social distancing (remember that?) and having anxiety about being in the same room with twenty other people. Certainly no one was interested in hugging.

And for the past four years, the only students I have hugged have been graduates who have come back for a visit. Feeling sincere joy upon seeing them after a year or two or three, I hold out my arms, they walk to me, and we embrace. I look them in the eyes, ask, How are you? What are you doing now? and then I listen. Other than that — no hugs. Lots of fist bumps, a few carefully choreographed hand shakes, but no hugs. Thank you, I’m fine.

But guys. The last few months have been different. I might be converting to some type of huggable person — even when I am at school!

It started in the most unlikely of situations. We have a new policy this year in which students have to turn in their phones when they enter our building. Phones are returned at the end of the day. Because of this policy, two other staff members and I set up each morning in the gym to receive students. They walk through a metal detector, have their bag searched, and then report to our station. They hand us their phones, and we place them in pre-labeled envelopes. It’s all pretty systematic, just as we expected.

What we didn’t expect is the relationship capital this system is supporting. Don’t get me wrong — most students are not happy to hand over their phones, and many are finding ways to sneak them past us and to keep their phones with them throughout the day. But relationship capital is being built by our consistency in the same position in the gym every morning. We greet each student with Good morning and their name, we make eye contact, we encourage students to get a breakfast, and then the magic happens — students tell us what happened last night or on their way to school, they share what is annoying them at the moment, or they come up beside us to get their daily hug.

That’s right — I’m giving out morning hugs. They aren’t theatrical, but a small number of students come to each of us daily to get a little one-armed side hug before moving into their day. Also, I have one senior who stops at my door every day on his way into class to give me a hug before entering. It’s not cheesy; it’s not manipulative; it’s just a hug.

And I’m here for it.

Earlier this month, my mother-in-law passed away on a Tuesday morning after a months-long illness. I helped my husband pack his bag and sent him to be with his father and siblings, then determined I’m fine and went to school. I texted my principal to let her know I would likely need Friday off but that I was good for the day.

And I was good — I participated in a day-long training, I texted with family members who were managing the details of travel, and I interacted with students in the hallways. It wasn’t until the end of the day that reality hit me. My principal saw me, met my eyes, and opened her arms. I walked to her and felt the love in her embrace, and the emotions leaked past my persona and out of my eyes.

I was totally into that hug.

When Friday arrived, so did my adult children, one after the other. Each one of them and their partners greeted me with an embrace that said I love you. I know this hurts. We are here. It’s ok to have feelings.

And I trusted that; I leaned in.

When I arrived at the funeral home, the family had just entered the room to see my mother-in-law for the first time since her passing. I walked in to see my husband stepping up to the casket. I joined him, reached for his hand, and silently told my mother-in-law goodbye. From there, I moved to my father-in-law, hugging him cheek to cheek, whispering, I’m so sorry. I then embraced each of my sisters-in-law and my brothers-in-law.

We each reached for each other, saying with words or without, I love you. I’m sorry. I am so glad you are here.

The hugs kept coming all weekend long — Hello. I’m sorry. So good of you to come. Thank you for being here. I love you. Goodbye.

I treasured each and every one of those hugs. I leaned in. I held on. I breathed deeply. I let go slowly.

I think I’m changing, letting down my guard, beginning to trust the people in my life, and it’s good.

Because apparently underneath my tough exterior is a little girl who could still sometimes really use a hug.

“…whatever is pure, whatever is lovely…think about such things.” Philippians 4:8

Unlearning

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Much of the work of my adult life has been unlearning the internalized messages I have picked up inadvertently. Messages about my identity, about how the world works, about the value of others, and even about my faith are regularly being viewed under a microscope to see if they hold up to scrutiny.

The first time I remember doing this was in the counselor’s office in the mid 80s where I was being treated for an eating disorder. Regularly in my sessions, my therapist would ask me questions that would confuse me. Why did I need to lose weight? Why did I believe I would be more attractive if I was thinner?

Why would he ask me such questions when the answers seemed obvious. Throughout my whole twenty year life, I had learned to believe that thin was better than fat, that I’d better watch my weight, that “those fat people over there” were disgusting, probably lazy, and not worth as much as “we” thinner people. I was ever anxious that I, in my body, which was just a tad larger than those of my friends and my sister, was ounces away from losing my status as one of “us” and becoming one of “them”.

In fact, in my freshman year of college, like many overwhelmed, depressed, and floundering college students, I did put on ten or fifteen pounds, and people I barely new — dorm mates and classmates — repeated the refrain I’d heard at home, I’d better be careful. I should get my weight under control. Did I really want to eat that dessert?

I believed their messages, and in fear and trembling, I overcorrected. I began a regimented way of life that escalated into anorexia nervosa. I lost all the weight I’d gained my freshmen year plus another 20 or so pounds over the summer before transferring to a much smaller school in the fall.

There, my excessively thin body soon gained its reward. That very fall, I was selected for the Homecoming court. I’m guessing I was selected solely based on my appearance because no one could have known the real me. When I wasn’t studying in the library, I was secretly writing down every food I ate, calculating calories, and sneaking to step on the industrial scale in cafeteria where I worked to make sure the number continued to go down — the only way I knew to measure my value.

I felt so out of place on the stage being crowned in one of the most ironic moments of my life. My cohort was apparently applauding my external worth, while I was trembling on the inside — afraid of being revealed as an imposter, knowing that what they saw was artificial, a fragile facade concealing a very broken interior.

That was close to 40 years ago, so you might think I have completely unlearned that lie. That might be true if everyone in the culture I live in had learned it, too. Alas, they have not. Messaging about the connection between thinness and beauty persists today. It has lost some of its power what with the greater diversity of representation of women in the media, the elevation of body positive messaging (if you are willing to look for it), and the shift in the fashion industry toward inclusivity, but the message remains among us — thin is better than fat, especially for women who live under continuous pressure to present themselves in flawless well-toned bodies despite genetics, health, or circumstance.

So, my unlearning continues. When I hear my mind say, You’ve put on a couple of pounds; you’d better be careful. I ask myself questions that I started hearing from my therapist years ago: Why are those pounds bad? What will change about you if you decide to keep them rather than lose them? Why are you connecting those pounds to your value as a person?

Why indeed.

What is true about my body is that it is strong — it has carried my children, it has finished half marathons, it has communicated with me when I have overworked, it has kept going when my mind has refused to rest. It is strong and beautiful and resilient. It has value at any size. Period.

Do you see how it works? It takes awareness, diligence, and intentionality to unlearn the messages we carry with us all the time, often unknowingly.

My students and I just started reading Born a Crime by Trevor Noah, a memoir of the comedian’s life growing up in South Africa during Apartheid. Before we read the book, we start with learning about unconscious bias — the beliefs that we have that shape the way we view the world. We talk about bias against people of other races of course, but we also talk about gender bias, religious bias, disability bias, and even weight bias.

The very nature of unconscious bias is that we don’t know that we have it. That’s why I was confused when my therapist asked me questions that challenged my unconscious bias– my beliefs were so ingrained, I accepted them as fact — didn’t everyone feel this way? didn’t everyone know that being overweight was bad?

So as my students and I learn about unconscious bias, I have them take the Harvard Implicit Associations Test. This is an ongoing study that gathers data from participants regarding their bias around a variety of topics. It takes about 10 minutes per topic such as race, age, weapons, or weight. The participant clicks on images in response to the directions, and the speed of the response reveals the participants’ unconscious associations. It’s fascinating.

Now, I will admit that this is uncomfortable work. In all my years of teaching students of color, I have been working to unlearn the racist beliefs that permeate our culture — the not always subtle implication that Black people are poor and dangerous and not as smart as white people. I know that these statements are untrue. I have countless examples of students, coworkers, and friends of color who are wealthy and brilliant and successful and generous and kind, and yet my unconscious bias still sometimes reveals itself. I don’t like when this happens.

Let me give you an example. I was venting to my instructional coach one day. She is a brilliant educator who, like me, is committed to educational equity. She has taught in Detroit Schools for thirteen years and has risen through the ranks because of her commitment to excellence and her undeniable ability to support other educators in instructional design and implementation. Also, she is Black. It had been a difficult school day and the halls were loud and unruly, and I said, “Man, it is zoo-y in here today.”

She replied, “Well, I wouldn’t use the word zoo-y.” She was matter of fact, not accusatory, not incriminating. She just said it, and gave me a beat to process.

“Oh, wow,” I said out loud. “I never considered that using that word implies that our students are animals. Yikes. I won’t say that again. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Even typing the words right now, I have an ache in my chest. How could I have used such language when I work so hard to push against racist ideas?

My coach happened to be in my classroom a few weeks ago when I shared this example with my students. I said, “If we really want to uncover our unconscious bias, we have to give the people around us permission to point it out to us. It was brave of my colleague to say something to me. She did not know how I would react.”

“Wait, why is zoo-y a bad word,” one of my students asked.

My colleague stepped in, “For many generations, white people used language that made Black people seem like animals so that they could justify the way they treated them — with slavery, with separate bathrooms and water fountains, with unequal schooling, you name it. To say that the school feels zoo-y implies that you are animals. And, you are not.”

All eyes on her. Silence. Reprogramming in process. A moment of unlearning. Priceless.

I continued, “Maybe you have heard me say something that revealed my unconscious bias in this class. I am giving you permission right now to let me know when that happens. It is the only way I can bring these beliefs to my consciousness, put them under a microscope, and reveal them for what they are. That’s the only way I can hope to change.”

A few days later, one student, my boldest, most confident rising star, interrupted me when I was explaining the term “white privilege” and how I have benefitted from it. I’m not sure what I said, to be honest, but she challenged my delivery and said, “I wouldn’t say it like that again.” It takes a lot of courage for an 18 year old girl to challenge her teacher in the middle of a lesson, so I stopped, heard what she had to say, thanked her for her courage, and practiced rephrasing my thoughts.

It was an uncomfortable moment for me, to be sure, but I am hopeful that it was a moment of agency for her. Perhaps she, too, will start on a lifelong journey of unlearning the things she has picked up about herself, her world, and the ways that she can operate within it.

The alternative is staying where we are, holding fast to every lie we have ever believed, which for me has felt like a trap. The unlearning, although at times uncomfortable, is liberating. In fact, it’s a transformation.

Be transformed by the renewing of your mind

Romans 12:2

The Unexpected

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

We never know what’s coming next, do we?

I was sitting in the naivety of January, setting goals for the year when I thought, “I know what I’ll do this year — I’ll post a vintage blog each Thursday and new blog most Mondays. That sounds like a great way to mark ten years of consistent writing.”

It was easy to begin, in the newness of the year, in the freshness of possibility. I was sitting there in early January gazing into a new season with my husband retiring from public ministry and transitioning to a private counseling practice. I was anticipating a slower pace after over thirty years of busy-ness.

And the year did indeed begin with a tone of spaciousness and possibility.

But we never know what’s coming next, do we?

We didn’t know that in the next couple of weeks his mother would be diagnosed with stage four liver cancer, that my stepfather would be diagnosed with stage 2-3 bladder cancer, that one of our kids would have a serious medical episode, that another would be starting a new job, and that another would be in the midst of several major life transitions.

We couldn’t anticipate all of that.

And it’s hard to know the emotions that such realities will bring up — shock, sadness, grief, anger, fear, worry, excitement, anxiety, joy, and even pride. But that whole chorus shows up and begins to take space in one’s body.

As each reality fleshes itself out — the reality of hospice, of surgery, of chemo, of diagnostics and medical leave, of transition and opportunity, of waiting and adjustment, those emotions jostle and elbow at each other, struggling to claim territory.

And one can’t anticipate how all that internal jostling will impact one’s external capacity for resiliency, for patience, for empathy, for tenacity.

So this past week, now that I am sitting with all these emotions and still struggling to accept all of these realities, after two weeks of testing students and selecting two new cohorts of reading students, after transitioning them to my class, and after working intentionally and diligently to gain their buy-in, I got an email directing me to test more students. Although I had selected enough students to meet the 10-student capacity of both sections of this course and two alternates, two of those students had unexpectedly elected to move to virtual instruction making it impossible for them to join my class and another two, along with their parents, had opted not to join the class. Consequently, my classes were both at 9 students — each one short of capacity.

As I read the email, I became annoyed. My classes were already in progress. I was already building community and establishing expectations. Couldn’t we just proceed with 9 students in each class?

Couldn’t my administrators see that although my classes weren’t at capacity, I was certainly at capacity?

I, ever the dutiful employee, uncharacteristically ignored the directive for a beat. Then, I replied to my principal somewhat pointedly that if he wanted to identify a few more students for me to test, he could be my guest, but I didn’t think any others would qualify.

Yup. I had a tone. It was a warning flag, to be sure — I was past my limit.

I had too many emotions crammed inside of me, they could no longer jostle for space, so they started seeping out in irritability, in pettiness, in sarcasm.

I was in a funk, and I couldn’t see a way out.

Nevertheless, at the end of my school day, I decided to call my son to check in. I hadn’t spoken to him for a while, and after he gave me a quick update, he asked, “How are you doing, Mom?”

I signed out a deep breath and said, “I. am. weary.”

And he replied, “I bet you are.”

And that little sentence, that acknowledgement of all that is going on, that validation that I am in fact at capacity, created an opening.

He allowed me to share just a little bit, some of those emotions found a passageway, and others were allowed more space to dwell.

That small offload allowed me to move through the next day with civility, however, I still had no intention of adding students to my course. The issue wasn’t resolved, though. As I left the building on Thursday, I got a text from my principal that a directive had come again to add more two more students.

I shot off a text, trying to veil my annoyance with professionalism, “Please let me know if you want me to look at the data again. I am moving forward with planning instruction for these classes, but if you think I need to go back I will.,”

I really wanted him to respond with, “No, no. You’re right. Move forward,” but instead he said, “If you can; I am too. Maybe there are kids right on the cusp that would opt in. Thank you so much.”

Argh. My defiance had gone on too long. The responsible core of my self rose up.

I grudgingly sorted and resorted the data and found a group of kids that hadn’t yet been tested and that met our criteria for the class. I sent him the list, reluctantly offering to test the ones he thought I should

By the next morning, he had chosen his top three, but after a search of the building, it appeared none were present. It was Friday morning, typically our lowest attendance day of the week.

I met up with the principal in the hallway and he invited me into his office. He said he wanted to touch base — how was I really doing with the directive to test more?

“It’s fine,” I said. “I get it. I am just at capacity with stuff going on in my personal life, and it is leaving me less capacity for stuff here at school. Every little thing is annoying me — the chaos in the hallways, the broken up parking lot, my unswept classroom floors, and this directive to test more when I thought I was already done. Normally this stuff doesn’t get to me, but so much in my family is outside of my control, I think I am looking for ways to find control here.”

He already knew about some of the stuff going on in our family, and he said, “I get it. I’m sorry you are dealing with all of this in your family. Also, these work things are annoying. How can I be a support to you?”

There it was again, the acknowledgement that my feelings were valid, and really that was all I needed.

“I’m good for now. Thanks for hearing me. I’ll find a way to test these kids, and I won’t be a jerk to anyone.”

“Thank you,” he smiled.

I did find a way to test one of the students later that day. I had no way of knowing that she could barely answer comprehension questions at the first grade level. I couldn’t have known that she was more than willing to join my class. I couldn’t have known what a gentle spirit she was.

We never know what’s coming next. Sometimes when we take the next step, we get a pleasant surprise.

No matter what is coming next — no matter if our parents have cancer, if our kids are going through transitions, no matter how little control we feel that we have — we can trust that we are always being prepared for it — that is my experience — I’m always being prepared for what is next.

A few years ago, when my husband and I were in the midst of one of the most challenging seasons of our lives, we reached out to a dear friend in the early hours of the morning. We shared with him our current reality, he heard us, he paused, and then he said, “None of this is a surprise to God,” and that was a comfort to me. Even though I hadn’t known what was coming next, surely God had known, and He had been at work in our lives to provide in advance everything we would need for that season. Even though on that morning all seemed hopeless, God did carry us through that season and provided miraculously for us along the way, just as he had through every other difficulty in our lives.

And so, as we face this uncertainty — of caring for our parents in ways that we never imagined, of encouraging our adult children in their own uncertainties — we can trust that we are ready — everything that we’ve experienced up until this point has prepared us.

And we are not alone. We have people around us who will hear us, and we have a God who is going before us, making a way, andproviding everything we need. He who will be with us in everything that is coming next.

Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you.

Deuteronomy 31:8

10 Years Later #5

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

We don’t know everything

 ~ KRISTIN ~ 

On December 21, 1989, my husband proposed to me, and when I accepted he said, “Things are going to get busy.”  If I would have known then what ‘busy’ meant, I might have turned back.

But God orders life in such a way that He lets us see just a bit.   At that moment, I could say yes, even knowing that my future husband was a divorced father of a four-year-old.  But would I have said yes if I had known that we would live in eleven homes in twenty-four years?  That we would ultimately be the parents of four children? That I was not only marrying a teacher, but a therapist, and a pastor, and a university administrator?

Maybe.  I was a starry-eyed twenty-three year old when I said yes.  I knew what was behind me — divorced parents, an eating disorder, my college education.  I had survived so much already. How hard could this be?

Hard.  You probably know all too well that life is hard —  just when you think you are sailing smoothly, a storm pops up — a job change, an educational challenge, a health issue, financial trouble, extended family trouble, and the list goes on.  Sometimes it feels as though we can’t handle even what this particular day holds — how on earth would we manage if we had the whole script in front of us from day one?

I was still a little starry eyed in 2004 when my husband said to me, “God is calling me to the seminary.”  In six months’ time I finished coursework for my Master’s degree, prepared a house for selling, sold/gave away half of our possessions, packed up a family of five, and relocated three states away.  I was excited because of what I knew — God had called my husband into ministry.  Would I have been so excited if I had known,  really known, the struggles our children would face in St. Louis?  Would I have been happy to embrace a life of busy-ness, a busier busy-ness than we had ever known?  What if He’d said, “You’re going to be there for 10 years, you are both going to experience significant health issues, and there is going to be plenty of family strife.”  Would we have still signed up?

Maybe.  I mean, back then we were still, in our minds, pretty invincible.  We might have still signed up.  But maybe not.  We might have been scared.  We might have wanted to protect our family from struggle.  We might have wanted to protect ourselves from struggle.

And if we would have done that, the story would be much different than the story is today.  We have been changed.  I am not the starry-eyed twenty-three year old who agreed to marry my husband.  I am not the optimistic ‘let’s do it!’ wife who moved mountains so that we could answer God’s call.  I have been changed.

And I’m still changing, because life keeps happening — the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

It’s pretty easy to thank God when He gives you a beautiful granddaughter to hold and adore. It gets a little more difficult when you, or the people who you love, are hurting. But I find assurance in knowing that even before 1989, God knew every little thing that He would bring into my life — even the stuff of today.  He knew in advance that He would be with me through all of it — that He would be carrying me in the palm of His hand.

This morning the pastor at the church we were visiting recalled, through the genealogy in Matthew 1, God’s faithfulness, especially in light of the faithLESSness of man.  He started with Abraham’s unfaithfulness, then Isaac’s, and so on.  His point was that God knew, from before the creation of the world, that we (all of us) would screw it up.  And yet he planned, from before the creation of the world, to keep a covenant with His people.  The covenant did not depend on us doing the right thing, saying yes at the right time, or answering a call.  It only depended on the faithfulness of God.

And He is faithful.  Faithful to love me when I couldn’t have cared less about Him.  Faithful to hold me when I felt all alone.  Faithful to heal me when I was hurting.  Faithful to carry me when I was too tired to walk on my own.  He knew before time began that He would be faithful in all these things, even when I was faithLESS.

Back in 1989 I didn’t know what was in store for me, and today is no different.  I have no idea what will come into our lives in the years to come, but I do know that God will remain faithful to us.  He will continue to carry us in the palm of His hand.

Deuteronomy 7:9

Know therefore that the Lord your God is God;

He is the faithful God, keeping His covenant of love to a thousand generations…

Finding the Nugget

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

When I re-posted Write Away last Thursday, I had no idea that I would wake up this [Saturday] morning feeling frustrated that I didn’t have an idea for what to write about, that I would open a blank page, stare at it for a while, then close my laptop and grab a notebook in resignation. Fine, I muttered. I guess I don’t need to post on my blog this week. I don’t have a lot of time anyway. I’ll just write my regular three pages and try again next week.

As I began to put pen to paper, I could tell I was stressed because the pages of my notebook started filling up first with a list of what I wanted to accomplish today — lesson plans for Monday, a little grading, laundry, and a bit of cooking — and then with a calendar countdown to Spring Break.

Why am I stressed? I had two weeks off at Christmas followed by just three weeks of school, each of which has been at least partially abbreviated due to weather. I’ve had plenty of time to put together puzzles, read books, crochet, and watch movies. I’ve slept late, popped popcorn in the middle of the day, and even had time to go on social outings with friends.

So why am I already counting down to Spring Break?

Well, I do think most of us look forward to time off. Don’t we all long for days of no responsibility, days where we lose track of time, days where we can come and go as we please?

I’m saying that, and I know that I also love to work — I mean whole pages of this blog have been devoted to my search for meaningful employment after my health crisis and the journey that led me to my current position which I love.

If I love it so much, why do I already have February 19 and 20, our extended President’s Day weekend, circled on the calendar?

I think it has something to do with the quest for balance.

I wasn’t feeling balanced this morning when I closed my laptop. I was feeling stressed. How would I be able to do the things I wanted to do today and find the time that it takes to clickety-clack my way through the stream of consciousness in my brain, to dispatch with all the noise, and find some little nugget that I might carry into my week.

I didn’t think it was possible.

So, I filled my three pages, did ten minutes of yoga, showered, ate some breakfast, and then opened a zoom room to join my second Breathwork session with Lynette Rasmussen. I mentioned in my last post that I had participated in a Breathwork session a few weeks ago and that I had had a profound experience. Well, today was a different experience, but equally as profound.

As we did before, a group of us logged in, received some instruction, and then settled onto our mats. We followed the directions to breathe in a specific pattern as we listened to music — in, in, out, in, in, out, in, in, out. In the beginning it’s challenging because of the aforementioned stream of consciousness that is trying to maintain center stage. We are reminded to focus on the breath — in, in, out, in, in, out — and the chatter will eventually quiet.

It’s hard for me to conceptualize the chatter quieting because I have very rarely experienced that. I am ALWAYS flooded with thoughts — to do lists, memories, anxieties, strategies, meal plans, calendar items — in no particular order. Perhaps you are like this, too, always trying to move forward amid the onslaught of brain activity that can be both useful and annoying.

This state of always trying to manage responsibilities while always trying to manage the noise in my head can be exhausting. It can be difficult to hold conversations on the outside of my head while trying to ignore what is going on inside my head. Leading a classroom where much thought has gone into planning with intentionality can get highjacked by the narrative of the mind that demands to be heard. And disconnecting from the perpetual feed of the brain seems impossible.

I mean, we try. We think that scrolling on our phones, bingeing Netflix shows, or blasting music can help us escape, but I find that although those strategies can be enjoyable, they don’t quiet my brain noise, and sometimes they even add to it.

So, there I was, lying on my back on my yoga mat this morning — in, in, out, in, in, out, — remembering that just a couple weeks ago, I was able to experience a few chatter-free moments. Hopeful that I could experience that again, I did as I was told, and focused on the breath.

It takes about 30 minutes of intentional breathing for the brain to get the message that all is well and it can check out for a moment, and during those 30 minutes, it can seem like you might never get there, but twice now, I have. My brain has completely quieted, and I have found myself lying on the floor, in a state of indescribable calm.

Lynette, says, “Allow yourself to get heavy, and just receive.”

And, I do.

I lie there, aware but unconcerned that my mouth is hanging open, staring past closed eyes into a brilliant light blue nothingness. I feel my body opening outward, a tingling in my hands. Again, I get the overwhelming sense that I am being healed — today I felt that healing happening in my neck, my digestive system, my eyes, and my mind. I can’t explain how I know that healing is happening, but I am aware of movement, of cell reconstruction, of realignment.

And then I feel my hands opening and a nudge to let go…you’ve been holding on for so long. I feel such relief, and one tear of gratitude that has probably been being held inside for quite some time slides out of each eye and down the side of my head.

I didn’t even know I had anything to let go of, and yet it is very difficult for me to explain the satisfaction I got from releasing my hold.

And I think that is the nugget, my friends. Perhaps the reason I’m often feeling stressed is because I’m trying to hold all the things — all the thoughts, all the responsibilities, all the outcomes, all the memories, all the relationships — while also trying to do all the things. And it’s just not possible.

One little person can’t hold all the things and do all the things and still be present for the people in their lives.

I wish I would’ve learned that about thirty years ago, but here I am, learning it now.

What a relief — let me carry that into this week.

Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares for you.

I Peter 5:7

10 Years Later, #3

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I’ve just spent the last five days lounging around the house, moving from bed to couch to chair to bed to couch much like a cat thanks to the MLK weekend followed by a few days of below-0 wind chills. I have accomplished very little since last week, and it’s been lovely. It wasn’t always easy for me to be inactive — in fact, it was downright anxiety-inducing. Being busy was a coping strategy, but thanks to a chronic illness, a lot of therapy, and a new way of living, I am going more and more comfortable with being still. Below you’ll find a post from the beginning of my journey, when I had not yet learned to appreciate stillness.


The Backstory on Doing

 ~ KRISTIN ~ EDIT”THE BACKSTORY ON DOING”

I got my first job when I was 10.  No, it wasn’t it in sweatshop. My neighbor called my mother and asked if I could babysit her two sons while she and her husband went out.  They would be home by midnight.  Well, they weren’t home by midnight.  They were gone for seven hours and, at the extravagant rate of $0.50 per hour, I made a whopping $3.50.  It’s true. I continued to babysit for that family and then practically every family in my small town of 4,000 until I went to college.

My first tax-paying job was at a small dress shop on the main street of my home town.  I vacuumed, opened shipments, attached price tags, washed windows, etc.  This manual labor earned me the hourly wage of $2.00.  I worked Monday through Friday after school from 3:30-5:00.  Do the math — I was really pulling in the dough.

When I got my driver’s license I could venture to the neighboring town where I became employed at McDonald’s.  I climbed that ladder from mop-girl to fry-girl to order-girl to drive-thru-girl in no time flat.

In my senior year of high school I got a second job opening and closing at a public school day care center.  I arrived at 6:00 am to let the little critters in, went to school mid-morning, then returned after school to wave goodbye and close the place down.  Somehow I managed to work there, keep my job at McDonald’s, and graduate!

When I went off to college I worked several places — day care center, cafeteria, and development office.  Since then I have been a camp counselor, residential care staff, teacher, freelance writer, census worker (seriously), and who knows what else.

I think you get the point.  I have, almost always, had a job.  I took a brief sabbatical when my kids were babies.  I was blessed to stay home with them for seven years, but even then I was always busy baking, cleaning, homeschooling (seriously), leading Bible studies for women and teens, writing chancel dramas and worship songs, and (wait for it) becoming a Mary Kay consultant.

For the third day in a row I am going to say, I am not accustomed to being still.  Ten years ago we moved to St. Louis so that my husband could go to the Seminary.  For the next four years I was the primary wage earner in the family.  By the time he became a pastor,  I had become not only a teacher and department chair, but also the curriculum coordinator and member of the administrative team.

It is in my DNA to be doing.  I see opportunities and know I can meet them.  I see gaps and I know I can fill them. I see problems and I know I can fix them.  So when my husband took the job in Ann Arbor, I immediately started looking for what I could do!  (See yesterday’s post to more effectively roll your eyes at this.) I found several options.  I won’t get into all of those now, because I am trying to be still! (I told you this was going to be a challenge for me.)

The words from this morning’s Bible reading were written just for me, “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will put on, [or dear Kristin, what you will do]…Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns [they aren’t busy doing, they are being], and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?…But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness and all these things will be added to you.” (Matthew 6: 25ff)

Doesn’t get much clearer than that, does it? I am a child of God. That is my identify. My identity does not come from my work — from what I do.  It comes from whose I am. I continue my mantra. I am a human, being HIs, trusting that He will feed me — literally and metaphorically. I will not be anxious. I will just be.

Assignment 2024

~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments

It’s been 10 years since I wrote that first post, and since then I’ve written 652 more (653, if you count this one). In the beginning, I wrote almost every day. Having been instructed to be still after years of routine — first teaching, then parenting young children, then graduate school, then teaching and parenting combined — I needed something that would bring order to my day. So in those first months in the little house by the river, I woke every morning, made my tea, and wrote a post before I did anything else.

I think I began blogging because I needed a purpose, something that I could accomplish each day, something that I could produce — a physical representation that I could still do something. I didn’t really know what I was going to write each day, but an instinct — perhaps after years of journaling and teaching others the value of daily writing — pushed me to the keyboard every morning, and this writing became a lifeline.

Some of you began to read perhaps out of curiosity — why would someone daily post about their life? why would a teacher at the height of her career walk away? why were we moving to Michigan after years in Missouri? Some of you have told me that you resonated with the chronicling of my autoimmune disease. You, too, suffered with chronic health issues and my willingness to write about being stuck on the couch or lying on the bathroom floor writhing in pain let you know that you were not alone. Some of you read because you knew me as a child and wondered what I was up to. Some of you are my family and friends (or my husband) and you read out of care, concern, and solidarity.

Whatever the reason you read, the fact that someone — anyone — was reading gave me the encouragement I needed to keep going.

And when I kept going, kept writing, day after day after day, I dug deeper into my interior and discovered things about myself that had long been buried or that simply needed articulation — precious memories from my childhood that revolved around my grandparents and godparents, deep sadness over losses that had never been processed, my ongoing journey with autoimmune disease, my strong feelings about political issues, and probably more than anything my passion for educational equity.

I often tell my students (and my friends and anyone else who will listen) that I (and perhaps you) don’t know what I am thinking or feeling until I see what I have written on the page. Perhaps it is because I have spent a life in motion, constantly doing, producing, going, and moving, that I have pushed my thoughts and, even more so, my feelings deep down inside without taking the time to process them.

Having a health crisis and being forced to stop and be still provided the space in which I could — finally — pull up all those thoughts and feelings and begin to examine them, evaluate them, feel them, grieve them, and in some cases, move on from them.

So I’m sitting here, in my little home with the garden, ten years later, candle burning on my desk, still in my pajamas, reflecting on how far I (we) have come. In over 600 blog posts I’ve moved from debilitating pain and fatigue to manageable symptoms that remind me to move slowly and to routinely pause to take stock. I’ve transitioned from taking daily anti-inflammatory medication and monthly injectable biologics to mostly just daily vitamins and supplements with occasional Motrin added in. I’ve been growing in my ability to write and subsequently speak about my deepest hurts, greatest losses, daily struggles, and strongest passions. And, most tangibly, I’ve gone from my insecure 2014 self that felt like an invalid to my confident 2024 self, which my instructional coach recently described as “effortlessly dope”. (I think that’s the most treasured compliment I’ve ever been given.)

Do I owe it all to the writing? No, I wouldn’t say all, but I would say I wouldn’t be where I am today without the discipline of this blog. My commitment to write regularly and truthfully — sometimes painfully truthfully — has been not only the evidence of the miraculous growth and healing I have experienced in this next chapter, but also a primary instrument in that healing.

I don’t think I can unpack what I mean by that in one blog post, so the assignment I’m giving myself this year is to share a “vintage” post each Thursday and a new post most Mondays. The objective is to deeply reflect on the power of writing, of routine, of discipline, of transparency, of community, and of vulnerability. I can’t predict where this assignment will take me — I won’t know what happens until I see it on the page, but I invite you to come along with me.

If you dare, I challenge you to write along — you might just open a blank page and write for 5 minutes each morning to start. You might find that’s not enough. You might find it’s too much. But if you’ve read my blog for any amount of time, I hope you will see the possibility for transformation that might happen if you are willing to take a chance.

I’d love to hear from you — what you are finding out about yourself, what are you unearthing, what is happening for you as you write. It doesn’t have to be for the public eye as I am allowing here. Writing can be magical even if it is for your eyes only.

Whatever you choose — reading along on my journey, writing along with me, or doing something altogether different, I pray God’s blessing upon you — may 2024 be a year of growth, of healing, of transformation. May it be filled with love, with joy, and with a renewed sense of hope.

If you don’t believe that God can restore what is all but lost, let my blog be a testament that nothing is beyond His ability.

Behold, I am going to do something new,
Now it will spring up;
Will you not be aware of it?
I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:19

Process(ing)

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

We’re two weeks away from Christmas Break, and I’m having my seniors write a personal essay. This essay could be used for a variety of purposes — to submit with a college application, to enter a scholarship contest, or simply to explore one’s own identity.

The students read and analyze several models, we practice using sensory language, and then we prepare to write. The first step is to choose from a variety of prompts such as “describe a time when you overcame a challenge” or “tell us about a time you stepped up as a leader”. Then, I direct them to identify a trait they want their reader to recognize in them. Are they hardworking? resilient? creative?

The big lift comes next. Students must respond to the prompt they have chosen while also displaying the strength they have selected by describing a scene — a snapshot or highlight tape — from their lives in which they have embodied that characteristic.

As has been my practice for going on twenty years, I write alongside my students, modeling my process for them in real time so that a) they can see an “expert” at work, b) they can see that even “experts” struggle and fumble, and c) so that they can acknowledge that even for “experts” the writing process is messy, laborious, and non-linear.

This past week, I was doing that modeling when I wrote about the time almost 10 (TEN!) years ago when I left my classroom in St. Louis convinced that I would likely never teach — at least not in a high school — again. I was reading this highlight tape to my students, describing how I tearfully carried a milk crate out of my room, and they looked at me with blank faces. What was I talking about that I might never teach again? I’m standing right in front of them — teaching! — and I’ve been in this classroom since they were freshmen. Was this story supposed to be fiction?

And, you know, sometimes I start to believe it is — maybe I wasn’t really that sick. Maybe I didn’t need to step away from my work. Maybe I don’t have symptoms right now. Maybe I’ve made it all up.

I was feeling that way last night. It was my youngest daughter’s and my youngest granddaughter’s birthday yesterday. I was on the phone wishing my daughter a happy birthday, struggling to sustain a conversation after 5pm on a Friday, “Happy birthday! What did you do today?” She shared how she had spent her day and asked what we were up to this weekend. I explained that her father had travelled to Cincinnati for her niece’s birthday, but that I didn’t have the gas in the tank to go.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I just find that in December I have very little margin to do something like a weekend trip.”

“Oh, why? Is it because it is the end of the semester and you have a lot of papers to grade?”

“Well,” I struggled to articulate the thing I have been trying to articulate for going on 10 years — that it doesn’t matter if I have a pile of papers in front of me or not, I am just on E, and E won’t get me to Cincinnati.

The same thing happened when I was FaceTime-ing with my six year old granddaughter. My husband called from Cincinnati to let me watch her open her gifts. She was sitting in her Grogu chair grinning and talking as she tore the paper. The rest of her grandparents, other family members, and some friends would be there soon for a party with pizza, butterfly decorations, and, of course, a purple cake. I watched, smiling, but internally I was interrogating myself, “Seriously, you couldn’t find it in you to go to Cincinnati for one weekend? It’s your granddaughter’s birthday!”

I do this sometimes, I question whether I really need the weekend at home, or if I am just being selfish.

I logically know the answer — even without 4 hours in the car, a change in routine, sleeping in a different bed, and the drain of social interactions, I woke up this morning with a splitting headache and an electric/IcyHot heat in all of my joints from my toes to my neck. During this time of year, it takes a whole weekend to recover from a week in the classroom. I will spend a couple hours this morning writing, then I will go for a long walk followed by an epsom salt bath. Hours might be spent reading a novel or watching The Crown, and I’ll have to somehow fit in about an hour of prep time so that I’m ready to teach my students on Monday. Sunday is more rest — Zoom time with our small group followed by worship and another long walk, followed by more writing and resting, and prepping for the start of the week.

When I interrupt that rhythm, like I did over Thanksgiving, I walk into Monday less resilient than I need to be — I am more likely to be reactive, I am less likely to be on my A game. I will likely miss things — like a small cue that someone is angry and tempted to fight, that another is sad and needs someone to listen, or that my room is too hot or too cold or that someone in my room didn’t get breakfast or lunch. I will be more likely to get an inflammatory issue like pain behind my eye or a headache or extreme fatigue that has me wondering how I drove myself home.

While I can occasionally take the risk and do something social on the weekend, it is really best if I stick to the routine which means saying no to fun opportunities like a whirlwind trip to Cincinnati.

You might ask if I should continue teaching if it costs me weekends with a granddaughter or my parents or our friends? The answer is still yes, absolutely yes.

For one thing, I will see that granddaughter and her sister in three weeks. That doesn’t make up for missing her birthday, of course, but I do get time with both of our grand girls on a fairly regular basis. We FaceTime and send letters, and, honestly, their lives are busy, too. I miss them, but I’m not sure I would see them more if I wasn’t teaching.

And, the reason I continue in the role I have now is because it gives me life. Leaving my classroom in June of 2014 was only slightly less than devastating because my autoimmune disease is absolutely real — I was flaring so badly in that season that I could barely function. I would have never left the classroom if there was any other option.

The six months that I was unemployed and the slow crawl back was a very difficult time. In my mind I was sick, compromised, washed-up, old, past my prime. As I regained my health, as I gradually built more teaching back into my life, I regained confidence and a sense of purpose.

I am not a perfect teacher — I don’t always have the most engaging activities or the cutest classroom decor. I sometimes lose my sense of humor, overuse sarcasm, and fail to give students the one-on-one attention they deserve. Despite all that, I am my best self when I am connected to education, for now that means in the classroom, particularly a high school classroom, especially in a context where I can call out injustice and work to bring a more equitable experience for my students.

When I get to spend my days being the best version of myself, I get more moments of sharing that best version with the people that I love — my husband, my children, and my grandchildren. For a few years there, I think that much of what they got from me was shrouded in self-doubt, self-pity, and an overwhelming sense that I was past my prime.

On Monday, I’ll share my second highlight tape with my seniors, the scene where I carry my items back into the classroom I work in now. I’ll share a glimpse at the slow crawl back, but I’ll focus on the triumphant return. Then I will prod, cajole, and cheer them as they write their own highlight tapes. I’ll nudge them to add more sensory detail, I’ll celebrate their risk-taking, and I’ll gently introduce MLA format and model Standard Academic English norms. I’ll do my best to help them finish strong.

Then, near the end of December, I’ll take a break to catch my breath, and then I’ll pack my bag and head to the land of grand girls where we’ll snuggle, do crafts, eat yummy foods, watch movies, and giggle. I’ll tell them how proud I am when they read hard words and ask good questions — they’ll get the imperfectly best version of me because that is what I am right now.

And for this I am thankful.

give thanks in all circumstances…”

1 Thessalonians 5:18

Slowing Down, Taking Care

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

After a long, full, and exhausting fall, my husband and I welcomed Thanksgiving break like two educators who — er — really needed a break.

While we could’ve probably spent the entire 10 days in pajamas in front of the TV, scavenging the near-empty cupboards for traces of food and leaning on DoorDash when those ran out, instead, we traveled first to a conference on the west side of Michigan, then to central Illinois for a rendezvous with our daughter and her fiancé, and finally through central Indiana to catch up with my dad and his wife.

It was a fantastic way to spend those ten days — connecting with colleagues from all over Michigan, relaxing in a quiet town, cooking Thanksgiving dinner in the kitchen of a AirBnb, watching college football and basketball, and having long chats with family. We drove back to Michigan full and content.

At the end of driving, we unloaded the vehicle, started the laundry, and unpacked our bags before collapsing on the couch late Saturday. Sunday we met with our small group, went to worship, shopped for groceries, then hosted my brother-in-law who was heading through town.

Then, in a blink, we were up, dressed, and driving to work on Monday morning. And in another blink, I’m sitting here on Saturday morning reflecting on the fullness of the past week — appointments and announcements, parent teacher conferences, and the purchase of a dishwasher among all the other normal bits of life.

Isn’t this the way many of our weeks go? We move through the mundane and the momentous and are somehow shocked that in the midst of all this activity, all this movement, all this decision-making and leading and simply existing, we experience some fluctuating emotions — some super high highs, some rather low lows, and all the degrees in between.

We feel the tenderness of reconnecting with friends and coworkers and the glazed-over fatigue of travel. We feel overcome with joy as we watch our future son-in-law care for our daughter and happiness and pride when our daughter completes a sewing project for which she has had a vision. We feel frustration that the AirBnb isn’t as spic and span as we had hoped it would be and contentment as we lean into each other and watch a tender movie. We feel annoyed that our students don’t arrive on time or listen when we give directions and excited by the possibly of major life transitions. We feel exhausted by the hoops we have to jump through to get a $100 discount on an appliance and thankfulness that we have the money to afford a new appliance in the first place.

We don’t, in the moment, always notice that we are having all of these feelings. We feel them, of course, but we keep moving, keep doing, keep checking off those things on our list, forgetting that the emotions we are feeling are messengers — they are trying to to give us information — to tell us that we need to slow down, to take care, to process, or even just to sleep.

And because we forget that our emotions are messengers, because we don’t slow down, take care, process, or even just sleep, the messages get louder and more insistent. Our frustration turns into sarcasm that pops out of our mouth at the least appropriate time. Our fatigue turns into impatient demanding — that others do what we need right now, our way, without question.

And when emotion bubbles over into behavior, we feel bad. We judge ourselves: What is the matter with you? How could you say that? You should be ashamed. You need to get yourself together!

Or we judge others for their behaviors that are fueled by their un-tended emotions: What is their problem? Why did they speak to me that way? They need to get themselves together!

We forget that their emotions are a signal — to them, but also to us — that they might need permission to slow down, take care, process, or just sleep.

It’s a big job to take stock of our own emotions while simultaneously picking up the cues of the people in our lives who also have a broad range of emotions, while also managing the demands of our everyday life. How can we be self-aware and compassionate at the same time?

I have not yet mastered this, but it is a lesson I am working on.

As I now, finally, take the time to reflect on the past couple of weeks, returning to my journal after some inconsistency over the past couple of weeks and returning to a longer yoga session after a couple of weeks of grabbing a few minutes here and a few minutes there, I can feel myself settling. I start to feel a little bit more like myself, a little more anchored, a little more in tune. And I think to myself, there is a reason you are so religious about your rhythms. Writing and yoga and walking and all the other things you do on the daily are the ways you slow town, take care, process, and truly get better sleep.

For all of us, vacations break rhythms — that’s part of their design. We need breaks from our rhythms to take rest and refuel, but I know that I always need to return to the practices that give me the space to tend to my feelings. And when I forget, my emotions remind me.

On Thursday of this past week, a student who I had not seen all week walked into my class and announced, “Mrs. Rathje, I am telling you right now that I am not gonna do anything in your class today.”

Well, I was pretty tired by Thursday, and had not been heeding the messages of my emotions, and her comment instantly set me on edge.

“So why are you even here?” I responded, trying unsuccessfully to check my annoyance.

“My momma made me come.”

“Well, I haven’t seen you all week, so as long as you’re here, I don’t know why you wouldn’t try to engage and get something out of class.” I kept walking around the room, pushing in chairs, picking up papers, instinctively trying to push off the emotion.

“I can’t today. I’m not doing it,” and she sat down in her front row seat and proceeded to scroll on her phone.

Perhaps because I was tired or perhaps because I could sense that my ability to not devolve into sarcasm and guilt-tripping was unreliable, I chose to just let her do her thing. I didn’t beg or try to correct her. I just let her be.

The rest of my students were engaged and completed the assignment with me, but this student remained on her phone.

I continued to notice her presence while ignoring her lack of engagement until she approached me near the end of the hour and said, “Mrs. Rathje could I speak to you in the hall?”

“Sure,” I said as I followed her out.

“I want to apologize,” she said, “I just don’t think anyone understands how hard it is for me to be here.”

While I am unaware of the specifics, I do know that this student regularly checks in with our social workers; this was not the first time I was made aware that she has some personal struggles.

I saw the vulnerability in her eyes and found the wherewithal to say, “I appreciate the apology, and you’re right,” I said, “I’m sure I don’t know how hard it is for you to be here. Have you shared this with your mom?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it with her.”

This was even more vulnerable.

“How would you feel if I called her? I want to share how much of this class you have missed and see if we can find a solution.”

She looked me in the eye and said, “Ok, you can do that.”

I called her mother, who was very transparent about the severe anxiety the student experiences, and we discussed some options that might be available moving forward. I thanked her for her time, hung up, and made my way home,

The next day, the same student entered my class saying, “Mrs. Rathje, I’m here, and I’m going to do all the work, and I sure hope you’ll call my mom and tell her I did it.”

“I absolutely will do that.”

What caused this dramatic change? Did she just need the space to slow down, take care, process, and get some sleep? I’m not sure, but in my fatigue and lack of action, I accidentally learned that seeing her emotions as messengers, not as a personal attack against me that needed a large-and-in-charge response, allowed me an opportunity to give this senior some space to shift.

And shift she did — at least for one day — and right now, I’m gonna call that a win.

Now, in a blink, I’m gonna step into my next jam-packed week, so right now, I’m gonna go for a long walk then make a second cup of tea, and allow myself some space to slow down, take care, process and get some sleep.

Monday will be here before I know it.

he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”

Mark 6:31