Category: forgiveness

It’s complicated

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love one another. John 13:34

In 2025…anything is possible

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The turn of a calendar page, particularly from December to January over the line of a year, can signal a fresh beginning. We can get our hopes up that this year life will be different — the bills will all get paid, the friends will all get together, our health will improve, and we’ll witness less violence. But we weren’t even to the dawn of the first day of 2025 when we were reminded that terror still exists; we weren’t two solid weeks into this new year before we had to admit that tragedy will still come. Grief will be part of 2025 just as it was part of 2024.

It’s not what we want — we who make resolutions, who join gyms, who buy dot planners, who clean out our closets. We don’t want to read that teenagers were killed as they celebrated, that houses of thousands have burnt straight to the ground. We don’t want our loved ones to be sick, our friends to be overwhelmed, or ourselves to have anxiety about the future.

But reality is what we have. Our parents are admitted to the hospital, a strained relationship marches right into the new year, an appliance breaks down, work stress increases over night, and you suddenly notice a crack in your windshield.

Turning the page on a calendar isn’t magic. No. It’s just a moment in time.

So, shall we throw our hands in the air? give up hope? trudge on knowing that there’s nothing we can do?

You already know that’s not what I’m about here. You know I’m the one with an insufferable belief in restoration. You know I believe the pain could go away, the relationships could be renewed, the bills will get paid. You never know — your savings might grow in 2025. Your appliance might start working again. You just might figure out that impossible issue at work.

But it won’t happen just because you turned the page on a calendar. No. You might have to take action. You might have to start exercising and do the PT they showed you how to do. You might have to forgive someone and change your own behavior. You might have to stop buying that bougie coffee you love so much and put that money in the bank. You might have to call a repairman. You might have to ask for help.

We don’t love asking for help — we who like to pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps, we who kick butts and take names, we who take pride in getting shit done. We like managing things on our own, thank you very much.

We don’t love interruptions to our routine — broken equipment, illness, accidents. We like things to go as planned.

But in 2025, just like in all the years before, interruptions will happen. The sink will get clogged, a copier will get jammed, and the traffic will back up. In those moments, you might find a solution on your own, but you might have to network as a team with a spouse, a sibling, a coworker, a qualified professional.

Or, you may just have to wait it out.

But friends, don’t lose heart. Things are not worse than they have ever been. Nope. Since the dawn of time, the struggle has been exceptionally real. And people just like us have found a way to come together, to find solutions, to face the unexpected, to overcome difficulty, to not lose hope.

I am not sure how they did it in days of yore — I’ve heard tales of women gathering over quilts, of dinner parties where folk discussed issues and devised strategies, of community organizing in dusty offices under glaring light. I’ve read of sweeping movements that have made dramatic change in the culture, in policy, in the everyday lives of people.

I don’t know if I have the steam for all that, but I do have what it takes to get out of bed every morning, to write a few words on the page, to practice yoga, and to put this hopeful hunk of flesh in my car, drive 30 minutes east, and show up for my students. And, I can also find the wherewithal, when the unexpected happens, to pivot. When a call comes early in the morning, I can point my vehicle in a different direction and show up for my family.

I think that’s what I am bringing to 2025 — the knowledge that things are going to be as they always have been and the willingness to keep showing up anyway.

My goal is to show up without judgment and full of hope.This is the challenge, isn’t it? to show up without an attitude, without preconceived notions of what others should or should not be doing, with a heart that says anything is possible. Already this year I have shown up once or twice annoyed, irritated, and wringing my hands — this would all be different if only they would …fill in the blank.

But it’s still January, and I can’t expect to be hitting my goal with 100% accuracy from the jump.

It wouldn’t be a goal if I could already do it.

So here’s to 2025 — may we keep showing up full of hope. After all, anything truly is possible.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him. Romans 15:13

Ten Years Later #11: A String of Miracles

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

This is the last of the “Ten Years Later” series that I had intended to be a weekly feature in 2024. The year, as most are, was more than I had anticipated — more struggle, more loss, more healing, more restoration, more hope. This post, written and recorded in January 2023, sums up the vibe I want to carry into 2025 — the continuing hope that all things can be made new.

We purchased the gifts and wrapped them. We planned menus, purchased loads and loads of food, and baked ourselves silly. We cleaned the house and made all the beds, and then we waited.

As we sat on the coach, staring at Netflix, the texts started to come in.

“We’re checked in at the hotel! See you in the morning!”

“Our flight just landed!”

“We should be there in an hour!”

And then our family started rolling in — from Ohio, from Massachusetts, from Missouri.

We hugged, we laughed, and we ate.

We puzzled; we played games. We did crafts, watched movies, and traveled to celebrate with even more family.

It sounds like what most families do over the holidays, but I suppose many families, like ours, can get together like this only because of a string of miracles — only because of choosing forgiveness, of going to therapy, and of healing and time and the stubborn belief that things get better.

Didn’t you, too, have the holiday where everyone was yelling at each another?

And the one where no one spoke a word?

And the one where everyone walked out of church sobbing?

And the one where some decided they just. couldn’t. do it — not this year.

And then there was the covid year (or years — who remembers?) where we packed presents into flat rate boxes and stood in line for hours at the post office, hoping our parcels would get there before Easter. The year (or was it two?) where we sat in Zoom rooms with family members, some of us trying not to hog the air time, others trying to endure those who were hogging the air time.

It seems after all those difficult years we might have stopped believing that we could once again be all in one space, laughing, eating, agreeing on what to watch, moving upstairs to open the gifts, and leaning together over a puzzle, snacking on chips and rock candy and cookies.

But we didn’t stop believing — really — did we?

Didn’t we keep hoping for the day when all the therapy would pay off? Didn’t we long for the moment when we all laughed at the same joke, all smiled at the same memory, all managed to load ourselves and our gifts and bags full of food into cars only to discover most of the way there that we had left the main dish warming in the oven and no one lost their shit but we rebounded easily, picking up take out on the way?

Didn’t we imagine it could happen? Didn’t we dream it?

And so I’m sitting here pinching myself, trying to believe that it actually happened. And someone in the Christmas 2022 group chat sends a text checking on someone else who left the festivities feeling subpar. Another sends a pic of a present that broke upon opening, and everyone laughs. More pics are shared, more laughter, and then a commitment to what we will do next year.

They want to do it again next year.

I need a moment to just take that in.

Every family relationship doesn’t get this gift, does it? We don’t all get the moments we prayed for.

Don’t we all have at least one relationship where we do all the initiating? where tender topics are avoided? where our hearts ache with disappointment at the end of each phone call? where we can’t shake the feeling of being unwanted?

In fact, I was sitting in therapy the very day that the last of our family left, on the come down, for sure, and all I managed was, “our Christmas was amazing, but this one relationship over here still sucks and that’s all I can think about.”

And over the hour of belaboring the one less-than-stellar relationship I have spent most of my life bemoaning, my therapist offered suggestions, role-playing, expectation-setting, and the like, and near the end of the session, I began to realize that the beauty we experienced with our family at Christmas didn’t come without the hard work of many — of all of us, really.

I can’t expect this other relationship to magically transform on its own. If I want something different, I’ll need to return — to my knees, to forgiveness, to therapy, to the stubborn belief that things can get better.

It’s risky — even just the hoping for change — because happy endings or even happy moments are not guaranteed. I might experience disappointment — again.

But I might risk hoping, and a series of miracles might just happen. We might laugh at the same joke or smile at the same memory. We might play a game together or lean toward each other over a puzzle. We might agree on a movie. We might enjoy a meal.

And it might be amazing.

Witnessing the string of miracles that led to an amazing Christmas has me thinking that I just might risk hoping again.

[He] is able to do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of”

Ephesians 3:20

Last-minute Christmas Prep

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You are all but ready for the holidays, but you’re starting to feel a little edgy because the gatherings are starting to happen? Me, too! Seeing all of our people can tricky — especially at the holidays.

It’s not because of the presents or the food or the clothing we choose to wear, it’s because of all the meaning we attach to the smallest of things. We come carrying the historical experiences we’ve had with each important person in our life, and our brains use some kind of warped algorithm to assign emotional value to every holiday interaction:

the language in that text,

the gesture she made when she said that thing about you know what,

the fact that she said nothing about you know what,

the size of the gift,

the absence of a gift,

the appropriateness of the gift,

the inappropriateness of the gift,

that phone call,

the lack of a phone call,

the food that was served,

the food that wasn’t served,

how much he ate,

how much he didn’t eat,

the church service,

the hymns we sang,

the hymns we didn’t sing,

the outfit they wore,

what they didn’t wear,

who showed up,

who didn’t show up…

It’s all laden with our individual and collective histories of hurt, joy, regret, longing, grief, love, loss, and all the other emotions that seem amplified around the holidays.

And why are they amplified? Maybe because holidays are times of expectation — we build them up to be the pinnacle of our human existence. When did you see your first holiday commercial or store display this year? When did you hear your first Christmas carol? When did you purchase your first Christmas present or attend your first holiday party?

For months we look forward to this season with expectation, creating scenarios in our minds, imagining who will be with us, how they will react to the gift that we bring, how we will embrace and enjoy one another’s company, and how perfect the experience will be. But when each of us arrives lugging our history and our expectation, there is bound to be disappointment.

I will be so busy tending to my historical hurt — the disappointment of Christmases past when I wasn’t with my father, the longing for the holidays my grandparents created, the belief that I didn’t fit in with my family — and trying to process my current reality — the work stresses, health issues, and dysfunction in relationships– that I don’t realize that you, too, are tending to your historical hurt and current reality, which may be very similar or very different from mine.

And, since my gaze is at least partially turned inward, I might say something that is less than thoughtful or even insensitive and you may feel hurt. And since it’s a holiday, you may contain your reaction to a mere shifting of your eyes, but I will see it, and, being focused on my own hurt, I won’t see that shift as you reacting to my insensitivity but will assign it some other type of meaning — I might assume the worst about you rather than taking accountability for my own actions.

And it doesn’t take many of these small interactions to lead to a tense and emotionally charged holiday gathering, even among the most civilized and emotionally evolved among us.

Before you know it, someone says, “What do you mean by that?” and storms away to a different room or out the front door. Or, they contain their hurt inside, plastering over it with a smile, but carrying the hurt to the car with them and taking it out to nurse and nurture in the privacy of their own home so that it can be brought back to the next holiday gathering. It’s not what we are hoping for, but it’s what we often do.

Hurt people hurt people, and if we are being honest, we are all hurting.

We are all longing for someone to say:

I’m really sorry about that thing that happened to you,

I didn’t mean what I said — I was angry when I said it,

I want to heal with you,

Will you forgive me?

Can we talk about it?

How can I help?

I’m proud of you,

I support you,

I love you.

We often approach holidays playing defense — putting up our guard, expecting the blows, preparing for the worst.

What if we tried a different way? What if we planned ahead and practiced checking in, listening, caring, and supporting? What if we processed our historical hurt through writing or therapy before we loaded up the car? What if we were vulnerable and admitted to a few at our gatherings, “I’m struggling. This season is hard. I’m sorry if I seem distracted.”

How might these little moves have a significant impact on our experience of the holidays?

And while we are at it, can we plan to overlook any insensitive comments someone else might make, any seemingly judgmental facial expressions, any downright rude comments? Can we chalk them up to the heightened emotions of the holidays and not give them too much weight? Can we decide in advance not to gather these infractions up in a bag to take home and examine under a microscope? Can we instead choose to sweep them up with the crumbs from the table and toss them in the trash, not because they are meaningless, but because we are not choosing to assign them any additional meaning?

Can we plan to check in with the oldest, the youngest, the quietest among us? Can we set out to embrace those we know are grieving? Can we provide space for those who need an ear? Can we offer to help? Can we turn our gaze away from ourselves?

Could we give that one extra gift?

…Love one another. (John 13:34)

Lesson Review

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Some lessons we have to learn over and over.

Every fall, teachers have to teach students how to enter their classrooms, how to walk down the hallways, and how to raise their hands before speaking in a group setting.

Students, of course, have been taught before how to gather supplies, find their desks, and wait for instructions, but after a long summer of loosened expectations, a short weekend at home, or even just transitioning from one classroom to another, they often need explicit directions in order function in ways that support classroom learning.

They need a review.

Teachers need to relearn every fall, too. Administrators spend much of the first few weeks re-establishing norms like arrival times (teachers must be in their classrooms well before the students), duty stations (every teacher at their doorway during transitions), and procedural expectations (no bathroom passes during the first and last 10 minutes of class).

Teachers know these norms, of course; they haven’t changed since last year, and even if you switched schools, many routines are consistent from building to building. Nevertheless, teachers, too, have had loosened expectations over the summer, have checked out over the weekend, or are simply exhausted and have momentarily “lost track” of the ways we do things around here.

Teachers, too, need a review.

Folks outside of school need to be reminded of the rules, too.. For example, even though we’ve been knowing the speed limit is 65 miles per hour, even though we got a ticket for going 78 last February, even though we had to sit through an online driving course, don’t we find ourselves edging back up to 78? And even though we promised our dental hygienist that we would brush two times a day and floss daily, don’t we find ourselves skipping the floss or (gasp) the brushing from time to time?

I don’t think we [or most teachers or students] are deliberately trying to break the rules or walk a dangerous path. No, I think we are just living in the moment and not considering the impact of our actions on ourselves and others.

My students don’t consider what happens when they walk into my classroom five minutes late announcing, “What up, Rathje?” after the rest of the class has already settled in to our daily routine. They don’t see that they draw every eye away from learning and that they have initiated a series of steps that I wasn’t planning on — first giving them a consequence, then re-establishing the momentum of the class. No, they were merely chatting with a friend in the hallway, trying to grab a last minute drink, or possibly trying to avoid coming to class for as long as possible. They weren’t thinking that they were missing on the first few minutes of learning or stealing a couple of minutes from the teacher and the rest of the class; they thought they were hanging on to a few more minutes for themselves.

Likewise, teachers are not intending to create an unsafe environment when they arrive five minutes past their report time, finish entering grades instead of moving to their threshold during a transition, or allow a student to go to the bathroom five minutes after the hallways have cleared and classes have begun. No, they aren’t thinking of that impact. They are thinking, Surely five minutes is no big deal, or What difference does it make if I stand at my doorway? or But the kid really had to go! But the impact of any one of those decisions could be that students are left unsupervised for just a minute or even five minutes, and without supervision, our students might do something without considering the consequences — shove a friend, initiate a fight, or slip away undetected.

This is why rules and norms exist — to keep everyone safe, to maximize learning time, to create a culture in which people can thrive.

We’ve all got our own routines for similar reasons. I, for example, as you may have read about a thousand times in this blog, have many routines to keep my inflammation in check so that I can continue to be involved in education. The litany includes daily yoga, walking, writing, mental health therapy, physical therapy, Hellerwork massage, acupuncture, a diet that excludes gluten and dairy, intentional rest, and a variety of other strategies. When I follow my routine, I stay safe; in fact, I thrive. Recently, after our teachers had returned to the building and I was leading sessions, helping prepare the building, meeting with teachers, and preparing my own lessons, I remarked to my husband, “I am amazed at what this body is letting me do!” And, I truly was! I had been able to navigate long days and stressful situations including what is the most challenging for me — last minute changes of plans — with minimal stress or impact on my body.

So, I just kept chugging! I was living my best life, oblivious to the potential impact on me or anyone else.

Until last Tuesday afternoon around 5:15pm when I was sitting in a meeting at the end of the day. I’d been at the school since 7:30am — had greeted students as they had entered the building, had read and answered email, had observed two teachers, and had sat through two classes with my seniors who were visited by a college rep. I had helped supervise dismissal and gotten students on their busses and then reported to a meeting with the other leaders in our building. Over an hour into the meeting, I felt something weird in my left eye.

Huh. I thought. What’s that? It was like I had never had ocular herpes, iritis, or episcleritis before. I didn’t think anything of it. That’s a weird sensation, I thought. Probably something with my contacts.

The next morning, around 5:30am, as I was doing my morning writing, I thought, Oh, my eye is still bothering me,. Then, Oh, no! And I ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror. No signs of pink eye — wait, is this an autoimmune response?

Now, I am happy to report that five days later I am still not in a full-blown flare, but let me tell you, as one who has had several full-blown flares, that once I realized that this was a warning sign, I began taking steps.

Step one: Wear glasses. Vanity be damned.

Step two: Bathe the eye in sterile tears at least hourly. I was scheduled to go on a field trip that morning, so I scrounged around the house for every vial of sterile tears I could find. [Picture me on a college campus with 35 teens trying to find a place to discreetly administer eye drops.]

Step three: take Motrin. 800mg every 8 hours.

On that first day, these steps seemed to do the trick, so I got comfortable and ended up staying at the building until almost 5:30 again. It wasn’t until my phone reminded me that I was supposed to be in an online counseling session at 5:15 that I started planning my exit strategy, removing myself from a meeting, packing my things, and texting my therapist to tell her I would have to meet her via phone call.

I climbed in my car, got on the phone, took note of the growing pressure in my eye and made my confession: I am doing too much, pushing too hard, and my body is waving a warning flag.

And in her kindest way possible, she said, as she’s said many times before: What are you able to do to create some space so that you will be able to sustain this position?

I know all the things. I know to do all the things. I just get so excited about the possibilities of what we are doing that I start running at full speed forgetting that this is a marathon and not a sprint. I’ve gotta pace myself, plan my nourishment, utilize my support team, and visit the aid station.

I needed my therapist to point me to the review.

We are three weeks into school, and I find myself standing at my classroom door telling my students, “Good afternoon, grab your notebook and laptop.; get logged in, and…

They are beginning to interrupt me, “We got it, Mrs. Rathje. We’re already there.”

“Excellent,” I say, “that’s excellent.”

They are remembering what they need to do, and perhaps — for now — so am I.

if you listen to correction, you grow in understanding Proverbs 15:32

Of Power and Vulnerability

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

We’re seven weeks into this school year, and I’m not sure who is learning more — me or my students.

This is always the case, of course, but I continue to be amazed. You would think that since I am fifty-seven years old, and my students are mere teenagers, that my maturity, at least, would exceed theirs. In some ways it does, for sure, but they are teaching me to receive feedback and to alter my approach.

Now, they don’t necessarily know they are doing this — they aren’t setting goals, writing lesson plans, or assessing my progress. No. They are just navigating their lives in the best ways that they know how, but when our paths cross, they are not afraid to give me the feedback that I need.

And I am not too stubborn to receive it. Not any more.

Recently, I was trying to get started with my fourth hour class — they come to me straight from lunch, and my expectation is that they would just walk in, grab their materials, sit down, and be ready to engage with learning. Yes, I do see, as I type those words that my expectations border on lunacy. For one, any teenager coming straight from lunch might be transitioning from a fun conversation with peers, from an attempt to engage with a person of romantic interest, or from a mild or moderate altercation with a staff member. To expect them to instantly shed those interactions and be fully engaged in English Language Arts is, although an appropriate academic posture, probably not entirely sensitive to adolescent development.

And I know that, and I prepare for it. Each period, I plan a “gathering” — some short activity to pull us all together. For example, I might display a slide showing that October 23 is National TV Talk Show Host Day and then ask my students, “if you could be interviewed by any TV Talk Show Host, who would it be, and what would you want to talk about?”

We might take a few minutes to discuss and laugh in an attempt to build a classroom culture and foster engagement before I try to deftly transition into the goals for the day.

On this recent day, the one I was starting to tell you about, I could tell that the majority of my students were not with me. I was having a hard time getting everyone to find their seats, to put their phones away, and to engage with our gathering. So, in the “kick butts and take names” fashion that I learned somewhere along the way, I started moving around the classroom in my ‘large and in charge’ type of way in an attempt to get them settled in.

I narrowed my proximity. I bantered with students, interjecting myself into their conversations, and trying to overpower them into submission. This strategy might have worked once upon a time, but my current students are not having it. The power play does not work with them. I know this, but on this particular day, I was frustrated enough with their lack of attention that I reverted to the muscle memory of raising my voice, getting an attitude, and using language that is not typically mine.

My students’ response? They kept doing what they were doing — they were unbothered — until the language that came out of my mouth elicited a “Whoa, Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that,” and then the room went quiet. And I knew the student was right. My language had crossed a boundary. I had gotten their attention, for sure, but not in the way that I wanted.

I backpedaled.

“You’re right. That was inappropriate. I think I am feeling frustrated because we don’t seem ready to get started. But that is no excuse. I apologize. Can we start over?”

The room quieted, but some of the respect that I had spent weeks building inside of this space, had crumbled beneath my feet, and I instantly knew I would have to do some rebuilding. Nevertheless, my duty to instruction prevailed, and I began with our lesson. Just as we were finding our rhythm, one of my students jumped up and said, “Mrs. Rathje, I gotta take this call,” as she speedily went to the hallway.

Well, that irritated me, but I kept moving with the students whose minimal attention I was holding and then met her at the door when she returned.


“You can’t just walk out of class, ” I said, my attitude re-engaged, “You haven’t been here all week, and now that you’re back, you just jump up and take a phone call?”

I think I expected her to say, “You’re right. I’m sorry,” but instead, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I am feeling a certain kind of way because of how you are talking to me. The reason I have been missing school is because I was at a party last weekend where my cousin was killed.”

I put my hands up in quiet surrender and took a step back.

“Wow. I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. You are right. I didn’t need to give you any attitude. I apologize. I am glad you are here. Will you let me know if there is anything I can do?”

“I will. Thank you.”

Sheesh! Twice inside of twenty minutes, I had had to apologize for defaulting to a power play and my students were the ones who gave me the feedback that allowed me to check myself and try a different way. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be doing that for them.

Each day, I have to remind myself that I am not the center of the universe; the behavior of my students is not directed at me. They are dealing with all kinds of things. For example, not one, not two, but three of my students reported “my aunt just died” this week! I have got students who are homeless, some who work over twenty hours a week, and some who are earning money to help their families pay the bills. I’ve got students who have family in jail or who are on probation themselves. I’ve got students whose families do not have a vehicle and can’t come to get them in the middle of the day if they are suddenly sick or injured or overwhelmed by the amount of loss in their lives.

And these are the things I know about. Many of the struggles my students face are too private to share.

So, instead of being annoyed when my students don’t walk in on time and enthusiastic for learning, I need to be curious.

What is going on that has everyone distracted today? I noticed you weren’t at school for several days, is everything ok? I can see that you are preoccupied with your phone — are you just caught up in scrolling? or is it deeper than that?

I don’t need to have an attitude. Asking a simple question can provide my students with the feedback that might allow them to a) provide me with information that explains what’s going on or b) check themselves and try a different way.

Life is complex and English Language Arts aren’t the top priority for a student who is reeling from crisis. However, it is my job to share the value of learning ELA for the purpose of having strong communication skills, succeeding in postsecondary learning, and for being prepared for future employment. I need to be compassionate in regard to my students’ reality while also engaging them in learning and holding them accountable to meet the learning standards that will give them access to spaces beyond my classroom.

It’s a big job. And sometimes I get tired, and I blow it.

However, I am noticing that the class of 2024 doesn’t have any trouble holding me accountable. They are not afraid to say, “Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that.” or “I don’t like the way you are coming at me.” or “Mrs. Rathje, are you doing ok?” They are modeling for me the ways that might be appropriate to hold them accountable!

And, if I’m not too consumed with being in control, if I’m brave enough, I might just model for them the ways that they can respond to my feedback.

You’re right, that was harsh. Did that sound sarcastic? I apologize. Guys, can I be honest — I’m not feeling the best today. Can I just take a minute to gather myself? Can you all cut me some slack?

I love these kids so much, and I am so impressed by their ability to notice that something doesn’t feel right and, in that moment, to say something. In this way, they are worlds ahead of me. They are brave, and I want to honor their bravery in a way that seems counterintuitive — I want to be vulnerable.

Brene Brown in Atlas of the Heart says: ” In a world where perfectionism, pleasing, and proving are used as armor to protect our egos and our feelings, it takes a lot of courage to show up and be all in when we can’t control the outcome. It also takes discipline and self-awareness to understand what to share and with whom. Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences” (14).

If what I’m trying to do is build transformative relationships with my students, what better way do I have than modeling vulnerability — welcoming feedback, admitting I was wrong, saying I’m sorry, and moving forward in a way that honors the humanity of the people in front of me.

Back in the early days of my teaching, the old pros used to advise us to “not smile before Thanksgiving.” Their philosophy was that teachers had to be hard asses for the first quarter if they wanted to maintain control of their classrooms. For many it worked.

But I’m not interested in control.

I’m in education because I have an insufferable belief in transformation, and in my experience, I have to let go of my need to control in order to create the space in which change is possible.

I can’t create that space through force. I need to be willing to step back — to be the one to create an opening.

If my students are brave enough to hold me accountable, I’m going to be brave enough to try a different way..

Do not conform to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

Romans 12:2

New Things

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

For the past week I’ve been sitting at my sewing machine making dresses. I don’t sew often, and when I do, it’s usually straight line projects like face masks during Covid, flax seed pillows I give to friends and family at Christmas, and other such easy projects.

I wouldn’t typically choose to make a dress, although I have made several in the past, and I would certainly never volunteer to make a dress for someone else — especially not a dress they intended to wear as a member of a wedding party, and definitely not one to be worn for my own daughter’s wedding, and surely not in the final month before said nuptials, but that is exactly what I have been up to.

Why? Because of my insufferable belief in restoration.

One is not born with an insufferable belief in restoration. She doesn’t come out of the womb believing that all things can be made new. She’s not Pollyanna for heaven’s sake. No. One only comes to have an insufferable belief in restoration after seeing everything burn to the ground, after weeping inconsolably amidst the devastation, and after watching in disbelief as new life emerges impossibly from the ashes. Not once. Not twice. But time after time.

Not too long ago, my relationship with my youngest daughter had all but burnt to the ground. She had lived through the kind of devastation that makes you wonder if you can ever be whole again, and while I had borne witness, my response — my mothering — had been quite disappointing. I had let her down in her time of deepest need and she could no longer count on me, and she didn’t for a very long time.

So, when in May she asked if we could spend the weekend sewing to see if we could make her maid of honor dress for her sister’s wedding, I, having not been asked to work with her on a project in years, said “yes.”

We spent the weekend together, her altering patterns for her lean tall frame, and I remembering how to read a pattern, how to trim a seam, and how to use binding tape. In that weekend, and the weekend to follow, I constructed two dresses out of thrift store bed sheets so that she could try them on and assess the fit.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, she sent me some fabric she had chosen, and I got to work.

I moved slowly and meticulously — finishing every edge, trimming, and overlocking seams. I wanted this to be a dress that she [and I] could be proud of.

I was almost finished with the bodice when a second shipment of fabric arrived. She didn’t expect me to make two dresses; she had just found two fabrics that she loved, and I loved them, too!

I finished the first dress, put it in the mail to my daughter so that a local seamstress could do the final fitting, and started cutting out the second.

On the second dress — my third run at this particular pattern — I was starting to feel confident finishing arm holes with bias tape and creating darts. I sent my daughter photos as I progressed and finally dropped the second dress in the mail. By tomorrow, she will have two to choose from.

As I was sewing, I listened to two audio books by Kate Bowler, Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I have Loved and No Cure for Being Human: and Other Truths I Need to Hear. These books chronicle Bowler’s journey through two medical diagnoses and their treatments. As I listened at my sewing machine, I wiped tears from my eyes as I bore witness to her devastation, I laughed at her humor, and I cried again when — miracle of miracles — the worst didn’t happen.

I love a good restoration story — the bleak dark moments of hopelessness and the surprise and joy when the worst doesn’t happen.

I like being reminded in the midst of daily disappointment that God is literally making all things new.

All sewing projects are mini-restoration stories. You pin, stitch, discover an error, remove stitches, puzzle over solutions, and try again, hoping for the best.

Every little [every enormous] disappointment has the potential for restoration. We can’t expect every single thing to be made new, but when — shockingly — we bear witness to something rising from the ashes, we’ve got to acknowledge the miracle, to celebrate, to make dresses, to believe that more restoration is coming.

I’m sitting here watching for it.

Behold, I am making all things new.

Revelation 21:5

So Disappointing

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

People are disappointing. I am, and so are you.

It’s not like we get up in the morning and say, “Let us go forth and disappoint people.”

It’s not our intention; it’s just our way.

Let’s be honest — we even disappoint ourselves.

All summer, I have had the intention of using my iPhone less — to scroll less in the morning, to spend less time on my word games, and to check email and texts less. Three weeks into my official summer vacation, and I can assure you that I am disappointed with my progress.

When I disappoint myself, I might give myself a little scolding and reset my intention to “do better” but I don’t usually get hurt by the ways that I’ve disappointed myself. I don’t take it personally. I don’t see my failure to use my phone less as an indication of my value or as a reflection of how others feel about me.

But I do often make that leap when the actions of others disappoint me, or when my actions have been a disappointment to others, which happens with more frequency than I would like to admit.

And while none of us set about our day intending to disappoint the people we love, it is invariably those very people who suffer the collateral damage of our humanity.

And that’s all we are talking about here, really, just humanity — the imperfect experience of people on the planet. It’s so ubiquitous — so much the air that we breathe — that we forget to see human failure for what it is.

Let me put some skin on what I am talking about. Let’s say, hypothetically, that one was looking forward to the wedding of one’s offspring. I am not sure there is a bigger stage for the disappointment of humanity than dozens of friends and family members being invited to one space at one time for a significant life event.

First of all, there is so much unspoken expectation. The couple wants the day to be perfect, the parents of said couple want the day to be everything the couple is hoping for, and both the couple and the parents expect that everyone else feels the same — that they, too, want to celebrate this momentous occasion. Invitations start flying out to family and friends months before the actual event and the couple and the parents start to envision the actual wedding day and all those who will be in attendance.

And that expectation is a set up — when reality doesn’t match our ideal expectations, that is when we feel disappointment. Can you think of a day more likely to breed ideal expectations than a wedding? I cannot.

Now, one would think that the months leading up to a wedding would be a time of joy, but one might be surprised to find that while envisioning these ideal expectations, their own experiences with the family and friends who have been invited might begin to fuel a steady hum of anxiety around the reality of mixing said friends and family on a day that has so much emotional weight. How will this person interact with these people? Will racist family member A say something ignorant around BIPOC family member B? Will alcoholic-family-member-who-is-still-in-denial be appropriate in this setting? Will family member C who has beef with family member D say something out of pocket and get something started? Will everyone be on their best behavior and live up to the ideal expectations of the couple and the parents or will someone be disappointing?

The answer? Someone will definitely be disappointing.

In fact, they might even be disappointing months before the actual day. They may drag their feet on an RSVP. They may say racist shit before they even get to the venue. They may say they are going to come and be a team player to make it all happen and then in the eleventh hour back out for a number of acceptable reasons that are still — disappointing.

So, one might be surprised to find themselves in the weeks leading up to la boda feeling a little tender and even hyper-sensitive. And you’ll never guess what happens when someone feels tender and sensitive — they start doing things that are insensitive. They think they are being thoughtful, but they end up doing shit that is — well — disappointing.

One might, say, in an effort to prevent drama at pre-wedding event #1 decide not to invite family member E because family member F just might act inappropriately in their presence. The intention might actually be to protect family members E and F, but the impact ends up being — wait for it — disappointing. So, when family member E calls to say that such actions were hurtful and mean, one must admit that she has joined the mass of disappointing humanity that she’s been pointing her finger at. And that, my friends, is one hard pill to swallow, .

Until, one recognizes that humans (including oneself), by definition, are disappointing.

And that realization leads one to ask the question — what might happen if we went into situations expecting people (including ourselves) to be disappointing? Would we then be freer to celebrate when miracles happen?

Miracles like one friend (who is not even invited!) who offered months before the nuptials that her house would be available for out of town guests or the friend (also not invited!) who offered to do a major CostCo run before the wedding. Crazy generosity like the son who drove from Houston to Ypsilanti to help frame out a bathroom or the future son-in-law who coordinated a business trip so that he could be in town to help lay flooring. Remarkable support from a husband who attended a bridal shower and did much of the heavy lifting with the help of a brother who gave up a Sunday afternoon to do the same.

All kinds of people do amazingly thoughtful things every day when their default setting is to be disappointing. And that, my friends, should be celebrated!

I forget that. Instead of celebrating the miraculous, I get shocked when people are disappointing. I take it personally. I think they are inconsiderate of me because I am unlovable, but really, they are inconsiderate of me because they are human. I need to be able to extend them grace for that — the same kind of grace that I hope to be extended when I have been found to be disappointing.

So, my counsel to anyone who might be just three or so weeks shy of one of their offspring’s wedding day is to set realistic expectations for how people are going to show up to an event full of all kinds of personalities and backgrounds, and to choose to look for the moments to celebrate. One might glimpse strangers smiling at one another as they join in the Chicken Dance. One might witness second cousins who haven’t seen each other since before Covid joining in a game of tag on the playground next to the wedding venue. One might receive a hug from a parent, a child, a sibling, or a friend. One might feel proud, or happy, or relieved, or content. One might witness the miraculous.

And if those kinds of things happen, one should celebrate! However, when disappointment happens, and it likely will, one might consider extending grace — an understanding shrug of “it happens”, a reassuring pat on the back of “it’ll be ok”, or even a gentle knowing smile of “been there, done that” — and then an invitation to return to celebration on a day that is rare, full of humanity, and beautifully imperfect.

One might give that a try.

For of His fullness, we have all received grace upon grace.”

John 1:16

A String of Miracles

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

We purchased the gifts and wrapped them. We planned menus, purchased loads and loads of food, and baked ourselves silly. We cleaned the house and made all the beds, and then we waited.

As we sat on the coach, staring at Netflix, the texts started to come in.

“We’re checked in at the hotel! See you in the morning!”

“Our flight just landed!”

“We should be there in an hour!”

And then our family started rolling in — from Ohio, from Massachusetts, from Missouri.

We hugged, we laughed, and we ate.

We puzzled; we played games. We did crafts, watched movies, and traveled to celebrate with even more family.

It sounds like what most families do over the holidays, but I suppose many families, like ours, can get together like this only because of a string of miracles — only because of choosing forgiveness, of going to therapy, and of healing and time and the stubborn belief that things get better.

Didn’t you, too, have the holiday where everyone was yelling at each another?

And the one where no one spoke a word?

And the one where everyone walked out of church sobbing?

And the one where some decided they just. couldn’t. do it — not this year.

And then there was the covid year (or years — who remembers?) where we packed presents into flat rate boxes and stood in line for hours at the post office, hoping our parcels would get there before Easter. The year (or was it two?) where we sat in Zoom rooms with family members, some of us trying not to hog the air time, others trying to endure those who were hogging the air time.

It seems after all those difficult years we might have stopped believing that we could once again be all in one space, laughing, eating, agreeing on what to watch, moving upstairs to open the gifts, and leaning together over a puzzle, snacking on chips and rock candy and cookies.

But we didn’t stop believing — really — did we?

Didn’t we keep hoping for the day when all the therapy would pay off? Didn’t we long for the moment when we all laughed at the same joke, all smiled at the same memory, all managed to load ourselves and our gifts and bags full of food into cars only to discover most of the way there that we had left the main dish warming in the oven and no one lost their shit but we rebounded easily, picking up take out on the way?

Didn’t we imagine it could happen? Didn’t we dream it?

And so I’m sitting here pinching myself, trying to believe that it actually happened. And someone in the Christmas 2022 group chat sends a text checking on someone else who left the festivities feeling subpar. Another sends a pic of a present that broke upon opening, and everyone laughs. More pics are shared, more laughter, and then a commitment to what we will do next year.

They want to do it again next year.

I need a moment to just take that in.

Every family relationship doesn’t get this gift, does it? We don’t all get the moments we prayed for.

Don’t we all have at least one relationship where we do all the initiating? where tender topics are avoided? where our hearts ache with disappointment at the end of each phone call? where we can’t shake the feeling of being unwanted?

In fact, I was sitting in therapy the very day that the last of our family left, on the come down, for sure, and all I managed was, “our Christmas was amazing, but this one relationship over here still sucks and that’s all I can think about.”

And over the hour of belaboring the one less-than-stellar relationship I have spent most of my life bemoaning, my therapist offered suggestions, role-playing, expectation-setting, and the like, and near the end of the session, I began to realize that the beauty we experienced with our family at Christmas didn’t come without the hard work of many — of all of us, really.

I can’t expect this other relationship to magically transform on its own. If I want something different, I’ll need to return — to my knees, to forgiveness, to therapy, to the stubborn belief that things can get better.

It’s risky — even just the hoping for change — because happy endings or even happy moments are not guaranteed. I might experience disappointment — again.

But I might risk hoping, and a series of miracles might just happen. We might laugh at the same joke or smile at the same memory. We might play a game together or lean toward each other over a puzzle. We might agree on a movie. We might enjoy a meal.

And it might be amazing.

Witnessing the string of miracles that led to an amazing Christmas has me thinking that I just might risk hoping again.

[He] is able to do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of”

Ephesians 3:20

The Comfort of Connection

~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments
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I think we can all agree that 2020 was a rough year what with the pandemic, quarantine, isolation, cancelled plans, loss of loved ones, and all. To be honest, 2021 was not a huge improvement. Sure, we got our vaccines and many of us went back to the office and started socializing again, but really, it was an extension of 2020, with more mask wearing, continued social distancing, the Delta variant, etc. So, when 2022 started with Omicron and further shut downs, many of us shrugged and said, “yeah, it is what is, I guess this is life now.” We’ve grown accustomed to one disappointment, one cancellation, one blow after another.

So, we took it in stride when our 13 year old golden retriever started sharply declining in January and continued on that trend through the end of February when we tearfully said goodbye. It was one more loss, one more sadness, in a season of continuous disappointment.

We grieved as though we’d been training for it. We sat in our tears for an entire weekend — luxuriating in loss.

The grieving was healing, I must say, weird as that sounds. Our collective tears were an acknowledgement of the heartache of losing a well-loved pet, but they were perhaps also a deep exhale after holding so much accumulated loss.

And that wasn’t the end of it. We had a couple days to catch our breath, and then, our stove, too, up and died. It had served its owners well for almost 30 years, and it was done. So, we went from grief to responsibility — the hunt for a new appliance that would be economical and reliable. We did our due diligence in the midst of a supply chain backup never mind that we were still slogging through grief and transition 

[Aren’t we all right now slogging through grief and transition?]

So, stove shopping we were doing when a family member reached out asking for the kind of support that requires a quickly purchased flight, an acquisition of pets, and a cross-country drive in a snowstorm. Being so asked, when once we might not have been asked, we did what love empowers us to do: the one became two — one showing up in the flesh, the other managing logistics at home and completing the stove purchase solo.

It’s rich, this life. When you show up, you share tears. You see, you hold, you carry, and something changes.

And so began March, another season of adapting, adjusting, and accommodating cats in a house that had grown familiar with one very special dog.

They were growing on us — the cats — when another family member called needing the kind of support that facilitates a cross-country move with a quick landing at the nest to manage some old business and catch a breath.

And, again, as we made space, there was more seeing, more holding, more carrying, more changing..

All this, of course, in the first three months of 2022 after the “unprecedented” experience of 2020 and 2021. And we find ourselves both filled and depleted. We are buoyed, and we are sunk low.

So, I wasn’t planning on going to the retreat that I have enjoyed most every year since I returned to Michigan — a gathering of more than 100 wives of pastors who have become sisters and friends. I didn’t have the gas in the tank to register, to pack, to coordinate, to plan. But, two days before it was scheduled to begin, I saw something on social media, and I realized what I would be missing if I did not go.

I made a few calls, clicked a few buttons, rearranged some details, packed, and drove North. I wasn’t in the door one minute when two friends called out, “we saved you a seat!” From one to the next I received hugs of welcome, of love, of acceptance, of belonging. I settled in as the singing began and then realized what the topic for the conference was — Very Ordinary Grace — Life in Relationship. For the next few hours, I sat in a room full of women, sharing our experiences of ordinary life. We shed tears of heartache. We confessed our mistakes. We celebrated God’s grace that continuously finds us in our mess and offers forgiveness, healing, and restoration.

I reconnected with friends who I hadn’t seen in months or years, and we offered one another our hugs, our attention, and our care. After two years of isolation, social distancing, and cancelled plans, we were leaning in, embracing, listening, connecting.

Isn’t that what we have been longing for — connection? Aren’t our relationships the richest parts of our lives? Standing with my husband and two daughters around our beloved dog as he goes to his last sleep, weeping tears of love, gratitude, and loss? Answering a FaceTime call from a tearful, fearful family member and assuring them that we will indeed meet their need. Sitting across a table from a loved one, acknowledging their deep hurt, challenging an old pattern, and watching, miraculously as something shifts.

On the heels of two years of isolation and disappointment, three months of losing and gaining [new hope in relationships, two cats, and the stove that was installed just last week], I gathered with a group of women to pause and acknowledge the miraculous God who has sustained us through the unprecedented, empowered us to do the ordinary, and miraculously blessed us in our relationships.

On Sunday morning, I sat in my hotel bed with Brene’ Brown’s Atlas of the Heart and opened to where I had left off –chapter 9, “Places We Go When We Search for Connection.” I had just spent the previous day in the book of Ephesians, examining the messy ways that we connect with those around us and the grace of God to show up in the midst of that mess. I could barely take in Brene’s words because I was stunned by the realization of how God had once again divinely stepped into the circumstances of my life — my messy, messy life — and had provided the grace for us to show up for others when we ourselves were depleted, how He had worked miraculous healing in the midst of our brokenness, and how He had then provided a place among women I trust so that I could pause and realize that He has surrounded me with love, acceptance, and grace. He has shown me once again that I belong.

And it was just the balm I needed, just the peek of sunlight that was able to brighten up a gloomy April weekend after two difficult years. Maybe it’s what we all need in the wake of this long hard season– some connection, some acceptance, some belonging, some grace.

Be kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving one another.”

Ephesians 4:32