Category: grace

We Don’t Know Everything, a Reprise

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

You may have seen that I’m running a Thursday series called “10 Years Later” — a weekly reposting of something that I’ve written in this space over the last 10 years. This past Thursday, I re-posted We Don’t Know Everything, a reflection I wrote in January of 2015 about how if we knew everything that would happen in the wake of a major life decision, we might choose differently and how our limited vision allows us to step out in faith that God will provide for every eventuality.

I re-read that post again this morning, and it feels particularly apropos in this moment.

Over the years, we (like you) have made many major life decisions — the time I enrolled in graduate school, for example, or the time when we quit our jobs before securing new employment because it was just that important for us to move closer to our oldest son, whose other family had just relocated to the west side of the state.

When making these decisions, we look at the information we have in the moment, try to anticipate future needs, and make the choice that seems to make sense.

When I enrolled in graduate school in 2002, our younger children were in 1st, 3rd, and 4th grades. I thought that since I had been home with them for the last 10 years, it might be wise to ease in, maybe take one class at a time, in order to put less strain on the family. My husband disagreed. He said, “If you are going to do it, I suggest you go full time. Fully immerse yourself. We have no idea what is coming next.”

I was kind of surprised that he was willing to make that kind of commitment because I knew that in addition to his full-time ministry position, he would have to pick up more of the burden of caring for our children — after school pickups, homework, dinner, etc. But, if he was willing to do that, I was willing to — gulp — take three graduate courses at a time for two years.

We didn’t know at the time that we would, just two years later, be moving to St. Louis for him to attend the seminary. Turns out, I finished my program about one month before we moved. And because of that degree, I was situated to easily secure immediate employment, first teaching at a community college, then at a public high school (once I had obtained my Missouri teaching credential), and then in the Lutheran high school that would become such a formative place in my career.

When, in 2013, my health was very poor, and it was becoming clear that I could no longer sustain my role in that school, my husband was offered a position here in Michigan, and although it was our daughter’s senior year of high school, the position was such a good fit, that he decided to make the move ahead of us to not only take this new role but also to prepare a space for me to land when she was finished with high school and situated in college. We didn’t know how desperately I would need to convalesce, but that decision which was very difficult given that he would miss large portions of her senior year, set us up for a season of healing, not only for me but for our whole family.

It was that season that allowed me to learn new ways of living that supported my health, to process some trauma that could no longer be ignored, and to — after a while — be ready to land in the position I have now, a position that is incredibly fulfilling. We had no idea when I started this position if I would be able to sustain it, but for over three years I have, and this past fall it became apparent that we should consider a shift for my husband.

We had long discussed that he would one-day shift to private practice counseling, but we didn’t have a firm timeline, and we sure didn’t know what was coming when we sat down with our financial advisor this past fall to determine that this was indeed a good time for him to make that shift.

We just looked at the information that was available to us and made the choice that seemed to make sense.

We had no idea that the week before he intended to open his practice one family member would be diagnosed with cancer nor that the following week another one would. That’s right, two close family members in two weeks diagnosed with cancer.

We’ve had a little anxiety coming into this shift — what if he doesn’t get enough clients right away? What if he doesn’t get approved to take insurance for several months?

What would we do?

Well, we needn’t have been concerned. We didn’t know what was coming, but God did.

In these past weeks when he hasn’t had all the responsibility of his former position, he’s had time to rest, to take care of family details, to spend lots of time on the phone, to make extra trips, and to care for himself.

I don’t make it a practice to tell anyone else’s story in my blog, so I won’t right now share the details of those who are ill or go any further with what this transition has meant for my husband. That is his story to tell.

Suffice it to say, that I am noticing, once again, that God goes before us. He is always preparing us for what is next. He provides what we need at just the right time — even when we cannot see that that is true. He is always working on our behalf, always making a way.

This, my friends, is most certainly true.

Because of your great compassion you did not abandon them in the wilderness…[You] did not fail to guide them on their path

Nehemiah 9:19

Finding Space for Breath

~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments

When I wrote The Battle is On in August of 2014, I shared what I understood about autoimmune disease. I was new to the game (just a year or so in), and I was relying mostly on what doctors were telling me and what I was reading online. I wouldn’t say that I was wrong, but I would say that my understanding of autoimmune disease, from my perspective, based on my experience, has shifted greatly since that time. The longer I live in this body, the more I learn. In fact, my thoughts on the subject shifted again just yesterday.

Let me see if I can give you a picture of what I mean

I am confident that somewhere in the pages of this blog I have at least suggested that the current state of my body is a function not only of heredity and disease but also of the ways I have lived my life in these past fifty-seven years. Whether it came from my paternal grandmother, who had rheumatoid arthritis or from my mother, who has suffered with myriad maladies including persistent issues with her right hip (as do several other members of the family), I somehow inherited (and then passed on) the hla b27 genetic marker that is associated with spondyloarthritis which includes psoriatic arthritis, Sacroiliitis, and other autoimmune disorders.

Ok, so I had the genetic marker, but I also began a pattern of persistent emotional distress in my childhood and adolescence; such a pattern can heighten the likelihood that one develops autoimmune disease. Now, I wouldn’t say that I had a terrible childhood or that my parents subjected me to any kind of trauma. However, their divorce and the subsequent separation from my father was, to me, devastating. I did not know how to process the emotions I was feeling, and my adolescence was characterized by what I would now describe as raw, untended to emotion that was trying to find comfort or at least an outlet.

Over the years, I developed many strategies for dealing with that distress — lashing out, academic achievement, an eating disorder, and finally, a survival strategy emerged — my butt-kicking, name-taking persona. This girl set her jaw, clenched her fists, and got shit done. If emotional pain surfaced, she processed it through anger and aggression — at herself, at her family, at anyone who happened to get into her path. If things were moving smoothly, she was fine — reliable, productive, and focused — but toss in the unexpected — a change of plans, an alternate view, a noncompliant child or student — and she resorted to her soldier stance, bracing her body, lashing out with her words, and forcing everyone back in line.

It was a strategy that carried me through many years, but it led me to resist compassion, perspective, empathy — not only was I unlikely to give those things to others, I was less likely to receive them for myself. Now, let me say here that every soldier lets her guard down from time to time, and moments of vulnerability crept in — times when I held my children as they cried, when I recognized defeat in a student, when I allowed myself to share my pain with others — but those moments were the exception, I am afraid, and not as much the rule.

And while this soldiering lifestyle was an “effective” strategy, every choice has unintended consequences. I wish I was scientific enough to explain how my butt-kicking, name-taking persona required my body to produce adrenaline and cortisol and how, over time, the abuse of these hormones increased the likelihood that I would experience autoimmune disease, but I have an education degree, not a medical degree.

Suffice it to say, that what I have learned over the past 10 years, is that, at least in my body, the most effective strategies for reducing my experience of autoimmune symptoms are not medical, but they are a re-learning of how to manage my emotions, of how to live my life in a way that reduces or mitigates the adrenaline and cortisol in my body.

If you have followed my blog, you already know that pharmaceuticals were not the answer for me, although I tried many over the course of 3-5 years at great expense and with significant side effects. In fact, the only pharmaceutical I take now is one that I must take to prevent a flare of the ocular herpes I acquired while on a course of steroids. Sigh.

Because I was non-responsive to pharmaceutical interventions, all doctors except my ophthalmologist dismissed me as “not having autoimmune disease”. [For the record, my ophthalmologist shakes his head at this when he sees the evidence of autoimmunity in my eyes.] This dismissal, though, was a blessing, because it led me to explore other options for improving my health — options like submersing myself in a 95 degree salt-water therapy pool (which I highly recommend for those of you who are in the midst of a flare), practices like yoga and walking that allow my body to de-stress, habits like eating unprocessed foods that are free from gluten and dairy which often trigger symptoms in my body, and routines like seeing a therapist to learn how to more effectively deal with emotions.

And while I didn’t start this blog for the purpose of improving my health, it has had the unintended consequence of giving me a space to process so many of those emotions that little-girl-me felt, that soldier-me suppressed, that mom-me didn’t feel safe exploring. And, in the unearthing of these emotions, in the vulnerability of exposing them not only to whoever wants to read them, but more importantly to myself, I have created the space within my body to breathe.

And you’d be surprised the difference a little breath can make.

I’ve been learning about breathing since I started practicing yoga several years ago. At first I was like, what? we’re gonna just sit here and breathe? I was a former distance runner, if you remember, and I was used to pounding out 4-6 miles on a regular Tuesday, so this sitting still and breathing thing was very foreign. But, I was in a room full of people who were sitting there breathing, so … I breathed. Sitting still. For long periods of time. And, though I was unsure it was doing any good, I had to admit I felt better after yoga. And, I continue to practice yoga almost every morning for that reason.

But yesterday I took this breathing thing to the next level. A friend of mine, Lynnette Rasmussen, an experienced occupational therapist and PIlates instructor, was offering a virtual breathwork class and a handful of friends and I decided we would attend. I expected more relaxation but not much else.

I was surprised by the difference a little breath could make.

Lynnette guided us through an “ancient pranayama practice that uses an active 3 part breath that continues for 25-30 minutes, followed by a 10 minute relaxation” intended to “relax the mind and reach buried emotional or physical blocks and bring them to the surface.”

I was certainly unprepared for what I experienced — at first it was awkward, this weird breathing strategy, but then, once I found the rhythm, it was calming, and more natural, but then when we entered the relaxation — man, it takes great vulnerability to tell you this – I felt healing electricity coming through my hands as they rested on my body. I felt a deep understanding that God alone — not my practices, not pharmaceuticals, not pain clinics, not anything else — has the power to heal me. I rested on a yoga mat on the floor receiving any kind of healing that He had to offer me.

And that is what I have really wanted all my life — to receive the healing that only God can provide — and to accept that He will provide it in His time and in His way — not as I demand and not in a sense that I have to “believe to receive” but just in a way that He will surprise me with.

And over these last years, He has continuously surprised me — by closing medical doors, by tossing me in a warm salt water therapy pool, by showing me that my strength is not in a set jaw and a clenched fist but in vulnerability, by reminding me through a zoom room that He can, He is, and He will heal me day by day by day, sometimes with the simple power of breath.

I am overwhelmed by His grace.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, 21 to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen

Ephesians 3:20

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

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

Wins and Losses

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I lost some sleep last night— it’s not too atypical for me, a gal in her 50s, to be unable to sleep at night because a) I’ve got some losses on my brain I haven’t yet processed and b) while trying to distract myself from those unprocessed losses, I have stumbled into a particularly engaging murder mystery.

The coincidence, though, is that the book revolves around multiple losses! Somehow reading about fictional losses is preferable to thinking about the real ones I’ve witnessed in the past week.

I prefer to celebrate wins — I just finished the third week of the school year, and the wins are stacking up! The majority of my students have been consistently opting in to learning, the weather has been near perfection, our seniors (and some juniors) toured two colleges this past week, and my newest cohort of reading students is off to a great start!

There is so much to celebrate, but wins in every context are invariably set against an undeniable backdrop of loss. For example, in the last three weeks, our school, which routinely has a 90% staff retention rate, has lost one teacher each week. The first week, our newly hired freshman ELA teacher resigned to return to a district where he had previously been employed. The second week, a strong team member who has taught financial literacy to our students with her whole heart, left to pursue an administrative role in another district. And this week, perhaps the hardest hit of all, our long-time algebra and geometry teacher who has some of the strongest relationships in the building, announced that he is making a career move at the end of next week.

In a small school like ours, with just under 300 students, these blows hit hard. We are a family, after all. We all know each other by name. We razz each other in the hallway. We defend each other in the midst of chaos. We cheer each other on. We have each other’s backs.

And the loss is not only a blow to the morale of the staff, it is the latest in a string of losses for our students.

You may be tired of me saying it, but it is the reality I witness each day — many of my students have suffered deep, deep loss. Just this past week, I learned of a junior who lost her mother since school started and a senior whose grandmother died last week. Then Friday, one of my seniors stepped out of class to take a call during which he learned that his brother, who had been in critical condition, had just died! And these are not isolated cases. Each year — each and every year — I have had a student who has lost a parent. It seems each year I have also had a student who has lost a sibling. And last year, I even had a student who lost her own newborn child.

So imagine that you’re in your senior year, that you spent your freshman year in your bedroom peering into a zoom room on a chromebook that you didn’t quite yet know how to navigate, that you lost one or two or three close family members to Covid, that your family had to move one or two or three times within the last two to three years because they a) couldn’t afford the rent, b) got evicted, or c) had some other family trauma that necessitated a move, and then you show up to your senior year and notice that once a week a staff member disappears. How does one respond in the face of loss after loss after loss?

You might be overwhelmed. You might become depressed. Or, you might do whatever you have to do to survive — you might keep people at arm’s length, or you may put up an crusty exterior so that people don’t know you’re hurting.

I’ve seen that. I watched a girl all last fall defiantly walk out of classes, repeatedly (and sometimes aggressively) spar with classmates, and verbally challenge those who might dare to hold her accountable. She was a junior, but I knew her name because I had repeated hallway interactions with her.

“Where are you supposed to be, LaShay?”

“I’m goin’ to the bathroom.”

“Didn’t you just come from the bathroom?”

“Stop talkin to me.”

She was angry, it was obvious. And she was kind of hard to like, if I’m gonna be honest. And, I’ll admit, that when she was removed from the building and forced to do online learning after an incident that threatened the safety of others, I was a bit relieved. She was a high-flyer, constantly in need of redirection from not just me, but all of the members of the leadership and school culture teams.

When she showed up at the back to school fair a few weeks ago, with her younger sister, who had also been sent home due to the same incident, I swallowed hard and thought, Well, here we go. This time, she’s in my class..

Her sister sought me out, gave me a hug, and said, “Mrs. Rathje, we’re back!”

I hugged her, and said, “Great to see you! Is LaShay here?”

“She’s in the gym.”

“Let’s go find her,” I said.

I walked to the gym, found LaShay, walked up to her, smiled, and said, “Welcome back,” with the most genuine smile I could conjur. I was determined to start off on the right foot.

She side-eyed me, and then looked down.

“You’re with me this year, dear. I’m looking forward to it.”

Without answering, she walked away, to go talk to a friend on the other side of the gym.

The first week with LaShay was a little dicey. She showed up to class consistently a little late. She scrolled on her phone when everyone else in the class followed my direction to “stow phones during instruction,” and got a little huffy with me when I joined her for partner work when she refused to join anyone else.

But I persisted. I pointed out that her attendance had been perfect near the end of the second week, “even if you do tend to show up late,” I said.

“I don’t show up late. I’m here on time. I’m doing my best. My mom has cancer, and I’m the oldest. I gotta get myself and all my siblings together, but I get all of us here on time.”

There it was. My opportunity. I remembered a brief interchange from the year before when I learned that her mom was sick, when I asked her why she was crying in the hallway. She wasn’t crying now. She was, indeed, “together” and she and her siblings were consistently in the building.

“LaShay, I’m so sorry to hear that. I do see you in school every day. I was noticing that you are often late to my class, but I didn’t realize that you were the oldest or that your mother was still sick. You probably have a lot of responsibility right now.”

She looked at me and nodded.

“Ok. I can give you some grace, but I’m gonna ask you to do your best to get here by the bell. It’s something we are really working on this year. However, now that I know what’s going on, I will try to be understanding. Please let me know how I can support you.”

“Ok.” she said, and she got back to her work.

I’m gonna call that a win — a big win! — against a backdrop of devastating loss. She lost half a year in the building last year because of a dust up that was likely a response to the trauma of her mom being critically ill. She is losing some of her childhood and her innocence because she has to take on the mantle of responsibility during her mother’s illness. However, she is winning, because she is developing the skills to communicate her reality in a way that will help her get the understanding she needs.

It takes vulnerability to share with a teacher, one who has historically been on your case, that something is not right in your world. She couldn’t count on me responding like I did. She doesn’t know me that well. But she took the chance, and that’s a win.

On Friday afternoon, I got in my car, and drove to a football field in the heart of Detroit to work the gate at our team’s game. La Shay is a cheerleader — on top of everything else right now, she is claiming the opportunity to fully opt in to her senior year. In order to stay on the team, she will have to keep herself together, stay out of trouble, and represent the school well.

During half time, the cheerleaders came over to where I was standing with last year’s principal, who came to the game because even though she no longer works in our building, these are her babies. The girls took turns hugging their former principal, and I took the opportunity to move in closer.

“LaShay, come here,” I said as I waved her over, “Your principal needs to hear that you are killing it this year. That you’ve got perfect attendance and you’re completing your assignments!”

She beamed. The principal hugged her, encouraged her to keep it up, and hugged her again, saying, “I knew you would!”

Another win — and this girl could really use some wins right now.

Loss is the reality of life on the planet — the hits inevitably keep coming, so it’s important to not only process the loss, but to note the wins. I didn’t always do this. Because I was so frantically trying to create perfection, I didn’t leave the space to acknowledge, let alone grieve, loss. Instead, I defiantly moved forward, demanding those around me to join my pursuit of perfection, and because I was looking for perfection, I didn’t celebrate all the wins.. I lost a lot in those days — the tenderness I could have had in some of my most dear relationships, the opportunity to show the people I love the most the grace that they needed in their losses, and the opportunity to celebrate their wins. I wasn’t brave enough (or self-aware enough) at the time to be vulnerable — to communicate my reality in ways that get me the understanding that I needed.

But I’m brave enough now — brave enough to seek out a defiant young woman in a school gym and to take the chance at building a relationship with her, because she looks a lot like someone I used to be, and it seems she could use someone to help her learn to celebrate the wins that happen against the backdrop of loss.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

*One of the ways I celebrate student wins (and cushion losses) is by providing a steady stream of snacks, supplies, and prizes in my classroom. Many of you have contributed to my stockpile, and I am thankful for you! You make this work possible!

Not So Disappointing, a Retrospective

~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments

I sat down this weekend to write about our daughter’s wedding — to describe the setting, the food, and the ceremony, but what I ended up writing about is a personal miracle — one that no one else could see, one that caught me by surprise.

Over the nine (yes, NINE!) years that I have been writing this blog, I have been healing. At first, the healing I was looking for was physical; I didn’t know nine years ago that I also needed emotional healing. It seems ridiculous to me now that my frayed emotional health wasn’t yet obvious to me and that I didn’t yet understand the connection between my emotional and physical wellness.

Both physical and emotional healing have come over time and sometimes in waves. I’ve changed so much about my daily life — what I eat, how I move, where I get support, and who is on my team — but it seems that one of the most critical elements in my healing has been this writing — particularly my commitment to being brutally honest and admitting that I am broken.

It has been a hard but fruitful work — over the last nine years, we have seen not only improvements in my physical and mental health but also, perhaps consequentially, restoration in many relationships.

You might think that in nine years I would’ve worked through everything — every childhood hurt, every adult regret –but then, a major life event brings some old business to the surface. This happened in the lead up to our daughter’s wedding — several old hurts surfaced and a few new blows almost brought me to my knees.

Just a couple months ago, I wondered if the blows, being so recent, would render me incapable of fully enjoying the celebration. I was doubled over emotionally, protecting my vital organs. How could I struggle to my feet and gather the strength to host family in our home? How would I be able to simultaneously attend to my wounds, attend to the countless details of hosting, and also enjoy time with the people I love? It seemed very unlikely that I would be able to be present and observe the little (and big) miracles of the occasion.

I wasn’t expecting what happened.

In those doubled-over months, through some intensive therapy and some encouragement toward bravery, I found a new way. At first, it was just speaking the disappointment, actually saying “That is disappointing,” to people I had never said that to before. Just uttering those words felt liberating, but it wasn’t enough. If I truly wanted to move forward in a different way, I also had to identify what I needed from a few of my key relationships (not as easy as it sounds) and then make my expectations and needs very clearly known.

This was entirely new territory.

It seems that with a few key people in my life, and maybe more than a few key people, I have been so focused on not upsetting or disappointing the others that I have routinely and habitually swallowed my own disappointments, hurts, and desires. Not only was this pattern potentially harmful for my emotional and physical health, I also had to admit that it had severely limited the connections in those relationships.

I know, I know. I’m speaking in vagaries again, and you need me to put some flesh on it. Let me give one example.

Imagine a seven year old girl getting tucked in by her dad at night. He sits on the edge of her twin bed, letting her know that he is going away for business. He says it won’t be long before he buys a home in that other state and moves her, her siblings, and her mom to be with him. She beams with excitement. She loves her dad, and when he has a plan, it always works out good.

But, as devastations go, this is a big one. The family falls apart. The dad moves to the other state, and the rest of the family stays put and begins a different kind of reality that isn’t always great. But that little girl, whenever she talks to her dad — on the phone or in person — stays frozen in that seven-year-old desire to be excited, to tell him the good news, to please him, to make him happy. Even when it’s clear that his focus has shifted to a new family, to a new reality that doesn’t include her, she still tries to elbow her way in, to find a space, to stay connected. But she does so on eggshells, not wanting to upset or disappoint in any way.

Here’s the thing though — when you walk on eggshells in relationships, other people never get to hear or recognize the sound of your footsteps. They can’t know the full you if they can’t hear your full voice, but when you are used to using the voice of a seven year old, it isn’t easy to start using the voice of a grown-ass adult, even when you are comfortable doing so in most other areas of your life.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, this pattern revealed itself in a handful of relationships where I was too afraid of disappointing to use my full voice, to say how I was actually feeling. The only way forward was to step into my adulthood — to voice my disappointments, my desires, and my needs. I took a chance. And once I got started, the liberation was intoxicating. I started showing up as my full self in all of my relationships. This year. Last month. At FIFTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.

I wasn’t hurtful, or spiteful, or accusatory. I was just honest. This is how I feel actually — how I’ve always felt. And [most of] the people who love me heard me.

“I can see why you would feel that way.”

“You’re right; that happened. I’m sorry.”

More importantly, I heard me. I sounded confident and strong in relationships where I had long been functioning in some ways as a scared little girl.

I wasn’t expecting my spine to straighten. I wasn’t expecting my heart to open wider. I wasn’t expecting my insecurities to start dropping to the floor. And I sure wasn’t expecting to fully enjoy three weeks of house guests lounging in our family room, sitting on our patio, laughing, working through logistical details, cooperating, supporting, and caring for one another.

I wasn’t expecting myself to be so free.

And I sure wasn’t expecting the freedom I felt on the actual wedding day — the freedom to greet dozens of family members, to do the chicken dance and a very pedestrian version of the bachata, to speak Spanish in one sentence and English in the next, to be fine with the ceremony starting over 30 minutes late (“we’re on island time after all!”), to be grateful that guests were willing to run out to buy more ice, to manage minor disappointments and to celebrate — fully celebrate– all the healing that has happened in our immediate and extended family over the last many years.

Because that is what I saw, friends, I saw once-invisible family members finally get a seat at the table. I saw those who had felt ashamed step into grace. I saw once-strangers embracing, dancing, laughing. Even for a girl with an insufferable belief in restoration, this day was breathtaking.

It wasn’t perfect, because life is not perfect, and I didn’t try to take ownership of the imperfections. I didn’t try to fix them. I observed them for what they are and then went back to embracing, dancing, and laughing.

I celebrated the fact that God had used the pain of the last several months to free me, to restore me, to allow me to see and enjoy all He has restored.

Guys, the wedding was great. It was beautiful. It was a stage to display the miraculous. And I am so, so thankful.

And He who sits on the throne said, ‘Behold I am making all things new’.”

Revelation 21:5

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 body in motion….A body at rest

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

It must be some law of physics that when an object in motion that is staying in motion finally has an opportunity to stop.freaking.being.in.motion it takes some time to transition.

I’m no scientist — obviously — but I observed myself over the past week attempting to move from the fast-paced, repetitive, intentional, and hectic rhythm of the school year into a more relaxed, spontaneous, restfulness of summer, and I must report that the shift has not been sudden.

If you are familiar with this blog (or if you know me at all), you know that movement, action, doing, soldiering have been a comfort to me, and slowing down, being still, and resting often come only when I am plunked down unwillingly due to health concerns.

I have been trying to find a different way for going on ten years now, and my intention leading up to the last day of school was to slow down, be silent, and allow myself the time and space I needed to thoroughly and actually unpack and tend to the recent re-opening of an old wound I’ve been covering up for the past several weeks. Certainly, I thought, when school is done, I will have the time and capacity to let this thing air out, to let new flesh form, to find a new way forward.

But, motion staying in motion as it does, and me being the habitual soldier that I am, it took me about six days to find myself plunked down, packed in ice, and submissive to my need for rest.

I’ll pause to let you shake your head and roll your eyes.

Between last Friday and this Thursday, I deep cleaned a bathroom (it really needed it!), purged a bedroom (the closet and drawers were crammed full!), and organized an office (I hadn’t seen the top of my desk in weeks!). I also visited two thrift stores — more to let go than to pick up– washed who knows how many loads of laundry, drove back to school for one in-person interview, and bought shoes for my daughter’s wedding.

I was still going pretty strong when I arrived at my therapy session Wednesday night, peeled back the bandages a bit, and began to verbalize the newly forming diagnosis. Despite my busy-ness, I had been able, over the past several days, to, through writing and processing time, identify the present issues that were connected to more life-long issues. It was liberating for me — I was putting words to some of the suppressed thoughts I have for decades. I was able to recognize how I had internalized beliefs about myself based on my perceptions of the actions of others. I was able to identify that my strategies for protecting myself — my busy-ness, kicking butts and taking names, being defensive — have not served me and have in fact kept me from being honest with those most dear to me. As these realizations flew out of my mouth, I saw them hit the other family member in the room, and I noticed the pain of their realization.

I felt lighter having released the burden into the air, but I had to acknowledge that the burden found another place to land, at least for a while.

After some dinner, I slept deeply, and awoke with the intention of working in the garden, taking a walk, and making a meal. I was going to keep on going!

I got up, put a little writing on the page, and moved to my yoga practice. About fifteen minutes in, I felt a twinge inside my right hip (my personal Achille’s heel) and thought, Huh, I was just moving out of child’s pose. What happened? Maybe it’ll adjust as I keep moving.

I cautiously finished my flow, ate a little breakfast, and headed to the garden. By this point, my hip was stiffening, my movements were slowing, and my right arm, which has been lately screaming “tendonitis, tendonitis” increased its pitch and volume. Nevertheless, I slowly moved through the front half of the garden, pulling weeds and reseeding carrots and beets. I harvested some rhubarb and then said to myself, Ok, that’s enough.

I put away my tools and switched into my walking shoes, resolved to get in my steps with a two mile walk.

Stop looking at me like that!

I slowly walked the two miles, listening to a podcast and enjoying the sun, and when I returned home, I crawled into an epsom salt bath.

And that is when I realized that I was depleted. From the bath, I crawled to my bed and read for a while, then I found the energy to slowly and methodically prepare the foods I had pictured for dinner — potato salad, rhubarb crisp, a garden salad, and some wings.

By the time my husband had grilled the wings and we had sat down at our patio table, I was ready to admit that my body was in distress. I was completely exhausted, all my joints hurt, and I was having difficulty finding words to sustain a conversation. We didn’t finish the wings, and I wasn’t even interested in the rhubarb crisp.

Having been here before, it didn’t take us long to realize I needed tot be packed in ice. So while he cleaned up from dinner, I grabbed the packs and moved to the couch. I pulled on a sweatshirt, covered myself in a blanket, and placed packs at my back, my hip, my neck, and my arm, and slowly I started to feel relief.

That was Thursday. Since then, I haven’t done much but sit, take another epsom salt bath, ice again, eat as cleanly and freshly as possible, and forget about my need to meet a step goal. It’s just not gonna happen for a couple of days.

This body is at rest, and apparently, it wants to stay here.

It’s what I’ve been needing, and I’ve known it.

It just took this body, which was in motion, a little while to stop being in motion. We’ll see how long it is comfortable with staying at rest.

In repentance and rest is your salvation. In quietness and trust is your strength.

Isaiah 30:15