Category: healing

Embracing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I’m here for it.

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

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

I was totally into that hug.

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

And I trusted that; I leaned in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Different Kind of Summer

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I went back to work this past week after what was a very unusual summer — a summer that started with a week of dish washing in the desert of Arizona, transitioned to supporting some of our parents through their health crises, included my 40th high school class reunion, and ended with me transitioning into a new position at my school.

It was such an unusual summer that my suitcase stayed in some state of “packed” for the entirety of June and July, our garden was given over to monstrous intertwined vines of squash and cantaloupe bordered by overgrown rhubarb and zucchini, and I was rarely able to move my writing from my morning pages– scribbles of to-dos and emotion — to anything resembling a blog. My regular rhythms were disrupted.

It probably needed to happen — this season of go with the flow that included so many trips up and down the state of Michigan — which is breathtakingly beautiful in the summer — lazy hours on the beach, playtime with our granddaughters, laughter with former classmates, dozens of phone calls with parents and siblings, and a looser hold on all the anchors I’ve been gripping for years in my physical recovery — regimented bed times, a consistent morning routine, strict dietary guidelines, and a deep commitment to not only writing every day but also posting every week.

I think I needed this summer’s less-regimented experience to see that a looser grip is ok. I can relax a little bit. If I generally follow the routines that I have found work best to keep my inflammation and pain at bay, I can veer off that path from time to time and be fine. I’ve been a little afraid of that since I’ve been dealing with autoimmunity — afraid that if I don’t do everything correctly, I’ll end up in a flare. It’s a valid fear, because that sometimes happens (and it did happen a couple of times this summer), but holding too tightly to systems and regimens can also cause the anxiety that might lead to a flare. Maybe, I’m learning, taking a breath and veering off the path for a moment can be ok.

Because I veered off the path, I had countless hours with my mother as she cleaned, organized, and prepared her home for my stepfather’s return from an extended hospital stay. I had the opportunity — many times — to sit in my stepfather’s hospital room — witnessing his vulnerability, providing some consistent communication (even if I got on his nerves a bit), and watching him become someone I didn’t recognize, and then, someone that I did. I had time with my in-laws who are also navigating difficult waters — joking a little with my father-in-law and sharing some private moments with my mother-in-law. We enjoyed a few precious days with our granddaughters, feeding alpacas and goats, walking to playgrounds, watching movies, and reading stories until we heard, “I’m so tired, can we go to bed now.” Finally, my husband and I enjoyed four quiet days away — alone, just the two of us — to explore nature, breathe clean air, and celebrate the miracle of thirty-four years of marriage.

I didn’t get every weed out of the garden. I didn’t, as I’d hoped, dive back into The Artist’s Way, and I didn’t meet my writing goals, but I logged so many memories that I will be carrying with me as I head into the school year.

This summer was all about remaining flexible — going with the flow, changing plans at the last minute, missing a day or two of yoga, living without a decent cup of tea once in a while, staying up a little later, getting up a little earlier, and being mostly ok.

And, when I haven’t been ok, I’ve used the tools I’ve learned over the last ten years to recover — epsom salt baths, lots of water, ice packs, Motrin, and rest.

I know the value of staying on the path, I’m learning the richness of wandering away from time to time, and I know the potential outcomes of both ways.

I’m mostly back on the straight and narrow; I need to be as I learn my new role at school — more on that next time.

Ten Years Later #8 Low Batt.

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

After writing White Flag Warning! earlier this week, I was scrolling through some old posts when I saw this one from early 2016 that reminded me how far I have come in my health journey. Where now I might end up on the couch once every few months, I used to end up there almost daily. The reason why I am doing so much better is exactly what I mentioned on Monday — my life style routines which include not only dietary choices and exercise and regular visits to a variety of practitioners but also regular attention to how much battery life I have and what kinds of things help me recharge.

In 2003, Christine Miserandino explained chronic illness to a friend in terms that are now widely referred to as “The Spoon Theory”, see it here.  Since that time, people like me, who have chronic illness, have been thankful to have a way to more accurately describe what it feels like to be totally depleted, or “out of spoons”.

We were away this past weekend at a basketball tournament in Chicago, and, having used all of my spoons, I shared the analogy with my husband. I told the story, as best I could remember it, and he said, “Hm. I like the analogy.  I get how spoons can carry, or hold, energy.”  Yesterday I was talking with my daughter after almost two days of trying to replenish my store of spoons. She was trying to understand how a whirlwind trip to Chicago took me out of commission for most of two days. My husband prompted me to share the spoon theory with her. I did. She said, “so can you store up spoons in advance?” I replied, “No. You can borrow some from the future, but you’ve got to pay them back. That’s what I’m doing now.”

So, if you got this far without clicking on the link above, you are probably scratching your head and trying to decide whether or not you are going to continue reading this cryptic post or if you are just going to close the window. If you clicked and saw the page-long “spoon theory” you might have said, “Well, I’m not gonna read all that and this blog post.” I know. That’s why in the past three or four years I have only shared the spoon theory a half a dozen times. It’s an effective analogy, yes. But it takes some explaining.

So, I was going through my motions this morning thinking to myself, “is there a more accessible way to convey how I am feeling?” I mean, people with chronic invisible illness find themselves in this position rather often. People look at us and think, “She looks alright to me!” They don’t understand when we “can’t” stay to watch the second round of games in the tournament because we have to go sleep. They don’t understand why we always make plans “tentatively” because we might feel like crap on that day. They wonder why we didn’t make it to Bible study in the morning, but we were able to teach a class in the afternoon.

Maybe we could think of it in terms of limited battery life. We all carry devices around with us wherever we go, don’t we? They all rely on batteries. To make sure that our devices are functional all day long, we plug them in every night at our bedside. Some of us have chargers in our cars. In many public places — airports, malls, libraries –we can now find charging stations. We push our devices to their limits. They get depleted; we have to plug them back in or they will be rendered useless.

Most people have internal “batteries” that can keep them running for twelve to fourteen hours with a minimal recharge sometime during the day. They might be up and out the door before seven, sipping a cuppa joe on the way to work. They might need a brief pause around 10 o’clock and some kind of a lunch break, but then they are good to go for the rest of the day. They might even have enough battery life left to get dinner with friends or attend a play or a concert in the evening. In fact, they can keep up this pace day after day and even get away on the weekend occasionally without fully depleting their battery life.

Not me. Not any of us with chronic illness. Our batteries have been rendered less effective. I might have up to eight hours of battery life per day. If I start off at 7 am and don’t take a break, I will almost certainly be done and in my pajamas at 3 pm. So, I don’t usually function that way. I use 20% of my battery, then I sit down and try to ‘re-charge’. I may get 5-10% back if I sit down, put my feet up, have a cup of tea, or close my eyes.  In that way, I s-t-r-e-t-c-h eight hours of battery life into twelve to fourteen hours of wakefulness, if not usefulness.

Occasionally, I throw all caution to the wind and decide that I am going to take a chance, push my battery to the limits, attend a basketball tournament out of state, and suffer the consequences. That’s what I did this last weekend.  I had already had a pretty busy week — I had tutored twelve hours, taught the first two classes of the semester, arranged for doggy care, done laundry, tidied the house, purchased new jeans, and packed — before we woke at 5:30am to prepare for a journey to Chicago that would begin at 7am. We arrived in Chicago around 11am CST, found the gym, got some lunch, then watched two basketball games. Of course we “sat” at the top of the student section, so, because they stood for the whole two games, we stood for the whole two games. All of this was a physical drain on my batteries. And then there was the emotional drain. All emotion drains battery life — positive and negative. While at this tournament, I saw many former students and some former colleagues. There was so much hugging and smiling! I loved it, but it drained me. By the time we headed back to the hotel at 5pm, I was done. I put on my pajamas, crawled in bed, and began to read student papers. (Yes, I realize that I said I was done and then I continued to do more — I’m telling you, I threw caution to the wind!) My husband and the others went out to get food. When he got back, I had barely enough energy to chew. I ate my dinner, then fell asleep before one episode of “Modern Family” could play out.

Then I slept for TWELVE HOURS.

We got up at 8:30am, grabbed a quick breakfast and headed back to the gym for more reunions, more hugging, more standing, more yelling, and more cheering — four games worth! Then, at 9:30pm, we started the trek back to Ann Arbor. Since my husband was driving the van following two charter busses full of students, I wanted to stay awake to keep him awake and alert. So, we drank caffeine at 10pm and chugged along. It was like I had purchased an external battery pack. I was wide awake on purpose. We blared music and sang. We talked and laughed. Finally, at 2:15am, we arrived home. Of course I couldn’t go straight to sleep. I had to run out that external battery, which was, of course, disposable, not renewable.

I found that out halfway through my sleep, if you can call it that. Having depleted all of my own battery, and the external battery, my body didn’t even have enough energy to sleep. It started to scream from the inside out — a burning sensation filled my gut, my joints ached. No position was comfortable. I thought I would have to run to the bathroom to be sick.

Have you ever run your phone battery down so low that the phone actually shuts off? When you first plug it in, you get that image of a battery with a thin red line showing the depravity of life you have allowed your phone to deplete to? Guys, I had a screaming red line.

For all of Sunday I whimpered, whined, and convalesced while my husband, dear man that he is, carried my charge cord around and kept plugging it in — he brought me scrambled eggs and toast, which at first I couldn’t even eat; he ran me an epsom salt bath, which I gladly soaked in for an hour; he brought me tea, and water, and ice; he watched a movie with me; he endured an emotional meltdown; he encouraged me to go to bed at 7:30pm.

Then I slept for TWELVE HOURS. AGAIN.

It’s now Tuesday morning, and I’m pretty sure my battery is at about 70%. I’m gonna go amble off to the gym, hobble onto the treadmill for a few minutes, then sit in the jacuzzi. After that ‘workout’, I will meet with three students and prepare for tomorrow’s class. I hope I still have 15-20% left at 7:30pm so that I can sit in on a board meeting conference call.

But if not, I’ll just have to crawl into bed and sleep some more. That’s the price of throwing caution to the wind when you have limited battery life.

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Isaiah 40:29

White Flag Alert!

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Well, you probably could have called this one.

That’s right — my body started waving a white flag. Not insistently, not wailing in pain or gasping for breath, but nevertheless, waving that flag. I was leaving one parent and driving to the next before a planned holiday celebration with another relative when I first felt a tapping on my shoulder, heard a subtle clearing of the throat, and then turned to see it — the small square of white moving back and forth in my periphery.

I waved it away — I had one more stop before I arrived at fun, and I was determined to get there.

That “stop” was not glorious — it involved some demanding (from me), some literal bile (from the patient), some apologizing (from me), and some explaining (from the medical personnel).

Sigh.

I stayed until the situation was resolved then climbed back into my vehicle which has seen a lot more of me lately than is typical. “Come on, Tina Turner,” I said to my smoking hot Cayenne Chevy Trax, “let’s find some coffee and get to the fun.”

Now, some of you who have been following along just felt an involuntary raise of your eyebrow. Coffee? you ask. I thought you don’t drink coffee because it interferes with your homeopathic medicines.

Sssshhh! I’m enjoying my delicious oat milk latte over here!

Sure, I should’ve been chugging more water, doing some breathing exercises, and finding other ways to offload some cortisol, but wouldn’t you prefer an overly priced coffee beverage, too?

I have been slipping away from my regimented life just a bit as of late. Sure, I had intentions of getting back on my Artist’s Way journey — reading and writing every morning and taking artist dates. Yes, it’s summer and I have a break from my school workload and the freedom to implement routines. But, starting the summer off with a trip followed by multiple shorter trips to my parents’ has probably created a little space in which I could choose routine or impulsivity.

And, when left to my own devices, I am probably going to be impulsive. When my sister-in-law texted to see if we wanted to join them for dinner at the local Mexican place, my mother and I said “Of course!” When my brothers ordered oversized Margaritas, I did too! When I drove past a Starbucks, I pulled right in and got my fix! These things might seem small — a margarita here, a cup of coffee there, but when combined with the added stress of family illness, and some inconsistent sleep patterns, a person like me is probably going to get a few symptoms. And, typically when I get a symptom or two, the best way to resolve it is to head to the couch.

I’ve written a lot about my time on the couch as a person who lives with autoimmune disease, but I imagine every body has its limit and is prone to admit surrender if pushed too far.

We do demand a lot. We expect our bodies to be able to work, exercise, shop, garden, socialize, support our family and friends, and still put a meal on the table most nights. And, our bodies, amazing as they are, typically step up to the task and deliver — day after day after day. They can handle stressors such as difficult seasons at work, typical family crises, and other breaks in routine without much difficulty, but even for healthy bodies, stressors can accumulate and force us to take rest.

But when I initially saw that white flag, I was not interested in rest. I wanted to have some fun. So, clutching my steaming drink, I finished my drive to the destination, walked in the house, and settled in with my brother- and sister-in-law. We’d had this celebration scheduled for a while, and I had been looking forward to it. We chatted and caught up, we ate delicious (as usual) food, we played a game, we drank wine, we stayed up late, and I woke up in the morning with a big white flag waving over my bed.

“Fine,” I said. “Gimme a minute.”

I crawled out of bed, did a little yoga, grabbed my phone and headed out on a short walk. I checked in with my parents, then, dialed the number of my primary care physician. I gave the symptoms and the person on the other end of the phone said a nurse would call me back.

I glared at the dude with the white flag, “You happy now?”

He receded from my view, and I headed back to fun — coffee tasting, a delicious breakfast, more chatting and laughing, and then back to Tina Turner and another hour in the car.

When I arrived home, I took care of a few responsibilities and was headed out for another walk when my phone rang. It was the nurse asking to review my symptoms. She ordered antibiotics, extra fluids, and — of course — rest.

And that’s what I did all weekend.

It is annoying to be sidelined, of course, but it is also a good reminder. I have routines and rules because they keep me feeling well. They keep me healthy and able to manage the everyday demands and — usually — the unexpected stressors that often show up in life.

It’s really not unreasonable to get regular sleep, eat a healthy diet, get a little exercise each day, and avoid the foods and beverages that tend to give you a little trouble. And, for the last many years, I have — with a few diversions off the path — been following a pretty regimented life course in order to stay healthy. When I veer off the path too far, I get a weekend like this to remind me to get back to it.

Now, I’m not saying I’m not gonna occasionally enjoy an oat milk latte — I mean, I found the best one ever midway between my house and my parents’ house –nor am I going to always turn down a margarita — despite the excessive amount of sugar contained therein — but I am going to be mindful of the accumulative effect of these choices, particularly when I am managing more than typical amounts of stress.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? When we are under stress, we want our historical comforts — ice cream, peanut butter and jelly, warm coffee, a drink with friends or family — and they can, ironically, make us feel “cared for”. And really, I’m not at all saying those things are wrong. In fact, during times of stress, we should care for and even treat ourselves. We just have to remember how our body responds to stress and what it needs to stay healthy.

For me that means a lot of routine: water, daily vitamins and supplements, a probiotic, green (and occasional black) tea, a gluten-free/dairy-free diet, daily exercise including yoga and walking, writing, reading, and plenty of rest.

So, I’ve been spending a few days lying around, dabbling in the garden, eating fresh fruit and veggies, drinking a small amount of tea, watching movies and reading books, and my body is recovering. It’s taking a little longer than I’d hoped, but I’ll be ready to roll again pretty soon.

And hopefully, when I get rolling, I’ll stay on course for a while — and my oat milk latte can continue to be a treat.

Shhhh! A girl needs at least one extravagance every now and again.

Role Reversal

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Since I returned from my stint as dishwasher during A Week in the Desert, I’ve been leaning into another role — that of daughter. Of all the positions I’ve held in my life, I’ve held this one the longest. I’ve been a daughter since the day I was born, but the role today looks nothing like it looked on that first day.

On day one, I was totally helpless and in need of almost continuous 24 hour care. I was the third of four, so by the time I showed up on the scene, my mom and dad already had a two year old and a four year old to tend to, but somehow they found a way to protect, feed, diaper, rock, clothe, and otherwise care for me in those early days.

And their work became a gradual release of responsibility — to show the four of us how to move through life without harming ourselves, to teach us first how to eat solid foods and eventually how to prepare them ourselves, to manage our own personal hygiene, to find our own ways to deal with the challenges and disappointments of the world, to find, make, or buy our own clothing, and to eventually care for ourselves and then the others in our lives.

And in these last few years, our responsibilities have shifted our gaze back to where we began.

This is the way of life, of course. Many of us get the opportunity to parent our own children, to move them through the phases of less and less dependency on us, and some of us also get an opportunity to witness our parents as they gradually lose their independence and need us to step back into their lives to lend a hand.

We are there right now, and although our parents appreciate our willingness to step back in, it is not without some annoyance at their need. Last week, after we returned from Arizona, I made my way first to the hospital to check on my stepfather who had had a major surgery and was in the beginning stages of recovery. He wanted me to visit, but he also wanted me to leave. I can’t get inside his mind, but I can see that he is rather helpless — dependent on hospital staff to bring him ice chips, to help him move from the bed to the chair, and to change his dressings. He didn’t likely see this for himself — he didn’t see cancer, surgery, or an extended hospital stay, and I can tell he’s not a fan. He has never minded others making him food or refilling his drinks, but being in this compromised situation is somewhat humiliating, somewhat depressing. So, as I check in, I remind myself to be kind, to be respectful, and to help where I can, and I have do things I’ve never had to do before. I have to tell him what day it is, remind him that he won’t be going home for a while, assure him that I will go care for my mother.

He reaches for my hand as I leave — this one who’s never been super emotionally demonstrative — and I promise him that I will call, that I will be back in a few days.

I leave and drive to my mother’s, watch her take the rollers out her hair and apply lipstick, stand closely when she makes her way down the stairs, help her into the car, buckle her seat belt, walk slowly beside her when we enter a store, move away to give her some freedom, but stay close enough to make sure she is safe. While she appreciates me being there, she does not like to role shift. She has been fiercely independent even during times when her ability to be so was quite limited, so to depend on her children — the very ones who she has spent her life fighting to provide for — is quite uncomfortable.

But depend on us she must. Because of her limited vision, she can no longer drive, yet she has myriad doctor appointments and her husband is an hour away in the hospital and will likely be there for a couple more weeks. We take turns showing up — fixing things around the house, vacuuming the floors, driving her to appointments, helping pay the bills.

She thanks us over and over and over, and sometimes she says, “Now go home. You have your own things to do. I am fine,” but as she says them, she seems a little unsteady on her feet, a little weary, a little unsure.

Nevertheless, I leave. I drive back to the hospital. I sit next to my stepfather as he swallows the ice chips he’s been allowed for the hour. I find his phone charger. I listen to his nurse detail his progress and the goals they want him to meet before he is discharged to rehab. I sit next to him as one of the Bourne movies plays silently on the wall-mounted television. I hear his roommate snoring. Then, as I stand to leave, he reaches for my hand.

I promise to call. I assure him that my brothers are checking on our mom. I say I’ll be back in a few days. I walk away.

Back in my car, I call my mother to see if she’s taken her medication, to give her an update on my stepfather, her husband. I admit I’ve walked away with her charge card in my wallet. I promise to be back in a few days.

She thanks me over and over and over, and I finish driving home.

And today, I’m headed back — first to the hospital, then to my mother’s house.

It’s a gradual re-connecting. It’s beginning to hold more tightly to what was once let go.

She sees it as a burden. I see it as a privilege.

Not everyone gets to place a warm flaxseed pillow behind their 82 year old mother’s neck. Not everyone gets to clip the fingernails of a stepfather who has been at times annoying, disappointing, and problematic but nevertheless present throughout my life.

I’ve been building muscle for this role my whole life, and I’m thankful to have the strength to show up now.

Honor your mother and [step]father… Exodus 20:12

A Week in the Desert

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I’ve spent this week in the desert — the literal desert.

My husband, who is both an ordained pastor and a licensed therapist, is serving this week at Shepherd’s Canyon Retreat, outside Phoenix, Arizona. SCR is an organization that exists to assist Christian ministry leaders who are navigating a season of difficulty. Several times a year, eight participants come to the retreat and are served by a chaplain and two therapists who guide the participants through group, individual, and couples therapy.

Why am I here? Well, the chaplain and the therapists are allowed to bring a spouse for the week! When my husband suggested I come with him, I was thinking, that is the first week after school dismisses! Wouldn’t it be great to escape to the desert to read, write, and recover from the school year? I can sit poolside, and simply let my body heal from the strain of the year. Great plan, right?

I thought so, too!

About a month before our scheduled arrival, we received an email that asked if I’d be willing, while here at the retreat center, to volunteer in the kitchen. Well, I thought, I will be eating everyday, of course, and even if I were at home, I would have to spend some time in the kitchen — cooking, doing dishes — and really, I reasoned, I don’t mind helping out a little each day. So, I responded to the email, “Of course, I’ll help! I love washing dishes!” And, I do! I really do love the rhythm and the industry of bringing order to post-meal chaos.

So, last Monday, we left our home at 4am EST, traveled to the airport, boarded our flight, stopped off for a change in aircraft, then landed in Phoenix many hours later. From there, we were picked up in a van and driven another hour, past mountains and hundreds of enormous saguaro cacti to a small town where we stopped to eat and gather whatever snacks and provisions we would need while staying — in the middle of the desert — at the ranch for the next week. Finally, about thirteen hours after we left our home, we arrived at the retreat center, were shown our rooms, and received some orienting information about where to go for meals, how to use the in-room humidifier, and why drinking water is so important.

Then, a little before dinner time, as I had been directed, I arrived at the kitchen and received my initiation to the crew. I was kind of in a dazed stupor, since we had been awake for over 16 hours by that time, but I followed directions, did as I was told, and even learned how to operate the kitchen’s dishwasher. When I walked away from the kitchen a couple of hours later, soaked to the skin across my belly and noticing the raisin-like quality of my fingers, it became clear to me what I had signed up for.

It took me a minute to adjust my vision of what the week would hold, but it wasn’t difficult. While I wasn’t really ever in the same room with the participants, I saw them coming and going from the dining room. I didn’t know any of them, but I saw familiarity. I saw clergy, missionaries, and other professional church workers who looked as I have looked in the past — weary and perhaps a little wary about what this week held for them.

I briefly flashed back to seasons in our lives when we could have used a week away in the desert, where someone else planned and prepared our meals, where we left dishes sitting on the table for someone else to clear, where snacks were mysteriously restocked, and refrigerators were continuously filled with cold drink. More than once in our lives of ministry, we would’ve benefitted from getting away from it all with some trained professionals who might’ve helped us navigate the unthinkable, process the traumatic, and begin to heal what Ann Voskamp calls our “unspoken broken”. Because of the careful confidentiality SCR practices, I don’t know the names of the participants or, of course, the issues they are navigating, but I do know that most professional church workers suffer from overwork and unreasonable expectations and many have been betrayed by their leadership, suffered personal family trauma that they don’t feel they can process in the public eye, or are journeying through their own personal struggles with mental or physical health.

The five of us in the kitchen, two paid staff members (both professional church workers), and three volunteers (all of us educators and two of us pastor’s wives), remarked early in the week that each of us have “been there”, and then got busy with the task at hand, preparing and presenting meals, and attending to the associated housekeeping tasks — dishwashing, packaging leftovers, vacuuming floors, and quietly attending to the needs of the participants.

After each “shift”, I would escape to my previously scheduled activities — daily journaling, re-engaging with The Artist’s Way, sitting poolside, reading an enormous novel, and taking daily dips in the pool. Then, I would make my way back to the kitchen, to join my “crew”. Together we chopped vegetables, arranged beautiful salads, poured condiments, and told stories about our lives. One has partnered with her husband in camp ministry for almost forty years, and it shows. She has endless cheer and positivity and a tireless ability to pivot when the propane tank runs out of gas before breakfast, when five of the week’s participants have specific dietary challenges, when there is no way that the baked potatoes will be ready to serve on time. Another has also spent her career in camp ministry and is one of those people who can chat about the difficulties of her life while browning ground beef or making French toast, and then stop everything she’s doing to show you a photo of the most beautiful sunset she’s seen in her months here in the desert or to tell you about the local movie theater’s habit of showing cowboy or alien movies on Tuesday nights. One woman joined us this week just because she loves the place. She paid her own airfare to come from Alaska and sleep in a camping trailer for two weeks, helping out in the kitchen for almost every meal. Another is the wife of the chaplain for the week. She not only worked in the kitchen three meals a day but made it her job to walk around in the the heat (of the desert) with a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing down any chair or bench that had become soiled.

Over the week, we have worked as a team, learning little known facts about Alaska, sharing stories of foods we like (or don’t like) to make, and laughing at one another’s silliness, and mostly making sure that the participants got what they needed when they needed it.

And, (you might have seen this coming), I got what I needed, too. When I was explaining to my colleagues that I was going to Arizona the week after school let out, I said I was looking forward to the abrupt transition into summer, a break in my school year routine, and an opportunity to detach from reality a bit. I got all of that, and I got another thing that I almost always need — a sense of purpose, of mission, of teamwork, of collaboration.

Even more, I’m walking away with some new lifelong friends — my kitchen crew — may we meet again, here or elsewhere.

‘Come away with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” Mark 6:31

*If you or someone you know is a ministry leader navigating a personal, family, or ministry challenge, check out Shepherd’s Canyon Retreats.

**If you’d like to support this ministry, check out their latest newsletter for current needs.

Gem of the Week: Netta*

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

My first impressions of Netta are fragmented. Hers was a name on my roster that I rarely marked present.

When she did show up during the first quarter, it was hard to get a read on her. At times she seemed withdrawn, introverted, like she preferred to be left alone. She sat in the back, by herself, and I didn’t often hear her speak. In fact, the sounds I usually heard from her were the sounds of deep contented sleep — the rhythmic breathing that is not easily disturbed, the kind that causes others around her to turn and look, to say, “Man, she is knocked out!”

I stopped fighting the sleep battle long ago. I have no idea what is going on with my students outside of my classroom, so if I nudge them once and encourage them to “come on, you’re here, you might as well get something for your efforts,” and I get no response, I am prone to let them sleep. Maybe it’s the only rest they’ll get today.

So, Netta was a show up once a week kind of gal who often spent that day in slumber, face pressed against the desk, eyes closed behind the very thick coke-bottle lenses of her glasses.

I didn’t know her well, but I got the impression that she wasn’t a meek, shy, introvert. No, she seemed more like a sleeping bear — completely content if left alone, but disturbed? You’d better run for your life.

Every so often during that first quarter, she would blow into the building like a force. Her hair would be done, her clothing would be intentional, she would sit up straight in class, she would feverishly take notes, and she would demand that I answer her questions about the assignment, never mind that she had missed the last two weeks of school.

It didn’t make sense to me. Why such apathy followed by such intentionality. Then I heard the rumor that Netta’s probation officer was scheduled to show up on that particular day, and Netta was going to make sure to leave a good impression.

I never did see the probation officer, and Netta reverted to her status quo.

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have my hackles up just a little bit every time she showed up. The fact that she was often reserved coupled with the fact that she could occasionally show up like it was game day put me off balance, and occasionally I’d see her — rather hear her — move through the hallway, strings of expletives bursting from her like machine gun fire. I presumed, if provoked, she could tear me to shreds. I wasn’t planning to provoke her, but I couldn’t be sure no one else would. So, I was often just a little hyper-vigilant when she came to class during that first quarter.

For some reason, she showed up on the first day of the second quarter, the day that I characteristically give each student a printed summary of their academic performance so far. It’s a simple sheet from PowerSchool that lists the student’s current grade, how many assignments they completed, how many times the student was tardy, and how many times the student was absent. I do this to provide information to my students — to allow them space to reflect — but also to reward what I have seen. If they have earned an A or a B, if they have had fewer than two tardies or fewer than two absences, I give them a “Rathje Ticket” that they can use to purchase items from my class store.

On this particular day, I was calling special attention to students who had been chronically absent — who had more than two absences per month for the first quarter. Raising attendance has been my classroom goal this year, and although attendance had definitely improved from previous years, students like Netta still had a way to go. So, because she was in class on that day, I handed her the report that I had marked with yellow highlighter, showing her double-digit absences and noting that she had been “chronically absent.”

Netta, typically quiet [or sleeping] Netta, said quite loudly, “Mrs. Rathje, this is terrible! Imma do better.”

And do you know what? She did.

She started coming to class, just in time for the unit on personal narratives. I wanted students to show themselves in a scene or several scenes that revealed to the reader who they were, what was important to them, or what their strengths were.

Netta dove in. In fact, she asked to move to the front row, smack-dab in the middle. She read the models I provided. She did the brainstorming, she chose a prompt, and she began to write.

I can see her now, totally honed in, bent over her desk, face inches away from the paper as she wrote and wrote.

“Mrs. Rathje, can you read this and tell me how I’m doing?”

The writing was rough — very rough — the kind of writing you might have if you only went to school one or two days a week for several years. The penmanship, the spelling, the grammar — not anywhere close to what I would call standard. But as I read, everything else in the room fell away. She was writing about the fact that her mom had died — during Netta’s birthday week — six weeks before the start of her senior year. Six weeks before she started sporadically showing up in my class to sleep in the back of the room.

“Wow, Netta. This just happened?”

She nodded, looking through those thick lenses into my eyes.

“This past summer?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m so sorry. Thank you so much for sharing this. I’m so glad you chose this topic. I want you to write more. Give more detail.”

“Mrs. Rathje, I know it’s a mess. I want to make it better. Will you help me?”

“Of course. We’ll work on it together. That’s what this assignment is all about.”

And that was the beginning. Of Netta’s engagement in my class, of Netta showing up four to five days a week instead of one, of Netta communicating (if at the last minute and out of desperation) with our social workers before her next probation officer visit or court date.

She hadn’t ascended to a straight A student by any means, but I was watching her transform before my eyes.

Now, she NEVER enters my classroom quietly. No. How do I describe the self-confident force of nature that is Netta, that boldly proclaimed during our Intro to Racism unit this past week, “I know what my unconscious biases are, and I’m not changing them!”

“I guess you might say they are no longer unconscious then, am I right?” I grinned at her.

She crossed her arms, gave me the side eye, and said, “They are not. I am fully aware of my bias. And I am keeping it.”

She is not afraid to tell a classmate, “Shut the hell up, you talk too much, and you sound stupid,” and although I check the outburst, I can’t often disagree with her assessment.

On Friday, late in the afternoon, she was walking down my hallway and she shouted at me, “Mrs. Rathje, you would be so proud — I didn’t cuss at all in that class.”

“That’s amazing, Netta,” I said, smiling, as I watched her walk into a classroom.

Two. seconds. later. I heard the most profane stream of words come from her mouth halfway down the hallway.

I walked down to the room she was in, popped my head in the door, looked her in the face, and said, “Netta, did you not just say I’d be proud of you for not swearing?”

“Mrs. Rathje, I had to get it out of my system before this class started.”

I smiled, shook my head, and walked away.

Earlier that day, she had come into my room, dressed as though she had something important going on after school, sat down, and handed me a paper she had pulled from her purse, “You wanna see my momma, Mrs. Rathje?”

“Of course!” I said, taking the funeral program from her hand. Her mother’s face was on the front, and I said, “Netta, you look like her. This is so precious. I had forgotten that this just happened last summer.”

She looked at me, putting the coke bottle lens back in the broken frame of her glasses, “I don’t read the obituary,” she said. “It makes me cry.”

“Of course it does,” I replied. “I love that you carry this with you. Your mom would be very proud of you.”

“Yes, she would.”

We move through the class, past fires to put out, questions to answer, demands to respond to and then it was almost 3:15, time for me to take my post at the end of the hallway to make sure that students don’t leave their classrooms before the bell.

I saw a door open and then Netta as she stepped into the hall.

“OK, Netta, back it right up, the bell has not rung,” I say.

In slow motion, she puts herself in reverse, maintaining eye contact with me, and retreating into the classroom.

The action of it cracks me up. I laugh, and I say, “I just love you, Netta.”

“I love you, too, Mrs. Rathje.”

And who needs more of a gem than that?

10 Years Later #5

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

We don’t know everything

 ~ KRISTIN ~ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deuteronomy 7:9

Know therefore that the Lord your God is God;

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

Finding the Nugget

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

So why am I already counting down to Spring Break?

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t think it was possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Peter 5:7

10 years later, #4

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Write away

This year I am sharing posts that I’ve written over the last 10 years since I first started this blog in 2014. This one, from October 2014, shares a bit about my writing process — the process that allows me to … process.

 ~ 1 COMMENT ~ EDIT”WRITE AWAY”

A friend asked me yesterday if I know what I am going to write before I sit down at my laptop. Not usually. I sit down and think “Well, what’s it going to be today?”  Sometimes I just start typing. Sometimes I look at a blank screen for a very long time. Sometimes I get two or three paragraphs in, delete the whole thing, lather, rinse, repeat.

On rare very blessed days, I wake up with an idea in my mind, sometimes in the middle of the night, and I can’t get to the keyboard fast enough. I have a start, I don’t know where it will take me, but I know for sure that I have the topic right. In those moments, I feel like I am being instructed by the Teacher himself, as though He is pushing the words through my fingertips onto the screen, because He knows that is where I am most likely to pay close attention to them.

On other days, I get up, drink my tea, eat my oatmeal, skim Facebook, read my emails, do my Bible study, then come to my computer with a general idea of where I am headed. This type of writing is usually an extension of my Bible study, allowing my brain to explore what I just studied, making it personal.

Sometimes my writing sorts out what is happening in my life — the death of a friend, a change in medication, a potential job. This writing usually reveals the feelings that I typically keep below the surface…the ones that are pressing to be examined…the ones that I really need to process in order to move forward.

And today, I am writing about my writing. Writing allows my soul to breathe. I learned that when I was very young, back in the days of pink diaries that locked with a little golden key. I treasured the time I could lie on my bed and write in my diary. I poured my little heart out into those cheesy little books. Somewhere along the way I discovered poetry and dabbled a little in finding just the right combination of words to cryptically express my innermost emotions. Later, poetry gave way to song lyrics, devotions, and lesson plans.

My student often asked me if I would ever write a novel. “No, I don’t really know how to write what’s not true.”  And that’s a fact. The only type of writing I really know how to do is this — putting the ordinary stuff of life on the page in order to make sense of it.

Some people paint. Others dance. Some run marathons. Others garden. We each have to find the language of our heart and use it to say what’s inside of us. We know when we’ve found it because we can’t help but run to it, and getting there, we see that others too, miraculously, are blessed.

It’s a mystery, isn’t it?  Someone could be blessed by my fumblings? Your fumblings? But they are!  So, I’ll continue to fumble along.

I Corinthians 12:4

Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit…