Category: hope

Finding the Nugget

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

So why am I already counting down to Spring Break?

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t think it was possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Peter 5:7

10 Years Later, #3

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

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


The Backstory on Doing

 ~ KRISTIN ~ EDIT”THE BACKSTORY ON DOING”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assignment 2024

~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isaiah 43:19

Light a Candle — a lament

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I woke up before five this morning, even though we don’t have school. It’s election day as I’m writing, and it might make sense for me to get up this early, if there was anything on my precinct’s ballot, but there is not.

So, I rolled over and closed my eyes, but despite the fact that I have an opportunity to sleep late, my brain is engaged. It’s problem-solving issues that aren’t mine to solve. It’s running scenarios for situations over which I have no control.

I use my tried and true strategy of grabbing the novel I’m currently working on. Maybe if I get lost in a story, I’ll go back to sleep. But books being what they are, and me being who I am, the story of a racially charged shooting is just giving my brain more fodder.

I sigh, roll out of bed, and tend to a few things over which I do have control — a load of laundry, a few rogue dishes in the sink, my cluttered desk. I’m trying to bring order to my immediate surroundings despite the far-flung chaos which we now find to be just another Tuesday.

Even though this is not supposed to be just another Tuesday. It’s supposed to be a day that I can weigh in, have my say.

It’s election day, and I can’t even cast my vote for change.

So, I light a candle, do some yoga, brew a pot of tea, and go with what I know — words on the page.

I can’t solve problems that aren’t mine — the ones of those dear to me who are trying to find the right employment fit or the ones of two students who, after moving to a new place, likely due to housing insecurity, are no longer on the bus route and will likely move to virtual school, eventually, after they’ve had no schooling for the last few weeks.

I can’t understand why more than half of the country, according to a new New York Times poll, would still be ok with electing a man who’s been found guilty of sexual assault, is currently on trial for financial crimes, and is facing a total of 91 felony counts! when countless are the American citizens who cannot get a paid position with merely 1 felony count.

I can’t fathom the devastation in Israel and Gaza where over 1400 Israelis and over 10,000 Palestinians — mostly civilians — have died. Thousands of lives lost within a month — families destroyed forever. I have no words.

I don’t get how our country has over $105 BILLION to send to Israel and the Ukraine to aid in their wars but it doesn’t have enough money to ensure that our parents (or we!) don’t go broke paying for healthcare or enough to provide an equitable education to all American children, or even, for heaven’s sake, a decent breakfast and/or lunch for my students. (No, I do not consider a Pop Tart and a juice box a decent breakfast for a teenager, even if it is free).

I can’t solve the problems with transportation, attendance, and substance abuse that impact my students every day because those problems are mere symptoms of a larger multi-system malignancy that has roots that reach before my lifetime and spread far beyond my influence.

I don’t have that kind of power. I don’t have that kind of wisdom.

So, I return to what I know. I light a candle. I go to my yoga mat. I breathe in and out.

I sigh a prayer — a simple Lord, have mercy.

Lord, help! Lord, guide! Lord, intervene!

Make sense out of confusion. Make order out of chaos.

Replace poverty with plenty, violence with peace, hatred with love.

You have that kind of power. You have that kind of wisdom.

None of this is out of Your control.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

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!

Post-Covid Learning: One Teacher’s Experience

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

In March of 2020, we sent all of the nation’s children home in the first weeks of the Covid Pandemic. How could we have anticipated the impact of this decision? While some students were home for several weeks, many students, especially students of color in our nation’s urban areas, were home for more than a year. How might this have impacted their social-emotional development, they mental health, or their learning?

We educators have been beginning to unpack the broad impacts of the pandemic on our students over the last two to three school years. Here’s what I’ve seen.

In the fall of 2021, when my students first returned to in-person learning at my Detroit charter school after 18 months of remote instruction — which for many in my community meant no instruction at all — I noticed extremely high anxiety and a limited ability to interact with peers without conflict. Our students needed support to merely exist in the classroom within six feet of their peers. Although everyone was masked, these students had learned that proximity meant danger. It took some time for them be comfortable around one another, particularly because with some regularity, whole groups were sent home to quarantine after one member of their classroom cluster tested positive. It wasn’t until late in that school year that the Covid protocols changed, masks became optional, and our whole community started to relax a little. The heightened anxiety surrounding that school year led some students to stay home intermittently, to switch to virtual learning for yet another year, or to do their best to muddle through day by day. For teachers, this meant that academics, while important, were not the priority. Since Maslow illustrated his hierarchy of needs we’ve recognized that a student needs to feel safe before he can be free to learn. Our focus was on building predictability through routine and on getting our students the social work supports that they needed.

Much of this carried into that second fall — 2022 — where our back to school professional development sessions centered on the brain science behind trauma. We learned about the amygdala’s response to danger — flight, fight, freeze, and appease — and how our routines and instructional strategies can minimize this response and the interruptions it causes to learning. This is relevant in our context not only because our students have experienced the extended communal trauma of the pandemic but because they have also endured the traumas associated with systemic racism such as food insecurity, housing insecurity, violence, and negative experiences with law enforcement. Our social workers and behavioral specialists worked overtime to anticipate difficult situations, to mitigate conflict, and to restore relationships. Again, although academics were moving up on the priority list, they were not at the top.

As we were moving through the virtual year and the return to in-person learning — I, fresh from working at Lindamood-Bell where our whole gig was reading intervention and remediation, noticed that very few, if any, of my of my students were reading and comprehending at grade level. I lifted my concern to our Director of Academics, “We’ve got to get a reading interventionist in here — these students need support.”

I said that during the 2021-2022 school year and found myself in August of 2022 at an intensive training week for the reading program called Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention (AARI). I would be piloting this program for one year — last school year. During that academic year, I worked with 18 freshmen over the course of two semesters. Each of them started AARI with an instructional reading level at or below third grade. Over the course of one semester, the students and I worked on decoding (sounding out words, breaking words into syllables, etc), which is not part of AARI, building a mental movie about what we were reading (also not AARI), and using the text to support our thinking and developing metacognitive skills (all AARI). After one semester of work, I only had one student who did not improve at all — and that was likely due to the fact that he was absent almost half of the days that we met. Two students grew one grade level during that semester, most grew two to three grade levels, and a few grew four or more grade levels in one semester. It’s quite a remarkable program.

As a result of this success, and the data I obtained testing students over two semesters, our school adopted a broad tier-two intervention called Read 180 for all of our freshmen for this school year. That means that rather than 18 freshmen getting the intensive remediation that I provided, ALL incoming freshmen would receive an intervention that, delivered via computer, in small groups, and with the aid of an instructor, yields two years of growth in one year. I was very excited to hear that we were getting help for all of our freshmen. I was even more excited when I learned that I would be providing AARI to a select group of sophomores and juniors.

I have spent the last two weeks working one-on-one to evaluate students who scored the lowest among their classmates on the Reading and Language section of the PSAT last Spring. (Perhaps one day I will write a whole post about my feelings regarding standardized testing in general and the SAT/ACT specifically, but not today.) I pulled each of these students to my room, had a conversation with them, administered the Qualitative Reading Inventory (QRI) and determined their need for AARI. I was gut punched when I realized that two sophomores and one junior in our building scored at the first grade level for reading comprehension. How in the world were they functioning in high school? How could they continue to show up if the content of their classes was that frustrating?

Most of the students I selected for the class tested at the second or third grade level when measuring reading comprehension. When we take into account that many of them did not read much from 2020-2021, and that many of them have been in a trauma response for the past two to three years or more, this is not terribly surprising. What is surprising is the half dozen students I met with who scored much higher. These few lit up when I told them that the PSAT is not an accurate measure of their intellect, that although Covid was devastating and their skills are possibly rusty, they have the capacity to be successful not only in high school but beyond. I looked them in the eyes and assured them that now that I know who they are and what they can do, I will be watching and expecting great things. These few, mostly black males, sat up straighter, looked me in the eyes, said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and “thank you.” One young woman who, despite severe anxiety, demonstrated a keen aptitude for academics said, “I am thankful for you and what you are doing..”

The ones who qualified for my class had an equally amazing response. To a person, they acknowledged that “reading is hard for me.” They said, “I need this class, ” and “thank you for doing this.”

Here’s what they didn’t do. They didn’t say, “I don’t need help with reading.” or “I’m not taking some dumb reading class.” They didn’t refuse to read lists of words or answer questions about the similarities and differences between whales and fish. They didn’t question why I was pulling them from class. They didn’t resist.

No, these students recognize what they have lost. They know they need help. They know support when they see it.

How do I know? Because for the past two weeks, as I have moved through the halls, I have heard these students, and the students I worked with last year. They call out, “Hi, Mrs. Rathje.” They don’t act like they don’t know me. They don’t avoid me. No. They stop by my room, they give me a fist bump as I pass, they throw their arms around me in a hug.

But they do these things not just to me. They love all the teachers in our building because they feel safe here. They see the hard work we have done to create a predictable environment. They notice us responding to their mental health needs. They understand that we see them, we know what they have been through, and we are here for them, cheering them on to success.

On Friday, I was calling all the parents of my new cohort. “Good afternoon, this is Mrs. Rathje from Detroit Leadership Academy.” I explained why I was calling, that we had noticed since Covid that many of our students are below grade level in reading comprehension, and that their student had been identified as one who could benefit from this class. Most parents said, “Ok, thank you,” or “Whatever he needs, I support,” but one mother took my breath away.

“Thank you so much for noticing this. I lost both of my parents during Covid and to be honest, I’ve been deep in grief and didn’t even realize that he was falling behind. Thank you so much for paying attention to him.”

These students are not behind in reading because they are dumb or poor or Black. They are behind in reading because they have been through a lot, their learning has been interrupted, and they need some support to get back on track.

I can’t wait to get started with them and to cheer them on as they learn and grow this year.

I’m a sucker for a story of restoration, especially when I have a front row seat.

I am confident of this: I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living.

Psalm 27:13

*For data surrounding the impact of Covid on learning, check out the documents linked below:

Harvard School of Education, May 2023

Center for School and Student Progress, July 2023

NWEA Study, Chalkbeat, July 2023

**If you know an educator in the Detroit area that cares about educational equity, please connect them with me. Because of the nature of our work, we are always looking for partners, teachers, coaches, and other encouragers.

Front Row Seat

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

The Thursday before school started, we the staff of Detroit Leadership Academy took our stations around the building, preparing for the open house where students would come to get their schedules and chromebooks and begin to reconnect with the world of school after eight weeks away.

I was at the main entrance, checking students in. I didn’t know the freshmen, of course, they were new to our building, but I was watching for those students I recognized, especially the small group of students I had had in my reading class the previous year.

“Hey! How was your summer?” I said as I stood from my seat to receive a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

I was also watching for last year’s juniors, who would be my new senior class. I knew some of their names, but we aren’t familiar enough for a hug.

“Are you ready for this?” I would say, “You ready to be a senior?”

The replies were varied: “Of course!” “Hell, yeah!” “I think so.” “I’m not sure.” “I’m scared.”

I’ve seen it from every group of seniors I’ve ever taught. Some things don’t change; others do.

The first day of school was predicted to be in excess of 90 degrees, and since our school doesn’t have air conditioning, our administration determined to have an early release. We would see each group of students for just 30 minutes, and then they would board their non – air conditioned busses for the sweltering ride home,.

I had two box fans and two ceiling fans blowing, and my two operational windows as far open as they go. I stationed a cooler full of water bottles covered in ice at the front of my room, and kept the lights off to keep the room as cool as possible.

When the bell sounded, my students met me at the door, got their seat assignments, and made their way to their desks. It took me a while — perhaps until this reflective moment — to register that something felt different.

This wasn’t the fall of 2020 where I met my students inside the small square of the zoom room.

It wasn’t the fall of 2021 where my students entered my room mask-clad, the vibration of anxiety among us palpable.

And it wasn’t the manufactured bravado and audaciousness of 2022 — the defiant swagger born of two years of persistent trauma.

No, this past week, the first week of school year 2023-24 felt….light…spacious…and maybe even hopeful.

As I shared the big picture goals for the year — the district-wide vision that all of our students would be accepted to a college, that 80% of them would enroll in some kind of post-secondary training, and that all of them would attend school more than 90% of the time — I watched the faces of my students, expecting the usual push-back, disinterest, or defiance, but what I saw was a collective subtle nod, an acceptance of this reality, and (an at least temporary) buy in.

Now, don’t be mistaken. I still saw seniors struggling to stay off their phones. I still had one student who, when I mentioned that we would be filling out the FAFSA together, stood up from his desk and said, “I ain’t doing that.” I still had at least one student who proclaimed his main post-secondary goal to be “making music”. It was a room full of high school seniors after all, but something felt different.

While our community regularly struggles with chronic absenteeism, the majority of my students attended all four days last week — even though the temps did crawl into the nineties and both my classroom and the busses were stiflingly hot. Not only that, all of my students made eye contact with me this week. All of my students, even on day one, responded to my call for attention. All of my students participated in gatherings, like the one below, where I asked them to stand and move to the four corners of the room to demonstrate their preferences and interests.

And all of my students participated in the making of our class contract, and when asked, every single student in my class stood up and signed their name in agreement to our class norms.

Some teachers may not think this is a big deal. Perhaps they get 100% buy in on every activity they do in their classrooms, but this has not been the case for me. Not since Covid. Not in my little charter school in Detroit. Not with seniors. Not in this demographic that has historically and recently suffered so much.

In the past few years, it has taken me quite a bit of time to build the relationships and trust that lead to this kind of engagement. When I first started at this school, I was some middle-aged white lady from Ann Arbor — how could I have any idea of what life was like on the other side of the zoom camera where an adolescent Black student sat on her bedroom floor trying to figure out what a URL was and how she was going to move from one zoom room to the other.

The following year, my giddiness at finally getting to be “in the flesh” with students was met with distrust, apprehension, and the layers of protectiveness that Covid and generations of systemic racism had produced. My students were stand-offish, skittish, and surly. It was well into the second semester before I had any meaningful relationships.

Last year, it took less time to build trust with most, but some still refused to engage for the entire year. Yes, the entire year.

So when I got 100% opting in on the first day last week, I was a little stunned.

I was even more surprised on Thursday when I collected the student survey I had handed out and started to read the vulnerable responses to my question: What are you concerned about as you start this year?

Do I have enough credits to graduate? Will I be able to fill out the FAFSA if I’m undocumented? Will I be able to stay focused?

I was in awe of their transparency with their answers to my question: What do you want me to know about you?

English is not my first language. I get mad easily. I am a hard worker. I am funny. I hate school.

And I was touched by their responses to my question, How can I support you this year?

Push me. Help me understand. Explain things when I am confused. Be patient with me.

I’ve just finished the first week of school and I know more about this year’s seniors than I have known about many of the grads for the last three years. Why is this? Is it a sign that the trauma from Covid is waning? Is this just a more self-aware and confident group? Have I been in this school long enough that I have built a reputation of being one who can be trusted? Or is this just evidence that God’s grace is flooding my classroom?

Perhaps it’s some of all of that, but I am not going to look away. I am sensing a rare opportunity with this group. It is smaller than any senior class I have ever had, and they have already opened themselves up so much. I am sensing that we just might become a little family, and I am here for it.

So pray for me, if you would. Pray that I would truly see these students, that I would hear them, and that I would be willing to share with them what I know about the English language, of course, but more importantly what I know about life, about vulnerability, and about change.

Because guys, one thing I know about people who are willing to open themselves up is that they are on the verge of transformation, and I am going to have a front row seat.

What types of changes do I think I’ll see? I’m not sure of all of them, but I have already told my students several times this week that “this is the year when we make the transition from childhood to adulthood.” And for many of these students that is more true than I know. One just had a baby. Some will move straight into the military. Some will go straight to work. And even those who are moving on to more education in college will be shifting to a world that they have never seen before — one where the students around them will be from vastly different backgrounds, one where they won’t necessarily be near the family they have been used to, one where they are going to feel potentially more vulnerable than they have ever felt before.

So the fact that they are already willing to bare a small bit of themselves to me gives me a lot of hope that they will be ready for all the change that is coming at them, and because of that I am sitting on the edge of my front row seat.

I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living.

Psalm 27:13

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