Category: midlife

Capacity

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Did you ever wonder what your capacity is? How much you can truly hold, carry, manage, or deal with? Have you, like me, recently found yourself staring that limit right in the face?

Yesterday, I walked into my principal’s office for a meeting we had scheduled. She was wrapping up a conversation with a student who had lashed out at a classmate because she “just couldn’t do it today” — she couldn’t handle his joking, couldn’t deal with the annoyance.

“Every other day I can just ignore him, but today wasn’t that day.”

“You didn’t have the bandwidth?”

“Nope.”

“I get it. I’m glad you’re talking about it. We all have days when we have reached our limit.”

At the age of nearly 60, I’ve had loads of days where I have reached my limit. When I was a child, I might’ve reached my limit quite quickly — I might have fallen to pieces simply because it was time to leave my grandparents’ house. When I was in high school, like the student above, a classmate’s comments might have pushed me over the edge.

But here’s the thing about life, as you move through it, you build muscle — and capacity — and you are able to manage much more than you ever thought possible. Still, everyone of us can find our limit.

I mean, everyday life can be seemingly at the “this is working” phase — you’ve finally found something that resembles work/life balance. You can meet job demands and also attend to the laundry, meal prep, family needs, and even routine maintenance of the house and the car. In fact, you can also easily manage your role in meeting the ongoing life and healthcare needs of an aging family member. You’re feeling pretty good because you also managed to budget for and schedule your participation at a weekend family vacation/celebration in the first quarter of the school year and you’ve plotted out on the calendar how to keep all systems functioning while you are away.

But then.. just as you are packing your suitcase, a major household system (think HVAC, plumbing, or electrical) has a major issue.

“No problem,” you announce boldly. “We’ve prepared financially and we can deal with it fully when we return.” You’ve been through enough difficult situations in your life that you know this isn’t the end of the world. A frustration? Yes, but meltdown worthy? No.

You merrily leave for the event, and upon your return home just a couple days later, you realize that said major household issue could possibly still be an issue, but it’s late, and you’re tired, so you try to get some sleep.

You wake the next day, to “knock out” a deliverable on a pre-arranged work-from-home day, only to realize it’s not the kind of thing that can indeed be “knocked out” in a day, so you lift up your concern to a supervisor who directs you to “just A, B, and C”, so you spend a few hours doing A, B, and C, and then your supervisor’s supervisor drops into the group chat and says, “No, A, B, and C won’t work. So, I’m just going to complete this deliverable so that you can run with it,” and your face falls flat. You close your laptop and go for a walk.

Did you let your supervisor know that you were annoyed? that it bothered you to spend time on a project that was subsequently dismissed? Did you perhaps have a tone? Did you perhaps register your complaint a bit too strongly and too repeatedly?

Perhaps. But have you hit capacity? Not even close. You can’t even count how many frustrating days you’ve had at work, how many hours you’ve spent on projects, or how many times you’ve had to toss the product of hard work.

However, while you were elbowing your way through your work day, your husband was discovering that the major house issue has actually turned into a much more major house issue involving multiple contractors, several estimates, insurance adjustors, and scheduling.

“Ok,” you say, taking deep breaths, “we are still ok. We’ve gotta keep doing yoga, keep eating right, keep walking, keep writing, but we’re ok.”

Your husband, thankfully, continues to manage most of the house details, while also meeting his own professional responsibilities, and you pinch hit when needed while juggling the demands of yours.

The next weekend arrives and while he stays home to continue project management, you head north to support the aforementioned family member. The weekend is less than demanding, and you catch up on sleep, before returning home in time to eat, rest, and return to work on Monday morning.

The work week starts out typically, but on Tuesday, things start to pile on. The family member needs additional medical tests, you learn the work on the house isn’t scheduled to start until December, and as you leave work, you find yourself driving through a torrential downpour so that you can make an appointment for a routine oil change. After waiting for an hour and managing various pieces of correspondence, you learn from the technician that it’s time to replace the tires and she has prepared you with three separate quotes. You can feel your affect going flat just as you receive a notification on your phone that the storm has caused a power outage at your house.

And that was it.

You hit capacity. You couldn’t talk about it. You couldn’t process it. You had not one shred of bandwidth.

You drove the 20 minutes home in silence, made your way into the house, and plunked into a chair by the window overlooking your husband who was trying to start an uncooperative generator.

You needed food. And sleep. And something to shift.

Somehow, the two of you found your way to a vehicle, drove to a restaurant, ordered food, ate it, and returned home. You had cleaned up and crawled into bed just before the lights came back on and the furnace kicked in.

[Thank God.]

The next day the repair date was moved up to the first week in November.

[Exhale.]

The family member was seen by the doctor and a plan was put in place.

[OK.]

The tire replacement was scheduled.

[We have a plan.]

Just enough shift happened, and somehow, everything seems manageable again.

For now.

Take it from this old head, wherever you are in life, trying times are going to come and test your capacity — you may lose your mind when someone eats a bag of corn chips that were intended for the evening meal, but the experiences of today are building your capacity for the difficulties of tomorrow. And, be assured, tomorrow will certainly have difficulty — maybe just an irritating boy at school, possibly just a flat tire on the way to work, hopefully just a major house system repair that can be done and dusted in the space of a month. We need those light and momentary troubles so that we can manage it when the shit gets particularly real. And that will happen, too, I’m sorry to say. That will happen, too.

And at those times, you may find you have reached capacity — you may find you don’t have words, or reason, or the ability to make a meal. I pray you discover you are not alone or without hope. I pray that something shifts and you find that once again have some capacity.

[Indeed…] in this world you will have trouble, but take heart [I have endless capacity,] and I have overcome the world. John 16:33

It’s complicated

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love one another. John 13:34

Rapidly-shifting Reality

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Three weeks ago, I made a phone call. Just a simple call.

My stepfather had just returned home from the hospital again — I’ve lost track of how many times he’s been in and out in the past year or so — and this time he was prescribed 2L of oxygen to be worn 24 hours a day. He has COPD, among other health issues, and he’s been on a slow decline for a few years. When he came home with the portable oxygen tank, the nurse from the home health agency who had been doing weekly visits on my parents for the past many months, just happened to be at the house accompanied by her clinical director who planned to evaluate the need for more services. She saw my stepfather enter the house, assisted by my brother, and rewrote the script in her head.

She’d been planning to offer palliative care services to support him through this ongoing and prolonged illness, but when she saw how difficult it was for him to just enter the house, she suggested to my mother that perhaps it would be wise to enlist the help of Hospice. “It’s different now,” she said. “Hospice isn’t just for end of life; it can provide prolonged in-home care so that your husband doesn’t have to travel to the doctor or hospital any more. We can manage his care right here.”

My mom called me, told me what was going on, and I asked, “what do you think?” She admitted she could no longer do it alone, which my siblings and I had been suggesting for months. “Well,” I said, “it might be nice to have someone coming to the house regularly that can help us make decisions when it’s time to make other changes. Would you like me to call them?”

“I think so. She said so much. Maybe you can hear the details yourself.”

So, I made the call.

Hospice would be covered 100% by medicare. They would adjust their visits as needed. They would handle all medications and would assist us in the transition if the time came for my stepfather to move to a facility.

I called my brother, who has been the point man through our whole journey, and he agreed that I should set up an appointment.

Hospice came to the house the next day. We signed my stepfather up, and the visits began — a nurse, an aide, a social worker. The door on the house was continually opening, and my mother was overwhelmed.

The following Monday, I sat down at my desk to complete some tasks for work and texted my siblings. “Hey guys, hospice is up and running. I won’t be able to come this week or next to help out, but I will be available by phone.”

I opened some documents, started working, and then spoke to my husband, “I think I’ve gotta go up there.” No one had called. Nothing had changed, I just felt myself pulled to my suitcase and mentally moving toward my vehicle. I called my mom, “How about I bring you guys dinner and stay til tomorrow afternoon? I can just provide you with a little support.”

“I hate to have you drive all the way up here, but that would be great.”

By early afternoon I was on my way.

I brought dinner. We ate. I got them both their meds, did the dishes, and made sure they were all set for the night before heading to the guest room.

Around 4am I heard yelling. I ran to my stepfather. He’d had trouble standing to go to the bathroom and was having some respiratory distress. I administered his new emergency med regimen, then helped him stand. He stood right there by his chair for several minutes so he could catch his breath, and then slowly, so slowly, used his walker to get to the bathroom. It took us 20 minutes to travel 20 feet. Once there, he was unsteady — teetering. I had to use my body weight to brace him so he wouldn’t topple into the bathtub. He did what he came to do, then we stood there for a moment, so he could steady his breathing before the trip back to his recliner.

It had been an emotional event for both of us, and neither of us got any more sleep.

The hospice nurse came that morning. My brother, mother, stepfather, and I spoke with her about what options we had. If I hadn’t been there for the incident the night before, what would our 100 pound mother have done? The nurse suggested she send over the social worker that afternoon to walk us through some options. Also, since my stepfather was having difficulty standing up from his chair, she recommended we purchase a lift chair.

That afternoon, the social worker came and talked my brother, my mother, my stepfather, and I through our options. We could keep him at home and hire additional home health aides (we were already paying for eight hours of assistance a week), or we could move him to adult foster care, a nursing home, or an assisted living facility. But before we made any decisions, we needed, she said, to meet with a lawyer who specializes in elder law. Any of these options would be quite expensive and we should have guidance on how to protect our parents’ assets before we acted.

We had a plan of action, so my brother ran a mile down the road to our small hometown’s furniture store to purchase a lift chair. While he and my other brother arranged to bring it home, I ran to the pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions. We met back at the house, brought in the chair, and while all of us were rearranging furniture and tidying up the space, my stepfather attempted to move from his walker to sit into his new chair. Up until recently he had been independently getting in and out of his chair without difficulty, so none of us thought to stand near him, and down he went. We all rushed to see that he was ok, my brothers lifted him back to his feet and got him in the chair, and we all looked our new reality right in the face.

That reality would start changing day by day.

The next morning, the hospice nurse stopped by the house to assess any damage from my stepfather’s fall. We’d been up again in the night — for breathing issues, for trips to the the bathroom, for confusion. She examined him, found the cut on his arm from where he’d hit the coffee table and a large bruise on his backside from the point of impact. She assessed his breathing and other vitals then met my mother, sister-in-law and I in the kitchen.

She used words we hadn’t heard before rapid decline…24-hour assistance… and about one month. We tried to comprehend this adjustment to our new reality.

And the scramble began — some siblings investigating elder lawyers, the social worker and I investigating facilities. Phone call after phone call, text message after text message. Eventually a couple tours. Finally an open bed. Then digesting the cost, then agreeing to the terms. All the while, on-going conversations with my mother and stepfather about what is happening and why…over and over and over.

Four days after I had decided that I was too busy to go up to my parents and then pivoted on that decision and went anyway, we were loading my stepfather, his clothes, his walker, and his newly acquired lift chair into our vehicles and transporting him to his new residence.

He didn’t love it, but we couldn’t see another way.

That was two weeks ago.

Hospice has continued to use incomprehensible words…rapid decline, days, family should come.

Family has come. Someone is beside him now.

It won’t be long.

That’s a reality.

From his fullness, we have all received grace upon grace. John 1:16

Clearing the Clutter

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment
Click to listen. Sources and resources linked in text.

My husband and I just completed the minimalist challenge. For the month of June, each of us found items around the house that we were willing to toss, donate, or sell — one item on the first, two items on the second, three items on the third, and so on. (The last time I did this — in 2014 — is chronicled here in my blog, starting with this post.) As we’ve been purging — through our clothes, our kitchen, our books, our garage, and our storage — our kids, our friends, and our siblings have said, “How? You guys are already minimalists!”

And it’s true! We moved halfway across the country twice — paring our possessions each time — and we are pretty committed to hanging on to only what we use, but still we were able to find [over] 465 items each. No, we didn’t count sheets of paper or even individual pens and pencils, but we did count individual books, unused kitchen utensils, extra T-shirts, pairs of shoes, decades old journals, dusty trophies, and extra picture frames. The first 10 days we hardly had to move beyond our bedroom closets to find items we were no longer using!

So what inspired us to do this now? It’s a good question that could probably be answered by looking back at our experiences over the last year or so.

Maybe it began when we started spending more time with our aging parents. As their health declines, we’ve heard them say over and over, “What is going to happen to all this stuff?” We look around the room, around the house, around the garage, and we wonder the same thing — what indeed will happen to it? Last summer, I was staying with my mother while my stepfather was in the hospital, and I posted two treadmills that hadn’t been used in decades on a Facebook free group . Within a day someone had come to get them, and I registered the relief on my mother’s face — she was so glad to be rid of them! A few months ago, as we made room for a hospital bed, we found a new home for a large desk. Again, my mother said, “I’m so glad someone else could use it!”

While I have been with my mother seeing all her “stuff”, my husband, in the aftermath of his mother’s passing, has been sorting through all of her stuff. He’s touched countless items that had accumulated in 88 years of life and has often come back to our place with treasure or two but also with an intent desire to eliminate excess — to rid ourselves of anything that we do not need.

After all, extraneous stuff leads to clutter that can prevent us from seeing the things that are important to us.

This “stuff processing” has been happening against a political backdrop that is itself cluttered with a different shocking headline seemingly every day. It can be hard to sift through all the noise to find the issues — particularly the ones that seem meaningful to us. From the recent bombing of Iran and the role of the US in Gaza and the Ukraine, to the pending legislation that threatens to cut Medicaid, raise the debt limit by $5 Trillion, and increase the budget deficit by 2.4 trillion all while providing tax cuts to the wealthy (5 Calls), we find ourselves wanting to register our protest, and one way that we are able to do that is by considering where we want to spend our money and what we want to spend it on. What do we need? What companies do we want to use to meet those needs? What do we want our money to support?

We have been re-evaluating almost every expenditure, and it turns out that when you take a step back and look carefully at your life, you truly don’t need much.

Living in America has taught us otherwise, hasn’t it? We are barraged with ads from morning to night showing us “stuff” that we “need” that we can purchase with a single click. We don’t even have to leave our homes — a package will arrive sometimes the very same day! Wouldn’t our lives be just a little bit better with that new outfit, better shoes, handy tool, or sweet technology?

Purchasing is so easy that we don’t often consider the cost — to our bank accounts (a mere $20 once a day adds up to $600 a month) or to the environment (A report by Oceana estimates that Amazon alone created 208 million pounds of packaging waste in 2022.) Further, we don’t often look at who is profiting — is the handy new travel bag I’m considering made in the US? in China? What are the workers being paid? Who is getting the majority of the money I am spending? What are the other impacts of this purchase? What materials were used? Do the materials hurt me or the environment?

Each purchase, though easy to make, can have complex meaning, if we are willing to take the time to consider it. And I guess that is what we have been doing — considering each possession, each purchase. We want to be careful that our lives don’t become so cluttered that we fail to see what is important.

Each of us, in sorting through our stuff will deem different items to be of value.

What does it say about me that I still (after eliminating over 900 items from our house) have a few dozen writing implements on my desk, a stack of empty notebooks waiting to be written in, and more greeting cards than I could ever possibly send?

Why did I choose to hold on to those things and not the journals I have written in for more than thirty years? Why did I feel ok about letting go of crystal that we got for our wedding but not a jar of paper clips? Why did I keep baby blankets that haven’t been used over 25 years but toss plastic mixing bowls that I used last month?

It’s interesting to see what matters when you start combing through the stuff.

This latest round has trimmed away some excess, but I feel there is more that needs to go — but what leaves next likely won’t be possessions, those are fairly easy to eliminate. No, next might be attitudes and judgments, habits and pastimes.

It’ll be easier to see what needs to go next now that we have cleared some of the clutter.

Let us lay aside every encumbrance…and run with perseverance the race that is set before us. Hebrews 12:1-2

Instructional Support

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

When I got my first teaching position back in 1989, the principal showed me my classroom, pointed to some textbooks, provided a spiral bound lesson plan book, and said, “Good luck.”

Ok, it probably wasn’t that bad. However, the expectation was that as a college graduate and a certified teacher, I should know what to do. Never mind that my degree was in Secondary English and that this job was a self-contained classroom for students with learning disabilities. Sure, I had had a few special education classes in my undergraduate studies, but was I prepared to teach all subjects every day to a group of seventh graders with specific needs?

Not at all, but I’m sure my naive self thought, “how hard can it be?” and got busy.

Other than the morning devotions we were encouraged to attend and chatting over the lunch table with the other middle school teachers, I don’t remember much interaction with anyone who had more experience than I did. I think the principal dropped into my class once. I had to report a few incidents to the vice principal, of course. And there was that one time when a couple of my colleagues pulled a prank on me, placing my teacher’s desk in the boys’ bathroom.

I felt like I was part of the team, but I definitely had no indication that anyone was supporting me in my instructional strategies other than the time I asked for help ordering a film and someone said to make sure it was relevant to what I was teaching.

The following year, I was moved to a high school resource room, which was a totally different experience! In fact, I was at one high school in the morning and a second high school in the afternoon. I supported my students the best I knew how, but other than a few instructions on a tour of both schools, I wasn’t given much support, and certainly no coaching. In fact, I only found out I was doing a less than stellar job in the spring when my supervisor dropped by and observed one student who was refusing services. She seemed rather upset that I wasn’t forcing him to learn.

What can I say? I was young, inexperienced, and not yet aware of when and how to ask for support.

This pattern continued as I moved next to a residential treatment facility where I taught English Language Arts, social studies and even a little math to a self-contained group of students with severe emotional disturbances. There, I at least had a full-time aide in the room with me– another adult to bear witness to what I was doing. I also had a principal who would meet with me to share new curriculum or updated expectations. I remember one day I was sitting in her office and she was sharing the latest change when I just started crying. She asked me what was wrong, and I had no idea! Looking back, I’m sure I felt overwhelmed and unsupported. I needed someone who would thought-partner with me, who wasn’t so busy that I felt like I was bothering them every time I showed up, who had as part of their job description the mentoring and coaching of teachers.

But that was in the early nineties when we had a surplus of teachers, If I didn’t cut it, they would find someone who could. The pressure was on! I’d better figure it out, or I wouldn’t have a position!

It wasn’t until after a break to stay home with my young children, after I’d earned my Master’s degree, after I’d taught in a couple of community colleges and one public high school, that I landed at Lutheran North in St. Louis. In many ways, LHSN was a pioneer — it was operating with a block schedule, was stocked with Apple products, and even had a projector and SMART board in every classroom. Not only that, they had a dedicated position, the curriculum coordinator, who not only oversaw curriculum adoption and implementation but also had as part of his job description observing teachers and providing objective data on engagement, teaching strategies, and the behavior management of the classroom. In my first year at LHSN, he visited my room several times and provided me with the kind of feedback I’d been looking for: this strategy seemed to work, did you notice that you speak mostly to the right side of the room and the left side disengages, how are you measuring mastery of this skill?

His questions and comments caused me to examine my practice, and when I reflected, I saw small changes I could make that would impact my effectiveness. Inside this model, I grew! Eventually, I became the curriculum coordinator and did my best to provide for other teachers what I had received. The only problem was that in this new position I was on my own again. On his way out the door, the previous curriculum coordinator gave me some pro tips, and I could reach out to him with questions, but I was not observed in my role and did not receive feedback, so I truly don’t know how effective I was or what moves I could’ve made to improve.

After my break from teaching, I re-entered the educational space at Lindamood-Bell, where coaching was the norm. We implemented two very prescribed programs that dramatically improved the reading and comprehension of our students. Parents were paying high dollar for these programs, and if instructors didn’t implement them with fidelity, the results would be less significant. I was regularly mentored in the moment — a mentor would observe my practice and sometimes jump in to model something that needed a tweak. I learned so much in this role! In time, I became a mentor and then a coach for others on my team. One added layer was that I continued to receive support from my supervisor who had held the role before me. She checked my data, followed up on my coaching, and nudged me when I needed to move in a slightly different direction.

You’d be amazed the confidence you gain when you know you are being supported so specifically toward a common goal.

In my interview for the ELA teaching position at Detroit Leadership Academy, when I was 54 years old, the principal looked me right in the eyes and said, “All of our staff members have coaches. How do you feel about having someone in your classroom on a regular schedule providing you with in the moment feedback?”

I think she thought I was going to push back. I mean, I’d been an educator for decades! I can see why she’d think I would resist coaching, but my response was the opposite, “I love it! I’m coming from a culture of coaching, and I am always looking to improve!” I don’t know if she believed me, but over the last four years, she has seen me receive feedback, reflect on my process, and make changes to improve the effectiveness of my teaching over and over again. I have had three coaches in the last four years, each of whom has had a coach to support them as they execute their role. Their coach has had her own coach. This organization believes in investing in the continuous improvement of all of its staff members.

Obviously, I love it.

So, when my coach moved in to the principal’s position over the summer, I applied for her position. I interviewed, shared my experience, answered the questions, and got the job.

So, this fall, I will continue to have a coach, but I will also be supporting eight other teachers in my building. The past two weeks I’ve been learning the tools and bonding with the team who will support me in this new role. I’m a little sad to let go of my seniors, but I will be coaching their new teacher, so I will still have my hand in their learning. And, I’ll have my hand in the learning of students in other classrooms.

Everything about my work at DLA seems to be a culmination of my journey in education. All the threads seem to come together in this space. I look forward to telling you more about it as I move into this next chapter.

He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1: 17

**While my needs are slightly different this year, I do still have a wish list. You can find it here

A Different Kind of Summer

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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.

Role Reversal

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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

The Buried Difficult

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Dude.

Bruh . [or, Bro,]

That’s what the kids say these days when they just. can’t.

I think we used to say, “Ok, Ok!” And maybe our parents said, “Uncle!”

It’s what we say when we just don’t have a response because we are at the end of our rope.

Recently, one of my seniors, who was supposed to have written a personal narrative about a time that he learned a hard lesson, grew up a little bit, or had a “coming of age moment,” instead submitted a description of a video game he had found online.

I’ve been a writing instructor for a long time, so I can spot these types of things with both of my eyes closed, so I sent my standard Academic Integrity Violation email with a screen shot of his writing and a screen shot of the site where he found it, which was super easy for me to locate. It’s not hard. I mean, we have Google.

Anyway, he was upset that I had caught him and replied that he didn’t like writing about himself. I didn’t have any right to know about his life. Could I give him an alternate assignment?

I didn’t respond right away.

“Alternate assignment please,” he messaged.

Still no response from me.

“Bro.” His last response when he was finally out of gas.

“The assignment is the assignment,” I replied finally. “You can do it. Try.”

He didn’t. He had reached “Bro.” He was done with the conversation.

I was trying to think of what to write today after several weeks of posting nothing, and all I could think was….

Dude.

Been there?

Have you been in those seasons when life is coming at you from all directions and you just. can’t. even?

I mean, this is definitely not the worst season of my life. In fact, the roughest seasons have given me so many tools that I am using to navigate this one — therapy, self-care, boundaries, yoga, music, laughter, and Netflix. [By the way, if you need something to carry you through difficulty, I have often recommended The Great British Baking Show; I now add to that Somebody Feed Phil (Netflix) and The Reluctant Traveler (Apple).]

But guys, there’s a lot going on right now. Some of it is great — my work, my husband’s new role as a private practice therapist, the fact that Spring is now here, our kids are doing great things and really stepping into their adulthood– but much of it is hard — the death of an extended family member, the cancer journeys of two others, and the uncovering of hidden realities that will need to be faced in the very near future.

And all I can say is…

Bruh.

It’s a lot.

It’s nothing uncommon to the human experience to be sure. Anyone reading this has navigated similar — illness, addiction, failure to communicate, and the accumulation of it all that someone eventually has to deal with.

And sometimes the ones who have to deal with it are the adult children of those who kept putting off the difficult.

Here’s the thing, though. The difficult doesn’t go away just because you don’t talk about it.

In fact, if you bury the difficult, keep it in a dark place, and even continue to water it from time to time, the damn thing grows. And often, it devours the beneficial, the beautiful, the healthy, the wonderful.

It just eats the good up and continues to grow until it bursts into the open — often at the most difficult of times — and somebody, finally, has to look it in the face, call it what it is, and give it its reckoning.

Dude.

I have been training for this moment my whole adult life, and still, I don’t wanna do it!

Just like my student didn’t wanna write a simple 300-600 word retelling of a day of his life where he learned a hard truth, I don’t want to look the difficult in the face.

But guys, the difficult thing has already surfaced. It’s sitting in the middle of the room, and everyone is trying to avert their eyes for just a little bit longer.

Fine. Look away if you must, but the difficult is not going anywhere.

It will not get easier to look at in a day or a week or a month.

My student came in the next day. After the “Bro.” message.

“Mrs. Rathje, I’m not gonna write this thing.”

“Ok. Let’s look at the impact of you not writing this thing.”

I opened the grade book, put in a zero for the missing assignment, and recalculated his quarter grade.

“Don’t do it, and you’ll have a C minus for the quarter. Are you willing to live with that?”

“A C minus?”

“Yup.”

“I can live with that.”

“Done.”

He looked it in the face, made a decision, and we both moved on.

It really wasn’t that hard.

However, the difficult thing I’m alluding to here was not merely a writing assignment. It’s a series of bad decisions that have been buried for quite some time. I think the bury-er was hoping the difficult would stay underground.

I have been there.

Thing is, most things surface over time. Some of us learn this the hard way.

I’m not scared to look this thing in the face, but it’s not mine.

If it was mine, I might be throwing extra dirt on it right this minute.

But that would not keep it buried.

Nope.

It’s just a matter of time until all things surface.

So, here’s the thing. I have no judgment for the bury-er. Some anger, yes, but not judgment. I have no idea what led to the development of this difficulty. I don’t know the full story. I don’t even need to or want to. That is not my business.

It is truly none of my business to know about a “coming of age” moment that my student may or may not have had, but I always give the opportunity to students to tell their story, because telling about the difficult is where transformation happens.

But that kind of vulnerability is not for everyone. It can be downright terrifying to look the difficult in the eye.

But here’s the thing — once you have stared down the difficult, called it by name, navigated the ugly, grieved the devastating, and realized the freedom that comes with the uncovering, once you have tasted the power of transformation —

Dude.

You won’t wanna bury anything ever again.

I can almost guarantee it.

The Unexpected

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

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

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

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

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

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

We couldn’t anticipate all of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he replied, “I bet you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deuteronomy 31:8

We Don’t Know Everything, a Reprise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would we do?

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

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

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

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

This, my friends, is most certainly true.

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

Nehemiah 9:19