Category: midlife

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

Assignment 2024

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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

Process(ing)

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We’re two weeks away from Christmas Break, and I’m having my seniors write a personal essay. This essay could be used for a variety of purposes — to submit with a college application, to enter a scholarship contest, or simply to explore one’s own identity.

The students read and analyze several models, we practice using sensory language, and then we prepare to write. The first step is to choose from a variety of prompts such as “describe a time when you overcame a challenge” or “tell us about a time you stepped up as a leader”. Then, I direct them to identify a trait they want their reader to recognize in them. Are they hardworking? resilient? creative?

The big lift comes next. Students must respond to the prompt they have chosen while also displaying the strength they have selected by describing a scene — a snapshot or highlight tape — from their lives in which they have embodied that characteristic.

As has been my practice for going on twenty years, I write alongside my students, modeling my process for them in real time so that a) they can see an “expert” at work, b) they can see that even “experts” struggle and fumble, and c) so that they can acknowledge that even for “experts” the writing process is messy, laborious, and non-linear.

This past week, I was doing that modeling when I wrote about the time almost 10 (TEN!) years ago when I left my classroom in St. Louis convinced that I would likely never teach — at least not in a high school — again. I was reading this highlight tape to my students, describing how I tearfully carried a milk crate out of my room, and they looked at me with blank faces. What was I talking about that I might never teach again? I’m standing right in front of them — teaching! — and I’ve been in this classroom since they were freshmen. Was this story supposed to be fiction?

And, you know, sometimes I start to believe it is — maybe I wasn’t really that sick. Maybe I didn’t need to step away from my work. Maybe I don’t have symptoms right now. Maybe I’ve made it all up.

I was feeling that way last night. It was my youngest daughter’s and my youngest granddaughter’s birthday yesterday. I was on the phone wishing my daughter a happy birthday, struggling to sustain a conversation after 5pm on a Friday, “Happy birthday! What did you do today?” She shared how she had spent her day and asked what we were up to this weekend. I explained that her father had travelled to Cincinnati for her niece’s birthday, but that I didn’t have the gas in the tank to go.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I just find that in December I have very little margin to do something like a weekend trip.”

“Oh, why? Is it because it is the end of the semester and you have a lot of papers to grade?”

“Well,” I struggled to articulate the thing I have been trying to articulate for going on 10 years — that it doesn’t matter if I have a pile of papers in front of me or not, I am just on E, and E won’t get me to Cincinnati.

The same thing happened when I was FaceTime-ing with my six year old granddaughter. My husband called from Cincinnati to let me watch her open her gifts. She was sitting in her Grogu chair grinning and talking as she tore the paper. The rest of her grandparents, other family members, and some friends would be there soon for a party with pizza, butterfly decorations, and, of course, a purple cake. I watched, smiling, but internally I was interrogating myself, “Seriously, you couldn’t find it in you to go to Cincinnati for one weekend? It’s your granddaughter’s birthday!”

I do this sometimes, I question whether I really need the weekend at home, or if I am just being selfish.

I logically know the answer — even without 4 hours in the car, a change in routine, sleeping in a different bed, and the drain of social interactions, I woke up this morning with a splitting headache and an electric/IcyHot heat in all of my joints from my toes to my neck. During this time of year, it takes a whole weekend to recover from a week in the classroom. I will spend a couple hours this morning writing, then I will go for a long walk followed by an epsom salt bath. Hours might be spent reading a novel or watching The Crown, and I’ll have to somehow fit in about an hour of prep time so that I’m ready to teach my students on Monday. Sunday is more rest — Zoom time with our small group followed by worship and another long walk, followed by more writing and resting, and prepping for the start of the week.

When I interrupt that rhythm, like I did over Thanksgiving, I walk into Monday less resilient than I need to be — I am more likely to be reactive, I am less likely to be on my A game. I will likely miss things — like a small cue that someone is angry and tempted to fight, that another is sad and needs someone to listen, or that my room is too hot or too cold or that someone in my room didn’t get breakfast or lunch. I will be more likely to get an inflammatory issue like pain behind my eye or a headache or extreme fatigue that has me wondering how I drove myself home.

While I can occasionally take the risk and do something social on the weekend, it is really best if I stick to the routine which means saying no to fun opportunities like a whirlwind trip to Cincinnati.

You might ask if I should continue teaching if it costs me weekends with a granddaughter or my parents or our friends? The answer is still yes, absolutely yes.

For one thing, I will see that granddaughter and her sister in three weeks. That doesn’t make up for missing her birthday, of course, but I do get time with both of our grand girls on a fairly regular basis. We FaceTime and send letters, and, honestly, their lives are busy, too. I miss them, but I’m not sure I would see them more if I wasn’t teaching.

And, the reason I continue in the role I have now is because it gives me life. Leaving my classroom in June of 2014 was only slightly less than devastating because my autoimmune disease is absolutely real — I was flaring so badly in that season that I could barely function. I would have never left the classroom if there was any other option.

The six months that I was unemployed and the slow crawl back was a very difficult time. In my mind I was sick, compromised, washed-up, old, past my prime. As I regained my health, as I gradually built more teaching back into my life, I regained confidence and a sense of purpose.

I am not a perfect teacher — I don’t always have the most engaging activities or the cutest classroom decor. I sometimes lose my sense of humor, overuse sarcasm, and fail to give students the one-on-one attention they deserve. Despite all that, I am my best self when I am connected to education, for now that means in the classroom, particularly a high school classroom, especially in a context where I can call out injustice and work to bring a more equitable experience for my students.

When I get to spend my days being the best version of myself, I get more moments of sharing that best version with the people that I love — my husband, my children, and my grandchildren. For a few years there, I think that much of what they got from me was shrouded in self-doubt, self-pity, and an overwhelming sense that I was past my prime.

On Monday, I’ll share my second highlight tape with my seniors, the scene where I carry my items back into the classroom I work in now. I’ll share a glimpse at the slow crawl back, but I’ll focus on the triumphant return. Then I will prod, cajole, and cheer them as they write their own highlight tapes. I’ll nudge them to add more sensory detail, I’ll celebrate their risk-taking, and I’ll gently introduce MLA format and model Standard Academic English norms. I’ll do my best to help them finish strong.

Then, near the end of December, I’ll take a break to catch my breath, and then I’ll pack my bag and head to the land of grand girls where we’ll snuggle, do crafts, eat yummy foods, watch movies, and giggle. I’ll tell them how proud I am when they read hard words and ask good questions — they’ll get the imperfectly best version of me because that is what I am right now.

And for this I am thankful.

give thanks in all circumstances…”

1 Thessalonians 5:18

A body in motion….A body at rest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop looking at me like that!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isaiah 30:15

Humming Along

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

When I woke up this morning, my cells were vibrating. I don’t know how else to describe it other than to say it feels like my body is humming. I’m not a doctor, but when this happens, I imagine I’m having an inflammatory response. To what? To living my life.

This is the fullest fall I have had since probably 2011 or 2012. By 2013, I was collapsing on the couch immediately after arriving at home, wondering if we had something edible in the fridge or if I had enough energy to drive to Chipotle to pick up “dinner”.

After a years-long journey back to wellness, I am in the third year of the great experiment called, “Can Mrs. Rathje really return to the classroom?” and this year I’m pretty close to matching the load I had prior to being diagnosed with autoimmune disease. Granted, I don’t have teenagers living at home or even a pet to take care of. I am “simply” returning to the “regular” demands faced by teachers across the country, and two weeks shy of Christmas break my body is humming.

A typical work week for me includes 5 hours of commuting, 16+ hours of instruction, 14+ hours of grading and planning, a handful of meetings, some lunchtime and hallway supervision, and all kinds of miscellaneous “duties” such as separating teenagers who are verbally escalating toward a fight, texting with a student who doesn’t have transportation to get to school, doling out snacks to students who are “starving, Mrs. Rathje”, or listening to a student tell me why she got into an altercation with someone she thought was her friend and why that altercation resulted in her one-day suspension.

I am fully invested in my work and the lives of my students, but school and my students are not the totality of my life.

My husband and I have also been blessed to invest quite of bit of time with family this fall. Since October, we’ve travelled to Ohio, Missouri, and the Dominican Republic. Not only that, we have traveled within Michigan to see our parents and siblings and have enjoyed an extended visit from our son.

We’ve also connected with several friends — through our weekly small group community, coffee dates, and other social functions.

And, we’ve participated in some personal and professional enrichment including presenting at a couple of conferences, both separately and together.

We are living a pretty typical professional life, but my body is not wired for ‘typical’.

I will note that this old girl has been hanging in there. Yes, Covid knocked me down in October, but I got right back up (and was temporarily knocked down again and again got back up). Other than that, the bod has been getting it done.

But over the last few weeks she’s been clearing her throat (Ahem!) and raising her hand (Excuse me?) and asking for a little attention.

It started when we were in the Dominican Republic over Thanksgiving. We were totally relaxing — our hosts wouldn’t let us lift a finger! And while we were sitting on the lovely patio surrounded by luscious plants and later lounging on the sofa, listening to Adrea Bocelli on surround sound, my body began to quietly whimper.

There, there, I said. Relax. You’re on vacation. Try to enjoy it. We’ll be home before you know it.

But she continued to whine, so I loaded up on Motrin, did some yoga, took some deep breaths, and soaked up the surroundings and the lovely company we shared.

And, when I got home, I hobbled directly to the chiropractor.

“It’s the travel,” he said, “it always has an impact.”

Then, I met with my therapist who said, “Don’t underestimate the impact of your work stress and the emotion of family interactions on your body.”

And then I went to my physical therapist who said, “You might want to consider getting a pain injection.”

[Dammit.]

I’d been hoping I could do it all and manage my pain without an injection. I had been believing that my discipline — my yoga, my diet, my writing, my therapy — would be enough.

I’d been hoping I could teach at full capacity and travel and present at conferences and still enjoy my improved health.

And, really, for the most part, I think I can, if I also get periodic pain injections and continue being disciplined, and that includes taking significant rest at intervals. I’ve known this, but it seems I’ve always got to test my limits.

And, my body has told me that we are at our limit. Period.

So, this morning, as my humming body and I crawled out of bed, we said goodbye to my husband who is making a whirlwind trip — involving eight hours of driving inside of the next 24 hours — so that he can attend our granddaughter’s birthday party.

I am sad to be missing the festivities. I miss stuff sometimes — that is my reality.

And, at 10am on Saturday, I am still in pajamas. I have done 20 minutes of yoga, eaten a noninflammatory breakfast, drank a lovely cup of green tea with ginseng, am finishing my first of many tumblers of water, and am writing this all down because I need to admit that it is true.

I love my life. I really do.

I have a supportive and loving husband, a remarkable family, a cute little house with an extraordinary garden, a career designed especially for me, and countless high-caliber friends.

And, I sometimes spend quiet weekends at home alone, reading, soaking in the tub, putting together a puzzle, or working on a sewing project.

It’s the miraculous rhythm I get to live in this next chapter.

[He] is able to do immeasurably more than we can ask or imagine.”

Ephesians 3:20

Rest and Return

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments
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The summer is winding down and I (along with teachers across the country) am starting to move toward the classroom.

Feeling truly depleted at the end of last school year, I spent the first two weeks of summer break at home. I gardened, slept late, wrote a teeny little bit, read, walked, and cooked.

And then, when I was somewhat revived, my husband and I boarded a jet and headed west. We alit in the land of palms and headed to wide expanses of beach, spread out matching beach towels. and spent hours reading, sleeping, chatting, and staring in awe at the waves and the sky. We wandered inland and wondered at the mountains and the forests then returned to the beaches — some tame and populated, some rugged and bare.

We ate well, slept long, and walked for miles and miles.

We breathed deeply. We laughed. We restored.

When our vacation was over, he reported back to his responsibilities, and I returned to rest.

This past week, I found my way back to my desk and started to consider and prepare for the roles I will carry this fall. It will be my third year at my current school after a long season of physical and mental recovery, and it will be the most challenging yet.

Earlier in this blog, I have elaborated on the fact that many years of pushing too hard and failing to take care of myself or process any emotion had sidelined me from the classroom for several years. In 2020, I felt called back, and because we were in the midst of a pandemic, I had the privilege of easing back in through a year of teaching virtually followed by a year of some in-person and some virtual learning. I was able to get my feet under me with mostly no physical or emotional consequences until the very end of last year when my body started waving warning flags.

Those flags reminded me to fully lean into my summer, and I have. I have put puzzles together, crocheted, and binge-watched. I have rested fully, and now as reminders of all I have committed to start pinging on my phone, I am both exhilarated and anxious. I have added some new roles, and I am wondering if I will truly be able to manage it all.

I know for sure that I can manage the first responsibility, which is the one I have had from my first day at Detroit Leadership Academy. I am the senior ELA teacher, focusing on building skills that will enable my students to experience success after graduation. Our research projects focus on career and college. Our writing includes college essays and resumes. We practice academic reading, writing, discussion, and presenting. The goal is that our students will have the opportunity to choose — college, career, military, or trade school. I love this role — in many ways it is an extension of what I did in my previous classroom position, and I am thankful that I am able to carry those skills forward to support another community of students.

I also know that I can handle the second responsibility which I have had for a year now. I am our school’s Master Teacher. We have instructional coaches in our building who work directly with teachers to improve instructional practices; that is not my role. My role is more to be an exemplar and an encourager. Teachers can pop in my room and ask a question, check out my white board or room arrangement, complain about a policy, vent about a student, or ask for a snack. I love this role, too. Because I’ve been a teacher and a mom across four decades, I have seen some stuff, and not much surprises me. I can typically remain calm and objective, which is what less-experienced teachers often need.

The above two roles are familiar and natural to me, but like many teachers throughout their career, I have been offered some additional responsibilities that will absolutely stretch me in the coming year.

The first of these is one I volunteered for. I will be participating in a year-long educational fellowship wherein I will work with teachers across the state to examine educational policies and practices, do research, and work with lawmakers and constituents to enact change. I am very excited about this opportunity, which will give voice to my passion for educational equity, the key focus of this fellowship.

The second new role is to be our school’s reading interventionist and to bring a new reading program to the building. I will have one period a day with 10 freshmen who have demonstrated reading skills 2-3 years (or more) below grade level. I am being trained this week in strategies that have been demonstrated to decrease/eliminate that gap in 20 weeks of daily instruction. I am fully behind this initiative. In fact, I asked for a reading interventionist after seeing evidence of weak reading among my students. Because of my Lindamood-Bell experience, I am a solid choice (at least initially) for this role, and I know I will love watching my students develop their reading skills.

Even though I am passionate about each of these roles, they are adding up! And I haven’t even told you the last one.

After I had already accepted all of the above positions, and had begun to wrap my mind around what they would each entail, I was approached by our director of human resources and asked if I would take on an uncertified colleague as a student teacher.

Let me pause for effect, because that is what I literally did when I got the call. I sat with the phone to my ear, breathing silently.

I’ve mentioned before that 2/3 of the teachers in our building are uncertified — most, like this friend, are working toward certification. Many, like this friend, will eventually need to do student teaching. If she can’t do the student teaching in our building, she will find a different school to accommodate her, and then we would be down one more teacher.

I know it is not my responsibility, but I am the teacher in the building with the appropriate certification to supervise her, and I have had student teachers before. I believe we will work well together and that the experience will be successful, but it is a large responsibility on top of an already full load.

This is not uncommon for teachers. In fact, I am not unique at all. Teachers manage their classrooms, provide excellent instruction, sit on committees, volunteer for study groups, and support their colleagues. They coach, they work second (or third) jobs, and they also have lives away from school that include myriad challenges and responsibilities.

It’s not uncommon, yet although I am excited to get started in each of these roles, I do have some anxiety. This is the most I have committed to since the 2013-2014 school year — the year that I requested a reduced load because I was suffering with pain, extreme fatigue, and myriad other health issues, the year before I left my classroom for what I thought was the last time.

I’m not the same person I was then. I have learned how to care for my body. I am learning strategies for managing my emotions. I don’t have teenagers at home. I no longer have pets to care for. And still, it’s going to be a lot.

So here I am recommitting to my best practices — I will continue to write, to do yoga, to walk, to rest, to puzzle, to crochet, to read, and to meet with our small group. I will go to my physical therapy, chiropractic, and (now) acupuncture appointments. I will eat the foods that make me feel well and avoid those that don’t. I will limit other commitments.

More importantly, I will pray, and I will trust that God has provided me this next chapter and all the opportunities in it and that He will carry me through it all so that I can be present and fully engaged with those who are counting on me, because they truly are counting on me.

And really they are counting on the One who lives in me — the One who sees each student, each teacher, each parent, the One who knows each of our names, the One who is faithful, the One who is answering before we even use our breath to ask, the only One who can really be counted on

I may continue to feel anxious, but when I do, I will try to remember that He’s got me and all of my responsibilities in the palm of His hand.

The One who calls you is faithful, and he will do it.

I Thessalonians 5:24

This just might work.

~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments
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Last week I reminisced about our life in our little house by the river. Today, I share some of the journey to our next nest.

Even before we moved in, we knew we wouldn’t live in the little house by the river forever. It’s university property, after all, and one does not retire in university property.

Not that we are retiring. We’re not even close.

I’m just one year into my journey at Detroit Leadership Academy and have accepted the role of Master Teacher for next year. I will stay in the classroom, teaching English Language Arts to our seniors, working with my colleagues to close the educational equity gap and prepare our students for success in college, trade school, or the work world. This past year has more than affirmed my passion for teaching in Detroit, and I hope for many years of teaching ahead in this next chapter.

Similarly, John is as invested as ever in the students at Concordia. When he moved here eight years ago, he had a sense of what this position held, what his role and responsibilities would be, but now he fully understands how his gifts as an educator, a counselor, and a pastor work together to support college students as they develop into adulthood. He’s part of a strong team of leaders here who are committed to walking with students through both joys and challenges, and he’s excited about continuing in that role.

So why the change? Don’t we love living on campus? We sure do! I’ve written about how much we love it over the years. Even during the pandemic, when the campus was almost vacant, we enjoyed its beauty — the green of summer against the brick structures, the fall leaves beside the peaceful Huron River, the pure white expanses of snow in the open spaces, and always the lilacs, the tulips, and the peonies in the spring. We have loved living and literally walking beside students, faculty, and staff these past years — watching ultimate frisbee from our patio, hearing laughter outside our door, and chatting with members of this community as we move throughout our weeks. We have experienced many unique relationships as a result of living in the little house by the river, and we are sad to be leaving.

Nevertheless, from the beginning, we knew we would one day move out. We weren’t sure when or to where, but from the beginning, we’ve kind of had our eye on Ypsilanti. We love Ann Arbor — its parks, its restaurants, its cool campus scene — but when in Ann Arbor, I’ve always felt a bit like a tourist. I love to explore how beautiful, how smart, how impressive Ann Arbor is — I don’t get tired of it. However, when I visit Ypsilanti, I feel more at home — its edges aren’t polished; it’s not trying to impress anyone. Ypsilanti looks like it’s been through some stuff and lived to tell — and I resonate with that.

So last winter, when we were on month one million of Covid isolation and my husband’s plantar fasciitis got in the way of our long quarantine walks, we started taking drives around Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, and their surrounding areas. We talked about what we liked and didn’t like. We discussed our future. We clarified our goals. Then one day, we called our friend who is a realtor and formalized our search.

Over the next few months, we looked at many, many houses. Our realtor’s patience with us allowed us to imagine what we were looking for — what kind of space would suit us in this stage of life and carry us forward into the next. The little house by the river definitely informed that vision. We have been very content in this simple home, and we could picture ourselves in something similar — three bedrooms, perhaps a second bathroom, a garage, and definitely space for a garden. We wanted to be in a community where we could mix with people whose journeys may have been different from ours, where we could build relationships that would challenge and enrich us. Our goal was to stick to a conservative budget so that we could easily pay our mortgage and continue to live our simple life and contribute to causes that matter to us.

This was a tall order in the current real estate market. Interest rates are at an all-time low, and we were not the only ones looking for a house during the pandemic. In fact, the first house we bid on had several other offers, and so did the second house. Buyers right now are offering well over asking price and some are paying fully in cash. In fact, the third house we made an offer on had twenty-six (26!) other offers. The winner paid in cash. We were starting to get discouraged and even said, “It’s fine. Let’s take a break; we don’t need to buy a house right now.”

Then, on a Friday, when I clicked through the latest listings in an email sent by our realtor, I noticed a little three bedroom with a garage in Ypsilanti Township. I pulled it up on Google Maps and thought, “We aren’t going to like it. It’s too close to the highway.” I wasn’t even going to go look, but as I left work that day, I thought, “I’m in the car anyway, and it’s kind of on the way.” I took the exit and drove the path that we had driven to so many others in the area, and then I found myself on a quiet street that was indeed extremely close to the highway, but for some reason didn’t feel like it was. I pulled up in front of a small blue ranch, put the car in park, lowered the windows, and listened.

It was so quiet. Across the street was a playground and what was once an elementary school but is now an alternative education center. The house seemed in good shape, and so did the garage. I drove up and down the street, looking at the other houses on the block.

“Huh,” I thought, “this just might work.”

I texted my husband and our realtor, “I know we just said we were going to take a little break, but I’m sitting in front of this house, and I think it might be worth a look inside.”

Two days later we were standing in the driveway, then we were walking around to the back where we saw the garden — an enormous garden, right at the back of the yard, adjacent to three other yards that also had their gardens right next to the fence. I could immediately see myself leaning on that fence, talking to the neighbors, sharing gardening tips, and passing produce. I saw mature well-cared-for rose bushes and a patio next to the house, where I imagined our Adirondack chairs might fit quite nicely. We walked inside and found a lovely well-lit living room, a small eat-in kitchen, and three small bedrooms on the main floor. Everything had been recently painted, and the flooring had all been replaced. It felt fresh and ready to be lived in. We made our way downstairs to the finished basement where we found a fourth bedroom, a family room, the laundry, and all the makings of a bathroom — toilet, shower, sink — minus the finishing touches of walls and a vanity.

I heard my husband saying, “This might just work”

We guarded our feelings and put in an offer — the fourth offer we had made in a little over a month — and then we waited.

We didn’t have to wait long. By Monday the sellers had accepted our offer, and less than a month later, we have closed on our next nest. We haven’t yet begun to move in, but we’ve already put seeds and seedlings in the garden, and I’ve already leaned on the fence and talked with the neighbors. They like to chat and linger, just like I was hoping they would.

As I’m packing boxes in the little house by the river, I continue to reminisce, but my gaze is starting to move forward. I’m imagining our things living inside their new spaces. I’m picturing us sitting in our living room watching children playing in the park. I’m looking forward to walks in our next neighborhood.

I think this just might work.

You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.

Psalm 145:16

Spiraling and Strolling: Moving through Grief

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment
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Sometimes thoughts of the past can leave me sleepless. All of life has not been picture perfect, and images of brokenness can lead to pain that prevents sleep. For this reason, I often try to avoid lingering on the past, but the other night I intentionally strolled down Memory Lane for a little while. I looked at some old photos and replayed some old film. This is a new strategy for me.

For the past several years, moments of memory have come in unexpected flashes. I can be watching a television sitcom, for example, and see a mother and daughter share a glance or break into laughter. It seems like a benign — even fun — exchange, but it sparks a memory, and I am transported back 5, 10, 15, or even 20 years to a scene where, in a moment of frustration, I snapped at one of my children when I could’ve smiled or even laughed. Later, after the television has been turned off and the lights are out, instead of sleeping, I flail amid images of that moment and others like it swirling on a screen in my mind. Rather than a stroll down Memory Lane, it feels like a free fall between black walls covered in video screens replaying moments of regret, disappointment, and failure.

Once I am in this free fall, I can go for hours. I might see myself driving a carload of kids, for example — my shoulders tensed, trying to get them where they need to go, mentally working out return trips, meals, clothing, and bills. I can feel the stress of responsibility, of course, but mostly I feel sadness and regret — realizing now how brief the moments with our children were and wanting to get some of those moments back for a re-do.

Maybe this sounds familiar. Perhaps all of us mentally cycle through memories, wishing we could go back and redo some of the moments that fill us with regret.

In families like ours that have been impacted by trauma, this experience may be even more intense. Flashes of memory may feel like mini-traumas. In my case, the flashes from the past I see often induce not only regret but also shame for my role in what did and didn’t happen.

Since I’ve made a commitment to only tell my own story, I will stay cloudy on the details, but I have shared before in this blog that our family has been touched by crime, violence, and a season of extreme overwork wherein the stress level in our household could become volatile. While I take responsibility, rightfully, for some of that stress, my brain sometimes gets confused and tries to convince me that I am responsible for all of the trauma, too. It tries to show me moments just before and just after traumatic events and to accuse me of what I could’ve done to make things different. It shows me how I might’ve prevented pain or how I should have been more active in comforting, and it continually points an accusing finger at me, showing me piece after piece of evidence where I failed as a mother, as a wife, and as a friend.

I am transported, for example, to a moment on our front porch where I asked a question but didn’t notice a detail, where I heard a response that I shouldn’t have believed. I tell myself I should have looked more closely, should’ve questioned more. I should’ve seen; I should’ve heard.

Then, I see another image, a midnight drive through the neighborhood to calm a crying teen; I see myself feeling tired, wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. I tell myself I should’ve listened more carefully, should’ve driven further, should’ve called off work the next day.

And from there, I fall to the next image…

When I am free falling through that accusatory slide show, I call it spiraling. I spin through images of moments when I wish I would’ve known more, acted differently, or seen the situation for what it really was. If only I could go back and do it differently, but I can’t, so I continue to spiral from one failed moment to the next.

Recently, as I felt I was nearing the end of a several day stretch of night-time spiraling, having had little sleep, and wanting the cycle to end, my husband, in casual conversation, brought up a topic that I thought might set me back into free fall. I said, “I don’t know if I want to talk about that. I’ve already been spiraling for several days, and I’m really ready to stop.” He was quiet for moment, and then he said, “I think it’s all part of the grieving process.”

I was silent.

It’s part of the grieving process? Going back through all these images and feeling all this regret, this ache, this shame? For the past several years, I’ve been trying to avoid spiraling, if possible, and to endure it when necessary, but if it’s part of the grieving process, I wondered, do I need to lean in and sit with it? Isn’t that what you do with grief? Sit with it?

When something dies — a loved one, a pet, a dream, a hope — it hurts, and the hurt does not go quickly away. No, it takes all kinds of mental and physical work for our minds and bodies to accept loss. We try to deny that it really happened, and we get angry that it did. We yell until we can yell no more, then eventually we cry and sob and groan as we acknowledge the loss to be real.

And, you know, we’ve got to give ourselves space for this. Loss is real — it happens — devastating, bone-crushing loss comes into our lives and we sometimes can’t bear to look at the reality of it all — but when we are ready, we must. We must look at devastation with our eyes wide open. We must see the totality of the pain and allow ourselves and all those impacted the space to grieve — to really, fully grieve.

I’ve been avoiding that full-on look; it’s been too painful to take it all in at once. However, my brain won’t let me rest until I lean in and take a closer look.

The other night, I was lying awake casually spiraling — I was too tired to be frantic, so I wearily submitted to the images that were swirling on the screen of my mind. I lay there and took it in — the accusation, the shame, the regret, and then I finally gave in to sleep.

The next morning, after my alarm jolted me awake, I wondered if it was time to shift to a different way of looking. Was it possible to instead of merely seeing the failures and sinking into shame that I might view the images through eyes of compassion — not only for the members of my family but also for myself?

When I find myself on the front porch, for example, can I acknowledge that I was home, that I was watching, that I was aware, even if I didn’t see the full picture? Can I give myself the grace to say that I was present? Can I acknowledge that to the teen, my questions were terrifying and lies were the only safe response?

When I find myself driving through the neighborhood at midnight, can I thank myself for getting out of bed, for loading a teen in a car, and for driving back and forth to allow the time for tears, even if I didn’t know what they were for? Can I have compassion on the young one who was feeling so much wrenching pain and applaud the strength it took to finally allow me to see the depth of it, even if sharing the cause of such deep hurt was still impossible?

Am I ready to make the shift from spiraling to strolling? Am I willing to slow down and look, really look, at the images? to see not just what’s in the foreground, but to see the background, the edges, and what was happening just outside the frame?

Am I ready to accept grief’s invitation to stroll down Memory Lane, to look at both the wreckage and the beauty, to see the moments of love and tenderness that sit right beside the devastation. Am I willing to see not only my failures but also the moments where I may have done the only right thing I knew to do at the time? Am I willing to believe that two competing realities can exist at the same time?

I think I’m ready to try; I think it’s the next step through this grief.

I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.

Jeremiah 31:13