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