I woke up before five this morning, even though we don’t have school. It’s election day as I’m writing, and it might make sense for me to get up this early, if there was anything on my precinct’s ballot, but there is not.
So, I rolled over and closed my eyes, but despite the fact that I have an opportunity to sleep late, my brain is engaged. It’s problem-solving issues that aren’t mine to solve. It’s running scenarios for situations over which I have no control.
I use my tried and true strategy of grabbing the novel I’m currently working on. Maybe if I get lost in a story, I’ll go back to sleep. But books being what they are, and me being who I am, the story of a racially charged shooting is just giving my brain more fodder.
I sigh, roll out of bed, and tend to a few things over which I do have control — a load of laundry, a few rogue dishes in the sink, my cluttered desk. I’m trying to bring order to my immediate surroundings despite the far-flung chaos which we now find to be just another Tuesday.
Even though this is not supposed to be just another Tuesday. It’s supposed to be a day that I can weigh in, have my say.
It’s election day, and I can’t even cast my vote for change.
So, I light a candle, do some yoga, brew a pot of tea, and go with what I know — words on the page.
I can’t solve problems that aren’t mine — the ones of those dear to me who are trying to find the right employment fit or the ones of two students who, after moving to a new place, likely due to housing insecurity, are no longer on the bus route and will likely move to virtual school, eventually, after they’ve had no schooling for the last few weeks.
I can’t understand why more than half of the country, according to a new New York Times poll, would still be ok with electing a man who’s been found guilty of sexual assault, is currently on trial for financial crimes, and is facing a total of 91 felony counts! when countless are the American citizens who cannot get a paid position with merely 1 felony count.
I can’t fathom the devastation in Israel and Gaza where over 1400 Israelis and over 10,000 Palestinians — mostly civilians — have died. Thousands of lives lost within a month — families destroyed forever. I have no words.
I don’t get how our country has over $105 BILLION to send to Israel and the Ukraine to aid in their wars but it doesn’t have enough money to ensure that our parents (or we!) don’t go broke paying for healthcare or enough to provide an equitable education to all American children, or even, for heaven’s sake, a decent breakfast and/or lunch for my students. (No, I do not consider a Pop Tart and a juice box a decent breakfast for a teenager, even if it is free).
I can’t solve the problems with transportation, attendance, and substance abuse that impact my students every day because those problems are mere symptoms of a larger multi-system malignancy that has roots that reach before my lifetime and spread far beyond my influence.
I don’t have that kind of power. I don’t have that kind of wisdom.
So, I return to what I know. I light a candle. I go to my yoga mat. I breathe in and out.
I sigh a prayer — a simple Lord, have mercy.
Lord, help! Lord, guide! Lord, intervene!
Make sense out of confusion. Make order out of chaos.
Replace poverty with plenty, violence with peace, hatred with love.
You have that kind of power. You have that kind of wisdom.
We’re seven weeks into this school year, and I’m not sure who is learning more — me or my students.
This is always the case, of course, but I continue to be amazed. You would think that since I am fifty-seven years old, and my students are mere teenagers, that my maturity, at least, would exceed theirs. In some ways it does, for sure, but they are teaching me to receive feedback and to alter my approach.
Now, they don’t necessarily know they are doing this — they aren’t setting goals, writing lesson plans, or assessing my progress. No. They are just navigating their lives in the best ways that they know how, but when our paths cross, they are not afraid to give me the feedback that I need.
And I am not too stubborn to receive it. Not any more.
Recently, I was trying to get started with my fourth hour class — they come to me straight from lunch, and my expectation is that they would just walk in, grab their materials, sit down, and be ready to engage with learning. Yes, I do see, as I type those words that my expectations border on lunacy. For one, any teenager coming straight from lunch might be transitioning from a fun conversation with peers, from an attempt to engage with a person of romantic interest, or from a mild or moderate altercation with a staff member. To expect them to instantly shed those interactions and be fully engaged in English Language Arts is, although an appropriate academic posture, probably not entirely sensitive to adolescent development.
And I know that, and I prepare for it. Each period, I plan a “gathering” — some short activity to pull us all together. For example, I might display a slide showing that October 23 is National TV Talk Show Host Day and then ask my students, “if you could be interviewed by any TV Talk Show Host, who would it be, and what would you want to talk about?”
We might take a few minutes to discuss and laugh in an attempt to build a classroom culture and foster engagement before I try to deftly transition into the goals for the day.
On this recent day, the one I was starting to tell you about, I could tell that the majority of my students were not with me. I was having a hard time getting everyone to find their seats, to put their phones away, and to engage with our gathering. So, in the “kick butts and take names” fashion that I learned somewhere along the way, I started moving around the classroom in my ‘large and in charge’ type of way in an attempt to get them settled in.
I narrowed my proximity. I bantered with students, interjecting myself into their conversations, and trying to overpower them into submission. This strategy might have worked once upon a time, but my current students are not having it. The power play does not work with them. I know this, but on this particular day, I was frustrated enough with their lack of attention that I reverted to the muscle memory of raising my voice, getting an attitude, and using language that is not typically mine.
My students’ response? They kept doing what they were doing — they were unbothered — until the language that came out of my mouth elicited a “Whoa, Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that,” and then the room went quiet. And I knew the student was right. My language had crossed a boundary. I had gotten their attention, for sure, but not in the way that I wanted.
I backpedaled.
“You’re right. That was inappropriate. I think I am feeling frustrated because we don’t seem ready to get started. But that is no excuse. I apologize. Can we start over?”
The room quieted, but some of the respect that I had spent weeks building inside of this space, had crumbled beneath my feet, and I instantly knew I would have to do some rebuilding. Nevertheless, my duty to instruction prevailed, and I began with our lesson. Just as we were finding our rhythm, one of my students jumped up and said, “Mrs. Rathje, I gotta take this call,” as she speedily went to the hallway.
Well, that irritated me, but I kept moving with the students whose minimal attention I was holding and then met her at the door when she returned.
“You can’t just walk out of class, ” I said, my attitude re-engaged, “You haven’t been here all week, and now that you’re back, you just jump up and take a phone call?”
I think I expected her to say, “You’re right. I’m sorry,” but instead, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I am feeling a certain kind of way because of how you are talking to me. The reason I have been missing school is because I was at a party last weekend where my cousin was killed.”
I put my hands up in quiet surrender and took a step back.
“Wow. I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. You are right. I didn’t need to give you any attitude. I apologize. I am glad you are here. Will you let me know if there is anything I can do?”
“I will. Thank you.”
Sheesh! Twice inside of twenty minutes, I had had to apologize for defaulting to a power play and my students were the ones who gave me the feedback that allowed me to check myself and try a different way. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be doing that for them.
Each day, I have to remind myself that I am not the center of the universe; the behavior of my students is not directed at me. They are dealing with all kinds of things. For example, not one, not two, but three of my students reported “my aunt just died” this week! I have got students who are homeless, some who work over twenty hours a week, and some who are earning money to help their families pay the bills. I’ve got students who have family in jail or who are on probation themselves. I’ve got students whose families do not have a vehicle and can’t come to get them in the middle of the day if they are suddenly sick or injured or overwhelmed by the amount of loss in their lives.
And these are the things I know about. Many of the struggles my students face are too private to share.
So, instead of being annoyed when my students don’t walk in on time and enthusiastic for learning, I need to be curious.
What is going on that has everyone distracted today? I noticed you weren’t at school for several days, is everything ok? I can see that you are preoccupied with your phone — are you just caught up in scrolling? or is it deeper than that?
I don’t need to have an attitude. Asking a simple question can provide my students with the feedback that might allow them to a) provide me with information that explains what’s going on or b) check themselves and try a different way.
Life is complex and English Language Arts aren’t the top priority for a student who is reeling from crisis. However, it is my job to share the value of learning ELA for the purpose of having strong communication skills, succeeding in postsecondary learning, and for being prepared for future employment. I need to be compassionate in regard to my students’ reality while also engaging them in learning and holding them accountable to meet the learning standards that will give them access to spaces beyond my classroom.
It’s a big job. And sometimes I get tired, and I blow it.
However, I am noticing that the class of 2024 doesn’t have any trouble holding me accountable. They are not afraid to say, “Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that.” or “I don’t like the way you are coming at me.” or “Mrs. Rathje, are you doing ok?” They are modeling for me the ways that might be appropriate to hold them accountable!
And, if I’m not too consumed with being in control, if I’m brave enough, I might just model for them the ways that they can respond to my feedback.
You’re right, that was harsh. Did that sound sarcastic? I apologize. Guys, can I be honest — I’m not feeling the best today. Can I just take a minute to gather myself? Can you all cut me some slack?
I love these kids so much, and I am so impressed by their ability to notice that something doesn’t feel right and, in that moment, to say something. In this way, they are worlds ahead of me. They are brave, and I want to honor their bravery in a way that seems counterintuitive — I want to be vulnerable.
Brene Brown in Atlas of the Heart says: ” In a world where perfectionism, pleasing, and proving are used as armor to protect our egos and our feelings, it takes a lot of courage to show up and be all in when we can’t control the outcome. It also takes discipline and self-awareness to understand what to share and with whom. Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences” (14).
If what I’m trying to do is build transformative relationships with my students, what better way do I have than modeling vulnerability — welcoming feedback, admitting I was wrong, saying I’m sorry, and moving forward in a way that honors the humanity of the people in front of me.
Back in the early days of my teaching, the old pros used to advise us to “not smile before Thanksgiving.” Their philosophy was that teachers had to be hard asses for the first quarter if they wanted to maintain control of their classrooms. For many it worked.
But I’m not interested in control.
I’m in education because I have an insufferable belief in transformation, and in my experience, I have to let go of my need to control in order to create the space in which change is possible.
I can’t create that space through force. I need to be willing to step back — to be the one to create an opening.
If my students are brave enough to hold me accountable, I’m going to be brave enough to try a different way..
Do not conform to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
I lost some sleep last night— it’s not too atypical for me, a gal in her 50s, to be unable to sleep at night because a) I’ve got some losses on my brain I haven’t yet processed and b) while trying to distract myself from those unprocessed losses, I have stumbled into a particularly engaging murder mystery.
The coincidence, though, is that the book revolves around multiple losses! Somehow reading about fictional losses is preferable to thinking about the real ones I’ve witnessed in the past week.
I prefer to celebrate wins — I just finished the third week of the school year, and the wins are stacking up! The majority of my students have been consistently opting in to learning, the weather has been near perfection, our seniors (and some juniors) toured two colleges this past week, and my newest cohort of reading students is off to a great start!
There is so much to celebrate, but wins in every context are invariably set against an undeniable backdrop of loss. For example, in the last three weeks, our school, which routinely has a 90% staff retention rate, has lost one teacher each week. The first week, our newly hired freshman ELA teacher resigned to return to a district where he had previously been employed. The second week, a strong team member who has taught financial literacy to our students with her whole heart, left to pursue an administrative role in another district. And this week, perhaps the hardest hit of all, our long-time algebra and geometry teacher who has some of the strongest relationships in the building, announced that he is making a career move at the end of next week.
In a small school like ours, with just under 300 students, these blows hit hard. We are a family, after all. We all know each other by name. We razz each other in the hallway. We defend each other in the midst of chaos. We cheer each other on. We have each other’s backs.
And the loss is not only a blow to the morale of the staff, it is the latest in a string of losses for our students.
You may be tired of me saying it, but it is the reality I witness each day — many of my students have suffered deep, deep loss. Just this past week, I learned of a junior who lost her mother since school started and a senior whose grandmother died last week. Then Friday, one of my seniors stepped out of class to take a call during which he learned that his brother, who had been in critical condition, had just died! And these are not isolated cases. Each year — each and every year — I have had a student who has lost a parent. It seems each year I have also had a student who has lost a sibling. And last year, I even had a student who lost her own newborn child.
So imagine that you’re in your senior year, that you spent your freshman year in your bedroom peering into a zoom room on a chromebook that you didn’t quite yet know how to navigate, that you lost one or two or three close family members to Covid, that your family had to move one or two or three times within the last two to three years because they a) couldn’t afford the rent, b) got evicted, or c) had some other family trauma that necessitated a move, and then you show up to your senior year and notice that once a week a staff member disappears. How does one respond in the face of loss after loss after loss?
You might be overwhelmed. You might become depressed. Or, you might do whatever you have to do to survive — you might keep people at arm’s length, or you may put up an crusty exterior so that people don’t know you’re hurting.
I’ve seen that. I watched a girl all last fall defiantly walk out of classes, repeatedly (and sometimes aggressively) spar with classmates, and verbally challenge those who might dare to hold her accountable. She was a junior, but I knew her name because I had repeated hallway interactions with her.
“Where are you supposed to be, LaShay?”
“I’m goin’ to the bathroom.”
“Didn’t you just come from the bathroom?”
“Stop talkin to me.”
She was angry, it was obvious. And she was kind of hard to like, if I’m gonna be honest. And, I’ll admit, that when she was removed from the building and forced to do online learning after an incident that threatened the safety of others, I was a bit relieved. She was a high-flyer, constantly in need of redirection from not just me, but all of the members of the leadership and school culture teams.
When she showed up at the back to school fair a few weeks ago, with her younger sister, who had also been sent home due to the same incident, I swallowed hard and thought, Well, here we go. This time, she’s in my class..
Her sister sought me out, gave me a hug, and said, “Mrs. Rathje, we’re back!”
I hugged her, and said, “Great to see you! Is LaShay here?”
“She’s in the gym.”
“Let’s go find her,” I said.
I walked to the gym, found LaShay, walked up to her, smiled, and said, “Welcome back,” with the most genuine smile I could conjur. I was determined to start off on the right foot.
She side-eyed me, and then looked down.
“You’re with me this year, dear. I’m looking forward to it.”
Without answering, she walked away, to go talk to a friend on the other side of the gym.
The first week with LaShay was a little dicey. She showed up to class consistently a little late. She scrolled on her phone when everyone else in the class followed my direction to “stow phones during instruction,” and got a little huffy with me when I joined her for partner work when she refused to join anyone else.
But I persisted. I pointed out that her attendance had been perfect near the end of the second week, “even if you do tend to show up late,” I said.
“I don’t show up late. I’m here on time. I’m doing my best. My mom has cancer, and I’m the oldest. I gotta get myself and all my siblings together, but I get all of us here on time.”
There it was. My opportunity. I remembered a brief interchange from the year before when I learned that her mom was sick, when I asked her why she was crying in the hallway. She wasn’t crying now. She was, indeed, “together” and she and her siblings were consistently in the building.
“LaShay, I’m so sorry to hear that. I do see you in school every day. I was noticing that you are often late to my class, but I didn’t realize that you were the oldest or that your mother was still sick. You probably have a lot of responsibility right now.”
She looked at me and nodded.
“Ok. I can give you some grace, but I’m gonna ask you to do your best to get here by the bell. It’s something we are really working on this year. However, now that I know what’s going on, I will try to be understanding. Please let me know how I can support you.”
“Ok.” she said, and she got back to her work.
I’m gonna call that a win — a big win! — against a backdrop of devastating loss. She lost half a year in the building last year because of a dust up that was likely a response to the trauma of her mom being critically ill. She is losing some of her childhood and her innocence because she has to take on the mantle of responsibility during her mother’s illness. However, she is winning, because she is developing the skills to communicate her reality in a way that will help her get the understanding she needs.
It takes vulnerability to share with a teacher, one who has historically been on your case, that something is not right in your world. She couldn’t count on me responding like I did. She doesn’t know me that well. But she took the chance, and that’s a win.
On Friday afternoon, I got in my car, and drove to a football field in the heart of Detroit to work the gate at our team’s game. La Shay is a cheerleader — on top of everything else right now, she is claiming the opportunity to fully opt in to her senior year. In order to stay on the team, she will have to keep herself together, stay out of trouble, and represent the school well.
During half time, the cheerleaders came over to where I was standing with last year’s principal, who came to the game because even though she no longer works in our building, these are her babies. The girls took turns hugging their former principal, and I took the opportunity to move in closer.
“LaShay, come here,” I said as I waved her over, “Your principal needs to hear that you are killing it this year. That you’ve got perfect attendance and you’re completing your assignments!”
She beamed. The principal hugged her, encouraged her to keep it up, and hugged her again, saying, “I knew you would!”
Another win — and this girl could really use some wins right now.
Loss is the reality of life on the planet — the hits inevitably keep coming, so it’s important to not only process the loss, but to note the wins. I didn’t always do this. Because I was so frantically trying to create perfection, I didn’t leave the space to acknowledge, let alone grieve, loss. Instead, I defiantly moved forward, demanding those around me to join my pursuit of perfection, and because I was looking for perfection, I didn’t celebrate all the wins.. I lost a lot in those days — the tenderness I could have had in some of my most dear relationships, the opportunity to show the people I love the most the grace that they needed in their losses, and the opportunity to celebrate their wins. I wasn’t brave enough (or self-aware enough) at the time to be vulnerable — to communicate my reality in ways that get me the understanding that I needed.
But I’m brave enough now — brave enough to seek out a defiant young woman in a school gym and to take the chance at building a relationship with her, because she looks a lot like someone I used to be, and it seems she could use someone to help her learn to celebrate the wins that happen against the backdrop of loss.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God
2 Corinthians 1:3-4
*One of the ways I celebrate student wins (and cushion losses) is by providing a steady stream of snacks, supplies, and prizes in my classroom. Many of you have contributed to my stockpile, and I am thankful for you! You make this work possible!
In March of 2020, we sent all of the nation’s children home in the first weeks of the Covid Pandemic. How could we have anticipated the impact of this decision? While some students were home for several weeks, many students, especially students of color in our nation’s urban areas, were home for more than a year. How might this have impacted their social-emotional development, they mental health, or their learning?
We educators have been beginning to unpack the broad impacts of the pandemic on our students over the last two to three school years. Here’s what I’ve seen.
In the fall of 2021, when my students first returned to in-person learning at my Detroit charter school after 18 months of remote instruction — which for many in my community meant no instruction at all — I noticed extremely high anxiety and a limited ability to interact with peers without conflict. Our students needed support to merely exist in the classroom within six feet of their peers. Although everyone was masked, these students had learned that proximity meant danger. It took some time for them be comfortable around one another, particularly because with some regularity, whole groups were sent home to quarantine after one member of their classroom cluster tested positive. It wasn’t until late in that school year that the Covid protocols changed, masks became optional, and our whole community started to relax a little. The heightened anxiety surrounding that school year led some students to stay home intermittently, to switch to virtual learning for yet another year, or to do their best to muddle through day by day. For teachers, this meant that academics, while important, were not the priority. Since Maslow illustrated his hierarchy of needs we’ve recognized that a student needs to feel safe before he can be free to learn. Our focus was on building predictability through routine and on getting our students the social work supports that they needed.
Much of this carried into that second fall — 2022 — where our back to school professional development sessions centered on the brain science behind trauma. We learned about the amygdala’s response to danger — flight, fight, freeze, and appease — and how our routines and instructional strategies can minimize this response and the interruptions it causes to learning. This is relevant in our context not only because our students have experienced the extended communal trauma of the pandemic but because they have also endured the traumas associated with systemic racism such as food insecurity, housing insecurity, violence, and negative experiences with law enforcement. Our social workers and behavioral specialists worked overtime to anticipate difficult situations, to mitigate conflict, and to restore relationships. Again, although academics were moving up on the priority list, they were not at the top.
As we were moving through the virtual year and the return to in-person learning — I, fresh from working at Lindamood-Bell where our whole gig was reading intervention and remediation, noticed that very few, if any, of my of my students were reading and comprehending at grade level. I lifted my concern to our Director of Academics, “We’ve got to get a reading interventionist in here — these students need support.”
I said that during the 2021-2022 school year and found myself in August of 2022 at an intensive training week for the reading program called Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention (AARI). I would be piloting this program for one year — last school year. During that academic year, I worked with 18 freshmen over the course of two semesters. Each of them started AARI with an instructional reading level at or below third grade. Over the course of one semester, the students and I worked on decoding (sounding out words, breaking words into syllables, etc), which is not part of AARI, building a mental movie about what we were reading (also not AARI), and using the text to support our thinking and developing metacognitive skills (all AARI). After one semester of work, I only had one student who did not improve at all — and that was likely due to the fact that he was absent almost half of the days that we met. Two students grew one grade level during that semester, most grew two to three grade levels, and a few grew four or more grade levels in one semester. It’s quite a remarkable program.
As a result of this success, and the data I obtained testing students over two semesters, our school adopted a broad tier-two intervention called Read 180 for all of our freshmen for this school year. That means that rather than 18 freshmen getting the intensive remediation that I provided, ALL incoming freshmen would receive an intervention that, delivered via computer, in small groups, and with the aid of an instructor, yields two years of growth in one year. I was very excited to hear that we were getting help for all of our freshmen. I was even more excited when I learned that I would be providing AARI to a select group of sophomores and juniors.
I have spent the last two weeks working one-on-one to evaluate students who scored the lowest among their classmates on the Reading and Language section of the PSAT last Spring. (Perhaps one day I will write a whole post about my feelings regarding standardized testing in general and the SAT/ACT specifically, but not today.) I pulled each of these students to my room, had a conversation with them, administered the Qualitative Reading Inventory (QRI) and determined their need for AARI. I was gut punched when I realized that two sophomores and one junior in our building scored at the first grade level for reading comprehension. How in the world were they functioning in high school? How could they continue to show up if the content of their classes was that frustrating?
Most of the students I selected for the class tested at the second or third grade level when measuring reading comprehension. When we take into account that many of them did not read much from 2020-2021, and that many of them have been in a trauma response for the past two to three years or more, this is not terribly surprising. What is surprising is the half dozen students I met with who scored much higher. These few lit up when I told them that the PSAT is not an accurate measure of their intellect, that although Covid was devastating and their skills are possibly rusty, they have the capacity to be successful not only in high school but beyond. I looked them in the eyes and assured them that now that I know who they are and what they can do, I will be watching and expecting great things. These few, mostly black males, sat up straighter, looked me in the eyes, said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and “thank you.” One young woman who, despite severe anxiety, demonstrated a keen aptitude for academics said, “I am thankful for you and what you are doing..”
The ones who qualified for my class had an equally amazing response. To a person, they acknowledged that “reading is hard for me.” They said, “I need this class, ” and “thank you for doing this.”
Here’s what they didn’t do. They didn’t say, “I don’t need help with reading.” or “I’m not taking some dumb reading class.” They didn’t refuse to read lists of words or answer questions about the similarities and differences between whales and fish. They didn’t question why I was pulling them from class. They didn’t resist.
No, these students recognize what they have lost. They know they need help. They know support when they see it.
How do I know? Because for the past two weeks, as I have moved through the halls, I have heard these students, and the students I worked with last year. They call out, “Hi, Mrs. Rathje.” They don’t act like they don’t know me. They don’t avoid me. No. They stop by my room, they give me a fist bump as I pass, they throw their arms around me in a hug.
But they do these things not just to me. They love all the teachers in our building because they feel safe here. They see the hard work we have done to create a predictable environment. They notice us responding to their mental health needs. They understand that we see them, we know what they have been through, and we are here for them, cheering them on to success.
On Friday, I was calling all the parents of my new cohort. “Good afternoon, this is Mrs. Rathje from Detroit Leadership Academy.” I explained why I was calling, that we had noticed since Covid that many of our students are below grade level in reading comprehension, and that their student had been identified as one who could benefit from this class. Most parents said, “Ok, thank you,” or “Whatever he needs, I support,” but one mother took my breath away.
“Thank you so much for noticing this. I lost both of my parents during Covid and to be honest, I’ve been deep in grief and didn’t even realize that he was falling behind. Thank you so much for paying attention to him.”
These students are not behind in reading because they are dumb or poor or Black. They are behind in reading because they have been through a lot, their learning has been interrupted, and they need some support to get back on track.
I can’t wait to get started with them and to cheer them on as they learn and grow this year.
I’m a sucker for a story of restoration, especially when I have a front row seat.
I am confident of this: I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living.
Psalm 27:13
*For data surrounding the impact of Covid on learning, check out the documents linked below:
**If you know an educator in the Detroit area that cares about educational equity, please connect them with me. Because of the nature of our work, we are always looking for partners, teachers, coaches, and other encouragers.
The Thursday before school started, we the staff of Detroit Leadership Academy took our stations around the building, preparing for the open house where students would come to get their schedules and chromebooks and begin to reconnect with the world of school after eight weeks away.
I was at the main entrance, checking students in. I didn’t know the freshmen, of course, they were new to our building, but I was watching for those students I recognized, especially the small group of students I had had in my reading class the previous year.
“Hey! How was your summer?” I said as I stood from my seat to receive a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”
I was also watching for last year’s juniors, who would be my new senior class. I knew some of their names, but we aren’t familiar enough for a hug.
“Are you ready for this?” I would say, “You ready to be a senior?”
The replies were varied: “Of course!” “Hell, yeah!” “I think so.” “I’m not sure.” “I’m scared.”
I’ve seen it from every group of seniors I’ve ever taught. Some things don’t change; others do.
The first day of school was predicted to be in excess of 90 degrees, and since our school doesn’t have air conditioning, our administration determined to have an early release. We would see each group of students for just 30 minutes, and then they would board their non – air conditioned busses for the sweltering ride home,.
I had two box fans and two ceiling fans blowing, and my two operational windows as far open as they go. I stationed a cooler full of water bottles covered in ice at the front of my room, and kept the lights off to keep the room as cool as possible.
When the bell sounded, my students met me at the door, got their seat assignments, and made their way to their desks. It took me a while — perhaps until this reflective moment — to register that something felt different.
This wasn’t the fall of 2020 where I met my students inside the small square of the zoom room.
It wasn’t the fall of 2021 where my students entered my room mask-clad, the vibration of anxiety among us palpable.
And it wasn’t the manufactured bravado and audaciousness of 2022 — the defiant swagger born of two years of persistent trauma.
No, this past week, the first week of school year 2023-24 felt….light…spacious…and maybe even hopeful.
As I shared the big picture goals for the year — the district-wide vision that all of our students would be accepted to a college, that 80% of them would enroll in some kind of post-secondary training, and that all of them would attend school more than 90% of the time — I watched the faces of my students, expecting the usual push-back, disinterest, or defiance, but what I saw was a collective subtle nod, an acceptance of this reality, and (an at least temporary) buy in.
Now, don’t be mistaken. I still saw seniors struggling to stay off their phones. I still had one student who, when I mentioned that we would be filling out the FAFSA together, stood up from his desk and said, “I ain’t doing that.” I still had at least one student who proclaimed his main post-secondary goal to be “making music”. It was a room full of high school seniors after all, but something felt different.
While our community regularly struggles with chronic absenteeism, the majority of my students attended all four days last week — even though the temps did crawl into the nineties and both my classroom and the busses were stiflingly hot. Not only that, all of my students made eye contact with me this week. All of my students, even on day one, responded to my call for attention. All of my students participated in gatherings, like the one below, where I asked them to stand and move to the four corners of the room to demonstrate their preferences and interests.
And all of my students participated in the making of our class contract, and when asked, every single student in my class stood up and signed their name in agreement to our class norms.
Some teachers may not think this is a big deal. Perhaps they get 100% buy in on every activity they do in their classrooms, but this has not been the case for me. Not since Covid. Not in my little charter school in Detroit. Not with seniors. Not in this demographic that has historically and recently suffered so much.
In the past few years, it has taken me quite a bit of time to build the relationships and trust that lead to this kind of engagement. When I first started at this school, I was some middle-aged white lady from Ann Arbor — how could I have any idea of what life was like on the other side of the zoom camera where an adolescent Black student sat on her bedroom floor trying to figure out what a URL was and how she was going to move from one zoom room to the other.
The following year, my giddiness at finally getting to be “in the flesh” with students was met with distrust, apprehension, and the layers of protectiveness that Covid and generations of systemic racism had produced. My students were stand-offish, skittish, and surly. It was well into the second semester before I had any meaningful relationships.
Last year, it took less time to build trust with most, but some still refused to engage for the entire year. Yes, the entire year.
So when I got 100% opting in on the first day last week, I was a little stunned.
I was even more surprised on Thursday when I collected the student survey I had handed out and started to read the vulnerable responses to my question: What are you concerned about as you start this year?
Do I have enough credits to graduate? Will I be able to fill out the FAFSA if I’m undocumented? Will I be able to stay focused?
I was in awe of their transparency with their answers to my question: What do you want me to know about you?
English is not my first language. I get mad easily. I am a hard worker. I am funny. I hate school.
And I was touched by their responses to my question, How can I support you this year?
Push me. Help me understand. Explain things when I am confused. Be patient with me.
I’ve just finished the first week of school and I know more about this year’s seniors than I have known about many of the grads for the last three years. Why is this? Is it a sign that the trauma from Covid is waning? Is this just a more self-aware and confident group? Have I been in this school long enough that I have built a reputation of being one who can be trusted? Or is this just evidence that God’s grace is flooding my classroom?
Perhaps it’s some of all of that, but I am not going to look away. I am sensing a rare opportunity with this group. It is smaller than any senior class I have ever had, and they have already opened themselves up so much. I am sensing that we just might become a little family, and I am here for it.
So pray for me, if you would. Pray that I would truly see these students, that I would hear them, and that I would be willing to share with them what I know about the English language, of course, but more importantly what I know about life, about vulnerability, and about change.
Because guys, one thing I know about people who are willing to open themselves up is that they are on the verge of transformation, and I am going to have a front row seat.
What types of changes do I think I’ll see? I’m not sure of all of them, but I have already told my students several times this week that “this is the year when we make the transition from childhood to adulthood.” And for many of these students that is more true than I know. One just had a baby. Some will move straight into the military. Some will go straight to work. And even those who are moving on to more education in college will be shifting to a world that they have never seen before — one where the students around them will be from vastly different backgrounds, one where they won’t necessarily be near the family they have been used to, one where they are going to feel potentially more vulnerable than they have ever felt before.
So the fact that they are already willing to bare a small bit of themselves to me gives me a lot of hope that they will be ready for all the change that is coming at them, and because of that I am sitting on the edge of my front row seat.
I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living.
In a little over a week, I’ll be standing at the door to my classroom, waiting to greet my new students. I have seniors for English Language Arts, and I’ll also have one section each of sophomores and juniors for the reading intervention I lead.
For the past few weeks I’ve been analyzing my scope and sequence, reviewing my summative assessments, and examining data from last year. Last week I met with colleagues to plan and prepare. This week I’ll be in my classroom arranging desks, putting up decor, and finalizing my lesson plans.
As I move closer and closer to being with my students, I am beginning to wonder what their summer has been like.
Mine was filled with family, wedding preparation, food, celebration, and time in the garden, with friends, and in long, luxurious reading sessions.
To be honest, with all the activity around here, I haven’t given much thought to what my students have been up to.
Have some of them had summer jobs? Have others been responsible to care for younger siblings at home?
Have they spent time with their friends or family?
Have they had plenty to eat? Have they been safe? Have they suffered a loss?
Are they ready to come back to our building — to the predictability, the routine, the familiar faces?
Do they have what they need to feel comfortable walking through those doors on day one?
I don’t know.
What I do know is that we’re changing things up for our students this year, and change is hard. When teachers learned last week that we’d changed from a block schedule (four 100-minute periods a day) to a traditional schedule (seven 50-minute periods a day), there was some scuttlebutt in the room. The rhythm in the building will be different — students will get up and move every hour, and seven times a day the halls will be teeming with the entire student body. The goal? That each student will interact with each of their teachers every day.
Ultimately, the change will benefit both teachers and students. Our data shows us that our students need more “at-bats” — they need to touch math every day, practice language arts principles every day, and get micro doses of science each day. We moved to the block schedule during Covid to simplify virtual instruction — to give teachers more time with each class to get connected, to build a sense of community, and to be able to touch base with each of the students within the confines of the zoom room. When we returned to in-person learning, we kept the block schedule to minimize the amount of change that our teachers and students were managing. We remained in the block schedule last year, but as June rolled around and the data came in — low attendance, low test scores, low family engagement — we had to take a look at making some changes.
We’ve got to see our students every day. We’ve got to build a stronger sense of community and belonging. We’ve got to strengthen connections with our families, to clearly convey the fact that we want their students to succeed — in high school, but more importantly, beyond high school. We’ve got to build strong relationships so that our students and their families can see the why of education — the possibilities it provides, the doors it opens.
And in order for our students and families to be able to buy in, they need to be able to trust us — their teachers, their staff, their administrators — they need to see that we are for them, and that can only happen over time and with plenty of reps.
The good news is that we have a strong, committed staff. We routinely retain over 90% of our teachers. Inside an environment like ours — one with 100% free and reduced lunch, 99% students of color, and a history of educational inequity — this kind of loyalty is rare. Our teachers function like a family — one that cares wildly for its kids.
These teachers and administrators, seeing the data and recognizing the work it would take to reconfigure their instructional plans into a different model, took a collective deep breath and got busy. They want their “babies” to have what they need — mastery of content, success in the classroom, an opportunity to move beyond the high school to other worlds they have not yet dreamed of. And because of that, they are willing to do the hard work — not only of reconfiguring their plans, but of communicating their buy-in to a few hundred teenagers who will likely have some opinions about this change.
I can see it now. I’ll be standing at my door next week wearing the stupid grin I always wear on the first day back to school — man I love love school! — and the students will start showing up at my door.
“Mrs. Rathje, what’s up with this schedule?”
“We’ve got seven classes every day?!”
“Ya’all doing too much!”
“I’m already ready to go back home!”
It’s the sound of discomfort around change. They had pictured what this first school day would look like, but when they arrived, reality didn’t match expectations. And if you’ve lived through some trauma, which most of our students have, the unexpected can be unsettling. So, I’ll want to hear my students. I’ll want to acknowledge that they are experiencing something new, and I’ll want to assure them that everything will be ok.
“Yes. The schedule is different this year. Yes. We’ve got seven classes every day. Yes. It’s going to feel like a lot for a minute. And, yes, I am sure you feel like going home. Let’s look at your schedule together. What period do you think you’ll enjoy the most? What time do you have lunch? When will I see you each day?”
I’ll want to come beside my students. I’ll want to let them know that although change can be intimidating, it can also bring a freshness, a new outlook, an opportunity for something different.
They won’t believe me right away. Life has taught the students of today to be wary — to be suspicious — to anticipate the other shoe to drop. So, I’ll have to encourage them to hang in there, to give it a try, to go through the motions, to watch and see.
They’ll grumble, but most will find a seat. They’ll engage in whatever silly gathering activity I lead them through, some rolling their eyes and exuding disinterest or annoyance. I’ll reward any tiny glimpse of compliance, engagement, or cooperation, and I’ll work hard to call each student by name beginning on the very first day. I’ll share my interests with them by showing this slide:
Then I’ll invite them to make something similar to share with the class. Some will love the opportunity to have the spotlight. Others will beg me to let them just show me — not the rest of the class.
I’ll begin to see who my students are, and they will begin to see me. That will be the start — of relationship, of trust, of finding a space in which to learn and grow.
My students might be uncomfortable with change — most of us are — but this teacher has been through enough change to know that possibility lives on the other side. I won’t get it all right, but hopefully I can be a reassuring voice as we move through this change together.
I’ll let you know how it turns out, of course, and I would love your prayers and encouragement along the way.
Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing.
I Thessalonians 5:11
*If you are able, support or encourage a teacher in your life. If you would like to support me and my students, email me at krathje66@gmail.com and I’ll send you my wishlist.
I sat down this weekend to write about our daughter’s wedding — to describe the setting, the food, and the ceremony, but what I ended up writing about is a personal miracle — one that no one else could see, one that caught me by surprise.
Over the nine (yes, NINE!) years that I have been writing this blog, I have been healing. At first, the healing I was looking for was physical; I didn’t know nine years ago that I also needed emotional healing. It seems ridiculous to me now that my frayed emotional health wasn’t yet obvious to me and that I didn’t yet understand the connection between my emotional and physical wellness.
Both physical and emotional healing have come over time and sometimes in waves. I’ve changed so much about my daily life — what I eat, how I move, where I get support, and who is on my team — but it seems that one of the most critical elements in my healing has been this writing — particularly my commitment to being brutally honest and admitting that I am broken.
It has been a hard but fruitful work — over the last nine years, we have seen not only improvements in my physical and mental health but also, perhaps consequentially, restoration in many relationships.
You might think that in nine years I would’ve worked through everything — every childhood hurt, every adult regret –but then, a major life event brings some old business to the surface. This happened in the lead up to our daughter’s wedding — several old hurts surfaced and a few new blows almost brought me to my knees.
Just a couple months ago, I wondered if the blows, being so recent, would render me incapable of fully enjoying the celebration. I was doubled over emotionally, protecting my vital organs. How could I struggle to my feet and gather the strength to host family in our home? How would I be able to simultaneously attend to my wounds, attend to the countless details of hosting, and also enjoy time with the people I love? It seemed very unlikely that I would be able to be present and observe the little (and big) miracles of the occasion.
I wasn’t expecting what happened.
In those doubled-over months, through some intensive therapy and some encouragement toward bravery, I found a new way. At first, it was just speaking the disappointment, actually saying “That is disappointing,” to people I had never said that to before. Just uttering those words felt liberating, but it wasn’t enough. If I truly wanted to move forward in a different way, I also had to identify what I needed from a few of my key relationships (not as easy as it sounds) and then make my expectations and needs very clearly known.
This was entirely new territory.
It seems that with a few key people in my life, and maybe more than a few key people, I have been so focused on not upsetting or disappointing the others that I have routinely and habitually swallowed my own disappointments, hurts, and desires. Not only was this pattern potentially harmful for my emotional and physical health, I also had to admit that it had severely limited the connections in those relationships.
I know, I know. I’m speaking in vagaries again, and you need me to put some flesh on it. Let me give one example.
Imagine a seven year old girl getting tucked in by her dad at night. He sits on the edge of her twin bed, letting her know that he is going away for business. He says it won’t be long before he buys a home in that other state and moves her, her siblings, and her mom to be with him. She beams with excitement. She loves her dad, and when he has a plan, it always works out good.
But, as devastations go, this is a big one. The family falls apart. The dad moves to the other state, and the rest of the family stays put and begins a different kind of reality that isn’t always great. But that little girl, whenever she talks to her dad — on the phone or in person — stays frozen in that seven-year-old desire to be excited, to tell him the good news, to please him, to make him happy. Even when it’s clear that his focus has shifted to a new family, to a new reality that doesn’t include her, she still tries to elbow her way in, to find a space, to stay connected. But she does so on eggshells, not wanting to upset or disappoint in any way.
Here’s the thing though — when you walk on eggshells in relationships, other people never get to hear or recognize the sound of your footsteps. They can’t know the full you if they can’t hear your full voice, but when you are used to using the voice of a seven year old, it isn’t easy to start using the voice of a grown-ass adult, even when you are comfortable doing so in most other areas of your life.
In the weeks leading up to the wedding, this pattern revealed itself in a handful of relationships where I was too afraid of disappointing to use my full voice, to say how I was actually feeling. The only way forward was to step into my adulthood — to voice my disappointments, my desires, and my needs. I took a chance. And once I got started, the liberation was intoxicating. I started showing up as my full self in all of my relationships. This year. Last month. At FIFTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.
I wasn’t hurtful, or spiteful, or accusatory. I was just honest. This is how I feel actually — how I’ve always felt. And [most of] the people who love me heard me.
“I can see why you would feel that way.”
“You’re right; that happened. I’m sorry.”
More importantly, I heard me. I sounded confident and strong in relationships where I had long been functioning in some ways as a scared little girl.
I wasn’t expecting my spine to straighten. I wasn’t expecting my heart to open wider. I wasn’t expecting my insecurities to start dropping to the floor. And I sure wasn’t expecting to fully enjoy three weeks of house guests lounging in our family room, sitting on our patio, laughing, working through logistical details, cooperating, supporting, and caring for one another.
I wasn’t expecting myself to be so free.
And I sure wasn’t expecting the freedom I felt on the actual wedding day — the freedom to greet dozens of family members, to do the chicken dance and a very pedestrian version of the bachata, to speak Spanish in one sentence and English in the next, to be fine with the ceremony starting over 30 minutes late (“we’re on island time after all!”), to be grateful that guests were willing to run out to buy more ice, to manage minor disappointments and to celebrate — fully celebrate– all the healing that has happened in our immediate and extended family over the last many years.
Because that is what I saw, friends, I saw once-invisible family members finally get a seat at the table. I saw those who had felt ashamed step into grace. I saw once-strangers embracing, dancing, laughing. Even for a girl with an insufferable belief in restoration, this day was breathtaking.
It wasn’t perfect, because life is not perfect, and I didn’t try to take ownership of the imperfections. I didn’t try to fix them. I observed them for what they are and then went back to embracing, dancing, and laughing.
I celebrated the fact that God had used the pain of the last several months to free me, to restore me, to allow me to see and enjoy all He has restored.
Guys, the wedding was great. It was beautiful. It was a stage to display the miraculous. And I am so, so thankful.
And He who sits on the throne said, ‘Behold I am making all things new’.”
For the past week I’ve been sitting at my sewing machine making dresses. I don’t sew often, and when I do, it’s usually straight line projects like face masks during Covid, flax seed pillows I give to friends and family at Christmas, and other such easy projects.
I wouldn’t typically choose to make a dress, although I have made several in the past, and I would certainly never volunteer to make a dress for someone else — especially not a dress they intended to wear as a member of a wedding party, and definitely not one to be worn for my own daughter’s wedding, and surely not in the final month before said nuptials, but that is exactly what I have been up to.
Why? Because of my insufferable belief in restoration.
One is not born with an insufferable belief in restoration. She doesn’t come out of the womb believing that all things can be made new. She’s not Pollyanna for heaven’s sake. No. One only comes to have an insufferable belief in restoration after seeing everything burn to the ground, after weeping inconsolably amidst the devastation, and after watching in disbelief as new life emerges impossibly from the ashes. Not once. Not twice. But time after time.
Not too long ago, my relationship with my youngest daughter had all but burnt to the ground. She had lived through the kind of devastation that makes you wonder if you can ever be whole again, and while I had borne witness, my response — my mothering — had been quite disappointing. I had let her down in her time of deepest need and she could no longer count on me, and she didn’t for a very long time.
So, when in May she asked if we could spend the weekend sewing to see if we could make her maid of honor dress for her sister’s wedding, I, having not been asked to work with her on a project in years, said “yes.”
We spent the weekend together, her altering patterns for her lean tall frame, and I remembering how to read a pattern, how to trim a seam, and how to use binding tape. In that weekend, and the weekend to follow, I constructed two dresses out of thrift store bed sheets so that she could try them on and assess the fit.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, she sent me some fabric she had chosen, and I got to work.
I moved slowly and meticulously — finishing every edge, trimming, and overlocking seams. I wanted this to be a dress that she [and I] could be proud of.
I was almost finished with the bodice when a second shipment of fabric arrived. She didn’t expect me to make two dresses; she had just found two fabrics that she loved, and I loved them, too!
I finished the first dress, put it in the mail to my daughter so that a local seamstress could do the final fitting, and started cutting out the second.
On the second dress — my third run at this particular pattern — I was starting to feel confident finishing arm holes with bias tape and creating darts. I sent my daughter photos as I progressed and finally dropped the second dress in the mail. By tomorrow, she will have two to choose from.
As I was sewing, I listened to two audio books by Kate Bowler, Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I have Loved and No Cure for Being Human: and Other Truths I Need to Hear. These books chronicle Bowler’s journey through two medical diagnoses and their treatments. As I listened at my sewing machine, I wiped tears from my eyes as I bore witness to her devastation, I laughed at her humor, and I cried again when — miracle of miracles — the worst didn’t happen.
I love a good restoration story — the bleak dark moments of hopelessness and the surprise and joy when the worst doesn’t happen.
I like being reminded in the midst of daily disappointment that God is literally making all things new.
All sewing projects are mini-restoration stories. You pin, stitch, discover an error, remove stitches, puzzle over solutions, and try again, hoping for the best.
Every little [every enormous] disappointment has the potential for restoration. We can’t expect every single thing to be made new, but when — shockingly — we bear witness to something rising from the ashes, we’ve got to acknowledge the miracle, to celebrate, to make dresses, to believe that more restoration is coming.
It’s not like we get up in the morning and say, “Let us go forth and disappoint people.”
It’s not our intention; it’s just our way.
Let’s be honest — we even disappoint ourselves.
All summer, I have had the intention of using my iPhone less — to scroll less in the morning, to spend less time on my word games, and to check email and texts less. Three weeks into my official summer vacation, and I can assure you that I am disappointed with my progress.
When I disappoint myself, I might give myself a little scolding and reset my intention to “do better” but I don’t usually get hurt by the ways that I’ve disappointed myself. I don’t take it personally. I don’t see my failure to use my phone less as an indication of my value or as a reflection of how others feel about me.
But I do often make that leap when the actions of others disappoint me, or when my actions have been a disappointment to others, which happens with more frequency than I would like to admit.
And while none of us set about our day intending to disappoint the people we love, it is invariably those very people who suffer the collateral damage of our humanity.
And that’s all we are talking about here, really, just humanity — the imperfect experience of people on the planet. It’s so ubiquitous — so much the air that we breathe — that we forget to see human failure for what it is.
Let me put some skin on what I am talking about. Let’s say, hypothetically, that one was looking forward to the wedding of one’s offspring. I am not sure there is a bigger stage for the disappointment of humanity than dozens of friends and family members being invited to one space at one time for a significant life event.
First of all, there is so much unspoken expectation. The couple wants the day to be perfect, the parents of said couple want the day to be everything the couple is hoping for, and both the couple and the parents expect that everyone else feels the same — that they, too, want to celebrate this momentous occasion. Invitations start flying out to family and friends months before the actual event and the couple and the parents start to envision the actual wedding day and all those who will be in attendance.
And that expectation is a set up — when reality doesn’t match our ideal expectations, that is when we feel disappointment. Can you think of a day more likely to breed ideal expectations than a wedding? I cannot.
Now, one would think that the months leading up to a wedding would be a time of joy, but one might be surprised to find that while envisioning these ideal expectations, their own experiences with the family and friends who have been invited might begin to fuel a steady hum of anxiety around the reality of mixing said friends and family on a day that has so much emotional weight. How will this person interact with these people? Will racist family member A say something ignorant around BIPOC family member B? Will alcoholic-family-member-who-is-still-in-denial be appropriate in this setting? Will family member C who has beef with family member D say something out of pocket and get something started? Will everyone be on their best behavior and live up to the ideal expectations of the couple and the parents or will someone be disappointing?
The answer? Someone will definitely be disappointing.
In fact, they might even be disappointing months before the actual day. They may drag their feet on an RSVP. They may say racist shit before they even get to the venue. They may say they are going to come and be a team player to make it all happen and then in the eleventh hour back out for a number of acceptable reasons that are still — disappointing.
So, one might be surprised to find themselves in the weeks leading up to la boda feeling a little tender and even hyper-sensitive. And you’ll never guess what happens when someone feels tender and sensitive — they start doing things that are insensitive. They think they are being thoughtful, but they end up doing shit that is — well — disappointing.
One might, say, in an effort to prevent drama at pre-wedding event #1 decide not to invite family member E because family member F just might act inappropriately in their presence. The intention might actually be to protect family members E and F, but the impact ends up being — wait for it — disappointing. So, when family member E calls to say that such actions were hurtful and mean, one must admit that she has joined the mass of disappointing humanity that she’s been pointing her finger at. And that, my friends, is one hard pill to swallow, .
Until, one recognizes that humans (including oneself), by definition, are disappointing.
And that realization leads one to ask the question — what might happen if we went into situations expecting people (including ourselves) to be disappointing? Would we then be freer to celebrate when miracles happen?
Miracles like one friend (who is not even invited!) who offered months before the nuptials that her house would be available for out of town guests or the friend (also not invited!) who offered to do a major CostCo run before the wedding. Crazy generosity like the son who drove from Houston to Ypsilanti to help frame out a bathroom or the future son-in-law who coordinated a business trip so that he could be in town to help lay flooring. Remarkable support from a husband who attended a bridal shower and did much of the heavy lifting with the help of a brother who gave up a Sunday afternoon to do the same.
All kinds of people do amazingly thoughtful things every day when their default setting is to be disappointing. And that, my friends, should be celebrated!
I forget that. Instead of celebrating the miraculous, I get shocked when people are disappointing. I take it personally. I think they are inconsiderate of me because I am unlovable, but really, they are inconsiderate of me because they are human. I need to be able to extend them grace for that — the same kind of grace that I hope to be extended when I have been found to be disappointing.
So, my counsel to anyone who might be just three or so weeks shy of one of their offspring’s wedding day is to set realistic expectations for how people are going to show up to an event full of all kinds of personalities and backgrounds, and to choose to look for the moments to celebrate. One might glimpse strangers smiling at one another as they join in the Chicken Dance. One might witness second cousins who haven’t seen each other since before Covid joining in a game of tag on the playground next to the wedding venue. One might receive a hug from a parent, a child, a sibling, or a friend. One might feel proud, or happy, or relieved, or content. One might witness the miraculous.
And if those kinds of things happen, one should celebrate! However, when disappointment happens, and it likely will, one might consider extending grace — an understanding shrug of “it happens”, a reassuring pat on the back of “it’ll be ok”, or even a gentle knowing smile of “been there, done that” — and then an invitation to return to celebration on a day that is rare, full of humanity, and beautifully imperfect.
One might give that a try.
For of His fullness, we have all received grace upon grace.”
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.
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